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J  B.  LippxTLcott  &  Co.  Philad* 


■  CYCLOPEDIA 


ENGLISH    POETEY. 


SPECIMENS   OF   THE 


BRITISH    POETS: 


BIOGRAPHICAL  AND  CRITICAL  NOTICES. 


a:N  essay  on  ENGLISH  POETEY. 


BY 


THOMAS  CAMPBELL,  ESQ. 


A  NEW  EDITION, 

BXVISSI),   WITH  ADDITIOKAL  ITOTKIi. 


PHILADELPHIA: 

J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  &   CO. 

1875. 


ssssss 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


With  this,  the  Second  Edition  of  these  Specimens,  their  original  Editor  has 
had  nothing  to  do,  being  prevented  by  other  engagements  from  resuming  the 
task  of  revising  them.  Various  inaccuracies  of  the  former  edition  have  been 
removed  in  this, — some  silently,  for  it  had  been  burdening  the  book  with  use- 
less matter  to  have  retained  them  in  the  text,  and  pointed  them  out  in  a  note, 
— while  others,  that  entangled  a  thought  or  gave  weight  to  it,  have  been  al- 
lowed to  stand,  but  not  without  notes  to  stop  the  perpetuity  of  the  error. 
With  many  of  the  now-discovered  inaccuracies  of  the  work  in  dates  and  mere 
minutiae,  Mr.  Campbell  is  not  properly  chargeable :  some  may  be  laid  to  the 
excursive  nature  of  his  task ;  others  to  the  imperfect  information  of  those 
days  compared  with  ours,  for  we  cannot  have  lived  two-and-twenty  years 
without  important  additions  to  our  literary  facts. 

Mr.  Campbell's  excellent  taste  in  the  selection  of  these  Specimens  has  never 
been  disputed ;  and  of  his  Critical  Disquisitions  the  best  eulogy  is  in  the  fact 
that  no  work  of  any  importance  on  our  literary  history  has  been  written  since 
they  were  published,  without  commendatory  references  to  them ;  in  particular, 
that  they  have  been  corrected  and  appealed  to  by  Lord  Byron,  applaudingly 
quoted  by  Sir  Walter  Scott,  and  frequently  cited  and  referred  to  by  Mr.  Hallam. 


LIST  OF  AUTHORS 

: 

eSOFFRET  CHAUCER. 

JOSEPH  HALT.. 

RICHARD  CORBET. 

JOHN  GOWEB. 

WnXLAM  WARNER. 

THOMAS  BUDDLETON. 

JOHN  LYDGATB. 

SIR  JOHN  HARRINGTON. 

RICHARD  NICCOLS. 

JAMK8  L  07  SCOTLAND 

FROM  HENRY  PERROTS  BOOK 

CHARLES  FITZGEFFRET. 

ROBERT  HENRYSONS. 

OF  EPIGRAMS. 

BEN  JONSON. 

WILLIAM  DUNBAR. 

SIR  THOMAS  OVERBURY. 

THOMAS  CAREW. 

SIR  DAVID  LYNDSAY. 

WILLIAM  SHAKSPEARE. 

SIR  HENRY  WOTTON. 

SIR  THOMAS  WYAT. 

SIR  WALTER  RALEIGH. 

WILLIAM  ALEXANDER,  Eaal  W 

HENRY     HOWARD,     Eau     or 

JOSHUA  SYLVESTER. 

StEBica. 

BUBBXT. 

SAMUEL  DANIEL. 

NATHANIEL  FIELD. 

LORD  TAUX. 

JOHN  CHALKHnJi. 

THOMAS  DEKKEB. 

RICHARD  EDWARDS. 

GILES  AMD  PHINEAS  FLKaHHER. 

JOHN  WEBSTER. 

WTTJJAM  HUNNIS. 

HENRY  CONSTABLE. 

JOHN  FORD. 

THOMAS     SACKTnj.E,     Bakoh 

NICHOLAS  BRETON. 

WILLIAM  ROWLEY. 

BUCKHUBST  Ain>  EiU  OT  DOBttl. 

DR.  THOMi^  LODGE. 

PHILIP  MASSINGER. 

GEORGE  GASOOIGNB. 

BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER. 

SIR  JOHN  SUCKLING. 

JOHN  HARRINGTON. 

SIR  JOHN  DA  VIES. 

SIDNEY  QODOLPHIN. 

SIR  PHn.TP  SYDNEY. 

THOMAS  GOFFE. 

WILLIAM  CARTWRIGHT. 

ROBERT  GREENE. 

SIR  FULELE  GREVILLB. 

GEORGE  SANDY& 

CHRISTOPHER  MARLOWE. 

SIR  JOHN  BEAUMONT. 

ANONYMOUa 

ROBERT  SOUTUWET.T.. 

SIR  ROBERT  AYTON. 

FRANOb  QUART.F.3. 

THOMAS  WATSON. 

MICHAEL  DRAYTON. 

WILLIAM  BROWNE. 

EDMUND  SPENSER. 

EDWARD  FAIRFAX. 

THOMAS  NABBES. 

UNCERTAIN  AUTHORS. 

SAMUEL  ROWLANDS. 

THOMAS  HEYWOOD. 

JOHN  LYLY. 

JOHN  DONNE,  DJ). 

WnjJAM  DRUMMOND. 

GEORGE  PEELB. 

THOMAS  PICKE. 

THOMAS  MAY. 

ALEXANDER  HUMX. 

GEORGE  HERBERT. 

RICHARD  CRASHAW. 

THOMAS  NASH. 

JOHN  MAR^TON. 

WILLLAM  HABINGTON. 

EDWARD  TERE,  Eabl  or  Oxr<HU>. 

GEORGE  CHAPMAN. 

JOHN  HALL. 

THOMAS  STORER. 

THOMAS  RANDOLPH. 

Wn.LTAM  CHAMBERLAYNl 

tU 

KICUARD  LOVEIACE. 

ilNONYMOOS. 

KATHEBINE  PHILIPS. 

WILLIAM  HBMINaB. 

JAM£S  SHIRLST. 

ALEXANDEK  BROMK. 

ROBERT  HERRICK. 

ABRAHAM  OOWLBT. 

SIR  RICHARD  PANSHAWB. 

SIR  WILLIAM  DATENANT, 

SIR  JOHN  DENHAM. 

JOHN  BULTSEL. 

GEOROE  WITHER. 

DR.  HENRY  KINO. 

DR.  ROBERT  WILDS. 

SIB  JOHN   MSNinS  Am  JAMES 
SMITH. 

JASPER  MAYNE. 

RICHARD  BRATHWAITE. 

JOHN  MILTON. 

ANDREW  MARVELL 

THOMAS  STANLEY. 

JOHN  WILMOT,  Sabl  or  Room»- 

TSB. 

SAMUEL  BUTLEB. 
I8AAK  WALTON. 
WENTWORTH   DILLON,  Eabl  Of 

ROSCOHHOlf. 

THOMAS  OTWAY 
ANONYMOUS. 
N.  HOOK. 
PHILIP  AYRBS. 
EDMUND  WALLER. 
CHARLES  COTTON. 
DR.  HENRY  UORS. 
OEOROE  ETHEREQS. 
THOMAS  FLATMAN. 
APURA  BBHN. 
NATHANIEL  LEE. 
THOMAS  SHADWEUk 


HENRY  VAUGHAN. 

JOHN  DBYDEN. 

SIR  CHARLES  SEDLEY. 

JOHN  F0M7RET. 

THOMAS  BROWN. 

CHARLES    SACKTILLE,  Earl  op 
D0B8IX. 

GEORGE  STEPNEY. 

JOHN  PHILIPS. 

WILLIAM  WALSH. 

ANONYMOUS. 

ROBERT  GOULD. 

DR.  WALTER  POPK 

THOMAS  PARNELL. 

NICHOLAS  ROWE. 

SAMUEL  GARTH. 

PETER  ANTHONY  MOTTEUX. 

JOSEPH  ADDISON. 

MATTHEW  PRIOR. 

DR.  GEORGE  SEWELL. 

SIR  JOHN  VANBRUGII. 

WILLIAM  CONQREVE. 

ELUAH  PENTON. 

EDWARD  WARD. 

JOHN  GAY. 

BARTON  BOOTH. 

GEORGE       GRANTILLE^        LOBO 
Lansdownk. 

MATTHEW  GREEN. 

GEORGE  LILLO. 

THOMAS  nCKELL. 

JAMES  HAMMOND. 

JOHN  OLDMIXON. 

WILLIAM  SOMERTILE. 

RICHARD  WEST. 

JAMES  EYRE  WEEKE8. 

RICHARD  SAVAGE. 

ALEXANDER  POPE. 

JONATHAN  SWIFT. 


JAMBS  BRAMSTON. 

WILLIAM  MBSTON. 

THOMAS  WARTON. 

THOMAS  SOUTHERNS. 

ROBERT  BLAIR. 

JAMES  THOMSON. 

ISAAC  WATTS. 

AMBROSE  PHILIPS. 

LEONARD  WELSTED. 

AMHURST  SBLDEN. 

WILLIAM  CRAWFURD. 

AARON  HILL. 

WILLIAM  HAMILTON. 

GILBERT  WEST. 

WILLIAM  COLLIN& 

COLLEY  OBBBB. 

EDWARD  MOORE. 

JOHN  DYER. 

ALLAN  RAMSAY. 

SIR  CHARLES  HANDBURY  WIL 
UAMS. 

ISAAC  HAWKINS  BROWNS. 

JOHN  BYROM. 

WILLIAM  SHBNSTONB. 

HENRY  CABBY. 

CHARLES  CHURCHILL. 

ROBERT  DODSLEY. 

ROBERT  LLOYD. 

DAVID  MALLET. 

EDWARD  YOUNG. 

JOHN  BROWN. 

MICHAEL  BRUCE. 

JAMBS  GRAINGER. 

JOHN  GILBERT  COOPER. 

JAMES  MERRICK. 

WILLIAM  FALCONER. 

MARK  AKBNSIDB. 

THOMAS  CHAWERTON. 

CHRISTOPHER  SMART. 


LIST   OF  AUTHORS. 


THOMAS  QB^T. 

CCTHBBRT  SHAW. 

TOBIAS  SMOLLETT. 

ANONYMOUS. 

JOHN  CUNNINQHAH. 

GEORGE,  LORD  LTTTELTON. 

ROBERT  FERGUSSON. 

THOMAS  SOOTT. 

fHILIP     DORMER     STANHOPE, 

EauL  of  CHESmnELD. 

OLIVEB  GOLDSMITH. 
PAUL  WHITEHEAD. 
WALTER  HARTB. 
ANONYMOUS. 
EDWARD  LOYIBOND. 
FRANCTS  FAWKES. 
ANONYMOUa 
JOHN  ARMSTRONG. 
JOHN  SICHABDSOV. 


JOHN  LANGHORNE. 
THOMAS  PENROSE. 
SIR  WILLIAM  BLACKSTONK. 
SIR     JOHN      HENRY      MOORE, 

BiUtT. 

RICHARD  JAGO. 

HENRY  BROOKE. 

JOHN  SOOTT. 

GEORGE       ALEXANDER       STE- 
VENS. 

DR.  SAMUEL  JOHNSON. 

MRS.  GREVILLB. 

WILLIAM  WHITEHEAD. 

RICHARD  GLOTER. 

JOHN  HALL  STEPHENSON 

EDWARD  THOMPSON. 

HENRY  HEADLEY. 

THOMAS  RUSSELL. 

JOHH  LOQAS. 


ROBERT     NUGENT,     Eabl     Nu 

OKMT. 

WILLIAM  JULIUS  MICKLE. 
NATHANIEL  COTTON. 
TIMOTHY  DWIGHT 
JAMES  WHYTE. 
THOMAS  WARTON. 
THOMAS  BLACKLOCK. 
WILLIAM  HAYWARD  ROBSRT& 
SIR  WILLIAM  JONES. 
SAMUEL  BISHOP. 
JOHN  BAMPFYLDB. 
ROBERT  BURNS. 
WILLIAM  MASON. 
JOSEPH  WARTON. 
WHiUAM  OOWPER. 
ERASMUS  DARWIN. 
JAMES  BEATTIB. 
CHRISTOPHER  AN8IKT. 


CONTENTS. 


ESSAT  ON  BNGLISH  POETRY. 1 

GEOFFREY  CHAUCER 65 

The  Prologue  to  the  "Canterbury  Tales". 69 

JOHN  GOWER 76 

The  Tale  of  the  Coffers  or  Caskets,  Ao.  (in  the  fifth  Book  of  the  "  Confessio  Amantis").  76 
Of  the  Gratification  which  the  Lover's  Passion  receires  from  the  Sense  of  Hearing  (in 

the  sixth  Book  of  the  "  Confessio  Amantis") 77 

JOHN  LYDGATE 78 

Canace  condemned  to  Death  by  her  Father  ^olus,  sends  to  her  guilty  Brother  Macareus 

the  last  Testimony  of  her  unhappy  Passion  (Book  L  foL  39) 78 

SCOTTISH  POETRY.. 79 

JAMES   I.  OF  SCOTLAND 81 

Extract  from  Canto  IL  of  "The  Quair". 81 

ROBERT   HENRYSONE 82 

Robene  and  Makyne,  a  Ballad 82 

WILLIAM  DUNBAR 84 

The  Daunce  of  the  Seven  Deadly  Sins  through  HelL 8-1 

SIR   DAVID  LYNDSAY 8iJ 

Description  of  Squyre  Meldrum 86 

SIR  THOMAS  WYAT 89 

Ode. — The  Lover  complaineth  the  Unkindness  of  his  Love 90 

From  bis  Somqs  and  Episraus — 

A  Description  of  such  a  one  as  he  would  love. 90 

Of  his  Return  from  Spain 90 

From  bis  Odeb — 

An  earnest  suit  to  his  unkind  Mistress  not  to  forsake  him 90 

He  lamenteth  that  he  had  ever  Cause  to  doubt  his  Lady's  Faith 91 

To  his  Mistress 91 

HENRY  HOWARD,  Earl  of  Scrrey.„ 91 

Prisoned  in  Windsor,  he  recounteth  his  Pleasure  there  passed 93 

Description  of  Spring 94 

How  each  thing,  save  the  Lover,  in  Spring  reviveth  to  Pleasure 94 

LORD  VAUX 94 

Upon  his  white  Hairs  (from  "The  Aged  Lover's  Renunciation  of  Love") 94 

zi 


xii  CONTENTS. 

RICHARD  EDWARDS 95 

He  requesteth  some  friendly  Comfort,  affirming  his  Constancy 95 

WILLIAM   HUNNIS .  95 

The  Lore  that  is  requited  with  Disdain 95 

THOMAS  SACKVILLE,  Bahon  Buckhurst  and  Eari,  op  Dorset 96 

From  his  Induction  to  the  Complaint  of  Henry  Duke  of  Buckingham 96 

GEORGE  GASCOIQNE 98 

De  Profundis 98 

The  Arraignment  of  a  Lover 99 

The  Vanity  of  the  Beautiful 100 

Vanity  of  Youth .    lOO 

Swiftness  of  Time ,^ JOO 

From  his  "Grief  of  Joy" .         ]0« 

JOHN  HARRINGTON I«« 

Verses  on  a  most  stony-hearted  Maiden,  who  did  sorely  beguile  the  noble  Knight ,  my 

true  Friend...,, ,„....,.,.., , ,...,, 100 

Sonnet  on  Isabella  Markham lUI 

SIR  PHILIP  SIDNEY tOI 

Sonnets .       )i>  I 

ROBERT  GREENE 102 

Dorastus  on  Fawnia. 102 

Jealousy  (from  "Tully's  Love") 102 

CHRISTOPHER   MARLOWE 103 

The  Passionate  Shepherd  to  his  Love 103 

ROBERT   SOUTHWELL .    103 

Love's  servUe  Lot 104 

Look  Home .104 

THOMAS  WATSON .  lo4 

The  Nymphs  to  their  May  Queen  (from  "England's  Helicon") 104 

Sonnet 104 

EDMUND   SPENSER 105 

Fairy  Queen,  Book  I.  Canto  III.     (Una  followed  by  the  Lion) 107 

, Canto  V 108 

,  Book  II.  Canto  VI 108 

Sir  Guyon,  guided  by  the  Palmer  Temperance,  passes  the  Dangers  of  the  Bower  of  Bliss  111 

Glauce  and  Britomart  exploring  the  Cave  of  Merlin 114 

Belphoebe  finds  Timias  wounded,and  conveys  him  to  her  Dwelling  (Book  III.  Canto  V.)..  114 

Bonnet  LXXXVI 116 

Sonnet  LXXXVIII 116 

POETRY    OF    UNCERTAIN    AUTHORS    OF    THE    END    OF    THE    SIXTEENTH 

CENTURY 116 

The  Soul's  Errand  (from  Davison's  "Poetical  Rhapsody") 116 

Canzonet  (from  Davison's  "Rhapsody,"  Edit.  1608) , 117 

From  "The  Phoenix'  Nest,"  Edit.  1593 117 

From  the  same jjg 

Bongs.     From  Wylbye's  "Madrigals,"  Edit.  1698 118 

From  Bird's  Cullectiuns  of  Songs,  Ac 119 

.. From  Weelke's  "  Madrigals,"  Edit.  1604 II9 

From  Bateson's  "Madrigals,"  Edit.  1606 II9 

To  his  Love  (From  "England's  Helicon") ng 


CONTENTS.  xiii 


PAOB 

JOHN  LYLY 120 

Cupid  and  Campaspe 120 

Song.     From  "Alexander  and  Campaspe"..., 120 

From  "Mother  Bombie" 120 

ALEXANDER  HUME 121 

Thanks  for  a  Summer's  Day 121 

THOMAS  NASH 123 

Despair  of  a  Poor  Scholar  (from  "  Pierce  Penniless") 123 

EDWARD  VERE,  Eari,  OF  Oxford 123 

Fancy  and  Desire  (from  "The  Paradise  of  Dainty  Devices") 123 

Lines  attributed  to  the  Earl  of  Oxford  (in  a  MS.  of  the  Bodleian  Library) 124 

THOMAS  STORER 124 

From  "The  Li(e  and  Death  of  Cardinal  Wolsey" 124 

Wolsey's  Ambition 124 

Wolsey's  Vision 124 

JOSEPH  HALL 12S 

Satire  L  Book  I , 126 

Satire  III.  Book  1 126 

Satire  V.  Book  III 127 

Satire  VII.  Book  III 127 

Satire  VL  Book  IV 128 

WILLIAM  WARNER 129 

Argentile  and  Curan  (fVom  "Albion's  England") 129 

SIR  JOHN  HARRINGTON , 130 

From  his  Epigrams. 

Of  a  precise  Tailor ...» 131 

FROM  HENRY  PERROT'S  BOOK  OF  EPIGRAMS  (entitled  "Springes  for  Woodcocks," 

Edit.  1613) 131 

Ambitio  Feminini  Generis 131 

Nee  Sator  Ultra 131 

SIR  THOMAS  OVERBURY 131 

From  his  Poem  "The  Wife" 131 

WILLIAM  SHAKSPEARE 132 

Sonnets 138 

8IR  WALTER  RALEIGH 140 

The  Silent  Lover 140 

A  Nymph's  Disdain  of  Love 141 

The   Shepherd's   Description  of  Love.      (Ascribed  to  Sir   W.  Raleigh  in  "  England's 

Helicon") 141 

Dulcina<, ^ 141 

His  Love  admits  no  Rival 142 

A  Vision  upon  "  The  Fairy  Queen" 142 

JOSHUA  SYLVESTER- 142 

Stanaas  from  "All  is  not  Gold  that  Glitters."     To  Religion 142 

SAMUEL  DANIEL 143 

Richard  thi-  Second,  the  Morning  before  his  Murder  in  Pomfret  Castle 143 

Love  in  Infancy 143 

GILES  AND  PHINEAS  FLETCHER 144 

Mercy  dwelling  in  Heaven  and  pU-ndinj^  for  the  Guilty,  with  Justice  described  by  her 
Qualities  (from  Giles  Fletcher's  "  Christ's  Victory  in  Heaven  ") 144 

i 


CONTENTS. 


PAoa 

Justice  addressing  the  Creator 145 

Mercy  brightening  the  Rainbow 145 

The  Palace  of  Presumption • 145 

Instability  of  Human  Greatness  (from  Phineas  Fletcher's  "Purple  Island,"  Canto  VII.)  146 
Happiness  of  the  Shepherd's  Life  (from  the  same,  Canto  XII.) 147 

HENRY   CONSTABLE 147 

Sonnet. 147 

NICHOLAS  BRETON 147 

A  sweet  Pastoral  (from  "England's  Helicon") 147 

A  Pastoral  of  Phillis  and  Corydon  (from  the  same) 148 

DR.  THOMAS   LODGE 148 

Rosader's  Sonetto  (from  his  Romance,  called  "Euphues's  Golden  Legacy") 148 

Another  (from  the  same) 148 

Bosalind'a  Madrigal  (from  the  same) 149 

BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER 149 

From  "The  Maid's  Tragedy" 150 

From  the  Tragedy  of  "Philaster" 151 

From  the  same,  Act  II.  Scene  I. 151 

From  the  same 151 

From  the  last  Scene  of  the  same '• 152 

The  Reconcilement  of  Mr.  Roger,  the  Curate,  and  Abigail  (from  "The  Scornful  Lady," 

Scene  L  Act  TV.) 153 

Julio  tantalized  by  Bustopha  about  the  Fate  of  his  Nephew  Antonio  (from  "  The  Maid 

of  the  Mill,"  Act  IV.  Scene  IL) 154 

Edith  pleading  for  the  Life  of  her  Father  (from  the  Tragedy  of  "  Rollo,  Duke  of  Nor- 
mandy," Act  III.) 155 

Installation  of  the  King  of  the  Beggars  (from  "Beggar's  Bush,"  Act  IL  Scene  I.) 155 

Distant  View  of  the  Roman  Army  engaging  the  Britons  (from  the  Tragedy  of  "Bon- 

duca,"  Scene  V.  Act  III.) ; 156 

Bonduca  attacked  in  her  Fortress  by  the  Romans  (from  the  same.  Scene  IV.  Act  IV.)..  156 
Caratach,  Prince  of  the  Britons,  with  his  Nephew  Hengo  asleep  (from  the  same.  Scene 

in.  AetV.) 157 

Amoldo  tempted  by  Hypolita  (from  "The  Custom  of  the  Country") 157 

No  Rivalship  or  Taint  of  Faith  admissible  in  Love  (from  the  same) 158 

Scene  in  the  Comedy  of  "Monsieur  Thomas" 158 

From  "A  King  and  No  King,"  Act  IV.  Scene  IV 160 

SIR  JOHN  DAVIES 161 

The  Vanity  of  Human  Knowledge  (from  "Nosce  Teipsum,"  or  a  Poem  on  the  Immor- 
tality of  the  Soul) 162 

Reasons  for  the  Soul's  Immortality 162 

In  what  Manner  the  Soul  is  united  to  the  Body 163 

That  the  Soul  is  more  than  the  Temperature  of  the  Humours  of  the  Body 163 

That  the  Soul  is  more  than  a  Perfection  or  Reflection  of  the  Sense 163 

THOMAS   GOFFE I64 

Scene  from  his  Tragedy  of  "  Amurath,  or  the  Courageous  Turk"  164 

SIR  FULKE  GREVILLE I65 

Knowledge  (from  his  "Treatise  on  Human  Learning")....  .  .  165 

Insufficiencv  of  Philosophy I65 

Sonnet  from  "  Caelica" ,  .  I65 

SIR  JOHN  BEAUMONT 165 

Richard  befbre  the  Battle  of  Bosworth .,  166 


CONTENTS.  xt 


PASS 

MICHAEL  DRAYTON 166 

Mortimer,  Earl  of  March,  and  the  Queen,  surprised  by  Edward  UL  in  Notdngham 

Castle  (from  "The  Barons' Wars,"  Book  VI.) 167 

Nymphidia,  the  Court  of  Fairy 169 

The  Quest  of  Cynthia. 175 

Ballad  of  Dowsabel 176 

To  his  coy  Love  (from  his  Odes)... 177 

Sonnet  to  his  Fair  Idea 177 

Description  of  Morning,  Birds,  and  hunting  the  Deer  (Poly-Olbion,  Song  XIIL}~ 177 

EDWARD  FAIRFAX.. 179 

From  his  Translation  of  Tasso's  Jerusalem  Delivered,  Book  XVIIL 179 

SAMUEL  ROWLANDS 181 

Like  Master,  like  Man  (from  "The  Knave  of  Spades") 181 

Tragedy  of  Smug  the  Smith  (from  "The  Night  Raven") 182 

The  Vicar  (from  his  Epigrams).. 182 

Fools  and  Babes  tell  True  (from  "The  Knave  of  Spades") 182 

The  married  Scholar. 182 

JOHN  DONNE,  D.D 182 

The  Break  of  Day 183 

The  Dream 183 

On  the  Lord  Harrington,  Ac   (To  the  Countess  of  Bedford) 183 

Song. 184 

THOMAS  PICKE 184 

From  Songs,  Sonnets,  and  Elegies 184 

aEORGfi  HERBERT 184 

From  his  Poems,  entitled  "The  Temple,  sacred  Poems  and  pious  Ejaculations". 185 

The  Quip. 185 

Grace , 185 

Business 185 

Peace 186 

Mattens 186 

The  Collar.^ 186 

JOHN  MARSTON 187 

From  "  Sophonisba,"  a  Tragedy  (Act  V.  Scene  III.) 187 

From  "Antonio  and  Mellida"  (Act  IIL  Scene  I.) „ 188 

From  the  same  (Act  IV.) 189 

GEORGE   CHAPMAN 190 

From  the  Comedy  of  "All  Fools". 190 

A  Son  appeasing  his  Father  by  Submission,  after  a  stolen  Marriage  (from  the  same) 190 

Speech  of  Valeria  to  Rynaldo,  in  Answer  to  his  bitter  Invective  against  the  Sex 191 

Pride  (from  the  Comedy  of  "All  Fools") 191 

THOMAS  RANDOLPH 191 

Introductory  Scene  of  "The  Muse's  Looking>Glass".. 192 

Speech  of  Acolastus  the  Epicure  (from  "The  Muse's  Looking-Glass") 192 

Colaz,  the  Flatterer,  between  the  dismal   Philosopher  Anaisthetus  and  the  Epicure 

Acolastus,  accommodating  his  Opinions  to  both 193 

Colax  to  Philotimia,  or  the  Proud  Lady 193 

The  Praise  of  Woman  (from  his  Miscellaneous  Poems) 193 

RICHARD  CORBET 194 

Dr.  Corbefs  Journey  into  France , 194 

The  Fairies' Farewell „ 195 


xri  CONTENTS. 


PAQB 

THOMAS  MIDDLETON 1*« 

Leantio  approaching  his  Home  (from  the  Tragedy  of  "Women  beware  Women") 196 

Leantio's  Agony  for  the  Desertion  of  his  Wife  (from  the  8ame).« 196 

Scene  from  "The  Roaring  Girl" 197 

Fathers  comparing  Sons. — Benefit  of  Imprisonment  to  a  wild  Youth  (from  the  same)..  198 

DcTotion  to  Love  (from  the  Play  of  "Blurt,  Master- Constable") 199 

Indignation  at  the  Sale  of  a  Wife's  Honour  (from  "The  Phoenix") 199 

Law  (from  the  same) 199 

CHARLES  FITZGEFFRET 199 

To  Posterity  (from  "England's  Parnassus") 199 

Prom  his  "Life  of  Sir  Francis  Drake" 200 

RICHARD  NICCOLS 200 

From  the  Legend  of  "Robert  Duke  of  Normandy" 200 

BEN  JONSON 201 

Speech  of  Maia  (in  "The  Penates") 204 

From  the  Celebration  of  Charis 205 

To  Celia  (from  "The  Forest") 205 

Song  (from  the  same) ^ 205 

Song  to  Celia  (from  the  same) 205 

Song  of  Night  (in  the  Masque  of  "The  Vision  of  Delight") 206 

Chorus  (in  the  same) 206 

Song  of  Hesperus  (in  "Cynthia's  Revels") 206 

Song  (in  "The  Masque  of  Beauty")^ 206 

Song ,.., 206 

Song  (in  "The  Silent  Woman") 206 

Epitaph  on  the  Countess  of  Pembroke 206 

Epitaph  on  Elizabeth  L.  H „ 206 

A  Nymph's  Passion „..»..... 207 

The  Picture  of  the  Body 207 

On  Lucy,  Countess  of  Bedford  (from  his  Epigrams) 207 

From  "The  Fox" 207 

From  the  Celebration  of  Charix..... 211 

THOMAS   CAREW 212 

Persuasions  to  Love 212 

Song. — Mediocrity  in  Love  rejected „.. 212 

To  my  Mistress  sitting  by  the  River's  Side. — An  Eddy 213 

Epitaph  on  the  Lady  Mary  Villiers 213 

Ingrateful  Beauty  threatened 213 

Disdain  returned 213 

Song. — Persuasions  to  enjoy 213 

Song 213 

Song. — The  willing  Prisoner  to  his  Mistress 214 

A  pastoral  Dialogue 214 

Upon  Mr.  W.  Montague's  Return  from  TraveL ^ „ 214 

Feminine  Honour „ „,., 214 

The  Mistake , ...,.„. 215 

Good  Counsel  to  a  Young  Maid. , ,.... 215 

8IR  HENRY  WOTTON 215 

Farewell  to  the  Vanities  of  the  World 215 

On  the  sudden  Restraint  of  the  Earl  of  Somerset  (the  favourite  of  James  I.)  then  falling 

from  Favour 216 

The  Happy  Life 216 

A  Meditation  (from  Sanscroft's  Collection) , ^.  216 


=n 


CONTENTS.  XTU 


PAGE 

NATHANIEL  FIELD 216 

Song  (from  "Amends  for  Ladies,"  1618) 216 

THOMAS   DEKKBR 217 

Fortune  giving  Fortunatus  his  Choice  of  Goods.. 217 

From  "The  Honest  Whore" 218 

WILLIAM  ALEXANDER,  Earl  of  Stkrline 218 

SonneU  (from  his  "Aurora").^ 218 

JOHN  WEBSTER 219 

Vittoria,  the  Mistress  of  Brachiano,  relating  her  Dream  to  him  (from  "Vittoria  Corom- 

bona,  the  Venetian  Courtezan") 219 

From  "The  Duchess  of  Malfi" 220 

From  the  same.  Act  V.  Scene  IIL 222 

WILLIAM   ROWLEY 223 

Scene  from  the  Comedy  of  "A  New  Wonder,  or  a  Woman  never  Vext" 223 

Stephen,  a  reclaimed  Gamester,  newly  married  to  the  over-fortunate  Widow 224 

JOHN   FORD 225 

From  "The  Lover's  Melancholy,"  Act  IV.  Scene  IIL 225 

PHILIP  MASSINGER 227 

Marcelia  tempted  by  Francisco  (from  "The  Duke  of  Milan,"  a  Tragedy) 228 

Parting  Scene  of  Leosthenes,  a  young  Nobleman  of  Syracuse,  and  Cleora,  Daughter  to 

the  Praetor  of  the  City  (from  "The  Bondman") 229 

Pisander  declaring  his  Passion  for  Cleora,  in  the  Insurrection  of  the  Slaves  of  Syracuse 

(from  the  same) 231 

Pisander  holding  a  Parley  with  the  Chiefs  of  Syracuse  at  the  head  of  the  Insurgents 

(from  the  same) 231 

Leosthenes's  Return  to  Cleora  (from  the  same) 232 

From  "The  Bondman,"  Act  V.  Scene  IIL 234 

Giovanni,  Nephew  to  the  Duke  of  Florence,  taking  Leave  of  Lydia,  the  Daughter  of 

his  Tutor  Charomonte  (from  "The  Great  Duke  of  Florence") 236 

From  "The  Fatal  Dowry,"  Act  II.  Scene  1 236 

ANONYMOUS 237 

The  Oxford  Riddle  on  the  Puritans  (from  a  single  Sheet  printed  at  Oxford  in  1643) 237 

SIR  JOHN  SUCKLING 238 

Song. 238 

A  Ballad  upon  a  Wedding 238 

SIDNEY  GODOLPHIN 239 

MS.  Lines  found  in  Mr.  Malone's  Collection i. 239 

WILLIAM   CARTWRIGHT 240 

On  the  Death  of  Sir  Bevil  Grenville 240 

Love's  Darts , 240 

A  ValedicUon „.... 241 

GEORGE  SANDYS 241 

Paraphrase  upon  the  Psalms  of  David  (Ps.  LXVIIL) 241 

FRANCIS   QUARLES 242 

Faith 243 

Emblem  L  Book  IIL 243 

Brevity  of  Human  Life 244 

Song 244 

C  2» 


xviii  CONTENTS. 


PAQK 

WILLIAM  BROWNE 245 

Song 245 

Song 245 

Power  of  Qenios  over  Envy 245 

Address  to  his  native  SoiL ^ 245 

Evening. 246 

From  "Britannia's  Pastorals,"  Book  IL  Song  V 246 

Veniu  and  Adonis 246 

THOMAS  HEYWOOD 247 

Grief  of  Frankford,  after  discovering  his  Wife's  Infidelity,  and  dismissing  her  (Scene  in 

the  Tragedy  "A  Woman  killed  with  Kindness") 247 

Death  of  Mrs.  Frankford  (from  the  same) 248 

A  Witling  set  np  by  a  Poet's  Legacy  (from  "The  Fair  Maid  of  the  Exchange") 248 

Song  of  Nymphs  to  Diana  (from  "The  Golden  Age") 249 

WILLIAM  DRUMMOND ; 249 

Sonnets 250 

Spiritual  Poems 251 

THOMAS  NABBES 251 

Song  by  Love  and  the  Virtues  to  Physander  and  Bellanima  (from  "  Microcosmus,"  a 

Masque,  1637) 261 

THOMAS  MAY 252 

The  Death  of  Rosamond. 252 

RICHARD   CRASHAW 253 

Sospetto  d'Herode,  Lib.  I 253 

WILLIAM   HABINGTON 255 

Cupio  dissolvi ^ 255 

The  description  of  Castara. 256 

To  Castara,  inquiring  why  I  loved  her, 256 

Song  (from  "The  Queen  of  Arragon") 256 

JOHN   HALL. , 257 

The  Morning  Star. 257 

WILLIAM   CHAMBERLAYNE. ^ 257 

Pharonnida,  Book  II.  Canto  III 257 

,  Book  III.  Canto  II 258 

,  Book  III.  Canto  III 259 

,  Argalia  taken  Prisoner  by  the  Turks 259 


-,  Book  III.  Canto  IV 261 


KICHARD  LOVELACE 263 

A  loose  Saraband 263 

Song 264 

Song. — To  Althea,  from  Prison 264 

The  Scrutiny ; 264 

To  Lucasta. — Going  to  the  Wars 264 

To  Sir  Peter  Lely,  on  his  picture  of  Charles  L 264 

KATHERINB   PHILIPS ■.. , 265 

The  Inquiry 265- 

A  Friend _ 265 

WILLIAM   HEMINGE 266 

From  "The  Fatal  Contract,"  Act  II.  Scene  IL 266 

Another  Scene  from  the  8ame..,..,......,..,..„...^......„.....„ ,.,,, 267 


CONTENTS.  xix 


FAOI 

JAMES   SHIRLEY ; 268 

From  the  play  of  "The  Cardinal" 268 

The  Duchess's  Conference  with  Alvarez  (from  the  same) 269 

From  the  same 270 

From  "The  Royal  Master" 271 

From  "The  Gentleman  of  Venice" 272 

From  "The  Doubtful  Heir" 272 

Ferdinand's  Trial  (from  the  same) 273 

From  "The  Lady  of  Pleasure" 274 

Extravagance  of  Celestina  (from  the  same) 277 

Aretina's  Reception  of  her  Nephew  Frederick 278 

The  Queen  insulting  the  Wife  and  Father  of  the  accused  Admiral  in  their  Misfortunes 

(from  "Chabot,  Admiral  of  France,"  written  by  Shirley  and  Chapman) 280 

Death's  Conquest 281 

ANONYMOUS 281 

From  "Select  Ayres  and  Dialogues"  by  Lawes,  1659 281 

Song  (from  "Cromwell's  Conspiracy,"  a  Tragi-comedy,  1660) 281 

Loyalty  confined. — Ascribed  to  Roger  L'Estrange.     (From  "The  Rump") 282 

Upon  Ambition. — Occasioned  by  the  Accusation  of  the  Earl  of  Strafford  in  1640  (from 
the  same,  1662) 282 

ALEXANDER   BROME 283 

The  Resolve. 283 

On  Canary 283 

To  a  Coy  Lady ;. 284 

The  Mad  Lover 284 

ROBERT   HERRICK 284 

To  Meadows 284 

Song 285 

To  Daffodils 285 

To  Blossoms 285 

The  Night-Piece,  to  Julia. 285 

The  Country  Life 285 

Litany  to  the  Holy  Spirit 286 

ABRAHAM   COWLEY 286 

The  Chronicle,  a  Ballad 287 

The  Complaint 288 

From  "Friendship  in  Absence" 289 

The  Despair 289 

The  Waiting-maid 290 

Honour. 290 

Of  Wit 290 

Of  Solitude 291 

The  Swallow 291 

SIR   RICHARD  FANSHAWE 292 

The  Spring,  a  Sopnet  (from  the  Spanish) 292 

SIR  WILLIAM  DAVENANT 292 

From  "  Qondibert,"  Canto  IV „...  293 

SIR  JOHN   DENHAM 295 

Cooper's  Hill 295 

On  the  Earl  of  Strafford's  Trial  and  Death 298 

JOHN  BULTEEL 299 

Song. 299 


CONTENTS. 


PAea 

GEORGE   WITHER 299 

From  "The  Shepherd's  Hunting" 300 

From  "The  Shepherd's  Resolution" 301 

The  Stedfast  Shepherd 302 

From  a  Poem  on  the  Anniversary  of  his  Marriage-day 302 

DR.   HENRY   KING 303 

Sic  Vita 303 

Life 303 

The  Anniversary 303 

Song. 304 

DR.   ROBERT   WILDE 304 

A  Complaint  of  a  learned  Divine  in  Puritan  Times 304 

SIR  JOHN   MENNIS  AND   JAMES   SMITH 305 

Upon  Lutestrings  cat-eaten 305 

JASPER   MATNE. 306 

A  Son  and  Nephew  receiving  the  News  of  a  Father's  and  an  Uncle's  Death  (from  "  The 

City  Match/'  Act  IIL  Scene  IIL) 306 

Song  in  "The  Amorous  War" 308 

RICHARD  BRATHWAITE 308 

From  "A  Strappado  for  the  Devil" 309 

JOHN  MILTON 309 

Upon  the  Circumcision 310 

Song  on  May  Morning 310 

Sonnet  to  the  Nightingale 310 

An  Epitaph  on  Shakspeare 311 

Sonnet  on  his  Blindness 311 

on  his  deceased  Wife 311 

Athens  (from  Book  IV.  of  "Paradise  Regained") 311 

Samson  bewailing  his  Blindness  and  Captivity  (from  "Samson  Agonistes") 311 

Speeches  of  Manoah,  the  Father  of  Samson,  and  of  the  Chorus,  on  hearing  of  his  last 

Achievement  and  Death 312 

From  "Comus" 313 

Chastity  (from  the  same) 315 

Song 316 

The  Dances  ended,  the  Spirit  epilogaizes 316 

Speech  of  the  Genius  of  the  Wood,  in  the  "Arcades" 316 

ANDREW   MARVELL 317 

The  Emigrants 318 

The  Nymph  complaining  for  the  Death  of  her  Fawn 318 

Young  Love 319 

THOMAS   STANLEY 319 

Celia  singing 319 

Speaking  and  kissing 320 

La  Belle  Confidante 320 

JOHN   WILMOT,  Earl  op  Rochester 320 

Song 320 

Song 320 

bAMUEL   BUTLER 321 

Hudihras,  Part  I.  Canto  I 321 

Hudibrns  commencing  battle  with  the  Rabble,  and  leading  off  Crowdero  Prisoner  (Part  I. 
Canto  II.) 326 


CONTENTS.  zxi 


PAOI 

Vicarious  Justice  exemplified  by  Ralpho,  in  the  Case  of  the  Cobbler  that  killed  the 

Indian  (from  Part  IL  Canto  II.) 329 

Hudibras  consulting  the  Lawyer  (from  Part  III.  Canto  III.) 329 

ISAAK   WALTON 331 

The  Angler's  Wish 331 

WENTWORTH  DILLON,  Earl  of  Roscomkoit 331 

From  an  Essay  on  Translated  Verse 331 

THOMAS  OTWAY 333 

Chamont's  Suspicions  of  his  Sister  (Scene  from  "The  Orphan") 333 

Chamont  finding  Monimia  in  Tears,  discovering  the  Cause  of  her  Grief,  and  remonstrat- 
ing with  Acasto  (from  the  same) 335 

Belvidera  revealing  to  her  Father  the  Secret  of  the  Conspiracy  (from  "Venice  Pre- 
served," Act  V.  Scene  I.) 336 

Song 337 

ANONYMOUS 337 

Song  (from  "The  Loyal  Garland,"  1685) 337 

Seaman's  Song  (from  the  same) 337 

Song. — Tyrannic  Love  (from  the  same) 338 

N.   HOOK 338 

From  a  Poem  entitled  "Amanda" 338 

PHILIP  AYRES 338 

To  the  Nightingale  (from  Lyric  Poems) 338 

On  the  Sight  of  his  Mistress's  House  (from  the  same) 338 

EDMUND  WALLER 339 

Of  the  Queen 339 

On  my  Lady  Dorothy  Sydney's  Picture 339 

At  Penshurst 339 

The  Story  of  Phoebus  and  Daphne  applied 339 

At  Penshnrst. 340 

Of  Love 340 

Of  my  Lady  Isabella  playing  the  Lute 340 

Love's  Farewell 341 

On  a  Girdle 341 

Go,  Lovely  Rose .* 341 

Of  loving  at  first  sight. 341 

The  Self-banished 341 

The  Night-piece,  or  a  Picture  drawn  in  the  Dark 341 

The  Naval  Glory  of  England  (from  Verses  on  a  War  with  Spain) 342 

CHARLES   COTTON 342 

A  Voyage  to  Ireland  in  Burlesque,  Canto  I , 342 

Canto  II 344 

Canto  III 346 

DR.  HENRY  MORE 348 

The  Pre-ezistency  of  the  Soul 348 

GEORGE   ETHEREGE 349 

Song  (from  "Love  in  a  Tub") 350 

Song  (from  Southerne's  "Disappointment,"  Ac.) 350 

Song  (from  "Love  in  a  Tub") 350 

Song 360 

THOMAS   FLATMAN 350 

For  Thoughts  (from  Poems  and  Soncs) 350 


xxu  CONTENTS. 


PAOB 

Song  (from  the  same)..... 351 

Extract 351 

APHRA  BEHN 351 

SoDg  (in  the  Farce  of  "The  Emperor  of  the  Moon") 351 

NATHANIEL  LEE 352 

From  "  Theodosius,  or  the  Force  of  Love" 352 

THOMAS  SHADWELL 355 

From  "The  Rape,  or  Innocent  Impostors" 365 

HENRY  VAUGHAN 355 

Early  Rising  and  Prayer  (from  "Silex  Scintillans,  or  Sacred  Poems") 355 

The  Timber  (from  the  same) 356 

The  Rainbow  (from  the  same) 356 

The  Wreath. — To  the  Redeemer  (from  the  same) 356 

JOHN  DRYDEN 356 

Character  of  Shaftesbury  (from  "Absalom  and  Achitophel") 356 

Character  of  George  Villiers,  the  second  Duke  of  Buckingham  (from  the  same) 357 

Characters  of  Doeg  and  Og — the  Poets  Settle  and  Shadwell  (from  the  same) 357 

Ode  to  the  Memory  of  Mrs.  Anne  Killigrew 358 

Description  of  Lycurgus  King  of  Thrace,  and  of  Emetrius  King  of  Inde  (from  the 

Fable  of  "Palamon  and  Arcite") 358 

Preparations  for  the  Tournament  (from  the  same) 359 

From  "Cymon  and  Iphigenia" 360 

From  "The  Flower  and  the  Leaf" 361 

Upon  the  Earl  of  Dundee 362 

SIR   CHARLES   SEDLEY 363 

Song  in  "Bellamira,  or  the  Mistress" 363 

To  a  very  young  Lady , 363 

Song 363 

Song 364 

Extract 364 

JOHN  POMFRET 364 

From  "Reason,"  a  Poem 364 

THOMAS  BROWN 365 

Song 365 

Song 365 

CHARLES  SACKVILLE,  Earl  op  Dorset 366 

Song. — Written  at  Sea,  in  the  first  Dutch  War,  1665,  the  Night  before  an  Engagement.  3^6 
Song 367 

GEORGE   STEPNEY 367 

To  the  Evening  Star  (Englished  from  a  Greek  Idyllinm) 367 

JOHN   PHILIPS 367 

The  Splendid  Shilling 368 

WILLIAM  WALSH 369 

Song 369 

ANONYMOUS 370 

Holla,  my  Fancy,  whither  wilt  thou  go?  (from  a  Choice  Collection  of  Comic  and  Serious 

Scots  Poems,  1709) 37O 

On  a  Woman's  Inconstancy  (from  the  same) 37O 

The  Church  Builder  (from  Poems  for  the  October  Club,  1711) 371 


CONTENTS.  xriti 


PAOR 

ROBERT   GOULD 371 

Song  (from  "The  Violence  of  Love,  or  the  Rival  Sisten") 371 

Song  (from  the  same) 371 

DR.  WALTER  POPE ..^ * 372 

The  Old  Man's  Wish ,......„ „ 372 

THOMAS  PARNELL 372 

A  Fairy  Tale. — In  the  ancient  English  Style. 373 

The  Book-worm „..„ 375 

An  Imitation  of  some  French  Verses 375 

A  Night-piece  on  Death 376 

The  Hermit. ^ 377 

Piety,  or  the  Vision.^ »,........»... 379 

Hymn  to  Contentment 380 

NICHOLAS  ROWE.. 381 

Lucilla  conjuring  Calista  to  conquer  her  Passion  for  Lothario  (from  "  The  Fair  Penitent," 

Act  IL  Scene  I.) 381 

Sciolto,  the  Father  of  Calista,  finds  her  watching  the  Dead  Body  of  Lothario  by  Lamp- 
light, in  a  Room  hung  round  with  black  (from  the  same,  Act  V.  Scene  L)... 381 

Colin's  Complaint 383 

SAMUEL  GARTH 384 

The  Dispensary,  Canto  I. 384 

PETER  ANTHONY  MOTTEUX 386 

Song  (fVom  "Mars  and  Venus") 386 

A  Rondeleauz  (in  "The  Mock  Marriage"  by  Scott).. 386 

JOSEPH   ADDISON « „ 887 

A  Letter  from  Italy „ 387 

An  Ode »,.,.„.,.„ 388 

Paraphrase  on  Psalm  XXIII 388 

MATTHEW   PRIOR 389 

The  Lady's  Looking-glass. — In  Imitation  of  a  Greek  Idyllium 389 

An  Answer  to  Chloe 390 

The  Remedy  worse  than  the  Disease 390 

Partial  Fame 390 

Song 390 

AnEpitoph 390 

Protogenes  and  Apelles 391 

The  Cameleon 391 

From  "Alma,  or  the  Progress  of  the  Mind"  (Canto  II.) 392 

DR.  GEORGE  SEWELL,„ 393 

Verses  said  to  be  written  by  the  Author  on  himself  when  he  was  in  a  Consumption 394 

SIR  JOHN  VANBRUGH 394 

Fable. — Related  by  a  Beau  to  Esop 394 

WILLIAM   CONGREVE 395 

From  the  "Mourning  Bride" 395 

Song... .'. 397 

ELIJAH  FENTON 397 

As  Ode  to  Lord  Gower. ^....„...n » 398 


xxlT  CONTENTS. 


PAOB 

EDWARD   WARD 398 

Song 399 

JOHN  GAY 399 

Monday;  or  the  Sqaabble 400 

Thursday;  or  the  Spell 401 

Saturday;  or  the  Flights , 402 

The  Birth  of  the  Squire. — In  Imitation  of  the  Pollio  of  Virgil 403 

Sweet  William's  Farewell  to  Black-eyed  Susan 404 

The  Court  of  Death,  a  Fable 405 

A  Ballad  (from  "The  What-d'ye-call-it") 405 

BARTON  BOOTH 406 

Song 406 

MATTHEW   GREEN 406 

From  the  "  Spleen" 406 

GEORGE  GRANVILLE,  Lord  Lahbdowite 408 

Song 408 

GEORGE  LILLO 409 

From  the  "Fatal  Curiosity" 410 

THOMAS   TICKELL 415 

To  the  Earl  of  Warwick,  on  the  Death  of  Mr.  Addison 415 

Colin  and  Lucy,  a  Ballad. 416 

JAMES   HAMMOND 4ir 

Elegy  XIII 417 

JOHN   OLDMIXON 418 

Song  (from  his  "  Poems  on  several  Occasions,  in  Imitation  of  the  Manner  of  Anacreon").  418 
On  himself  (from  Anacreon) 418 

WILLIAM   SOMERVILLE 419 

Bacchus  Triumphant,  a  Tale... 419 

RICHARD   WEST 420 

Ad  Amicos 420 

JAMES   EYRE  WEEKES 421 

The  Five  Traitors,  a  Song  (from  Poems  printed  at  Cork,  1743) 421 

RICHARD   SAVAGE 422 

The  Bastard 422 

ALEXANDER  POPE 423 

The  Dying  Christian  to  his  Soul 424 

The  Rape  of  the  Lock,  Canto  L 424 

•  Canto  II 425 

Canto  III. 426 

.^-^— Canto  IV 428 

• — ■ Canto  V 429 

JONATHAN  SWIFT 43I 

Baucis  and  Philemon. — On  the  ever-lamented  Loss  of  the  two  Yew  Trees  in  the  Parish 

of  Chilthome,  Somerset,  1708  (imitated  from  the  eighth  Book  of  Ovid) 431 

On  Poetry. — A  Rhapsody,  1733 .  43^ 


CONTENTS.  xxT 

PAOS 

JAMES  BRAMSTON „ k 437 

The  Man  of  Taste 437 

WILLIAM   MESTON 439 

The  Cobbler.— Ad  Irish  Tale  (from  Mother  Grim's  Tales) 440 

THOMAS   SOUTHERNE 442 

From  the  Tragedy  of  "The  Fatal  Marriage,"  Act  lY.  Scene  II 4 442 

Act  V.  Scene  1 444 

Scene  II 444 

Song  (in  "Sir  Anthony  Love,  or  the  Rambling  Lady") 445 

THOMAS  WHARTON 446 

Retirement. — An  Ode 446 

Verses  written  after  seeing  Windsor  Castle 446 

An  American  Lo^e  Ode  (from  the  second  Volume  of  Montaigne's  Essays) 446 

ROBERT  BLAIR 446 

From  "  The  Grave" 447 

JAMES  THOMSON 449 

The  Castle  of  Indolence,  Canto  I 450 

To  Fortune 457 

Rule  Britannia 457 

AMBROSE   PHILIPS 458 

To  the  Earl  of  Dorset 45$ 

A  Hymn  to  Venus  (from  the  Greek  of  Sappho) 458 

A  Fragment  of  Sappho 459 

ISAAC  WATTS 459 

Few  happy  Matches 459 

LEONARD   WELSTED 460 

From  his  "Sammum  Bonum" 460 

AMHURST   SELDEN 461 

Love  and  Folly. — Arraignment  and  Trial  of  Cupid 461 

Canto  II. 465 

From  Canto  IV 467 

WILLIAM  CRAWFURD 470 

Tweedside 470 

The  Bush  aboon  Traquair 470 

On  Mrs.  A.  H.  at  a  Concert 470 

AARON  HILL 471 

Verses  written  by  the  Author  when  alone  in  an  Inn  at  Southampton 471 

Alexis;  or  Pope, 471 

WILLIAM   HAMILTON 472 

From  Contemplation,  or  the  Triumph  of  Love 472 

Song 473 

GILBERT  WEST 474 

Allegorical  description  of  Vertu  (from  the  "Abuse  of  Travelling") 474 

WILLIAM   COLLINS 475 

Ode  to  Evening 475 

Ode  on  the  popular  Superstitions  of  the  Highlands  of  Scotland,  considered  as  the  Subject 

of  Poetry  (inscribed  to  Mr.  John  Hume) 476 

D  8 


xxtI  contents. 


PAGE 

COLLET   GIBBER. .-.« 479 

Song.— The  Blind  Boy .^..„.^...^....^ « 479 

EDWARD  MOORE 479 

The  Discovery.— An  Ode 479 

The  Happy  Marriage 480 

JOHN  DYER 481 

Grongar  Hill 481 

ALLAN  RAMSAY „ „ ^ „ 482 

From  "The  Gentle  Shepherd,"  Act  L  Scene  II 485 

Song ~ 487 

SIR  CHARLES  HANBURY  WILLIAMS 487 

Ode. — To  a  great  Number  of  great  Men,  newly  made 487 

ISAAC  HAWKINS  BROWNE 488 

A  PiPK  OF  Tobacco,  in  Imitation  op  six  severai.  Authors  : — 

Imitation  I.— Colley  Gibber 488 

Imitation  II. — Amb.  Philips 489 

Imitation  III. — James  Thomson 489 

Imitation  IV.— Dr.  Young 489 

Imitation  V.— Mr.  Pope 490 

Imitation  VI.— Dean  Swift 490 

JOHN  BYROM 490 

APafltoraL 490 

WILLIAM  SHENSTONE 491 

The  Schoolmistress  (in  Imitation  of  Spenser) 492 

Elegy. — Describing  the  Sorrow  of  an  ingenuous  Mind  on  the  melancholy  Event  of  a 

licentious  Amour 496 

From  Rural  Eelgance. — An  Ode  to  the  Duchess  of  Somerset 497 

Ode  to  Memory 497 

HENRY  CAREY 498 

Sally  in  our  Alley 498 

CHARLES  CHURCHILL 499 

Introduction  to  "The  Rosciad" 601 

Character  of  a  critical  Fribble  (from  the  same) 601 

Characters  of  Quin,  Tom  Sheridan,  and  Garrick  (ftom  the  same) 602 

From  "The  Prophecy  of  Famine" 603 

ROBERT  DODSLEY 605 

Song 605 

Song. — The  Parting  Kiss 606 

ROBERT  LLOYD 506 

Chit-chat  (an  Imitation  of  Theocritus) , 606 

DAVID  MALLET „ ,. 508 

William  and  Margaret ,„^ , ...,.,.....,.. 609 

Song 510 

EDWARD  YOUNG 5J0 

Introduction  to  the  "  Night  Thoughts"— Uncertainty  of  human  Happiness— Universality 
of  human  Misery ^ 5j2 


CONTENTS.  xxtU 


PAOI 

Apology  for  the  Seriousness  of  the  Subject  (from  Night  II.) 513 

Madness  of  Men  in  Pursuit  of  Amusements  (from  the  same) 614 

Blessedness  of  the  Son  of  Foresight  (from  the  same)... 514 

Society  necessary  to  Happiness  (from  the  same) 514 

Complaint  for  Narcissa  (from  Night  III.) 514 

Comparison  of  the  Soul  viewing  the  Prospects  of  Immortality  to  the  Prisoner  enlarged 

from  a  Dungeon  (from  Night  IV.) 515 

The  Danger  to  Virtue  of  Infection  from  the  World  (from  Night  V.) 515 

Insufficiency  of  Genius  without  Virtue  (from  Night  VI.) 616 

Description  of  the  Man  whose  Thoughts  are  not  of  this  World  (from  Night  VIII.) 516 

The  Love  of  Praise  (from  Satire  I.) 616 

Propensity  of  Man  to  false  and  fantastic  Joys  (from  Satire  V.) 516 

Characters  of  Women — The  Astronomical  Lady  (from  the  same) 517 

The  Languid  Lady  (from  the  same) 517 

The  Swearer  (from  the  same) 517 

The  Wedded  Wit  (from  the  same) 617 

JOHN   BROWN 517 

From  the  Tragedy  of  "  Barbarossa" 518 

From  the  same 519 

Selim'a  Soliloquy  before  the  Insurrection^ 519 

MICHAEL  BRUCE 520 

From  the  "llegy  on  Spring" 620 

From  " Lochleven" ~.  621 

JAMES  GRAINGER 521 

Ode  to  Solitude 621 

JOHN  GILBERT   COOPER 522 

Song. 623 

Song 523 

JAMES   MERRICK 623 

The  Wish „ ^ 523 

WILLIAM  FALCONER 624 

Character  of  the  Officers  (from  "The  Shipwreck") 626 

Evening  described — Midnight — the   Ship  weighing  Anchor  and  departing  from   the 

Haven  (from  the  same) 620 

Distress  of  the  Vessel — Heaving  of  the  Guns  overboard  (from  the  same) 628 

Council  of  Officers. — Albert's  directions  to  prepare  for  the  last  Extremities  (from  the 

same) 628 

The  Vessel  going  to  Pieces — Death  of  Albert  (firom  the  same) 530 

MARK  AKENSIDE 631 

From  "The  Pleasures  of  Imagination"  (Book  I.) 632 

Final  Cause  of  our  Pleasure  in  Beauty  (from  the  same) 634 

Mental  Beauty  (from  the  same) 634 

All  the  natural  passions,  Grief,  Pity,  and  Indignation,  partake  of  a  pleasing  sensation 

(from  Book  IL) 535 

Enjoyments  of  Genius  in  collecting  her  Stores  for  Composition  (from  Book  III.) 635 

Conclusion  (from  the  same) , ^ 636 

Inscription  for  a  Bust  of  Shakspeare ,,.,„,.  637 

THOMAS  CHATTERTON 637 

Bristowe  Traeedie,  or  the  Dethe  of  Syr  Charles  Bawdin 640 


xxriU  CONTENTS. 

PASS 

CHRISTOPHER  SMART 544 

Soliloquy  of  the  Princess  Periwinkle  (in  the  mock  play  of  "  A  Trip  to  Cambridge,  or 

the  Grateful  Fair") 545 

Ode  on  an  Eagle  confined  in  a  College  Court 545 

THOMAS  GRAY 546 

The  Bard:  a  Pindaric  Ode 547 

The  Alliance  of  Education  and  Goremment     A  Fragment 548 

On  Vicissitude 549 

The  Tragedy  of  Agrippina.    A  Fragment 550 

CUTHBERT  SHAW 552 

From  "A  Monody  to  the  Memory  of  his  Wife" 552 

TOBIAS   SMOLLETT 554 

The  Tears  of  Scotland 555 

Ode  to  Leven  Water. — Ode  to  Independence 556 

JOHN  CUNNINGHAM 66? 

Content:  a  PastoraL 557 

May-Eve;  or,  Kate  of  Aberdeen 658 

ANONYMOUS. — Song  (from  the  Shamrock,  or  Hibernian  Crosses,  Dublin,  1772) 568 

Epigram  on  two  Monopolists  (from  the  same) 668 

GEORGE,  LORD  LYTTELTON 559 

From  the  "Monody" 669 

Prologue  to  "Coriolanus" 560 

ROBERT  FERGUSON £60 

The  Farmer's  Ingle 561 

PHILIP  DORMER  STANHOPE,  Earl  of  Chesterfield 662 

On  Nash's  Picture  at  full  Length  between  the  Busts  of  Sir  I.  Newton  and  Mr.  Pope, 
at  Bath 562 

THOMAS  SCOTT 663 

Government  of  the  Mind  (from  Lyrio  Poems) 663 

OLIVER  GOLDSMITH 663 

The  Traveller 668 

The  Deserted  Village 571 

The  Haunch  of  Venison 675 

PAUL  WHITEHEAD 676 

Hunting  Song 577 

WALTER  HARTE 677 

Eulogius:  or,  the  Charitable  Mason 679 

Contentment,  Industry,  and  Acquiescence  under  the  Divine  Will :  an  Ode 581 

ANONYMOUS. — Verses  copied  from  the  Window  of  an  obscure  Lodging-house,  in  the  Neigh- 

bourhood  of  London  (from  the  Annual  Register  for  1774) 582 

EDWARD  LOVIBOND 533 

The  Tears  of  Old  May-Day 58S 

Song  to   ♦   *   * 584 

FRANCIS   FAWKES 534 

The  Brown  Jug. 584 


CONTENTS.  xxix 


TAOI 

ANONYMOUS.— The  Old  Bachelor.    After  the  manner  of  Spenser. 585 

JOHN  ARMSTRONG 586 

Opening  of  the  Poem  in  an  Invocation  to  Hygeia  (from  "  The  Art  of  Preserving  Health/' 

Book  I.) 588 

Choice  of  a  Rural  Situation,  and  an  Allegorical  Picture  of  the  Quartan  Ague  (from  the 

same) 589 

Recommendation  of  a  high  Situation  on  the  Sea-coast  (from  the  same) 589 

Address  to  the  Naiads  (from  Book  II.) 590 

RICHARDSON 590 

Ode  to  a  Singing  Bird... 590 

JOHN  LANGHORNE 591 

From  "The  Country  Justice". 692 

Gipsies  (from  the  same) 594 

From  the  same ^ 594 

A  Case  where  Mercy  should  have  mitigated  Justice  (from  the  same) 595 

Owen  of  Carron 595 

THOMAS   PENROSE 601 

The  Helmets:  a  Fragment 601 

The  Field  of  Battle 602 

SIR  WILLIAM   BLACKSTONE 602 

The  Lawyer's  Farewell  to  his  Muse 602 

SIR  JOHN  HENRY  MOORE,  Bart.. 603 

L' Amour  Timide 603 

Song 603 

RICHARD  JAGO 604 

Labour  and  Genius;  or,  the  Mill-stream  and  the  Cascade:  a  Fable 604 

Absence 605 

HENRY  BROOKE , 605 

The  Reptile  and  Insect  World  (from  "Universal  Beauty,"  Book  V.) 606 

JOHN   SCOTT 608 

Ode  on  hearing  the  Drum 609 

Ode  on  Privateering 609 

The  Tempestuous  Evening:  an  Ode 609 

GEORGE  ALEXANDER  STEVENS 610 

The  Wine  Vault 610 

DR.  SAMUEL  JOHNSON 611 

London 611 

The  Vanity  of  Human  Wishes. 614 

Drury-Lane  Prologue » 617 

On  the  Death  of  Robert  Levett 618 

MRS.  GREVILLB 618 

Prayer  for  IndifTerenoe 618 

WILLIAM  WHITEHEAD 619 

Ilyssus  meeting  Creusa  (from  his  Tragedy  of  "Creus*") 922 

Variety. — A  Tale  for  Married  People ^ 623 


zzz 


CONTENTS. 


PAQK 

RICHARD   GLOVER 626 

Opening  of  the  Poem  of  "  Leonidas" 628 

From  Book  II 629 

Prom  Book  VI 630 

From  Book  VIIL 632 

From  Book  IX 634 

From  Book  XII 636 

Admiral  Hosier's  Ghost. 636 

JOHN  HALL   STEPHENSON 637 

The  Blackbird 637 

To  Miss 637 

EDWARD   THOMPSON ^ 638 

The  Sailor's  Farewell 638 

Song ^ 639 

Song. « ^...^.^ 639 

HENRY  HEADLEY 639 

From  his  "Invocation  to  Melancholy" 640 

THOMAS  RUSSELL 640 

Sonnet — To  Valclasa 640 

Sonnet — Supposed  to  be  written  at  Lemnos 641 

JOHN  LOGAN 641 

Ode  to  the  Cuckoo 641 

The  Lovers '. 642 

ROBERT  NUGENT,  Earl  Nugent 643 

Ode  to  William  Pulteney,  Esq 644 

Ode  to  Mankind. 644 

WILLIAM  JULIUS   MICKLE 646 

From  Syr  Martyn 648 

NATHANIEL  COTTON.- 652 

The  Fireside 662 

TIMOTHY  DWIGHT 653 

Death  of  Irad,  and  Lamentation  over  his  Body  (from  his  "Conquest  of  Canaan") 653 

Prediction  made  by  the  Angel  to  Joshua  of  the  future  Discovery  and  Happiness  of 
America,  and  of  the  Millennium  (from  the  same) 654 

JAMES  WHYTE 656 

Simile 656 

THOMAS   WARTON 656 

Verses  on  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds's  painted  Window  at  New  College,  Oxford 657 

Inscription  in  a  Hermitage 658 

The  Hamlet .,  659 

The  Suicide 659 

The  Crusade 660 

The  Grave  of  King  Arthur. 661 

Sonnet,  written  after  seeing  Wilton  House 662 

THOMAS  BLACKLOCK 662 

The  Author's  Picture 663 

Ode  to  Aurora. — On  Melissa's  Birth-day 664 


CONTENTS.  xxxi 


WILLIAM   HAYWARD  ROBERTS 664 

From  "  Judah  Restored"  (Book  I.) 664 

From  the  same 666 

From  Book  IV 668 

From  Book  VI 668 

SIR  WILLIAM  JONES 669 

A  Persian  Songof  Hafiz 673 

An  Ode. — In  Imitation  of  Alcseus. m 673 

SAMUEL   BISHOP 674 

To  Mrs.  Bishop 674 

To  the  same 674 

Epigram. — Quod  petis,  bio  est 674 

Epigram. — Splendeat  usu 675 

Epigram. — Quoconque  modo  rem 675 

JOHN  BAMPFYLDE 675 

Sonnet 675 

Sonnet. — To  the  Redbreast. 675 

Sonnet. — On  a  wet  Summer 675 

Sonnet , 676 

ROBERT  BURNS 676 

The  Twa  Dogs 680 

Address  to  the  Deil 682 

To  a  Mountain  Daisy 683 

Tam  o'Shanter. 684 

Song. — "0  poortith  cauld/'  &c 685 

To  Mary  in  Heaven 686 

Song.— To  Jessy 686 

.Bruce  to  bis  men  at  Bannockburn. 686 

Song. — Mary  Morison 686 

Song. — "Ob,  were  I  on  Parnassus  Hill" 687 

Song.— "Had  I  a  cave,"  Ac 687 

WILLIAM  MASON. 687 

Opening  Scene  of  "Caractacus" 690 

From  tbe  same 691 

From  the  same 693 

The  Capture  of  Caractacus  (from  the  same) 694 

Epitaph  on  Mrs.  Mason 695 

An  Heroic  Epistle  to  Sir  William  Chambers '696 

JOSEPH  WARTON.„ 698 

Ode  to  Fancy 700 

The  Dying  Indian 701 

To  Music 701 

WILLIAM  COWPER 703 

From  "The  Task"  (Book  I.) 710 

Opening  of  the  second  Book  of  "The  Task" 711 

From  Book  IV 712 

From  Book  VI 713 

On  the  Loss  of  the  Royal  Qeorge 714 

Yardley  Oak 714 


xxxii  CONTENTS. 


FAai 

To  Mary 716 

To  Mrs.  Anne  Bodbam , 716 

Lines  on  his  Mother's  Picture 716 

ERASMUS  DARWIN 717 

Destruction  of  Cambyses'  Army  (from  "The  Botanic  Garden,"  Canto  II.) 718 

Persuasion  to  Mothers  to  suckle  their  own  Children  (from  Canto  III.) 719 

Midnight  Conflagration — Catastrophe  of  the  Families  of  Woodmason  and  Molesworth 

(from  the  same) 719 

The  heroic  Attachment  of  the  Youth  in  Holland,  who  attended  his  Mistress  in  the  Plague 

(from  Canto  IV.) 720 

JAMES  BEATTIE 720 

The  Minstrel  (Book  L) 722 

CHRISTOPHER  ANSTEY 727 

From  the  New  Bath  Guide 728 

Appendix > 731 

Ikdbx 739 


ESSAY  ON  ENGLISH  POETRY. 


PART  I. 


The  influence  of  the  Norman  conquest 
upon  the  language  of  England  was  like  that 
of  a  great  inundation,  which  at  first  buries 
the  face  of  the  landscape  under  its  waters, 
but  which  at  last  subsiding,  leaves  behind  it 
the  elements  of  new  beauty  and  fertility. 
Its  fiist-eflFect  was  to  degrade  the  Anglo-Saxon 
tongue  to  the  exclusive  use  of  the  inferior 
orders ;  and  by  the  transference  of  estates, 
ecclesiastical  benefices,  and  civil  dignities,  to 
Norman  possessors,  to  give  the  French  lan- 
guage, which  had  begun  to  prevail  at  court 
from  the  time  of  Edward  the  Confessor,  a 
more  complete  predominance  among  the 
higher  classes  of  society.  The  native  gentry 
of  England  were  either  driven  into  jxile,  or 
depressed  into  a  state  of  dependence  on  their 
conqueror,  which  habituated  them  to  speak 
his  language.  On  the  other  hand,  we  re- 
^ceived  from  the  Normans  the  first  germs  of 
romantic  poetry ;  and  our  language  was  ulti- 
mately indebted  to  them  for  a  wealth  and 
Compass  of  expression  which  it  probably 
would  not  have  otherwise  possessed. 

The  Anglo-Saxon,  however,  was  not  lost, 
though  it  was  superseded  by  French,  and 
disappeared  as  the  language  of  superior  life 
and  of  public  business.  It  is  found  written 
in  prose,  at  the  end  of  Stephen's  reign,  nearly 


*  As  the  Saxon  Chronicle  relates  the  death  of  Stephen, 
it  mupt  hare  iDeen  written  after  that  event.  Klms,  Early 
Eng.  Poets,  vol  I.  p.  60,  and  vol.  iii.  p.  404,  Kd.  1801. 

What  is  commonly  called  the  Saxon  Chronicle  is  con- 
tinued to  the  death  of  Stephen,  in  1154,  and  in  the  same 
language,  though  with  some  loss  of  its  purity.  Besides 
the  neglect  of  several  grammatical  rules,  French  words 
now  and  then  obtrude  themselves,  hut  not  very  frequently, 
in  the  latter  pages  of  this  Chronicle. — HA.U..UC,  Lit.  Hut. 
vol.  i.  p.  59.— C. 

f  Introductinn  to  Johnson's  Dictionary.  Nor  can  it  he 
expected,  from  the  nature  of  things  gradually  changing, 
that  any  time  can  be  assigned  when  Saxon  may  be  said 
to  cease,  and  the  English  to  commence  ....  Total  and 
■udden  transformations  of  a  language  seldom  happen. 


a  century  after  the  Conquest;  and  the  Saxon 
Chronicle,  which  thus  exhibits  it,*  contains 
even  a  fragment  of  verse,  professed  to  have 
been  composed  by  an  individual  who  had 
seen  William  the  Conqueror.  To  fix  upon 
any  precise  time  when  the  national  speech 
can  be  said  to  have  ceased  to  be  Saxon,  and 
begun  to  be  English,  is  pronounced  by  Dr. 
Johnson  to  be  impossible.!  It  is  undoubt- 
edly difficult,  if  it  be  possible,  from  the  gra- 
dually progressive  nature  of  language,  as 
well  as  from  the  doubt,  with  regard  to  dates, 
which  hangs  over  the  small  number  of  spe- 
cimens of  the  early  tongue  which  we  possess. 
Mr.  Ellis  fixes  upon  a  period  of  about  forty 
years,  preceding  the  accession  of  Henry  III., 
from  1180  to  1216,  during  which  he  conceives 
modern  English  to  have  been  formed.  J  The 
opinions  of  Mr.  Ellis,  which  are  always  de- 
livered with  candour,  and  almost  always 
founded  on  intelligent  views,  are  not  to  be 
lightly  treated;  and  I  hope  I  shall  not  ap- 
pear to  be  either  captious  or  inconsiderate  in 
disputing  them.  But  it  seems  to  me,  that 
he  rather  arbitrarily  defines  the  number  of 
years  which  he  supposes  to  have  elapsed  in 
the  formation  of  our  language,  when  he  as- 
signs forty  years  for  that  formation.  He  af- 
terwards speaks  of  the  vulgar  English  having 

About  the  year  1150,  the  Saxon  began  to  take  a  form  in 
which  the  beginning  of  the  present  English  may  bo  plainly 
discovered :  this  change  seems  not  to  have  been  the  effect 
of  the  Norman  conquest,  for  very  few  French  words  aro 
found  to  have  been  introduced  In  the  first  hundred  year* 
after  it;  the  language  must  therefore  have  been  altered 
by  causes  like  those  which,  notwithstanding  the  care  of 
writers  and  societies  instituted  to  obviate  them,  are  even 
now  daily  making  innovations  in  every  living  language. 
Jonsso^f. — C. 

X  It  is  only  justice  to  Mr.  Ellis  to  g^ve  his  date  correctly. 
1185.  "  We  may  fairly  infer,"  Mr.  Ellis  writes,  "that  the 
Saxon  language  and  literature  began  to  be  mixed  with 
the  Norman  about  1185;  and.tbat  in  1210  the  change  may 
be  considered  as  complete." — C. 

1 


2 


ENGLISH  POETRY. 


suddenly  superseded  the  pure  and  legitimate 
Saxon.*  Now,  if  the  supposed  period  could 
be  fixed  with  any  degree  of  accuracy  to  thirty 
or  forty  years,  one  might  waive  the  question 
whether  a  transmutation  occupying  so  much 
time  could,  with  propriety  or  otherwise,  be 
called  a  sudden  one ;  but  when  we  find  that 
there  are  no  sufficient  data  for  fixing  its 
boundaries  even  to  fifty  years,  the  idea  of  a 
sudden  transition  in  the  language  becomes 
inadmissible. 

The  mixture  of  our  literature  and  language 
with  the  Norman,  or,  in  other  words,  the 
formation  of  English,  commenced,  according 
to  Mr.  Ellis,  in  1180  [5].  At  that  period,  he 
calculates  that  Eayamon,  the  first  translator 
from  French  into  the  native  tongue,  finished 
his  version  of  Wace's  "  Brut."  This  trans- 
lation, however,  he  pronounces  to  be  still  un- 
mixed, though  barbarous  Saxon.f  It  is  cer- 
tainly not  very  easy  to  conceive  how  the 
sudden  and  distinct  formation  of  English  can 
be  said  to  have  commenced  with  unmixed 
Saxon;  but  Mr.  Ellis,  possibly,  meant  the 
period  of  Layamon's  work  to  be  the  date 
after,  and  not  at  which  the  change  may  be 
understood  to  have  begun.  Yet,  while  he 
pronounces  Layamon's  language  unmixed 
Saxon,  he  considers  it  to  be  such  a  sort  of 


*  "  The  most  striking  peculiarity,"  says  Mr.  Ellis,  "  in 
the  establishment  of  our  vulgar  English  is,  that  it  seems 
to  have  very  suddenly  superseded  the  pure  and  legitimate 
Saxon,  from  which  its  elements  were  principally  derived, 
instead  of  becoming  its  successor,  as  generally  has  been 
supposed,  by  a  slow  and  imperceptible  process."  Speci- 
mens of  Early  English  Poetry,  vol.  iii.  p.  404.    Conclusion. 

t  Mr.  Ellis  (p.  73)  says,  "very  barbarous  Saxon."  "  So 
little,"  says  Sir  Walter  Scott  in  his  Review  of  Mr.  Ellis's 
Specimens,  "were  the  Saxon  and  Norman  languages  cal- 
culated to  amalgamate,  that  though  Layamon  wrote  in 
the  reign  of  Henry  II.,  his  language  is  almost  pure 
Saxon;  and  hence  it  is  probable,  that  if  the  mixed  lan- 
guage now  called  English  at  all  existed,  it  was  deemed  as 
yet  unfit  for  composition,  and  only  used  as  a  piebald  jar- 
gon fl%  carrying  on  the  indispensable  intercourse  betwixt 
the  Anglo-Saxons  and  Normans.  In  process  of  time, 
however,  the  dialect  so  much  despised  made  its  way  into 
the  service  of  the  poets,  and  seems  to  have  superseded  the 
use  of  the  Saxon,  although  the  French,  being  the  court 
language,  continued  to  maintain  its  ground  till  a  later 
period."     Misc.  Pr.  W(/rks,  vol.  xvii.  p.  8. — C. 

J  It  seems  reasonable  to  infer  that  Layamon's  work 
was  composed  at  or  very  near  the  period  when  the  Saxons 
and  Normans  in  this  country  began  to  unite  into  one 
nation,  and  to  adopt  a  common  language.  Ellis,  vol.  i. 
p.  75.— C. 

2  If  Layamon's  work  was  finished  in  1180  [1185],  the 
»er8e3  in  the  Saxon  Chronicle,  on  the  death  of  William 
the  Conqueror,  said  to  be  written  by  one  who  had  seen 


Saxon  as  required  but  the  substitution  of  a 
few  French  for  Saxon  words  to  become  Eng- 
lish.! Nothing  more,  in  Mr.  Ellis's  opinion, 
was  necessary  to  change  the  old  into  the  new 
native  tongue,  and  to  produce  an  exact  re- 
semblance between  the  Saxon  of  the  twelfth 
century,  and  the  English  of  the  thirteenth; 
early  in  which  century,  according  to  Mr,  Ellis, 
the  new  language  was  fully  formed,  or,  as  he 
afterwards  more  cautiously  expresses  him- 
self, was  "in  its  Jar  advanced  state."  The 
reader  will  please  to  recollect,  that  the  tAvo 
main  circumstances  in  the  change  of  Anglo- 
Saxon  into  English,  are  the  adoption  of 
French  words,  and  the  suppression  of  the  in- 
flections of  the  Saxon  noun  and  verb.  Now, 
if  Layamon's  style  exhibits  a  language  need- 
ing only  a  few  French  words  to  be  convert- 
ible into  English,  the  Anglo-Saxon  must  have 
made  some  progress,  before  Layamon's  time, 
to  an  JEnglish  form.  Whether  that  progress 
was  made  rapidly,  or  suddenly,  we  have  not 
sufficient  specimens  of  the  language,  anterior 
to  Layamon,  to  determine.  But  that  the 
change  was  not  sudden  but  gradual,  I  con- 
ceive, is  much  more  probably  to  be  presumed.^ 
Layamon,  however,  whether  we  call  him 
Saxon  or  English,  certainly  exhibits  a  dawn 
of  English.   And  when  did  this  dawn  appear  ? 


that  monarch,  cannot  be  considered  as  a  specimen  of 
the  language  immediately  anterior  to  Layamon.  But 
St.  Godric  is  said  to  have  died  in  1170,  and  the  verses 
ascribed  to  him  might  have  been  written  at  a  time  nearly 
preceding  Layamon's  work.  Of  St.  Godric's  verses  a  very 
few  may  be  compared  with  a  few  of  Layamon's. 

8T.  GODRIC. 

Saints  Marie  Christie's  bur  1 
Maiden's  clenhud,  Mcdere's  flur  ! 
Dillie  mine  sinnen,  rix  in  mine  mod. 
Bring  me  to  winne  with  selfe  God. 
In  English.    Saint  Mary,  Christ's  bower — Maiden's  pu- 
rity. Motherhood's  flower — Destroy  my  sin,  reign  in  my 
mood  or  mind — Bring  me  to  dwell  with  the  very  God. 

LAYAMON. 

And  of  alle  than  folke 

The  wuneden  ther  on  folde, 

Wes  this.ses  londes  folk 

Leodene  hendest  itald ; 

And  alswa  the  wimmen 

Wunliche  on  heow-n. 
In  English.    And  of  all  the  folk  tnat  dwelt  on  earth  was 
this  land's  folk  the  handsomest,  (people  told ;)  and  also 
the  women  handsome  of  hue. 

Here  are  four  lines  of  St.  Godric,  in  all  probability 
earlier  than  La^'amon's ;  and  yet  does  the  English  reader 
find  Layamon  at  all  more  intelligible,  or  does  he  seem  to 
make  any  thing  like  a  sudden  transition  to  English,  as 
the  poetical  successor  of  St  QodricT 


ENGLISH   POETRY. 


Mr.  Ellis  computes  that  it  was  in  1180  [5], 
placing  it  thus  late,  because  Wace  took  a 
great  many  years  to  translate  his  "  Brut" 
from  Geoffrey  of  Monmouth;  and  because 
Layamon,  who  translated  that  "  Brut,"  was 
probably  twenty-five  years  engaged  in  the 
task.*  But  this  is  attempting  to  be  precise 
in  dates,  where  there  is  no  ground  for  pre- 
cision. It  is  quite  as  easy  to  suppose  that 
the  English  translator  finished  hi.^  work  in 
ten  as  in  twenty  years ;  so  that  the  change 
from  Saxon  to  English  would  commence  in 
1265  [1165?],  and  thus  the  forty  years' ex- 
odus of  our  language,  supposing  it  bounded 
to  1216,  would  extend  to  half  a  century.  So 
diflBcult  is  it  to  fix  any  definite  period  for  the 
commencing  formation  of  English.  It  is 
easy  to  speak  of  a  child  being  born  at  an  ex- 
press time ;  but  the  birth-epochs  of  languages 
are  not  to  be  registered  with  the  same  pre- 
cision and  facility.t  Again,  as  to  the  end 
of  Mr.  Ellis's  period:  it  is  inferred  by  him, 
that  the  formation  of  the  language  was  either 
completed  or  far  advanced  in  1216,  from  the 
facility  of  rhyming  displayed  in  Robert  of 
Gloucester,^  and  in  pieces  belonging  to  the 
middle  of  the  thirteenth  century,  or  perhaps 
to  an  earlier  date.  I  own  that,  to  me,  this 
theorizing  by  conjecture  seems  like  stepping 
in  quicksand.  Robert  of  Gloucester  wrote 
in  1280  ;g  and  surely  his  rhyming  with  fa- 
cility then,  does  not  prove  the  English  lan- 
guage to  have  been  fully  formed  in  1216. 


•  Wace  finished  his  translation  in  1158,  after,  Mr.  Ellis 
supposes,  thirty  years'  labour:  Layamon,  he  assumes,  was 
the  same  period,  finishing  it  in  1185:  •■  perhaps,"  he  says, 
"the  earliest  date  that  can  be  assigned  to  it."  Spccvmeni 
of  Early  English  Poetry,  vol.  i.  pp.  75,  76. 

"Layamon's  age,"  says  Mr.  Hallam,  "is  uncertain;  it 
must  have  be<m  after  1155,  when  the  original  poem  was 
completed,  and  can  hardly  Ix!  placed  below  12i)0.  His 
language  is  accounted  rather  Anglo-Saxon  than  English." 
Lit.  Hid.  vol.  i.  p.  69.— C. 

+  Nothing  can  be  more  difficult,  except  by  an  arbitrary 
line,  than  to  determine  the  commencement  of  the  English 
language.  When  we  compare  the  earliest  English  of  the 
thirteenth  century  with  the  Anglo-Saxon  of  the  twelfth, 
it  seems  hard  to  pronounce  why  it  should  pass  for  a  sepa- 
rate language,  rather  than  a  modification  or  simplification 
of  the  former.  We  must  conform,  however,  to  usage,  and 
say  that  the  Anglo-Saxon  was  converted  into  English — 
1ft,  by  contracting  or  otherwise  modifying  the  pronun- 
ciation and  orthography  of  words;  2illy,  by  omitting 
many  inflections,  especially  of  the  nouns,  and  conse- 
quently making  more  use  of  articles  and  auxiliaries; 
3dly,  by  the  introduction  of  French  derivatives;  4thly.  by 
using  less  inversion  and  ellipsis,  especially  in  poetry.  Of 
these,  the  second  alone  I  think  can  lie  considered  as  suf- 
fleieirt  to  describe  a  new  form  of  language  ;  and  this  was 
brought  about  so  gradually,  that  we  are  not  relieved  from 
much  of  our  difficulty — whether  some  compositions  shall 


But  we  have  pieces,  it  seems,  which  are  sup- 
posed to  have  been  written  early  in  the 
thirteenth  century.  To  give  any  suppoi't  to 
Mr.  Ellis's  theory,  such  pieces  must  be 
proved  to  have  been  produced  very  early  in 
the  thirteenth  century.  Their  coming  to- 
wards the  middle  of  it,  and  showing  facility 
of  rhyming  at  that  late  date,  will  prove  little 
or  nothing. 

But  of  these  poetical  fragments  supposed 
to  commence  either  with  or  early  in  the 
thirteenth  century,  our  antiquaries  afford  us 
dates  which,  though  often  confidently  pro- 
nounced, are  really  only  conjectural;  and  in 
fixing  those  conjectural  dates,  they  are  by 
no  means  agreed.  Warton  speaks  of  this  and 
that  article  being  certainly  not  later  than 
the  reign  of  Richard  I.;  but  he  takes  no 
pains  to  authenticate  what  he  affirms.  He 
pronounces  the  love-song,  "  Blow,  northern 
wind,  blow,  blow,  blow !"  to  be  as  old  as  the 
year  1200. ||  Mr.  Ellis  puts  it  off  only  to 
about  half  a  century  later.  Hickes  places 
the  "  Land  of  Cokayne"  just  after  the  Con- 
quest. Mr.  Warton  would  place  it  before 
the  Conquest,  if  he  were  not  deterred  by  the 
appearance  of  a  few  Norman  words,  and  by 
the  learned  authority  of  Hickes.^  Layamon 
would  thus  be  superseded,  as  quite  a  modern. 
The  truth  is,  respecting  the  "Land  of  Co- 
kaj^ne,"  that  we  are  left  in  total  astonishment 
at  the  circumstance  of  men,  so  well  informed 
as  Hickes  and  Warton,  placing  it  either  be- 


pa.ss  for  the  latest  offspring  of  the  mother;  or  the  earliest 
fruits  of  the  daughter's  f.rtility.  It  is  a  proof  of  this  dil- 
ficulty.  that  the  best  masters  of  our  ancient  language 
have  lately  introduced  the  word  Semi-Saxon,  nhrch  is  to 
cover  every  thing  from  1150  to  1260. — Haixam,  Lit.  Hist. 
vol.  i.  p.  57.— C. 

J  Robert  of  Gloucester,  who  is  placed  by  the  critics  in 
the  thirteenth  century,  seems  to  have  used  a  kind  of  in- 
termediate diction,  neither  Saxon  nor  English :  in  his 
work,  therefore,  we  f>ee  the  transition  exhibited.    JoBX- 

80\. — C. 

g  As  Robert  of  Gloucester  alludes  to  the  canonization 
of  St.  Loui.K  in  1297,  it  is  obvious,  however  much  he  wrote 
before,  he  was  writing  after  that  event.  S'e  Sir  F.  3fad- 
den's  Hdveink,  p.  liii. — C. 

II  Warton  says,  "before  or  about,"  which  is  lax  enough. 
Pi-ice's  WarUm^  vol.  i.  p.  28.     Ed.  1824.— C. 

f  It  is  not  of  the  '■  hand  of  Cokayne"*  that  Warton 
says  this,  but  of  a  religious  or  moral  ode,  consisting  of 
one  hunilred  and  ninety -one  stanzas.  Price's  WarUm, 
vol.  i.  p.  7.  Of  the  "  Land  of  Cokayne"  he  has  said  that 
it  is  a  satire,  which  clearly  exemplifies  the  Saxon  adul- 
t-rated by  the  Norman,  and  was  evidently  written  soon 
after  the  Conquest  at  least  soon  after  the  reign  of  HcnryW 
II.,  p.  9.  Mr.  Price  (p. 7)  follows  Mr.  Campbell  in  the  age 
he  would  attach  to  the  verse  quoted  in  the  first  section 
of  Warton,  which  i-s  he  says,  very  arbitrary  and  uncer 
Uin,— C. 


ENGLISH   POETRY. 


fore  or  immediately  after  the  Conquest,  as 
its  language  is  comparatively  modern.  It 
contains  allusions  to  pinnacles  in  buildings, 
which  were  not  introduced  till  the  reign  of 
Henry  III.*  Mr.  Ellis  is  not  so  rash  as  to 
place  that  production,  which  Hickes  and 
Warton  removed  to  near  the  Conquest,  ear- 
lier than  the  thirteenth  century ;  and  I  be- 
lieve it  may  be  placed  even  late  in  that 
century.  In  short,  where  shall  we  fix  upon 
the  first  poem  that  is  decidedly  English? 
and  how  shall  we  ascertain  its  date  to  a 
certainty  within  any  moderate  number  of 
years?  Instead  of  supposing  the  period  of 
the  formation  of  English  to  commence  at 
1180  [1185?],  and  to  end  at  1216,  we  might, 
without  violence  to  any  known  fact,  extend 
it  back  to  several  years  earlier,  and  bring  it 
down  to  a  great  many  years  later.  In  the 
fair  idea  of  English  we  surely,  in  general, 
understand  a  considerable  mixture  of  French 
words.f  Now,  whatever  may  have  been 
done  in  the  twelfth  century,  with  regard  to 
that  change  from  Saxon  to  English  which 
consists  in  the  extinction  of  Saxon  gram- 
matical inflections,  it  is  plain  that  the  other 
characteristic  of  English,  viz.  its  Gallicism, 
was  only  beginning  in  the  thirteenth  cen- 
tury. The  English  language  could  not  be 
«aid  to  be  saturated  with  French,  till  the 
days  of  Chaucer;  i.  e.  it  did  not,  till  his 
time,  receive  all  the  French  words  which  it 
was  capable  of  retaining.  Mr.  Ellis  never- 
theless tells  us  that  the  vulgar  English,  not 
gradually,  but  suddenly,  superseded  the  le- 
gitimate Saxon.  When  this  sudden  succes- 
sion precisely  began,  it  seems  to  be  as 
difficult  to  ascertain,  as  when  it  ended.  The 
sudden  transition,  by  Mr.  Ellis's  own  theory, 
occupied  about  forty  years ;  and,  to  all  ap- 
pearance, that  term  might  be  lengthened, 
with  respect  to  its  commencement  and  con- 
tinuance, to  fourscore  years  at  least. 

The  Saxon  language,  we  are  told,  had 
ceased  to  be  poetically  cultivated  for  some 
time  previous  to  the  Conquest.  This  might 
be  the  case  with  regard  to  lofty  efibrts  of 
composition;  but  Ingulphus,  the  secretary 
of  William  the  Conqueror,  speaks  of  the 
popular  ballads  of  the  English,  in  praise  of 
their  heroes,  which  were  sung  about  the 

#  ♦  So  says  Gray  to  Mapon,  {Wnrls  by  Mitford,  vol.  Hi. 
p.  305);  but  this  is  endeaTouring  to  settle  a  point  by  a 
questionable  date — one  uncertainty  by  another. — 0. 

t  In  comparing  Robert  of  Gloucester  with  Layamon, 
a  natire  of  the  same  county,  and  a  writer  on  the  same 


streets;  and  William  of  Malmsbury,  in  the 
twelfth  century,  continues  to  make  mention 
of  them.:j:  The  pretensions  of  these  ballads 
to  the  name  of  poetry  we  are  unhappily, 
from  the  loss  of  them,  unable  to  estimate. 
For  a  long  time  after  the  Conquest,  the  na- 
tive minstrelsy,  though  it  probably  was 
never  altogether  extinct,  may  be  supposed 
to  have  sunk  to  the  lowest  ebb.  No  human 
pursuit  is  more  sensible  than  poetry  to  nar 
tional  pride  or  mortification ;  and  a  race  of 
peasants,  like  the  Saxons,  struggling  for 
bare  subsistence,  under  all  the  dependence, 
and  without  the  protection,  of  the  feudal 
system,  were  in  a  state  the  most  ungenial  to 
feelings  of  poetical  enthusiasm.  For  more 
than  one  century  after  the  Conquest,  as  we 
are  informed,  an  Englishman  was  a  term  of 
contempt.  So  much  has  time  altered  the 
associations  attached  to  a  name,  which  we 
should  now  employ  as  the  first  appeal  to  the 
pride  or  intrepidity  of  those  who  bear  it. 
By  degrees,  however,  the  Norman  and  na- 
tive races  began  to  coalesce,  and  their  pa- 
triotism and  political  interests  to  be  iden- 
tified. The  crown  and  aristocracy  having 
become,  during  their  struggles,  to  a  certain 
degree,  candidates  for  the  favour  of  the  peo- 
ple, and  rivals  in  affording  them  protection, 
free  burghs  and  chartered  corporations  were 
increased,  and  commerce  and  social  inter- 
course began  to  quicken.  Mr.  Ellis  alludes 
to  an  Anglo-Norman  jargon  having  been 
spoken  in  commercial  intercourse,  from 
which  he  conceives  our  synonymes  to  have 
been  derived.  That  individuals,  imperfectly 
understanding  each  other,  might  accidental- 
ly speak  a  broken  jargon,  may  be  easily 
conceived;  but  that  such  a  lingtia  Franca 
was  ever  the  distinct  dialect,  even  of  a  mer- 
cantile class,  Mr.  Ellis  proves  neither  by 
specimens  nor  historical  evidence.  The  sy- 
nonymes in  our  language  may  certainly  be 
accounted  for  by  the  gradual  entrance  of 
French  words,  without  supposing  an  inter- 
mediate jargon.  The  national  speech,  it  is 
true,  received  a  vast  influx  of  French  words ; 
but  it  received  them  by  degrees,  and  sub- 
dued them,  as  they  came  in,  to  its  own 
idioms  and  grammar 

Yet,  difficult  as  it  may  be  to  pronounce 

subject,  it  will  appear  that  a  great  quantity  of  French 
had  flowed  into  the  language  since  the  loss  of  Normandy. 
Haii.am,  Lit.  Hist.  vol.  i.  p.  61. — C. 

%  William  of  Malmsbury  dr»w  much  of  his  iaformi^ 
tion  from  those  Saxon  baradn. 


ENGLISH   POETRY. 


precisely  when  Saxon  can  be  said  to  have 
ceased  and  English  to  have  begun,  it  must 
be  supposed  that  the  progress  and  improve- 
ment of  the  national  speech  was  most  con- 
siderable at  those  epochs  which  tended  to 
restore  the  importance  of  the  people.  The 
hypothesis  of  a  sudden  transmutation  of 
Saxon  into  English  appears,  on  the  whole, 
not  to  be  distinctly  made  out.  At  the  same 
time,  some  public  events  might  be  highly 
favourable  to  the  progress  and  cultivation 
of  the  language.  •  Of  those  events,  the  esta- 
blishment of  municipal  governments,  and  of 
elective  magistrates  in  the  towns,  must  have 
been  very  important,  as  they  furnished  ma- 
terials and  incentives  for  daily  discussion 
and  popular  eloquence.  As  property  and 
security  increased  among  the  people,  we  may 
also  suppose  the  native  minstrelsy  to  have 
revived.  The  minstrels,  or  those  who  wrote 
for  them,  translated  or  imitated  Norman  ro- 
mances ;  and  in  so  doing,  enriched  the  lan- 
guage with  many  new  words,  which  they 
borrowed  from  the  originals,   either   from 

•  Vide  Tyrwhitfs  Prefiice  to  the  Canterbury  Tales, 
where  a  distinct  account  is  given  of  the  grammatical 
changes  exhibited  in  the  rise  and  progress  of  Kuglish. 

f  It  is  likely  that  the  Normans  would  hare  taught  us 
the  use  of  rhyme  and  their  own  metres,  whether  these 
bad  been  known  or  not  to  the  Anglo-Saxons  before  the 
Conquest.  But  respecting  Mr.  Tyrwhitfs  position,  that 
we  owe  all  our  forms  of  verse,  and  the  use  of  rhyme,  en- 
tirely to  the  Normans,  I  trust  the  reader  will  pardon  me 
for  introducing  a  mere  doubt  on  a  subject  which  cannot 
bo  interesting  to  many.  With  respect  to  rhyme,  I  might 
lay  some  stress  on  the  authority  of  Mr.  Turner,  who,  in 
bis  History  of  the  Anglo-Saxons,  says  that  the  Anglo- 
Saxon  versification  possessed  occasional  rhyme ;  but  as 
he  admits  that  rhyme  formed  no  part  of  its  constituent 
character,  for  fear  of  assuming  too  much,  let  it  be  ad- 
mitted that  we  have  no  extant  specimens  of  rhyme  in 
our  language  before  the  Conquest.  One  stanza  of  a  bal- 
lad shall  indeed  be  mentioned,  as  an  exception  to  this, 
which  may  be  admitted  or  rejected,  at  the  reader's  plea- 
sure. In  the  mean  time  let  it  be  recollected,  that  if  we 
have  not  rhyme  in  the  vernacular  verse,  we  have  exam- 
ples of  it  in  the  poetry  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  churchmen — 
abundance  of  it  in  Bede's  and  Boniface's  Latin  verses. 
We  meet  also,  in  the  same  writers,  with  lines  which  re- 
semble modern  verse  in  their  trochaic  and  iambic  struc- 
ture, considering  that  structure  not  as  classical  but 
accentual  metre. — Take,  for  example,  these  verses : 
"Quando  Christus  Deus  noster 

Natus  est  ex  Virgine — " 
which  go  precisely  in  the  same  cadence  with  such  modem 
trochaics  as 

"  Would  you  hear  how  once  repining 

Great  Eliza  captive  lay." 
And  we  have  many  such  lines  as  these : 
"  Ut  floreas  cum  d^ino 

In  sempiterno  solio 

Qua  Martyres  in  cuneo,"  Ac. 
which  flow  exactly  like  the  lines  in  L'AUegro: 


want  of  corresponding  terms  in  their  own 
vocabulary,  or  from  the  words  appearing  to 
be  more  agreeable.  Thus,  in  a  general  view, 
we  may  say  that,  amidst  the  early  growth 
of  her  commerce,  literature,  and  civilization, 
England  acquired  the  new  form  of  her  lan- 
guage, which  was  destined  to  carry  to  the 
ends  of  the  earth  the  blessings  from  which 
it  sprung. 

In  the  formation  of  English  from  its  Saxoa 
and  Jforman  materials,  the  genius  of  the 
native  tongue  might  be  said  to  prevail,  as  it 
subdued  to  Saxon  grammar  and  construction 
the  numerous  French  words  which  found 
their  way  into  the  language.*  But  it  was 
otherwise  with  respect  to  our  poetry — in 
which,  after  the  Conquest,  the  Norman  Muse 
must  be  regarded  as  the  earliest  preceptress 
of  our  own.  Mr.  Tyrwhitt  has  even  said, 
and  his  opinion  seems  to  be  generally  adopt- 
ed, that  we  are  indebted  for  the  use  of 
rhyme,  and  for  all  the  forms  of  our  versifi- 
cation, entirely  to  the  Normans.f  What- 
ever might  be  the  case  with  regard  to  our 

"  The  Mountain  Nymph,  sweet  Liberty, 

And  pomp,  and  feast,  and  revelry. 
With  ma.sque,  and  antique  pageantry." 

Those  Latin  lines  are,  in  fact,  a  prototype  of  our  own 
eight-syllable  iambic.  It  is  singular  that  rhyme  and  such 
metres  as  the  above,  which  are  generally  supposed  to 
have  come  into  the  other  modern  languages  from  the 
Latin  rhymes  of  the  church,  should  not  have  found  their 
way  from  thence  into  the  Anglo-Saxon  vernacular  verse. 
But  they  certainly  did  not,  we  shall  be  told ;  for  there  is 
no  appearance  of  them  in  the  specimens  of  Anglo-Saxon 
verse,  before  the  Conquest.  Of  such  specimens,  however, 
it  is  not  pretended  that  we  have  any  thing  like  a  full  or 
regular  series.  On  the  contrary,  many  Saxon  ballads, 
which  have  been  alluded  to  by  Anglo-Norman  writers  as 
of  considerable  antiquity,  have  been  lost  with  the  very 
names  of  their  composers.  And  from  a  few  articles  saved 
in  such  a  wreck,  can  we  pronounce  confidently  on  the 
whole  contents  of  the  cargo?  The  following  solitary 
stanza,  however,  has  been  preserved,  from  a  ballad  at- 
tributed to  Canute  the  Great. 

«  Merry  sungen  the  Munecbes  binnen  Ely, 
The  Cnut  Ching  reUther  by, 
Boweth  Cnites  noer  the  land, 
And  here  we  thes  Municbes  sang." 

"  Merry  sang  the  Monks  in  Ely, 
When  Canute  King  was  sailing  by ; 
Row,  ye  knights,  near  the  land. 
And  let  us  hear  these  Monks'  song." 

There  is  something  very  like  rhyme  in  the  Anglo-Saxon 
Btanza.  I  have  no  doubt  that  Canute  heard  the  monks 
singing  Latin  rhymes;  and  I  have  some  suspicion  that  h« 
finished  his  Saxon  ballad  in  rhyme  also.  Thomas  of  Ely, 
who  knew  the  whole  song,  translates  his  specimen  of  it 
in  Latin  lines,  which,  whether  by  accident  or  design, 
rhyme  to  each  other.  The  genius  of  the  ancient  Anglo- 
Saxon  poetry,  Mr.  Turner  observes,  was  obscure,  peri- 
a2 


nl 


ENGLISH   POETRY. 


forms  of  versification,  the  chief  employment 
of  our  earliest  versifiers  certainly  was  to 
transplant  the  fictions  of  the  Norman  school, 
and  to  naturalize  them  in  our  language. 

The  most  liberal  patronage  was  afibrded 
to  Norman  minstrelsy  in  England  by  the 
first  kings  of  the  new  dynasty.  This  en- 
couragement, and  the  consequent  cultivation 
of  the  northern  dialect  of  French,  gave  it 
80  much  the  superiority  over  the  southern  or 
troubadour  dialect,  that  the  French  language, 
according  to  the  acknowledgment  of  its  best 
informed  antiquaries,  received  from  England 
and  Normandy  the  first  of  its  works  which 
deserve  to  be  cited.  The  Norman  trouveurs, 
it  is  allowed,  were  more  eminent  narrative 
poets  than  the  ProvenQal  troubadours.  No 
people  had  a  better  right  to  be  the  founders 
of  chivalrous  poetry  than  the  Normans. 
They  were  the  most  energetic  generation  of 
modern  men.  Their  leader,  by  the  conquest 
of  England  in  the  eleventh  century,  conso- 
lidated the  feudal  system  upon  a  broader 
basis  than  it  ever  had  before  possessed.  Be- 
fore the  end  of  the  same  century,  Chivalry 
rose  to  its  full  growth  as  an  institution,  by 
the  circumstance  of  martial  zeal  being  en- 
listed under  the  banners  of  superstition. 
The  crusades,  though  they  certainly  did  not 
give  birth  to  jousts  and  tournaments,  must 
have  imparted  to  them  a  new  spirit  and  in- 
terest, as  the  preparatory  images  of  a  con- 
secrated warfare.  And  those  spectacles 
constituted  a  source  of  description  to  the 
romancers,  to  which  no  exact  counterpart  is 
to  be  found  in  the  heroic  poetry  of  antiquity. 
But  the  growth  of  what  may  properly  be 
called  romantic  poetry  was  not  instantane- 
ous after  the  Conquest ;  and  it  was  not  till 
"  English  Richard  ploughed  the  deep,"  that 
the  crusaders  seem  to  have  found  a  place 
among  the  heroes  of  romance.  Till  the  mid- 
dle of  the  twelfth  century,  or  possibly  later, 
no  work  of  professed  fiction,  or  bearing  any 
semblance  to  epic  fable,  can  be  traced  in 
Norman  verse — nothing  but  songs,  satires, 
chronicles,  or  didactic  works,  to  all  of  which, 
however,  the  name  of  Romance,  derived  from 
the  Roman  descent  of  the  French  tongue, 

phrastical,  and  elliptical :  but,  according  to  that  writer's 
coiiji-cturp,  a  new  and  humble,  but  perspicuous  style  of 
|K)ctr)'  was  introduwd  at  a  lati-r  time,  in  the  shape  of  the 
narrative  ballad.  Jn  this  plainer  style  we  may  omceive 
the  possibility  of  rhyme  having  found  a  place  :  because 
the  Terse  would  stand  in  need  of  that  ornament  to  dis- 
tinKui'^Ii  it  from  prose,  more  than  in  the  ellipticAl  and 
Inverted  manner.    With  regard  to  our  anapaestic  me»- 


was  applied  in  the  early  and  wide  accepta- 
tion of  the  word.  To  these  succeeded  the 
genuine  Metrical  Romance,  which,  though 
often  rhapsodical  and  desultory,  had  still  in- 
vention, ingenuity,  and  design,  sufficient  to 
distinguish  it  from  the  dry  and  dreary 
chronicle.  The  reign  of  French  metrical 
romance  may  be  chiefly  assigned  to  the  lat- 
ter part  of  the  twelfth,  and  the  whole  of  the 
thirteenth  century ;  that  of  English  metrical 
romance,  to  the  latter  part  of  the  thirteenth, 
and  the  whole  of  the  fourteenth*  century. 
Those  ages  of  chivalrous  song  were,  in  the 
mean  time,  fraught  with  events  which,  while 
they  undermined  the  feudal  system,  gradu- 
ally prepared  the  way  for  the  decline  of 
chivalry  itself.  Literature  and  science  were 
commencing,  and  even  in  the  improvement 
of  the  mechanical  skill  employed  to  heighten 
chivalrous  or  superstitious  magnificence,  the 
seeds  of  arts,  industry,  and  plebeian  inde- 
pendence were  unconsciously  sown.  One 
invention,  that  of  gunpowder,  is  eminently 
marked  out  as  the  cause  of  the  extinction 
of  Chivalry ;  but  even  if  that  invention  had 
not  taken  place,  it  may  well  be  conjectured 
that  the  contrivance  of  other  means  of  mis- 
sile destruction  in  war,  and  the  improvement 
of  tactics,  would  have  narrowed  that  scope 
for  the  prominence  of  individual  prowess 
which  was  necessary  for  the  chivalrous  cha- 
racter, and  that  the  progress  of  civilization 
must  have  ultimately  levelled  its  romantic 
consequence.  But  to  anticipate  the  remote 
effects  of  such  causes,  if  scarcely  within  the 
ken  of  philosophy,  was  still  less  within  the 
reach  of  poetry.  Chivalry  was  still  in  all 
its  glory;  and  to  the  eye  of  the  poet  ap- 
peared as  likely  as  ever  to  be  immortal. 
The  progress  of  civilization  even  ministered 
to  its  external  importance.  The  early  arts 
made  chivalrous  life,  with  all  its  pomp  and 
ceremonies,  more  august  and  imposing,  and 
more  picturesque  as  a  subject  for  descrip- 
tion. Literature,  for  a  time,  contributed  to 
the  same  effect,  by  her  jejune  and  fabulous 
efforts  at  history,  in  which  the  athletic  wor- 
thies of  classical  story  and  of  modern  ro- 
mance were  gravely  connected  by  an  ideal 

sure,  or  triple-time  Terse,  Dr.  Percy  has  shown  that  its  ru- 
diments can  be  traced  to  Scaldic  po<.'try.  1 1  is  often  found 
very  distinct  in  Langlande ;  and  that  species  of  vitsp,  at 
least,  I  conceive,  is  not  necessarily  to  be  ri'ferr<.d  to  a 
Norman  origin. 

*  The  practice  of  translating  French  rhyn-mg  rcmances 
into  KQglish  verse,  however,  continued  down  to  the  reign 
of  Henry  VII. 


ENGLISH  POETRY. 


genealogy.*  Thus  the  dawn  of  human  im- 
provement smiled  on  the  fabric  which  it  was 
ultimately  to  destroy,  as  the  morning  sun 
gilds  and  beautifies  those  masses  of  frost- 
work, which  are  to  melt  before  its  noonday 
heat. 

The  elements  of  romantic  fiction  have  been 
traced  up  to  various  sources;  but  neither 
the  Scaldic,  nor  Saracenic,  nor  Armorican 
theory  of  its  origin  can  siifficiently  account 
for  all  its  materials.  Many  of  them  are 
classical,  and  others  derived  from  the  Scrip- 
tures. The  migrations  of  Science  are  diffi- 
cult  enough  to  be  traced ;  but  Fiction  travels 
on  still  lighter  wings,  and  scatters  the  seeds 
of  her  wild  flowers  imperceptibly  over  the 
world,  till  they  surprise  us  by  springing  up 
with  similarity  in  regions  the  most  remotely 
divided.!  There  was  a  vague  and  unselect- 
ing  love  of  the  marvellous  in  romance,  which 
sought  for  adventures,  like  its  knights  er- 
rant, in  every  quarter  where  they  could  be 
found;  so  that  it  is  easier  to  admit  of  all 
the  sources  which  are  imputed  to  that  species 
of  fiction,  than  to  limit  our  belief  to  any  one 
of  them.J 

Norman  verse  dwelt  for  a  considerable 

time  in  the  tedious  historic  style,  before  it 

Twelfth  reached  the  shape  of  amusing  fable ; 

Century.  ^^^^  ^g  g^^j  |.jjg  earlicst  cfforts  of  the 

Native  Muse  confined  to  translating  Norman 

•  Geoffrey  of  Monmouth's  history,  of  which  the  modem 
opinion  seems  to  be,  that  it  was  not  a  forgery,  but  de- 
rived from  an  Armorican  original,  and  the  pseudo-Tur- 
pin's  Life  of  Charlemagne,  were  the  grand  historical 
magazines  of  the  romancers.  [Ellis's  Met.  Rom.  vol.  i. 
p.  75.]  Popular  songs  about  Arthur  and  Charlemagne 
(or,  as  some  will  have  it,  Charles  Martel),  were  pr^ably 
the  main  sources  of  Turpin's  forgery  and  of  Geoffrey's 
Armorican  book.  Even  the  proverbial  mendacity  of  the 
pseuilo-Turpin  must  have  been  indebted  for  the  leading 
hints  to  pongs  that  were  extant  respecting  Charlemagne. 
The  stream  of  fiction  having  thus  spread  itself  in  those 
grand  prose  reservoirs,  afterwards  flowed  out  from  thence 
again  in  the  shape  of  verse,  with  a  force  renewed  by  ac- 
cumulation. Once  more,  as  if  destined  to  alternations, 
romance,  after  the  fourteenth  century,  returned  to  the 
shape  of  prose,  and  in  many  instances  made  and  carried 
pretensions  to  the  sober  credibility  of  history. 

f  It  is  common  fairness  to  Mr.  Campbell,  to  say  that 
the  late  Mr.  Price  has  cited  this  passage  as  one  distin- 
guishable alike  for  its  truth  and  Its  beauty, — that  esta^ 
blislies  the  fact  that  popular  fiction  is  in  its  nature 
traditive.    Introd.  to  Warton's  Hist.  p.  92. — C. 

X  Various  theories  have  been  proposed  for  the  purpose 
of  explaining  the  origin  of  romantic  fictioo.  Percy  con- 
tended for  a  Scandinavian,  Warton  for  an  Arabian,  and 
Tjeyden  for  an  Armorican  birth,  to  which  Ellis  inclined  ; 
while  some  have  supposed  it  to  be  of  Provenijal,  and 
others  of  Norman  Invention.  If  every  argument  has  not 
b>'en  exhausted,  every  hypothesis  has.  But  all  their 
^.otcms,  as  Sir  Walter  Scott  says,  seem  to  be  inaccurate, 


verse,  while  it  still  retained  its  uninviting 
form  of  the  chronicle.  The  first  of  the  Nor- 
man poets,  from  whom  any  versifier  in  the 
language  is  known  to  have  translated,  was 
Wace,  a  native  of  Jersey,  born  in  the  reign 
of  Henry  II.§  In  the  year  1155,  Wace 
finished  his  "Brut  d'Angleterre,"  which  is 
a  French  version  of  Geoffrey  of  Monmouth's 
History  of  Great  Britain,  deduced  from  Bru- 
tus to  Cadwallader,  in  689.  Layamon,  a 
priest  of  Ernleye  upon  Severn,  translated 
Wace's  Metrical  Chronicle  into  the  verse  of 
the  popular  tongue;  and  notwithstanding 
Mr.  EUis's  date  of  1180,  [1185?]  may  be 
supposed,  with  equal  probability,  to  have 
produced  his  work  within  ten  or  fifteen  years 
after  the  middle  of  the  twelfth  century.  || 
Layamon's  translation  may  be  considered  as 
the  earliest  specimen  of  metre  in  the  native 
language,  posterior  to  the  Conquest;  except 
some  lines  in  the  Saxon  Chronicle  on  the 
death  of  William  I.,  and  a  few  religious 
rhymes,  which,  according  to  Matthew  Paris, 
the  Blessed  Virgin  was  pleased  to  dictate  to 
St.  Godric,  the  hermit,  near  Durham ;  unless 
we  add  to  these  the  specimen  of  Saxor 
poetry  published  in  the  Archasologia  by 
Mr.  Conybeare,  who  supposes  that  compo- 
sition to  be  posterior  to  the  Conquest,  and 
to  be  the  last  expiring  voice  of  the  Saxon 
Muse.1[    Of  the  dialect  of  Layamon,  Mr. 

in  so  far  as  they  have  been  adopted  exclusively  of  each 
other,  and  of  the  general  proposition, — that  fables  of  a 
nature  similar  to  the  Romances  of  Chivalry,  modified  ac- 
cording to  manners  and  the  state  of  society,  must  neces- 
sarily be  invented  in  every  part  of  the  world,  for  the 
same  reason  that  grass  grows  upon  the  surface  of  the 
soil  in  every  climate  and  in  every  country.  (Misc.  P.  W. 
vol.  vi.  p.  174.)  "In  reality,"  says  Southey,  "mythologi- 
cal and  romantic  tales  are  current  among  all  savages  ot 
whom  we  have  any  full  account;  for  man  has  his  intel- 
lectual as  well  as  his  bodily  appetites,  and  these  things 
are  the  food  of  his  imagination  and  faith.  They  are 
found  wherever  there  is  language  and  discourse  of  reason, 
in  other  words,  wherever  there  is  man.  And  in  similar 
stages  of  civilization,  or  states  of  society,  the  fictions  of 
different  people  will  bear  a  corresponding  resemblance, 
notwithatanding  the  difference  of  time  and  scene.  Pref. 
to  Mmie.  D' Arthur. — C. 

g  Ellis  (p.  44)  says,  Henry  I.,  whom  he  professes  to  have 
seen.  Warton  (p.  67)  says  he  was  educated  at  Ca«>n,  was 
canon  of  Bayeux,  and  chaplain  to  Henry  II. — C. 

I  Two  copies  of  Layamon's  or  Lazamon's  Brut  are  in 
the  British  Mu.«eum,  Cott.  MSS.  Calig.  A  ix.  and  Otho  C 
13.  Warton  and  Price  have  only  touched  incidentally  on 
Layamon,  from  Mr.  Ellis  and  Mr.  Campbell's  showing, 
one  of  the  most  important  authors  in  the  English  lan- 
guage.—C. 

^  Two  sp<'cimens  of  the  ancient  state  of  the  language, 
viz.  the  stanzas  on  old  age,  N'ginning  "  He  may  him  Mim 
adreden,"  and  the  quotation  from  the  Ormulum.  which 
Dr.  Johnson  placed,  on  the  authority  of  Uickes,  n»artr 


8 


ENGLISH   POETRY". 


Mitfiird,  in  his  Harmony  of  Languages,  ob- 
Berv(!8,  th  it  it  has  "  all  the  appearance  of  a 
language  thrown  into  confusion  by  the  cir- 
cumstances of  those  who  spoke  it.  It  is 
truly  neither  Saxon  nor  English."*  Mr. 
Ellis's  opinion  of  its  being  simple  Saxon  has 
been  already  noticed.  So  little  agreed  are 
the  most  ingenious  speculative  men  on  the 
characteristics  of  style,  which  they  shall 
entitle  Saxon  or  English.  We  may,  how- 
ever, on  the  whole,  consider  the  style  of 
Layamon  to  be  as  nearly  the  intermediate 
state  of  the  old  and  new  languages  as  can 
be  found  in  any  ancient  specimen: — some- 
thing like  the  new  insect  stirring  its  wings, 
before  it  has  shaken  off  the  aurelia  state. 
But  of  this  work,  or  of  any  specimen  sup- 
posed to  be  written  in  the  early  part  of  the 
thirteenth  century,  displaying  a  sudden 
transition  from  Saxon  to  English,  I  am  dis- 
posed to  repeat  my  doubts. 

Without  being  over  credulous  about  the 
antiquity  of  the  Lives  of  the  Saints,  and  the 
jurteroth  other  fragments  of  the  thirteenth 
cenmrj.  century,  which  Mr.  Ellis  places  in 
chronological  succession  next  to  Layamon, 
we  may  allow  that  before  the  date  of  Robert 
of  Gloucester,  not  only  the  legendary  and 
devout  style,  but  the  amatory  and  satirical, 
had  begun  to  be  rudely  cultivated  in  the 
language.  It  was  customary,  in  that  age, 
to  make  the  minstrels  sing  devotional  strains 
to  the  harp,  on  Sundays,  for  the  edification 
of  the  people,  instead  of  the  verses  on  gayer 
subjects  which  were  sung  at  public  enter- 
tainments; a  circumstance  which,  while  it 
indicates  the  usual  care  of  the  Catholic 
church  to  make  use  of  every  hold  over  the 
popular  mind,  discovers  also  the  fondness 
of  the  people  for  their  poetry,  and  the  attrac- 
tions which  it  had  already  begun  to  assume. 
Of  the  satirical  style  I  have  already  alluded 
to  one  example  in  the  "  Land  of  Cokayne," 
nn  allegorical  satire  on  the  luxury  of  the 
church,  couched  under  the  description  of  an 
imaginary  paradise,  in  which  the  nuns  are 


after  the  Conquest,  are  considered  by  Mr.  Tyrwhitt  to  be 
of  a  later  date  than  Layamon's  translation.  Their  lan- 
guage is  certainly  more  modern. 

♦  Milford,  p.  170.  In  the  specimen  of  Layamon  pub- 
lished by  Mr.  Ellis,  not  a  Gallicism  is  to  be  found,  nor 
even  a  Norman  term :  and  so  far  from  exhibiting  any 
"appearance  of  a  language  thrown  into  confusion  by  the 
circumstances  of  those  who  spoke  it,"  nearly  every  im- 
portant form  of  Anglo-Saxon  grammar  is  rigidly  adhered 
to;  and  so  little  was  the  language  altered  at  this  ad- 
vanced period  of  Norman  influence,  that  a  &w  slight 


represented  as  houris,  and  the  black  and 
gray  monks  as  their  paramours.  This  piece 
has  humour,  though  not  of  the  most  deli- 
cate kind;  and  the  language  is  easy  and 
fluent,  but  it  possesses  nothing  of  style,  sen- 
timent, or  imagery,  approaching  to  poetry. 
Another  specimen  of  the  pleasantry  of  the 
times  is  more  valuable ;  because  it  exhibits 
the  state  of  party  feeling  on  real  events,  as 
well  as  the  state  of  the  language  at  a  pre- 
cise time.f  It  is  a  ballad,  entitled  "Richard 
of  Alemaigne,"  composed  by  one  of  the  ad- 
herents of  Simon  de  Montfort,  earl  of  Lei- 
cester, after  the  defeat  of  the  royal  pai'ty  at 
the  battle  of  Lewes  in  1264.  In  the  year 
after  that  battle  the  royal  cause  was  re- 
stored, and  the  earl  of  Warren  and  Sir  Hugh 
Bigod  returned  from  exile,  and  assisted  in 
the  king's  victory.  In  this  satirical  ballad, 
those  two  personages  are  threatened  with 
death,  if  they  should  ever  fall  into  the 
hands  of  their  enemies.  Such  a  song  and 
such  threats  must  have  been  composed  by 
Leicester's  party  in  the  moment  of  their 
triumph,  and  not  after  their  defeat  and  dis- 
persion ;  so  that  the  date  of  the  piece  is  as- 
certained by  its  contents.!  This  political 
satire  leads  me  to  mention  another,  which  the 
industrious  Ritson  published,?  and  which, 
without  violent  anachronism,  may  be  spoken 
of  among  the  specimens  of  the  thirteenth 
century;  as  it  must  have  been  composed 
within  a  few  years  after  its  close,  and  relates 
to  events  within  its  verge.  It  is  a  ballad  on 
the  execution  of  the  Scottish  patriots.  Sir 
William  AYallace  and  Sir  Simon  Eraser. 
The  diction  is  as  barbarous  as  we  should 
expect  from  a  song  of  triumph  on  such  a 
subject.  It  relates  the  death  and  treatment 
of  Wallace  very  minutely.  The  circum- 
stance of  his  being  covered  with  a  mock 
crown  of  laurel  in  Westminster  Hall,  which 
Stowe  repeats,  is  there  mentioned ;  and  that 
of  his  legs  being  fastened  with  iron  fetters 
"  under  his  horses  womhe,"  is  told  with  sa- 
vage exultation.     The  piece  was  probably 

variations  might  convert  it  into  genuine  Anglo-Saxon. 
Price,  Warton,  vol.  i.  p.  109. — C. 

f  "  Though  some  make  slight  of  Libels,"  says  Selden, 
"yet  you  may  see  by  them  how  the  wind  sits;  as,  take  a 
straw,  and  throw  it  up  into  the  air,  you  shall  see  by  that 
which  way  the  wind  is,  which  you  shall  not  do  by  casting 
up  a  stone.  More  solid  things  do  not  show  the  complex- 
ion of  the  times,  so  well  as  ballads  and  libels." — Table  Talk. 

%  See  it  in  Percy's  Rdiques,  and  in  Wright's  PoUUaiA 
Songs  of  England,  p.  69. — C. 

2  Kitson's  Ancient  Songs. 


ENGLISH  POETRT. 


indited  in  the  very  year  of  the  political 
murders  which  it  celebrates:  certainly  be- 
fore 1314,  as  it  mentions  the  skulking  of 
Robert  Bruce,  which,  after  the  battle  of 
Bannockburn,  must  have  become  a  jest  out 
of  season.* 

A  few  love-songs  of  that  early  period  have 
been  preserved,  which  are  not  wholly  desti- 
tute of  beauty  and  feeling.  Their  expres- 
sion, indeed,  is  often  quaint,  and  loaded  with 
alliteration;  yet  it  is  impossible  to  look 
without  a  pleasing  interest  upon  strains  of 
tenderness  which  carry  us  back  to  so  remote 
an  age,  and  which  disclose  to  us  the  softest 
emotions  of  the  human  mind,  in  times 
abounding  with  such  opposite  trMts  of  his- 
torical recollection.  Such  a  stanza  as  the 
foUowingt  would  not  disgrace  the  lyric  poe- 
try of  a  refined  age. 

For  her  lore  I  cark  and  care, 
For  her  love  I  droop  and  dare ; 
For  her  love  my  bliss  is  bare, 

And  all  I  wax  wan. 
For  her  love  in  sleep  I  slake-J 
For  her  lovo  all  night  I  wake ; 
For  her  love  mourning  I  make 

More  than  any  man. 

In  another  pastoral  strain,  the  lover  says: — 

When  the  nightingale  singes  the  woods  waxen  green; 
Leaf,  and  grass,  and  blosme,  springs  in  Averyl,  I  ween : 
And  love  is  to  my  heart  gone  with  one  spear  so  keen, 
Night  and  day  my  blood  it  drinks — my  heart  doth  me  teen. 

Robert,  a  monk  of  Gloucester,  whose  sur- 
name is  unknown,  is  supposed  to  have 
finished  his  Rhyming  Chronicle  about  the 
year  1280.g  He  translated  the  Legends  of 
GeoflFrey  of  Monmouth,  and  continued  the 
History  of  England  down  to  the  time  of 
Edward  I.,  in  the  beginning  of  whose  reign 
he  died.  The  topographical,  as  well  as  nar- 
rative, minuteness  of  his  Chronicle,  has 
made  it  a  valuable  authority  to  antiquaries; 
and  as  such  it  was  consulted  by  Selden,  when 
he  wrote  his  Notes  to  Drayton's  "  Polyol- 
bion."  After  observing  some  traits  of  hu- 
mour and  sentiment,  moderate  as  they  may 
be,  in  compositions  as  old  as  the  middle  of 
the  thirteenth  century,  we  might  naturally 
expect  to  find  in  Robert  of  Gloucester  not 
indeed  a  decidedly  poetical  manner,  but 
some  approach  to  the  animation  of  poetry. 


•  Wright  assignB  it  to  1306.    FtilUiccd  Songs,  p.  212. 

t  It  is  here  stripped  of  its  antiquated  spelling 

X  I  am  deprived  of  sleep. 

g  Ellis,  vol.  i.  p.  97.  It  was  evidently  written  after 
the  year  1278,  as  the  poet  mentions  King  Arthur's  sump- 
tuous tomb,  erected  in  that  year  before  the  high  altar  of 
2 


But  the  Chronicle  of  this  English  Ennius, 
as  he  has  been  called,  ||  whatever  progress  in 
the  state  of  the  language  it  may  display, 
comes  in  reality  nothing  nearer  the  charac- 
ter of  a  work  of  imagination  than  Laya- 
mon's  version  of  Wace,  which  preceded  it 
by  a  hundred  years.  One  would  not  ima- 
gine, from  Robert  of  Gloucester's  style,  that 
he  belonged  to  a  period  when  a  single  effu- 
sion of  sentiment,  or  a  trait  of  humour  and 
vivacity,  had  appeared  in  the  language.  On 
the  contrary,  he  seems  to  take  us  back  to 
the  nonage  of  poetry,  when  verse  is  em- 
ployed not  to  harmonize  and  beautify  ex- 
pression, but  merely  to  assist  the  memory. 
Were  we  to  judge  of  Robert  of  Gloucester 
not  as  a  chronicler,  but  as  a  candidate  for 
the  honours  of  fancy,  we  might  be  tempted 
to  wonder  at  the  frigidity  with  which  he 
dwells,  as  the  first  possessor  of  such  poetical 
ground,  on  the  history  of  Lear,  of  Arthur, 
and  Merlin;  and  with  which  he  describes  a 
scene  so  susceptible  of  poetical  effect  as  the 
irruption  of  the  first  crusaders  into  Asia, 
preceded  by  the  sword  of  fire  which  hung 
in  the  firmament,  and  guided  them  eastward 
in  their  path.  But,  in  justice  to  the  ancient 
versifier,  we  should  remember,  that  he  had 
stiU  only  a  rude  language  to  employ — the 
speech  of  boors  and  burghers,  which,  though 
it  might  possess  a  few  songs  and  satires, 
could  afford  him  no  models  of  heroic  narrar 
tion.  In  such  an  age,  the  first  occupant 
passes  uninspired  over  subjects  which  might 
kindle  the  highest  enthusiasm  in  the  poet  of 
a  riper  period ;  as  the  savage  treads  uncon- 
sciously, in  his  deserts,  over  mines  of  incal- 
culable value,  without  sagacity  to  discover, 
or  implements  to  explore  them.  In  reality, 
his  object  was  but  to  be  historical.  The 
higher  orders  of  society  still  made  use  of 
French ;  and  scholars  wrote  in  that  lan- 
guage or  in  Latin.  His  Chronicle  was  there- 
fore recited  to  a  class  of  his  contemporaries 
to  whom  it  must  have  been  highly  accept- 
able, as  a  history  of  their  native  country 
believed  to  be  authentic,  and  composed  in 
their  native  tongue.  To  the  fabulous  legends 
of  antiquity  he  added  a  record  of  more  r&- 


Glastonbury  ehurrh  :  and  he  declares  himself  a  living 
witness  of  the  remarkably  dismal  weather  which  di.«tin 
guished  the  day  upon  which  the  battle  of  P>esham  was 
fought,  in  1265.  From  these  and  other  circumstances 
this  piece  appears  to  have  been  composed  about  the  year 
1280.  Warton,  vol.  i.  p  62.— C. 
I  By  Tom  Heame,  his  very  accniate  editor. — & 


10 


ENGLISH  POETRY. 


cent  events,  with  some  of  which  he  was  con- 
temporary. As  a  relater  of  events,  he  is 
tolerably  succinct  and  perspicuous ;  and 
wherever  the  fact  is  of  any  importance,  he 
shows  a  watchful  attention  to  keep  the  read- 
er's memory  distinct  with  regard  to  chrono- 
logy, by  making  the  date  of  the  year  rhyme 
to  something  prominent  in  the  narration  of 
the  fact. 

Our  first  known  versifier  of  the  fourteenth 
century  is  Robert,  commonly  called  De 
FoortMnth  Brunne.  He  was  born  (according  to 
c^nturj.  jjjg  editor  Hearne)  at  Malton,  in  York- 
shire; lived  for  some  time  in  the  house  of 
Sixhill,  a  Gilbertine  monastery  in  Yorkshire ; 
and  afterwards  became  a  member  of  Brunne, 
or  Browne,  a  priory  of  black  canons  in  the 
same  county.  His  real  surname  was  Man- 
nyng;  but  the  writers  of  history  in  those 
times  (as  Hearne  observes)  were  generally 
the  religious,  and  when  they  became  cele- 
brated, they  were  designated  by  the  names 
of  the  religious  houses  to  which  they  be- 
longed. Thus,  William  of  Malmsbury,  Mat- 
thew of  Westminster,  and  John  of  Glaston- 
bury, received  these  appellations  from  their 
respective  monasteries.*  De  Brunne  was, 
as  far  as  we  know,  only  a  translator.  His 
principal  performance  is  a  Rhyming  Chron- 
icle of  the  History  of  England,  in  two  parts, 
compiled  from  the  works  of  Wace  and  Peter 
de  Langtoft.f  The  declared  object  of  his 
work  is  "  Not  for  the  lerid  (learned)  but  for 
the  lewed  (the  low). 

"  For  thoo  that  in  this  land  wonn,* 
That  the  latyn  no«  Frankysd  conn.«" 

He  seems  to  reckon,  however,  if  not  on  the 
attention  of  the  "  lerid,"  at  least  on  that  of 
a  class  above  the  "  lewed,"  as  he  begins  his 
address  to  "  Lordynges  that  be  now  here." 
He  declares  also  that  his  verse  was  con- 
structed simply,  being  intended  neither  for 
seggers  (reciters),  nor  harpours  (harpers). 
Yet  it  is  clear  from  another  passage,  that  he 

*  Sir  F.  Madden  supposes,  and  on  very  fair  grounds, 
that  Mannyng  was  born  at  Brunne.  Havdok,  p.  xiT. 
— C. 

t  Peter  de  Langtoft  was  an  Augustine  canon  of  Brid- 
lington, in  Yorkshire,  of  Norman  origin,  but  born  in 
England.  He  wrote  an  entire  History  of  England  in 
French  rhymes,  down  to  the  end  of  the  reign  of  Edward 
I. — Robert  de  Brunne,  in  his  Chronicle,  follows  Wace  in 
the  earlier  part  of  his  history,  but  translates  the  latter  j 
part  of  it  from  F^ngtoft.  . 

%  Tirgil,  when  he  carries  us  back  to  very  ancient  man- 
ners, in  the  picture  of  Dido's  feast,  appropriately  makes   | 
astronomy  the  first  subject  with  which  the  bard  lopas.  ^ 
entertains  bis  audienca. 


intended  his  Chronicle  to  be  sung,  at  least 
by  parts,  at  public  festivals.  In  the  present 
day  it  would  require  considerable  vocal 
powers  to  make  so  dry  a  recital  of  facts  as 
that  of  De  Brunne's  work  entertaining  to  an 
audience ;  but  it  appears  that  he  could  ofier 
one  of  the  most  ancient  apologies  of  author- 
ship, namely,  "the  request  of  friends" — 
for  he  says, 

"  Men  besoght  me  many  a  time 
To  torn  it  hot  in  light  rhyme." 

His  Chronicle,  it  seems,  was  likely  to  be  an 
acceptable  work  to  social  parties,  assembled 

"For  to  haf  solace  and  gamen/ 
In  fellawship  when  they  sit  samen.ff" 

In  rude  states  of  society,  verse  is  attached 
to  many  subjects  from  which  it  is  afterwards 
divorced  by  the  progress  of  literature;  and 
primitive  poetry  is  found  to  be  the  organ 
not  only  of  history,  but  of  science,^;  theo- 
logy, and  of  law  itself.  The  ancient  laws 
of  the  Athenians  were  sung  at  their  public 
banquets.  Even  in  modern  times,  and  within 
the  last  century,  the  laws  of  SweHen  were 
published  in  verse. 

De  Brunne's  versification,  throughout  the 
body  of  the  work,  is  sometimes  the  entire 
Alexandrine,  rhyming  in  couplets ;  but  for 
the  most  part  it  is  only  the  half  Alexandrine, 
with  alternate  rhymes.  He  thus  afibrds  a 
ballad  metre,  which  seems  to  justify  the 
conjecture  of  Hearne,  that  our  most  ancient 
ballads  were  only  fragments  of  metrical 
histories. §  By  this  time  (for  the  date  of  De 
Brunne's  Chronicle  brings  us  down  to  the 
year  1339 1|)  our  popular  ballads  must  have 
long  added  the  redoubted  names  of  Randal 
[Earl]  of  Chester,  and  Robin  Hood,  to  their 
list  of  native  subjects.  Both  of  these  wor- 
thies had  died  before  the  middle  of  the  pre- 
ceding century,  and,  in  the  course  of  the 
next  hundred  years,  their  names  became 
so  popular  in  English  song,  that  Langlande, 
in  the  fourteenth  century,  makes  it  part  of 

Cithara  crinitus  lopas 
Personat  aurata,  docuitquse  maximus  Atlas; 
Hie  canit  errantem  lunam,  solisque  labores. 

2  "The  conjectures  of  Hearne,"  says  Warton,  (vol.  i. 
p.  91),  "  were  generally  wrong."  An  opinion  re-echoed 
in  part  by  Ellis.     Spec.  toI.  i.  p.  117. — C. 

I  Robert  De  Brunne,  it  appears,  from  internal  evi- 
dence, finished  his  Chronicle  in  May  of  that  year, — Rrr- 
son's  Minot.  XII. 

He  began  it  in  1303,  as  he  tells  us  himself,  in  very  oi> 
dinary  verse. — C. 

o  Those. — *  Live. — c  Nor. — d  French. — «  Know. 

/  Game. — g  Together. 


ENGLISH  POETRY. 


11 


the  confession  of  a  sluggard,  that  he  was 
unable  lo  repeat  his  paternoster,  though  he 
knew^  plenty  of  rhymes  about  Randal  of 
Chester  and  Robin  Hood.*  None  of  the 
extant  ballads  about  Robin  Hood  are,  how- 
ever, of  any  great  antiquity. 

The  style  of  Robert  de  Brunne  is  less 
marked  by  Saxonisms  than  that  of  Robert 
of  Gloucester;  and  though  he  can  scarcely 
be  said  to  come  nearer  the  character  of  a 
true  poet  than  his  predecessor,  he  is  cer- 
tainly a  smoother  versifier,  and  evinces  more 
facility  in  rhyming.  It  is  amusing  to  find 
his  editor,  Hearne,  so  anxious  to  defend  the 
moral  memory  of  a  writer,  respecting  whom 
not  a  circumstance  is  known,  beyond  the 
date  of  his  works,  and  the  names  of  the 
monasteries  where  he  wore  his  cowl.  From 
his  willingness  to  favour  the  people  with 
historic  rhymes  for  their  "fellawship  and 
gamen,"  Hearne  infers  that  he  must  have 
been  of  a  jocular  temper.  It  seems,  how- 
ever, that  the  priory  of  Sixhill,  where  he 
lived  foi*  some  time,  was  a  house  which  con- 
sisted of  women  as  well  as  men,  a  discovery 
which  alarms  the  good  antiquary  for  the 
fame  of  his  author's  personal  purity.  "  Can 
we  therefore  think,"  continues  Hearne, 
"  that  since  he  was  of  a  jocular  temper,  he 
could  be  wholly  free  from  vice,  or  that  he 
should  not  sometimes  express  himself  loosely 
to  the  sisters  of  that  place  ?  This  objection 
(he  gravely  continues)  would  have  had  some 
weight,  had  the  priory  of  Sixhill  been  any 
way  noted  for  luxury  or  lewdness;  but 
whereas  every  member  of  it,  both  men  and 
women,  were  very  chaste,  we  ought  by  no 
means  to  suppose  that  Robert  of  Brunne 
behaved  himself  otherwise  than  became  a 
good  Christian,  during  his  whole  abode 
there."  This  conclusive  reasoning,  it  may 
be  hoped,  will  entirely  set  at  rest  any  idle 
suspicions  that  may  have  crept  into  the 
reader's  mind  respecting  the  chastity  of  Ro- 
bert de  Brunne.  It  may  be  added,  that  his 
writings  betray  not  the  least  symptom  of 
his  having  been  either  an  Abelard  among 
priests,  or  an  Ovid  among  poets. 

Considerably  before  the  date  of  Robert  de 
Brunne's  Chronicle,  as  we  learn  from  De 
Brunne  himself,  the  English  minstrels,  or 
those  who  wrote  for  them,  had  imitated  from 

*  Piei-ce  Plowman's  Visions,  as  quoted  by  Warton,  (vol. 
i.  p.  92.)  I^nglanile  tells  it  of  a  friar,  perhaps  with 
truthful  severity. — C. 


the  French  many  compositions  more  poetical 
than  those  historical  canticles,  namely,  gen 
nuine  romances.     In  most  of  those  metrical 
stories,  irregular  and  shapeless  as  they  were, 
if  we  compare  them  with  the  symmetrical 
structure  of  epic  foble,  there  was  still  some 
portion  of  interest,  and  a  catastrophe  brought 
about,  after  various  obstacles  and  diflBcul- 
ties,  by  an  agreeable  surprise.     The  names 
of  the  writers  of  our  early  English  romances 
have  not,  except  in  one  or  two  instances, 
been  even  cpnjectured,  nor  have  the  dates 
of  the  majority  of  them  been  ascertained 
with  any  thing  like  precision.     But  in  a 
general  view,  the  era  of  English  metrical 
romance  may  be  said  to  have  commenced  to- 
wards the  end  of  the  thirteenth  century. 
Warton,  indeed,  would  place  the  commence- 
ment of  our  romance  poetry  considerably 
earlier;  but  Ritson  challenges  a  proof  of  any 
English  romance  being  known  or  mentioned 
before  the  close  of  Edward  the  First's  reign, 
about  which  time,  that  is,  the  end  of  the 
thirteenth  century,  he  conjectures  that  the 
romance  of  Hornchild  may  have  been  com- 
posed.    It  would  be  pleasing,  if  it  were 
possible,  to  extend  the  claims  of  English 
genius  in  this  department  to  any  considera- 
ble number  of  original  pieces.    But  English 
romance  poetry,  having  grown  out  of  that 
of  France,  seems  never  to  have  improved 
upon  its  original,  or,  rather,  it  may  be  al- 
lowed to  have  fallen  beneath  it.     As  to  the 
originality  of  old  English  poems   of  this 
kind,  we  meet,  in  some  of  them,  with  heroes, 
whose  Saxon  names  might  lead  us  to  sup- 
pose them  indigenous  fictions,  which  had 
not  come  into  the  language  through  a  French 
medium.     Several  old  Saxon  ballads  are  al- 
luded to,  as  extant  long  after  the  Conquest, 
by  the  Anglo-Norman  historians,  who  drew 
from  them  many  facts  and  inferences;  and 
there  is  no  saying  how  many  of  these  bal- 
lads might  be  recast  into  a  romantic  shape 
by  the  composers  for  the  native  minstrelsy. 
But,  on  the  other  hand,  the  Anglo-Normans 
appear  to  have  been  more  inquisitive  into 
Saxon  legends  than  the  Saxons  themselves ; 
and  their  Muse  was  by  no  means  so  illiberal 
as  to  object  to  a  hero,  because  he  was  not  of 
their  own   generation.     In   point  of  fact, 
whatever  may  be  alleged  about  the  min- 
strels of  the  North  Country,  it  is  difficult, 
if  it  be  possible,  to  find  an  English  romance 
which  contains  no  internal  allusion  to  a 


12 


ENGLISH  POETRY. 


Freuch  prototype.  Ritson  very  grudgingly 
allows,  that  three  old  stories  may  be  called 
original  English  romances,  until  a  Norman 
original  shall  be  found  for  them;*  while 

*  Those  are,  "  The  Squire  of  Low  Degree,"  "  Sir  Try- 
amour,"  and  "  Sir  Eglamour."  Respecting  two  of  those, 
Mr.  Kllig  shows,  that  Kitson  might  have  spared  Himself 
the  trouble  of  making  any  concession,  as  the  antiquity 
of  The  Squire  of  Low  Degree  [Ritson,  vol.  iii.  p.  145]  re- 
mains to  be  proved,  it  being  mentioned  by  no  writer  be- 
fore the  sixteenth  century,  and  not  being  known  to  be 
extant  in  any  ancient  MS.  Sir  Eglamour  contains  allu- 
sions to  its  Norman  pedigree. 

The  difficulty  of  finding  an  original  South  British  ro- 
mance of  this  period,  unborrowed  from  a  French  driginal, 
seems  to  remain  undisputed  :  but  Mr.  Walter  Scott,  in 
his  edition  of  "Sir  Tristrem,"  has  presented  the  public 
with  an  ancient  Scottish  romance,  which,  according  to 
Mr.  Scott's  theory,  would  demonstrate  the  Knglish  lan- 
guage to  have  been  cultivated  earlier  in  Scotland  than 
in  England."  In  a  different  part  of  these  Selections 
(p.  17),  1  have  expressed  myself  in  terms  of  more  un- 
qualified assent  to  the  supposition  of  Thomas  of  Ei-cul- 
doune  having  been  an  origiiial  romancer,  than  I  should 
be  inclined  to  use  upon  mature  consideration  Robert 
De  Brunne  certainly  alludes  to  Sir  Tristrem,  as  "  the 
most  famous  of  all  gests"  in  his  time.i  Ue  mentions  £r- 
celdoune,  its  author,  and  another  poet  of  the  name  of 
Kendale.  Of  Kendale,  whether  he  was  Scotch  or  Eng- 
lish, nothing  seems  to  be  known  with  certainty.  M'ith 
respect  to  Thomas  of  Erceldoune,  or  Thomas  the  Rhymer, 
the  Auchinleck  MS.  published  by  my  illustrious  friend, 
professes  to  be  the  work  not  of  Erceldoune  himself  but 
of  some  minstrel  or  reciter  who  had  heard  the  story 
from  Thomas.  Its  language  is  confessed  to  be  that  of  the 
fourteenth  century,  and  the  MS.  is  not  pretended  to  be 
less  than  eighty  years  older  than  the  supposed  date  of 
Thomas  of  Erceldoune's  romance.  Accordingly,  what- 
ever Thomas  the  Rhymer's  production  might  be,  this 
Auchinleck  MS.  is  not  a  tran.-^ript  of  it,  but  the  trans- 
cript of  the  composition  of  some  one,  who  beard  the 
story  from  Thomas  of  Erceldoune.  It  is  a  specimen  of 
Scottish  poetry  not  in  the  thirteenth  but  the  fourteenth 
century.  How  much  of  the  matt«r  or  manner  of  Thomas 
the  Rhymer  was  retained  by  his  deputy  reciter  of  the 
story,  eighty  years  after  the  assumed  date  of  Thomas's 
work,  is  a  subject  of  mere  conjecture. 

Still,  however,  the  fame  of  Erceldoune  and  Tristrem 
remain  attested  by  Robert  De  Brunne :  and  Mr.  Scott's 
doctrine  is,  that  Thomas  the  Rhymer,  having  picked  up 
the  chief  materials  of  his  romantic  history  of  Sir  Tris- 
trem from  British  traditions  surviving  on  the  border, 
was  not  a  translator  from  the  French,  but  an  original 
authority  to  the  continental  romancers.  It  is  neverthe- 
less acknowledged,  that  the  story  of  Sir  Tristrem  had 
been  told  in  French,  and  was  familiar  to  the  romancers 
of  that  language,  long  before  Thomas  the  RhyriTer  could 
have  set  about  picking  up  British  traditions  on  the  bor- 
der, and  in  all  probability  before  he  was  born.  The'pos- 
sibility,  therefore,  of  his  having  beard  the  story  in 
Norman  minstrelsy,  is  put  beyond  the  reach  of  denial.e 
On  the  other  hand,  Mr.  Scott  argues,  that  the  Scottish 
bard  must  have  been  an  authority  to  the  continental 
romancers,  firom  two  circumstances.  In  the  first  place, 
there  are  two  metrical  fragments  of  French  romance 
preserved  in  the  library  of  Mr.  Douce,"*  which,  according 
to  Mr.  Scott,  tell  the  story  of  Sir  Tristrem  in  a  manner 
corresponding  with  the  same  tale  as  it  is  told  by  Thomas 
of  Erceldoune,  and  in  which  a  reference  Is  made  to  the 
•cthority  of  a  Thomas.    But  the  whole  force  of  this  ar- 


Mr.  Tyrwhitt  conceives,  that  we  have  not 
one  English  romance  anterior  to  Chaucer, 
which  is  not  borrowed  from  a  French  one. 
In  the  reign  of  Edward  II.,  Adam  Davie, 

gument  evidently  depends  on  the  supposition  of  Mr. 
Douce's  fragments  being  the  work  of  one  and  the  same 


o  ^  The  strange  appropriation  of  the  Auchinleck  poem 
as  a  Scottish  production,  when  no  single  trace  of  the 
Scottish  dialect  is  to  be  found  throughout  the  whole  ro- 
mance, which  may  not  with  equal  truth  be  claimed  as 
current  in  the  north  of  England,  while  every  marked 
peculiarity  of  the  former  is  entirely  wanting,  can  hardly 
require  serious  investigation.  From  this  opinion  the  in- 
genious editor  himself  must  long  ago  have  been  re- 
claimed. The  singular  doctrines  relative  to  the  rise  and 
progress  of  the  English  language  in  North  and  South 
Britain  may  also  be  dismissed,  as  not  immediately  rele- 
vant. But  when  it  is  seriously  affirmed,  that  the  Eng- 
lish language  was  once  spoken  with  greater  purity  in  the 
Lowlands  of  Scotland,  than  in  this  country,  we '  Sothrons' 
receive  the  communications  with  the  same  smile  of  in- 
credulity that  we  bestow  upon  the  poetic  dogma  of  the 
honest  Frieslander : — 

Buwter,  breat  en  green  tzies, 
Is  guth  Inglisch  en  guth  Fries. 
Butter,  bread,  and  green  cheese. 
Is  good  English  and  good  Friese." 
— Price,  WarUm'tHist.  vol.  i.  p.  196.    Ed.  1824. 

"  As  to  the  Essayist's  assertion  (Mr.  Price's)  that  the 
language  of  Sir  Tristrem  has  in  it  nothing  distinctively 
Scottish — this  is  a  point  on  which  the  reader  will,  per- 
haps, consider  the  authority  of  Sir  Walter  Scott  as  suffl 
cient  to  countervail  that  of  the  most  accomplished  Eng- 
lish antiquary." — Lockhart,  Advt.  to  Sir  Tristrem,  18*J. 
No  one  has  yet  satisfactorily  accounted  for  the  Eliza- 
bethian-like  Jnglis  of  Barbour  and  Blind  Harry,  or  the 
Saxon  Layamon-like  Jnglis  of  Gawain  Douglas.  Did 
Barbour,  who  wrote  in  1376,  write  in  advance  of  his  age, 
and  Dougla.',  who  began  and  ended  his  "  ^neid"  in 
1513-14,  behind  his  age?  Or  did  each  represent  the 
spoken  language  of  the  times  they  wrote  in  f  For  philo- 
logical and  poetical  inquiry  this  is  matter  of  moment. 
But  is  there  sufficient  material  for  more  than  felicitous 
conjecture;  and  who  is  equal  to  the  ta^^k?  If  Barbour 
wrote  his  "  Bruce"  as  we  have  it,  it  is  perhaps  the  most 
extraordinary  poem  in  the  English  language.  For  the 
age  of  the  first  manuscript  known,  (1488),  supposing  it  to 
have  been  then  written,  it  is  still,  though  not  equally  so^ 
a  wonder. 

S<-ott's  view  of  the  priority  in  cultivation  of  Inglis  in 
Scotland  over  England  is  sanctioned  by  Ellis  in  the  In- 
troduction (p.  127),  to  his  Metrical  Rrmiances. — C. 
*  Over  gestes  it  has  the  steem 
Over  all  that  is  or  was, 
If  men  it  sayd  as  made  Thoma.«. — C. 
c  Sir  Tristrem,  like  almost  all  our  Romances,  had  a 
foreign  origin — its  language  alone  is  ours.    Three  copies 
in  French,  in  Anglo-Norman,  and  in  Greek,  composed  in 
the  twelfth  and  thirteenth  centuries,  and  edited  by  Fran- 
cisque  Michel,  appeared  in  two  vols.  8vo,  at  London  in 
1835.     But  Scott  never  stood  out  for  Thomas's  invention. 
"The  tale,"  he  say-s  "  lays  claim  to  a  much  higher  anti- 
quity."   (P.  27.  Ed.  18;i3.)    To  a  British  antiquity,  how- 
ever.   See  also  Scott's  Essay  on  Romance,  in  Misc.  Prose 
Works,  (vol.  vi.  p.  201,)  where  he  contends  that  it  was  de- 
rived from  Welsh  traditions,  though  told  by  a  Saxon 
poet. — C. 

d  Now,  by  Mr.  Deuce's  Will,  among   the   Bodleiaa 
books. — C. 


ENGLISH  POETRY. 


13 


who  was  marshal  of  Stratford-le-Bow,  near 
London,  wrote  "  Visions"  in  verse,  which 
appear  to  be  original;  and  the  "Battle  of 
Jerusalem,"  in  which  he  turned  into  rhyme 
the  contents  of  a  French  prose  romance.* 
In  the  course  of  Adam  Davie's  account  of 
the  siege  of  Jerusalem,  Pilate  challenges 
our  Lord  to  single  combat.  From  the  spe- 
cimens afforded  by  Warton,  no  very  high 
idea  can  be  formed  of  the  genius  of  this 
poetical  marshal.  Warton  anticipates  the 
surprise  of  his  reader,  in  finding  the  Eng- 
lish language  improve  so  slowly,  when  we 
reach  the  verses  of  Davie.  The  historian 
of  our  poetry  had,  in  a  former  section, 
treated  of  Robert  de  Brunne  as  a  writer 
anterior  to  Davie ;  but  as  the  latter  part  of 
De  Brunne's  Chronicle  was  not  finished  till 
1339,  in  the  reign  of  Edward  III.,  it  would 
be  surprising  indeed  if  the  language  should 
seem  to  improve  when  we  go  back  to  the 
reign  of  Edward  Il.f  Davie's  work  may  be 
placed  in  our  poetical  chronology,  posterior 
to  the  first  part  of  De  Brunne's  Chronicle, 
but  anterior  to  the  latter. 

Richard  RoUo,  another  of  our  earliest 
versifiers,  died  in  1349.  J     He  was  a  hermit, 

author — whereas  they  are  not,  to  all  appearance,  by  the 
same  author.  A  single  perusal  will  enable  us  to  observe 
how  remarkably  they  differ  in  style.  They  have  no  ap- 
pearance of  being  parts  of  the  same  story,  one  of  them 
placing  the  court  of  King  Mark  at  Tintagil,  the  other  at 
London.  Only  one  of  the  fragments  refers  to  the  au- 
thority of  a  Thoma«,  and  the  style  of  that  one  bears  very 
strong  marks  of  being  French  of  the  twelfth  century,  a 
date  which  would  place  it  beyond  the  possibility  of  its 
referring  to  Thomas  of  KrceIdoune.«  The  second  of  Mr. 
Scott's  proofs  of  the  originality  of  the  Scottish  Romance 
is,  that  Gotfried  von  Strasburg,  in  a  German  romance, 
written  about  the  middle  of  the  thirteenth  century,  refers 
to  Thomas  of  Britania  as  his  original.  Thomas  of  Bri- 
tania  is,  however,  a  vague  word;  and  among  the  Anglo- 
Norman  poets  there  might  be  one  named  Thomas,  who 
might  have  told  a  story  which  was  confessedly  told  in 
many  shapes  in  the  French  language,  and  which  was 
known  in  France  before  the  Rhymer  could  hitVe  flour- 
ished ;  and  to  this  Anglo-Norman  Thomas,  Gotfried  might 
refer.  Eichorn,  the  German  editor,  says,  that  Gotfried 
translated  his  romance  from  the  Norman  French.  Mr. 
Soott,  in  his  edition  of  Sir  Tristrem,  after  conjecturing 
one  date  for  the  birth  of  Thomas  the  Rhymer,  avowedly 
alters  it  for  the  sake  of  identifying  the  Rhymer  with 
Gotfried's  Thomas  of  Britania,  and  places  his  birth  before 
the  end  of  the  twelfth  century.  This,  he  allows,  would 
extend  the  Rhymer's  life  to  upwards  of  ninety  years,  a 
pretty  fair  age  for  the  Scottish  Tiresias ;  but  if  he  sur- 
vived 1296,  as  Harry  the  Minstrel  informs  us,  he  must 
have  lived  to  beyond  an  hundred.^ 

*  His  other  works  were,  the  I^egend  of  St.  Alexius, 
from  the  Latin;  Scripture  Histories;  and  Fifteen  Tokens 
before  the  Day  of  Judgment.  The  last  two  were  parar 
phrases  of  Scripture.  Mr.  Ellis  ultimately  retracted  his 
opinion,  adopted  from  Warton,  that  he  was  the  author  of 
a  romance  entitled  the  "  Life  of  Alexander."    Printed  in 


and  led  a  secluded  life,  near  the  nunnery  of 
Hampole,  in  Yorkshire.  Seventeen  of  his 
devotional  pieces  are  enumerated  in  Ritson's 
"  Bibliographia  Poetica."  The  penitential 
psalms  and  theological  tracts  of  a  hermit 
were  not  likely  to  enrich  or  improve  the 
style  of  our  poetry;  and  they  are  accord- 
ingly confessed,  by  those  who  have  read 
them,  to  be  very  dull.  His  name  challenges 
notice,  only  from  the  paucity  of  contempo- 
rary writers. 

Laurence  Minot,  although  he  is  conjec- 
tured to  have  been  a  monk,  had  a  Muse  of 
a  livelier  temper;  and,  for  want  of  a  better 
poet,  he  may,  by  courtesy,  be  called  the  Tyr- 
taeus  of  his  age.  His  few  poems  which  have 
reached  us  are,  in  fact,  short  narrative  bal- 
lads on  the  victories  obtained  in  the  reign 
of  Edward  III.,  beginning  with  that  of  Ilal- 
lidown  Hill,  and  ending  with  the  siege  of 
Guisnes  Castle.  As  his  poem  on  the  last 
of  these  events  was  evidently  written  re- 
cently after  the  exploit,  the  era  of  his  poet- 
ical career  may  be  laid  between  the  years 
1332  and  1352.  Minot's  works  lay  in  ab- 
solute oblivion  till  late  in  the  last  century, 
in  a  MS.  of  the  Cotton  Collection,  which  was 

Weber's  Collection. — See  Elus's  Mit.  Rom.  vol.  i.  p.  130. 
— C. 

f  In  this  the  usual  accuracy  and  candour  of  Mr. 
Campbell  appear  to  have  forsaken  him,  Warton's  obser- 
vation is  far  from  being  a  general  one,  and  might  have 
been  interpreted  to  the  exclusion  of  De  Brunne.  That 
such  was  Warton's  intention  is  obvious,  Ac. — Price, 
WarUm,  vol.  ii.  p.  52.— C. 

X  Ellis,  vol.  i.  p.  146.  Warton  (vol.  ii.  p.  90)  calls  him 
Richard  Hampole. — C. 


a  This  passage  is  quoted  by  the  late  learned  Mr.  Price 
in  his  Note  to  Sir  Tristrem,  appended  to  his  edition  of 
Warton's  History.  "  In  addition,"  says  Price,  "it  may  be 
observed  that  the  language  of  this  fragment,  so  far  from 
vesting  Thomas  with  the  character  of  an  original  writer, 
affirms  directly  the  reverse.  It  is  clear  that  in  the  wri- 
ter's opinion  the  earliest  and  most  authentic  narrative 
of  Tristrem's  story  was  to  be  found  in  the  work  of  Breri. 
From  his  relation  later  minstrels  had  chosen  to  deviate; 
but  Thomas,  who  hnd  also  composed  a  romance  upon  the 
subject,  not  only  acc-orded  with  Breri  In  the  order  of  his 
events,  %ut  entered  into  'a  justification  of  himself  and 
his  predecessor,  by  proving  the  inconsistency  and  absur- 
dity of  these  new-fangled  variations.  If^  therefore,  the 
romance  of  Thomas  be  in  existence,  it  must  contain  this 
vindication;  the  poem  in  the  Auchinleck  MS.  is  entirely 
silent  on  the  subject." — C. 

*  There  is  now  but  one  opinion  of  Scott's  Sir  Tristrem 
— that  it  is  not,  as  he  would  have  it,  the  work  of  Thomas 
of  EroeldDune,  but  the  work  of  some  after  bard,  that  had 
heard  Thomas  tell  the  story — in  other  words,  an  imptr- 
fcct  transcript  of  the  Erceldoune  copy.  Thomas's  own 
tale  is  something  we  may  wish  for,  but  we  may  despair 
of  finding.  That  Kendale  wrote  Scott's  Sir  Tristrem  i» 
the  fair  enough  supposition  of  Mr.  David  Laing. — Dunbar 
vol.  i.  p.  38.— C. 


14 


ENGLISH  POETRY. 


supposed  to  be  a  transcript  of  the  works  of 
Chaucer.  The  name  of  Richard  Chawfir 
having  been  accidentally  scrawled  on  a  spare 
leaf  of  the  MS.  (probably  the  name  of  its 
ancient  possessor),  the  framer  of  the  Cotton 
catalogue,  very  good-naturedly  converted  it 
into  Geoffrey  Chaucer.  By  this  circum- 
stance Mr.  Tyrwhitt,  when  seeking  materials 
for  his  edition  of  the  "  Canterbury  Tales," 
accidentally  discovered  an  English  versifier 
older  than  Chaucer  himself.  The  style  of 
Minot's  ten  military  ballads  is  frequently 
alliterative,  and  has  much  of  the  northern 
dialect.  lie  is  an  easy  and  lively  versifier, 
though  not,  as  Mr.  G.  Chalmers  denominates 
him,  either  elegant  or  energetic* 

In  the  course  of  the  fourteenth  century, 
our  language  seems  to  have  been  inundated 
with  metrical  romances,  until  the  public 
taste  had  been  palled  by  the  mediocrity  and 
monotony  of  the  greater  part  of  them.  At 
least,  if  Chaucer's  host  in  the  "  Canterbury 
Tales"  be  a  fair  representation  of  contem- 
porary opinion,  they  were  held  in  no  great 
reverence,  to  judge  by  the  comparison  which 
the  vintner  applies  to  the  "  drafty  rhymings" 
of  Sir  Topaz.f  The  practice  of  translating 
French  metrical  romances  into  English  did 
not,  however,  terminate  in  the  fourteenth 
century.  Nor  must  we  form  an  indiscrimi- 
nate estimate  of  the  ancient  metrical  ro- 
mances, either  from  Chaucer's  implied  con- 
tempt for  them,  nor  from  mine  host  of  the 
Tabard's  ungainly  comparison  with  respect 
to  one  of  them.  The  ridiculous  style  of  Sir 
Topaz  is  not  an  image  of  them  all.  Some 
of  them,  far  from  being  chargeable  with  im- 
pertinent and  prolix  description,  are  concise 
in  narration,  and  paint,  with  rapid  but  dis- 
tinct sketches,  the  battles,  the  banquets,  and 
the  rites  of  worship  of  chivalrous  life. 
Classical  poetry  has  scarcely  ever  conveyed 
in  shorter  boundaries  so  many  interesting 
and  complicated  events,  as  may  be  found  in 
the  good  old  romance  of  Le  Bone  Flosence.J 
Chaucer  himself,  when  he  strikes  into  the 
new  or  allegorical  school  of  romance,  has 
many  passages  more  tedious  and  less  affect- 
ing than  the  better  parts  of  those  simple 
old  fablers.  For  in  spite  of  their  puerility 
in  the  excessive  use  of  the  marvellous,  their 

*  An  edition  of  Minot's  poems  was  one  of  Ritson's 
mnny  contributions  to  the  elucidation  of  early  English 
language  and  literature. — C. 

t  The  Rime  0/  Sir  Tnpaz,  which  Chaucer  introduces  aa 
a  parody,  undoubtedly,  of  the  rhythmical  romances  of 


simplicity  is  often  touching,  and  they  have 
many  scenes  that  would  form  adequate  sub- 
jects for  the  best  historical  pencils. 

The  reign  of  Edward  III.  was  illustrious 
not  for  military  achievements  alone  ;  it  was 
a  period  when  the  English  character  dis'- 
played  its  first  intellectual  boldness.  It  is 
true  that  the  history  of  the  times  presents 
a  striking  contrast  between  the  light  of  in- 
telligence which  began  to  open  on  men's 
minds,  and  the  frightful  evils  which  were 
still  permitted  to  darken  the  face  of  society. 
In  the  scandalous  avarice  of  the  church,  in 
the  corruptions  of  the  courts  of  judicature, 
and  in  the  licentiousness  of  a  nobility  who 
countenanced  disorders  and  robbery,  we 
trace  the  unbanished  remains  of  barbarism; 
but,  on  the  other  hand,  we  may  refer  to  this 
period  for  the  genuine  commencement  of  our 
literature,  for  the  earliest  diffusion  of  free 
inquiry,  and  for  the  first  great  movement  of 
the  national  mind  towards  emancipation 
from  spiritual  tyranny.  The  abuses  of  reli- 
gion were,  from  their  nature,  the  most 
powerfully  calculated  to  arrest  the  public 
attention;  and  poetry  was  not  deficient  in 
contributing  its  influence  to  expose  those 
abuses,  both  as  subjects  of  ridicule  and  of 
serious  indignation.  Two  poets  of  this  pe- 
riod, with  very  different  powers  of  genius, 
and  probably  addressing  themselves  to  dif- 
ferent classes  of  society,  made  the  corrup- 
tions of  tlie  clergy  the  objects  of  their  satire 
— taking  satire  not  in  its  mean  and  personal 
acceptation,  but  understanding  it  as  the 
moral  warfare  of  indignation  and  ridicule 
against  turpitude  and  absurdity.  Those 
writers  were  Langlande  and  Chaucer,  both 
of  whom  have  been  claimed  as  primitive  re- 
formers by  some  of  the  zealous  historians 
of  the  Reformation.  At  the  idea  of  a  full 
separation  from  the  Catholic  church,  both 
Langlande  and  Chaucer  would  possibly  have 
been  struck  with  horror.  The  doctrine  of 
predestination,  which  was  a  leading  tenet 
of  the  first  Protestants ;  is  not,  I  believe, 
avowed  in  any  of  Chaucer's  writings,  and 
it  is  expressly  reprobated  by  Langlande.  It 
is,  nevertheless,  very  likely  that  their  works 
contributed  to  promote  the  Reformation. 
Langlande,  especially,  who  was  an  earlier 

the  age,  is  interrupted  by  mine  host  Harry  Bailly  with 
the  strongest  and  most  energetic  expressions  of  total  and 
absolute    contempt. — Sir    WALTiai    Scott,    Misc.    Prott 
Works,  Tol.  Ti.  p.  209. — C. 
X  Oiven  iu  Ritson's  Old  Metrical  Romances. 


ENGLISH  POETRY. 


15 


eatirist  and  painter  of  manners  than  Chau- 
cer, is  undaunted  in  reprobating  the  cor- 
ruptions of  the  papal  government.  He  prays 
to  Heaven  to  amend  the  Pope,  whom  he 
charges  with  pillaging  the  Church,  interfer- 
ing unjustly  with  the  king,  and  causing  the 
blood  of  Christians  to  be  wantonly  shed; 
and  it  is  a  curious  circumstance,  that  he  pre- 
dicts the  existence  of  a  king,  who,  in  his 
vengeance,  would  destroy  the  monasteries. 

The  work  entitled  "  Visions  of  William 
concerning  Piers  Plowman,"*  and  concern- 
ing the  origin,  progress,  and  perfection  of 
the  Christian  life,  which  is  the  earliest 
known  original  poem,  of  any  extent,  in  the 
English  language,  is  ascribed  to  Robert 
Langlande  [or  Longlande] ,  a  secular  priest, 
born  at  Mortimer's  Cleobury,  in  Shropshire, 
and  educated  at  Oriel  College,  Oxford.  That 
it  was  written  by  Langlande,  I  believe,  can 
be  traced  to  no  higher  authority  than  that 
of  Bale,  or  of  the  printer  Crowley ;  but  his 
name  may  stand  for  that  of  its  author,  until 
a  better  claimant  shall  be  found. 

Those  Visions,  from  their  allusions  to 
events  evidently  recent,  can  scarcely  be  sup- 
posed to  have  been  finished  later  than  the 
year  1362,  almost  thirty  years  before  the  ap- 
pearance of  the  Canterbury  Tales.f 

It  is  not  easy,  even  after  Dr.  Whitaker's 
laborious  analysis  of  this  work,  to  give  any 
concise  account  of  its  contents.  The  gene- 
ral object  is  to  expose,  in  allegory,  the  ex- 
isting abuses  of  society,  and  to  inculcate  the 
public  and  private  duties  both  of  the  laity 
and  clergy.  An  imaginary  seer,  afterwards 
described  by  the  name  of  William,  wander- 
ing among  the  bushes  of  the  Malvern  hills, 
is  overtaken  by  sleep,  and  dreams  that  he 
beholds  a  magnificent  tower,  which  turns 
out  to  be  the  tower  or  fortress  of  Truth,  and 
a  dungeon,  which,  we  soon  after  learn,  is 
the  abode  of  Wrong.  In  a  spacious  plain  in 
front  of  it,  the  whole  race  of  mankind  are 
employed  in  their  respective  pursuits ;  such 
as  husbandmen,  merchants,  minstrels  with 
their  audiences,  begging  friars,  and  itinerant 
venders  of  pardons,  leading  a  dissolute  life 
under  the  cloak  of  religion.     The  last  of 


•  The  work  is  commonly  eDtiUed  the  «« Visions  of  Pitra 
Plowman,"  but  incorrectly,  for  Piers  is  not  the  dreamer 
who  sees  the  visions,  but  one  of  the  characters  who  is 
beheld,  and  who  represents  the  Christian  life. 

+  See  Mr.  Price's  Note  in  Warton,  Tol.  ii.  p.  101,  and 
Appendix  to  the  same  Tolume. — C. 


these  are  severely  satirized.  A  transition  is 
then  made  to  the  civil  grievances  of  society ; 
and  the  policy,  not  the  duty,  of  submitting 
to  bad  princes,  is  illustrated  by  the  parable 
of  the  Rats  and  Cats.  In  the  second  canto. 
True  Religion  descends,  and  demonstrates, 
with  many  precepts,  how  the  conduct  of  in- 
dividuals, and  the  general  management  of 
society,  may  be  amended.  In  the  third  and 
fourth  canto,  Mede  or  Bribery  is  exhibited, 
seeking  a  marriage  with  Falsehood,  and  at- 
tempting to  make  her  way  to  the  courts  of 
justice,  where  it  appears  that  she  has  many 
friends,  both  among  the  civil  judges  and 
ecclesiastics.  The  poem,  after  this,  becomes 
more  and  more  desultory.  The  author 
awakens  more  than  once;  but,  forgetting 
that  he  has  told  us  so,  continues  to  converse 
as  freely  as  ever  with  the  moral  phantasma- 
goria of  his  dream.  A  long  train  of  allego- 
rical personages,  whom  it  would  not  be  very 
amusing  to  enumerate,  succeeds.  In  fact, 
notwithstanding  Dr.  Whitaker's  discovery 
of  a  plan  and  unity  in  this  work,  I  cannot 
help  thinking  with  Warton,  that  it  possesses 
neither ;  at  least,  if  it  has  any  design,  it  ip 
the  most  vague  and  ill-constructed  that  ever 
entered  into  the  brain  of  a  waking  dreamer. 
The  appearance  of  the  visionary  personages 
is  often  sufficiently  whimsical.  The  poAver 
of  Grace,  for  instance,  confers  upon  Piers 
Plowman,  or  "Christian  Life,"  four  stout 
oxen,  to  cultivate  the  field  of  Truth;  these 
are,  Matthew,  IMark,  Luke,  and  John,  the 
last  of  whom  is  described  as  the  gentlest  of 
the  team.  She  afterwards  assigns  him  the 
like  number  of  stots  or  bullocks,  to  harrow 
what  the  evangelists  had  ploughed ;  and  this 
new  horned  team  consists  of  saint  or  stot 
Ambrose,  stot  Austin,  stot  Gregory,  and 
stot  Jerome.t 

The  verse  of  Langlande  is  alliterative, 
without  rhyme,  and  of  triple  time.  In  mo- 
dern pronunciation  it  divides  the  ear  be- 
tween ao  anapaestic  and  dactylic  cadence; 
though  some  of  the  verses  are  reducible  to 
no  perceptible  metre.  Mr.  Mitford,  in  his 
"  Harmony  of  Languages,"  thinks  that  the 
more  we  accommodate  the  reading  of  it  to 

X  If  some  of  the  criticisms  in  this  f^nial  Essay  prove 
rather  startling  to  the  zealous  admirer  of  our  early  lite- 
rature, he  will  attribute  them  to  the  same  cause  which, 
durinp;  an  ajte  of  romantic  poetry,  makes  the  effusions  ot 
Mr.  Campbell's  Muse  appear  an  echo  of  the  chaste  sim- 
plicity and  measured  energy  of  Attic  song. — Price,  War- 
ton,  Tol.  i.  p.  107.— C. 


16 


ENGLISH  POETRY. 


ancient  pronunciation,  the  more  generally 
we  shall  find  it  run  in  an  anapaestic  mea- 
sure. His  style,  even  making  allowance  for 
its  antiquity,  has  a  vulgar  air,  and  seems  to 
indicate  a  mind  that  would  have  been  coarse, 
though  strong,  in  any  state  of  society.  But, 
on  the  other  hand,  his  work,  with  all  its 
tiresome  homilies,  illustrations  from  school 
divinity,  and  uncouth  phraseology,  has  some 
interesting  features  of  originality.  He  em- 
ploys no  borrowed  materials ;  he  is  the  ear- 
liest of  our  writers  in  whom  there  is  a  tone 
of  moral  reflection;  and  his  sentiments  are 
those  of  bold  and  solid  integrity.  The  zeal 
of  truth  was  in  him ;  and  his  vehement  man- 
ner sometimes  rises  to  eloquence,  when  he 
denounces  hypocrisy  and  imposture.  The 
mind  is  struck  with  his  rude  voice,  proclaim- 
ing independent  and  popular  sentiments, 
firom  an  age  of  slavery  and  superstition, 
and  thundering  a  prediction  in  the  ear  of 
papacy,  which  was  doomed  to  be  literally 
fulfilled  at  the  distance  of  nearly  two  hun- 
dred years.  His  allusions  to  contemporary 
life  afibrd  some ;  amusing  glimpses  of  its 
manners.  There  is  room  to  suspect  that 
Spenser  was  acquainted  with  his  works ;  and 
Milton,  either  from  accident  or  design,  has 
the  appearance  of  having  had  one  of  Lang- 
lande's  passages  in  his  mind,  when  he  wrote 
the  sublime  description  of  the  lazar-house, 
in  "  Paradise  Lost."* 

Chaucer  was  probably  known  and  distin- 
guished as  a  poet  anterior  to  the  appearance 
of  Langlande's  Visions.  Indeed,  if  he  had 
produced  nothing  else  than  his  youthful 
poem,  "  The  Court  of  Love,"  it  was  sufli- 
cient  to  indicate  one  destined  to  harmonize 
and  refine  the  national  strains.  But  it  is 
likely,  that  before  his  thirty-fourth  year, 
about  which  time  Langlande's  Visions  may 
be  supposed  to  have  been  finished,  Chaucer 
had  given  several  compositions  to  the  public. 

The  simple  old  narrative  romance  had  be- 
come too  familiar  in  Chaucer's  time  to  invite 
him  to  its  beaten  track.  The  poverty  of  his 
native  tongue  obliged  him  to  look  round  for 
subsidiary  materials  to  his  fancy,  both  in 
the  Latin  language,  and  in  some  modern 
foreign  source  that  should  not  appear  to  be 
trite  and  exhausted.  His  age  was,  unfortu- 
nately, little  conversant  with  the  best  Latin 

*  B.  xi.  I.  475,  Ac.  This  coincidence  Is  remarki-d  hy 
Mm.  Cooper,  In  her  Mtun'  Library. — Elus,  vol.  i.  p.  167 
—C. 

t  The  (Consolation  of  Boethius  was  translated  by  Al- 


classics.  Ovid,  Claudian,  and  Statius,  were 
the  chief  favourites  in  poetry,  and  Boethius 
in  prose.f  The  allegorical  style  of  the  last 
of  those  authors  seems  to  have  given  an 
early  bias  to  the  taste  of  Chaucer.  In  mo- 
dern poetry,  his  first  and  long  continued 
predilection  was  attracted  by  the  new  and 
allegorical  style  of  romance  which  had 
sprung  up  in  France  in  the  thirteenth  cen- 
tury, under  William  de  Lorris.  We  find 
him,  accordingly,  during  a  great  part  of  hia 
poetical  career,  engaged  among  the  dreams, 
emblems,  flower-worshippings,  and  amatory 
parliaments  of  that  visionary  school.  This, 
we  may  say,  was  a  gymnasium  of  rather  too 
light  and  playful  exercise  for  so  strong  a 
genius ;  and  it  must  be  owned,  that  his  alle- 
gorical poetry  is  often  puerile  and  prolix. 
Yet.  even  in  this  walk  of  fiction,  we  never 
entirely  lose  sight  of  that  peculiar  grace  and 
gayety  which  distinguish  the  muse  of  Chau- 
cer ;  and  no  one  who  remembers  his  produc- 
tions of  the  "  House  of  Fame,"  and  "  The 
Flower  and  the  Leaf,"  will  regret  that  he 
sported  for  a  season  in  the  field  of  allegory. 
Even  his  pieces  of  this  description,  the  most 
fantastic  in  design  and  tedious  in  execution, 
are  generally  interspersed  with  fresh  and 
joyous  descriptions  of  external  nature. 

In  this  new  species  of  romance,  we  per- 
ceive the  youthful  muse  of  the  language  in 
love  with  mystical  meanings  and  forms  of 
fancy,  more  remote,  if  possible,  from  reality 
than  those  of  the  chivalrous  fable  itself;  and 
we  could  sometimes  wish  her  back  from  her 
emblematic  castles  to  the  more  solid  ones  of 
the  elder  fable ;  but  still  she  moves  in  pur- 
suit of  those  shadows  with  an  impulse  of 
novelty,  and  an  exuberance  of  spirit,  that 
is  not  wholly  without  its  attraction  and  de- 
light. 

Chaucer  was  afterwards  happily  drawn  to 
the  more  natural  style  of  Boccaccio,  and 
from  him  he  derived  the  hint  of  a  subject, J 
in  which,  besides  his  own  original  portraits 
of  contemporary  life,  he  could  introduce 
stories  of  every  description,  from  the  most 
heroic  to  the  most  familiar. 

Gower,  though  he  had  been  earlier  distin- 
guished in  French  poetry,  began  later  than 
Chaucer  to  cultivate  his  native  tongue.  His 
"  Confessio  Amantis,"   the   only  work  by 

fred  the  Great  and  by  Queen  Elizabeth.  No  unfair  proof 
of  its  extraordinary  popularity  may  be  derived  from  The 
Quair  of  King  James  I.  It  seems  to  have  been  a  truly 
regal  book.— C.  %  The  Canterbury  Tales.— C. 


ENGLISH  POETRY. 


which  he  is  known  as  an  English  poet,  did 
not  appear  till  the  sixteenth  year  of  Richard 
II.  He  must  have  been  a  highly  accom- 
plished man  for  his  time,  and  imbued  with 
a  studious  and  mild  spirit  of  reflection.  His 
French  sonnets  are  marked  by  elegance  and 
sensibility,  and  his  English  poetry  contains 
a  digest  of  all  that  constituted  the  know- 
ledge of  his  age.  His  contemporaries  greatly 
esteemed  him ;  and  the  Scottish,  as  well  as 
English  writers  of  the  subsequent  period, 
speak  of  him  with  unqualified  admiration. 
But  though  the  placid  and  moral  Gower 
might  be  a  civilizing  spirit  among  his  con- 
temporaries, his  character  has  none  of  the 
bold  originality  which  stamps  an  influence 
on  the  literature  of  a  country.  He  Avas  not, 
like  Chaucer,  a  patriarch  in  the  family  of 
•  ,iiu8,  the  scattered  traits  of  whose  resem- 
blance may  be  seen  in  such  descendants  as 
Shakspeare  and  Spenser.*  The  design  of 
his  "  Confessio  Amantis"  is  peculiarly  ill- 
contrived.  A  lover,  whose  case  has  not  a 
particle  of  interest,  applies,  according  to  the 
Catholic  ritual,  to  a  confessor,  who,  at  the 
same  time,  whimsically  enough,  bears  the 
additional  character  of  a  pagan  priest  of 
Venus.  The  holy  father,  it  is  true,  speaks 
like  a  good  Christian,  and  communicates 
more  scandal  about  the  intrigues  of  Venus 


than  pagan  author  ever  told.  A  pretext  is 
afibrded  by  the  ceremony  of  confession,  for 
the  priest  not  only  to  initiate  his  pupil  in 
the  duties  of  a  lover,  but  in  a  wide  range 
of  ethical  and  physical  knowledge;  and  at 
the  mention  of  every  virtue  and  vice,  a  tale 
is  introduced  by  way  of  illustration.  Does 
the  confessor  wish  to  warn  the  lover  against 
impertinent  curiosity?  he  introduces,  apropos 
to  that  failing,  the  history  of  Actaeon,  of 
peeping  memory.  The  confessor  inquires  if 
he  is  addicted  to  a  vain-glorious  disposition ; 
because  if  he  is,  he  can  tell  him  a  story 
about  Nebuchadnezzar.  Does  he  wish  to 
hear  of  the  virtue  of  conjugal  patience?  it  is 
aptly  inculcated  by  the  anecdote  respecting 
Socrates,  who,  when  he  received  the  con- 
tents of  Xantippe's  pail  upon  his  head,  re- 
plied to  the  provocation  with  only  a  witti- 
cism. Thus,  with  shrieving,  narrations,  and 
didactic  speeches,  the  work  is  extended  to 
thirty  thousand  lines,  in  the  course  of  which 
the  virtues  and  vices  are  all  regularly  alle- 
gorized. But  in  allegory  Gower  is  cold  and 
uninventive,  and  enumerates  qualities  when 
he  should  conjure  up  visible  objects.  On 
the  whole,  though  copiously  stored  with 
facts  and  fables,  he  is  unable  either  to  make 
truth  appear  poetical,  or  to  render  fiction 
the  graceful  vehicle  of  truth. 


PAKT  11. 


"Warton,  with  great  beauty  and  justice, 
compares  the  appearance  of  Chaucer  in  our 
FuuMth  language  to  a  premature  day  in  an 
otnt^r-  English  spring ;  after  which  the  gloom 
of  winter  returns,  and  the  buds  and  blos- 
soms, which  have  been  called  for  by  a  tran- 
sient sunshine,  are  nipped  by  frosts,  and 
scattered  by  storms.  The  causes  of  the  re- 
lapse of  our  poetry,  after  Chaucer,  seem  but 
too  apparent  in  the  annals  of  English  his- 
tory, which  during  five  reigns  of  the  fif- 
teenth century  continue  to  display  but  a 
tissue  of  conspiracies,  proscriptions,  and 
bloodshed.  Inferior  even  to  France  in  lite- 
rary progress,  England  displays  in  the  fif- 


•  Milton  was  the  poetical  son  of  Spenser,  and  Mr. 
Waller  of  Fairfax.    Spenser  more  than  once  insinuat  j8 
Qiat  the  soul  of  Chaucer  was  transfused  into  his  body, 
8 


teenth  century  a  still  more  mortifying  con- 
trast with  Italy.  Italy  too  had  her  religious 
schisms  and  public  distractions;  but  her 
arts  and  literature  had  always  a  sheltering 
place.  They  were  even  cherished  by  the 
rivalship  of  independent  communities,  and 
received  encouragement  from  the  opposite 
sources  of  commercial  and  ecclesiastical 
wealth.  But  tee  had  no  Nicholas  the  Fifth, 
nor  house  of  Medicis.  In  England,  the  evils 
of  civil  war  agitated  society  as  one  mass. 
There  was  no  refuge  from  them — no  enclos- 
ure to  fence  in  the  field  of  improvement — 
no  mound  to  stem  the  torrent  of  public 
troubles.    Before  the  death  of  Henry  VI., 

and  that  he  was  begotten  by  him  two  hundred  years  af- 
ter his  decease. — Dbtden.    Malotu,  toI.  It.  p.  692.— C- 

b2 


18 


ENGLISH  POETRY. 


it  is  said  that  one-h«lf  of  the  nobility  and 
gentry  in  the  kingdom  had  perished  in  the 
field,  or  on  the  scaffold.  Whilst  in  England 
the  public  spirit  was  thus  brutalized,  whilst 
the  value  and  security  of  life  were  abridged, 
whilst  the  wealth  of  the  rich  was  employed 
only  in  war,  and  the  chance  of  patronage 
taken  from  the  scholar;  in  Italy,  princes 
and  magistrates  vied  with  each  other  in  call- 
ing men  of  genius  around  them,  as  the 
brightest  ornaments  of  their  states  and 
courts.  The  art  of  printing  came  to  Italy 
to  record  the  treasures  of  its  literary  attain- 
ments ;  but  when  it  came  to  England,  with 
a  very  few  exceptions,  it  could  not  be  said, 
for  the  purpose  of  diffusing  native  literature, 
to  be  a  necessary  art.  A  circumstance,  ad- 
ditionally hostile  to  the  national  genius,  may 
certainly  be  traced  in  the  executions  for  re- 
ligion, which  sprung  up  as  a  horrible  novelty 
in  our  country  in  the  fifteenth  century.  The 
clergy  were  determined  to  indemnify  them- 
selves for  the  exposures  which  they  had  met 
with  in  the  preceding  age,  and  the  unhal- 
lowed compromise  which  Henry  IV.  made 
with  them,  in  return  for  supporting  his  ac- 
cession, armed  them,  in  an  evil  hour,  with 
the  torch  of  persecution.  In  one  point  of 
improvement,  namely,  in  the  boldness  of  re- 
ligious inquiry,  the  North  of  Europe  might 
already  boast  of  being  superior  to  the  South, 
with  all  its  learning,  wealth,  and  elegant 
acquirements.  The  Scriptures  had  been 
opened  by  Wickliff,  but  they  were  again  to 
become  "a  fountain  sealed,  and  a  spring 
shut  up."  Amidst  the  progress  of  letters  in 
Italy,  the  fine  arts  threw  enchantment 
around  superstition;  and  the  warm  imagi- 
nation of  the  South  was  congenial  with  the 
nature  of  Catholic  institutions.  But  the 
English  mind  had  already  shown,  even 
amidst  its  comparative  barbarism,  a  stern 
independent  spirit  of  religion ;  and  from  this 
single  proud  and  elevated  point  of  its  char 
racter,  it  was  now  to  be  crushed  and  beaten 
down.  Sometimes  a  baffled  struggle  against 
oppression  is  more  depressing  to  the  human 
faculties  than  continued  submission. 

Our  natural  hatred  of  tyranny,  and  we 
may  safely  add,  the  general  test  of  history 
and  experience,  would  dispose  us  to  believe 
religious  persecution  to  be  necessarily  and 
essentially  baneful  to  the  elegant  arts,  no 
less  than  to  the  intellectual  pursuits  of  man- 
kind.  It  is  natural  to  think,  that  when  pun- 


ishments are  let  loose  upon  men's  opinions, 
they  will  spread  a  contagious  alarm  from 
the  understanding  to  the  imagination.  They 
will  make  the  heart  grow  close  and  insensi- 
ble to  generous  feelings,  where  it  is  unac- 
customed to  express  them  freely;  and  the 
graces  and  gayety  of  fancy  will  be  dejected 
and  appalled.  In  an  age  of  persecution, 
even  the  living  study  of  his  own  species 
must  be  comparatively  darkened  to  the  poet. 
He  looks  round  on  the  characters  and  coun 
tenances  of  his  fellow-creatures ;  and  instead 
of  the  naturally  cheerful  and  eccentric  va- 
riety of  their  humours,  he  reads  only  a  sul- 
len and  oppressed  uniformity.  To  the  spirit 
of  poetry  we  should  conceive  such  a  period 
to  be  an  impassable  Avernus,  where  she 
would  drop  her  wings  and  expire.  Un- 
doubtedly this  inference  will  be  found  war- 
ranted by  a  general  survey  of  the  history  of 
Genius.  It  is,  at  the  same  time,  impossible 
to  deny,  that  wit  and  poetry  have  in  some 
instances  flourished  coeval  with  ferocious 
bigotry,  on  the  same  spot,  and  under  the 
same  government.  The  literary  glory  of 
Spain  was  posterior  to  the  establishment  of 
the  Inquisition.  The  fancy  of  Cervantes 
sported  in  its  neighbourhood,  though  he  de- 
clared that  he  could  have  made  his  writings 
still  more  entertaining,  if  he  had  not  dreaded 
the  Holy  Office.  But  the  growth  of  Spanish 
genius,  in  spite  of  the  co-existence  of  reli- 
gious tyranny,  was  fostered  by  uncommon 
and  glorious  advantages  in  the  circum- 
stances of  the  nation.  Spain  (for  we  are 
comparing  Spain  in  the  sixteenth  with  Eng- 
land in  the  fifteenth  century)  was,  at  the 
period  alluded  to,  great  and  proud  in  an  em- 
pire, on  which  it  was  boast«d  that  the  sun 
never  set.  Her  language  was  widely  dif- 
fused. The  wealth  of  America  for  a  while 
animated  all  her  arts.  Robertson  says,  that 
the  Spaniards  discovered  at  that  time  an  ex- 
tent of  political  knowledge,  which  the  Eng- 
lish themselves  did  not  attain  for  more  than 
a  century  afterwards.  Religious  persecu- 
tions began  in  England,  at  a  time  when  she 
was  comparatively  poor  and  barbarous ;  yet 
after  she  had  been  awakened  to  so  much  in- 
telligence on  the  subject  of  religion,  as  to 
make  one-half  of  the  people  indignantly  im- 
patient of  priestly  tyranny.  If  we  add  to 
the  political  troubles  of  the  age,  the  circum- 
stance of  religious  opinions  being  silence<? 
and  stifled  by  penal  horrors,  it  will  seec 


ENGLISH  POETRY. 


1» 


more  wonderful  that  the  spark  of  literature 
was  kept  alive,  than  that  it  did  not  spread 
more  widely.  Yet  the  fifteenth  century  had 
its  redeeming  traits  of  refinement,  the  more 
wonderful  for  appearing  in  the  midst  of  such 
unfavourable  circumstances.  It  had  a  For- 
tescue,  although  he  wandered  in  exile,  un- 
protected by  the  constitution  which  he  ex- 
plained and  extolled  in  his  writings.  It  had 
a  noble  patron  and  lover  of  letters  in  Tip- 
toft,*  although  he  died  by  the  hands  of  the 
executioner.  It  witnessed  the  founding  of 
many  colleges,  in  both  of  the  universities, 
although  they  were  still  the  haunts  of  scho- 
lastic quibbling;  and  it  produced,  in  the 
venerable  Pecock,  one  conscientious  digni- 
tary of  the  church,  who  wished  to  have  con- 
verted the  Protestants  by  appeals  to  reason, 
though  for  so  doing  he  had  his  books,  and, 
if  he  had  not  recanted  in  good  time,  would 
have  had  his  body  also,  committed  to  the 
flames.  To  these  causes  may  be  ascribed 
the  backwardness  of  our  poetry  between  the 
dates  of  Chaucer  and  Spenser.  I  speak  of 
the  chasm  extending  to,  or  nearly  to  Spen- 
ser; for,  without  undervaluing  the  elegant 
talents  of  Lord  Surrey,  I  think  we  cannot 
consider  the  national  genius  as  completely 
emancipated  from  oppressive  circumstances, 
till  the  time  of  Elizabeth.  There  was  indeed 
a  commencement  of  our  poetry  under  Henry 
VIII.  It  was  a  fine,  but  a  feeble  one.  Eng- 
lish genius  seems  then  to  have  come  forth, 
but  half  assured  that  her  day  of  emancipa- 
tion was  at  hand.  There  is  something  me- 
lancholy even  in  Lord  Surrey's  strains  of 
gallantry.  The  succession  of  Henry  VIII. 
gave  stability  to  the  government,  and  some 
degree  of  magnificence  to  the  state  of  so- 
ciety. But  tyranny  was  not  yet  at  an  end; 
and  to  judge,  not  by  the  gross  bufibons,  but 
by  the  few  minds  entitled  to  be  called  poeti- 
cal, which  appear  in  the  earlier  part  of  the 
sixteenth  century,  we  may  say  that  the 
English  Muse  had  still  a  diffident  aspect  and 
a  faltering  tone. 

•  Earl  of  Worcester,      f  In  his  Bibliographia  Poetics. 

J  Vide  p.  16  of  these  8f  lertions.  He  translated  largely 
from  the  French  and  Latin.  His  principal  poem.s  are, 
"  The  Kail  of  Princes,"  "  the  Siege  of  Thebes,"  and  "  The 
Destruction  of  Troy."  The  first  of  these  is  from  Lau- 
rent's French  version  of  Boccaccio's  book  "  De  Casibus 
virorum  et  feminarum  illustrium."  His  ''Siege  of 
Thebes,"  which  was  intended  as  an  additional  Canterbury 
Tale,  and  in  the  introduction  to  which  he  feigns  himsi-If 
in  company  with  "  the  host  of  the  Tabard  and  the  Pil- 
grims," is  compiled  from  Guido  Colonna,  Statins,  and 


There  is  a  species  of  talent,  however, 
which  may  continue  to  indite  what  is  called 
poetry,  without  having  its  sensibilities  deep- 
ly afiected  by  the  circumstances  of  society; 
and  of  luminaries  of  this  description  our 
fifteenth  century  was  not  destitute.  Ritson 
has  enumerated  about  seventy  of  them.f 
Of  these,  Occleve  and  Lydgate  were  the 
nearest  successors  to  Chaucer.  Occleve 
speaks  of  himself  as  Chaucer's  scholar.  He 
has,  at  least,  the  merit  of  expressing  the 
sincerest  enthusiasm  for  his  master.  But  it 
is  difficult  to  controvert  the  character  which 
has  been  generally  assigned  to  him,  that  of 
a  flat  and  feeble  writer.  Excepting  the 
adoption  of  his  story  of  Fortunatus,  by 
William  Browne,  in  his  pastorals,  and  the 
modern  republication  of  a  few  of  his  pieces, 
I  know  not  of  any  public  compliment 
which  has  ever  been  paid  to  his  poetical  me- 
mory. 

Lydgate  is  altogether  the  most  respectable 
versifier  of  the  fifteenth  century.  A  list  of 
two  hundred  and  fifty  of  the  productions 
ascribed  to  him  (which  is  given  in  Ritson's 
Bibliographia  Poetica)  attests,  at  least,  the 
fluency  of  his  pen ;  and  he  seems  to  have 
ranged  with  the  same  facility  through  the 
gravest  and  the  lightest  suljjects  of  compo- 
s'tion.  Ballads,  hymns,  ludicrous  stories, 
legends,  romances,  and  allegories,  were 
equally  at  his  command.  Verbose  and  dif- 
fuse as  Dan  John  of  Bury  must  be  allowed 
to  have  been,  he  is  not  without  occasional 
touches  of  pathos.  The  poet  Gray  was  the 
first  in  modern  times  who  did  him  the  jus- 
tice to  observe  them.|  His  "  Fall  of  Princes" 
may  also  deserve  notice,  in  tracing  back  the 
thread  of  our  national  poetry,  as  it  is  more 
likely  than  any  other  English  production  to 
have  suggested  to  Lord  Sackville  the  idea 
of  his  "  Mirror  for  Magistrates."  The  "  Mir- 
ror for  Magistrates"  a^ain  gave  hints  to 
Spenser  in  allegory,  and  may  also  have  pos- 
sibly suggested  to  Shakspeare  the  idea  of 
his  historical  plays. 


Seneca.  His  "  Destruction  of  Troy"  is  from  the  worit  of 
Guido  Colonna,  or  from  a  French  translation  of  it  His 
"  London  Licltpenny"  is  curious,  for  the  minute  picture 
of  the  metropolis,  which  it  exhibits,  in  the  fifteenth  cen- 
tury. A  specimen  of  Lydttate's  humour  may  be  seen  in 
his  tale  of  "The  Prioress  and  her  Three  Wooers,"  which 
Mr.  Jamirson  has  given  in  his  "  Popular  Ballads  and 
Songs,"  [vol.  i.  pp.  249 — 2(16].  I  had  transcribed  it  from 
a  manuscript  in  the  British  Museum,  fHnrl.  MS.  78]. 
thinking  that  it  was  not  in  print,  but  found  that  Mr 
Jamiesou  had  anticipated  me. 


20 


ENGLISH  POETRY. 


I  know  not  if  Ilardynge,*  who  belonged 
to  the  reign  of  Edward  IV.,  be  worth  men- 
tioning, as  one  of  the  obscure  luminaries  of 
this  benighted  age.  He  left  a  Chronicle  of 
the  History  of  England,  which  possesses  an 
incidental  interest  from  his  having  been 
himself  a  witness  to  some  of  the  scenes 
which  he  records ;  for  he  lived  in  the  family 
of  the  Percys,  and  fought  under  the  ban- 
ners of  Hotspur;  but  from  the  style  of  his 
versified  Chronicle,  his  head  would  appear 
to  have  been  much  better  furnished  for  sus- 
taining the  blows  of  the  battle,  than  for 
contriving  its  poetical  celebration. 

The  Scottish  poets  of  the  fifteenth,  and 
of  a  part  of  the  sixteenth  century,  would 
End  of  the  ^^^^  justly  demand  a  place  in  any 
BftMnth  and  history  of  our  poetry  that  meant  to 
the  .ixtMBth  be  copious  and  mmute ;  as  the 
*"'°^'  northern  "makers,"  notwithstand- 
ing the  difierence  of  dialect,  generally  de- 
nominate their  language  "  Inglis."  Scotland 
produced  an  entire  poetical  version  of  the 
iEneid,  before  Lord  Surrey  had  translated 
a  single  book  of  it ;  indeed  before  there  was 
an  English  version  of  any  classic,  excepting 
Boethius,  if  he  can  be  called  a  classic. 
Virgil  was  only  known  in  the  English  lan- 
guage through  a  romance  on  the  Siege  of 
Troy,  published  by  Caxton,  which,  as  Bishop 
Douglas  observes,  in  the  prologue  to  his 
Scottish  ^neid,  is  no  more  like  Virgil  than 
the  devil  is  like  St.  Austin.f  Perhaps  the 
resemblance  may  not  even  be  so  great.  But 
the  Scottish  poets,  after  all  that  has  been 
said  of  them,  form  nothing  like  a  brilliant 
revival  of  poetry.  They  are,  on  the  whole, 
superior  indeed,  in  spirit  and  originality  to 
their  English  cotemporaries,  which  is  not 
saying  much;  but  their  style  is,  for  the  most 
part,  cast,  if  possible,  in  a  worse  taste.  The 
prevailing  fault  of  English  diction,  in  the 
fifteenth  century, 'is  redundant  ornament, 
and  an  afiectation  of  anglicising  Latin 
words.  In  this  pedantry  and  use  of  "  aureate 
terms,"  the  Scottish  versifiers  Avent  even  be- 


•  A  kind  of  Robert  of  Gloucester  redivivus.  Sir  Wait 
TER  Scott,  Mite.  Pr.  Works,  toI.  xvii.  p.  13.— C. 

t  WarUm,  vol.  iii.  p.  112.  Douglas  is  said  to  have  writ- 
ten his  translation  in  the  short  space  of  sixteen  months, 
and  to  haye  finished  it  in  1513.  Thia  was  before  Surrey 
was  horn. — C. 

X  To  the  reign  of  Henry  VI.  belongs  Henry  Txinelich, 
who  plied  the  unpoetical  trade  of  a  skinner,  and  who 
translated  the  French  romance  of  St.  Qraal ;  Thomas 
Cbestre.,  who  made  a  free  and  enlarged  version  of  the  Lai 
do  LanTal,  of  the  French  poetess  Marie;  and  Kobert 


yond  their  brethren  of  the  south.  Some 
exceptions  to  the  remark,  I  am  aware,  may 
be  found  in  Dunbar,  who  sometimes  exhibits 
simplicity  and  lyrical  terseness;  but  even 
his  style  has  frequent  deformities  of  quaint- 
ness,  false  ornament,  and  alliteration.  The 
rest  of  them,  when  they  meant  to  be  most 
eloquent,  tore  up  words  from  the_Latiii,  ' 
which  never  took  root  in  the  language,  like 
children  making  a  mock  garden  with  flow- 
ers and  branches  stuck  in  the  ground,  which 
speedily  wither. 

From  Lydgate  down  to  Wyat  and  Surrey, 
there  seem  to  be  no  southern  writers  deserv- 
ing attention,  unless  for  the  purposes  of  the 
antiquary,  excepting  Hawes,  Barklay,  and 
Skelton;  anji  even  their  names  might  per- 
haps be  omitted,  without  treason  to  the 
cause  of  taste.;}: 

Stephen  Hawes,  §  who  was  groom  of  the 
chamber  to  Henry  VII.,  is  said  to  have  been 
accomplished  in  the  literature  of  France  and 
Italy,  and  to  have  travelled  into  those  coun- 
tries. His  most  important  production  is  the 
"  Pastyme  of  Pleasure,"||  an  allegorical  ro- 
mance, the  hero  of  which  is  Grandamour  or 
Gallantry,  and  the  heroine  La  Belle  Pucelle, 
or  Perfect  Beauty.  In  this  work  the  per- 
sonified characters  have  all  the  capricious- 
ness  and  vague  moral  meaning  of  the  old 
French  allegorical  romance;  but  the  pueril- 
ity of  the  school  remains,  while  the  zest  of 
its  novelty  is  gone.  There  is  also  in  his 
foolish  personage  of  Godfrey  Gobelive,  some- 
thing of  the  burlesque  of  the  worst  taste  of 
Italian  poetry.  It  is  certainly  very  tiresome 
to  follow  Ilawes's  hero,  Grandamour,  through 
all  his  adventures,  studying  grammar,  rhe- 
toric, and  arithmetic,  in  the  tower  of  Doc- 
trine; afterwards  slaughtering  giants,  who 
have  each  two  or  three  emblematic  heads ; 
sacrificing  to  heathen  gods ;  then  marrying 
according  to  the  Catholic  rites ;  and,  finally, 
relating  his  own  death  and  burial,  to  which 
he  is  so  obliging  as  to  add  his  epitaph.  Yet, 
as  the  story  seems  to  be  of  Hawes's  inven- 


Thomton,  who  rersified  the  "  Morte  Arthur"  in  the  al- 
literative measure  of  Langlande. 

J  A  bad  imitator  of  Lydgate,  ten  times  more  tedious 
than  his  original.  Sir  Walter  Scott,  Misc.  Pr.  Works, 
vol.  xvii.  p.  13. — C. 

I  He  also  wrote  the  "  Temple  of  Glass,"  the  substance 
of  which  is  taken  from  Chaucer's  "  House  of  Fame." 

The  Temple  of  Glass  is  now,  as  Mr.  Hallam  observes,  hj 
general  consent,  restored  to  Lydgate. —Zi<.  .But.  vol.  L 
p.  432 ;  and  JYice's  Warton,  vol.  iii.  pp.  46,  47. — C. 


ENGLISH  POETRY. 


21 


tion,  it  ranks  him  above  the  mere  chroniclers 
and  translators  of  the  age.  Warton  praises 
hira  for  improving  on  the  style  of  Lydgate.* 
His  language  may  be  somewhat  more  mo- 
dern, but  in  vigour  or  hiirmony,  I  am  at  a 
loss  to  perceive  in  it  any  superiority.  The 
indulgent  historian  of  our  poetry  has,  how- 
ever, quoted  one  line  line  from  him,  describ- 
ing the  fiery  breath  of  a  dragon,  which 
guarded  the  island  of  beauty: 

"  The  fire  was  great ;  it  made  the  island  light." 

Every  romantic  poem  in  his  own  language 
is  likely  to  have  interested  Spenser;  and  if 
there  were  many  such  glimpses  of  magnifi- 
cence in  Hawes,  we  might  suppose  the  au- 
thor of  "The  Fairy  Queen"  to  have  cher- 
ished his  youthful  genius  by  contemplating 
them;  but  his  beauties  are  too  few  and 
faint  to  have  afibrded  any  inspiring  example 
to  Spenser. 

Alexander  Barklfiy  was  a  priest  of  St. 
Mary  Otterburne,  in  Devonshire,  and  died 
at  a  great  age  at  Croydon,  in  the  year  1552. 
His  principal  work  was  a  free  translation  of 
Sebastian  Brandt'sf  "  Navis  Stultifera,"  en- 
larged with  some  satirical  strictures  of  his 
own  upon  the  manners  of  his  English  con- 
temporaries. His  "  Ship  of  Fools"  has  been 
as  often  quoted  as  most  obsolete  English 
poems ;  but  if  it  were  not  obsolete  it  would 
not  be  quoted.  He  also  wrote  Eclogues, 
which  are  curious  as  the  earliest  pieces  of 
that  kind  in  our  language.  From  their  title 
we  might  be  led  to  expect  some  interesting 
delineations  of  English  rural  customs  at 
that  period.  But  Barklay  intended  to  be  a 
moralist,  and  not  a  painter  of  nature ;  and 
the  chief,  though  insipid  moral  which  he 
inculcates  is,  that  it  is  better  to  be  a  clown 
than  a  courtier.  J  The  few  scenes  of  country 
life  which  he  exhibits  for  that  purpose  are 
singularly  ill  fitted  to  illustrate  his  doctrine, 
and  present  rustic  existence  under  a  mise- 
rable aspect,  more  resembling  the  caricature 
of  Scotland  in  Churchill's  "  Prophecy  of 
Famine,"  than  any  thing  which  we  can 
imagine  to  have  ever  been  the  general  con- 
dition of  English  peasants.  The  speakers,  in 

*  Hift.  vol.  iil.  p.  64.  "  Haw«8  has  added  new  gracea 
to  Lydgatf's  manner." — C. 

t  Si'bastian  Brandt  was  a  civilian  of  Basil. 

J  Biirklay  gives  some  skt-tches  of  manners;  but  they 
are  those  of  the  town,  not  the  country.  Warton  is  partial 
to  his  bla<-.k-letter  fclogues.  bi'cauRe  they  contain  allu- 
sions to  the  customs  of  the  ape.  They  certainly  inform 
us  at  what  hour  our  ancestors  usually  dined,  siippeit,  and 
went  to  bed  ;  that  they  were  loud  of  good  eating;  and 


one  of  his  eclogues,  lie  littered  among  straw, 
for  want  of  a  fire  to  keep  themselves  warm ; 
and  one  of  them  expresses  a  wish  that  the 
milk  for  dinner  may  be  curdled,  to  save 
them  the  consumption  of  bread.  As  the 
writer's  object  was  not  to  make  us  pity  but 
esteem  the  rustic  lot,  this  picture  of  English 
poverty  can  only  be  accounted  for  by  sup- 
posing it  to  have  been  drawn  from  partial 
observation,  or  the  result  of  a  bad  taste, 
that  naturally  delighted  in  squalid  subjects 
of  description.  Barklay,  indeed,  though  he 
has  some  stanzas  which  might  be  quoted  for 
their  strength  of  thought  and  felicity  of  ex- 
pression, is,  upon  the  whole,  the  least  ambi- 
tious of  all  writers  to  adorn  his  conceptions 
of  familiar  life  with  either  dignity  or  beauty. 
An  amusing  instance  of  this  occurs  in  one 
of  his  moral  apologues:  Adam,  he  tells  us 
in  verse,  was  one  day  abroad  at  his  work — 
Eve  was  at  the  door  of  the  house,  with  her 
children  playing  about  her;  some  of  them 
she  was  "  kembing,"  says  the  poet,  prefix- 
ing another  participle  not  of  the  most  deli- 
cate kind,  to  describe  the  usefulness  of  the 
comb.  Her  Maker  having  deigned  to  pay 
her  a  visit,  she  was  ashamed  to  be  found 
with  so  many  ill-dressed  children  al>out  her, 
and  hastened  to  stow  a  number  of  them  out 
of  sight;  some  of  them  she  concealed  under 
hay  and  straw,  others  she  put  up  the  chim- 
ney, and  one  or  two  into  a  "  tub  of  draff." 
Having  produced,  however,  the  best  looking 
and  best  dressed  of  them,  she  was  delighted 
to  hear  their  Divine  Visitor  bless  them,  and 
destine  some  of  them  to  be  kings  and  em- 
perors, some  dukes  and  barons,  and  others 
sheriffs,  mayors,  and  aldermen.  Unwilling 
that  any  of  her  family  should  forfeit  bless- 
ings whilst  they  were  going,  she  immediately 
drew  out  the  remainder  from  their  conceal- 
ment ;  but  when  they  came  forth,  they  were 
so  covered  with  dust  and  cobwebs,  and  had 
so  many  bits  of  chaff  and  straw  sticking  to 
their  hair,  that  instead  of  receiving  bene- 
dictions and  promotion,  they  were  doomed 
to  vocations  of  toil  and  poverty,  suitable  to 
their  dirty  appearance. 

that  it  was  advisable,  in  the  poet's  opinion,  for  any  one 
who  attempted  to  help  himself  to  a  favourite  dish  at 
their  banquets  to  wear  a  gauntlet  of  mail.  Quin.  the 
player  who  probably  never  had  heard  of  Barklay,  deli- 
veri-d  at  a  much  later  period  a  similar  observation  on 
city  feasta :  namely,  that  the  candidate  for  a  good  dish  of 
turtle  ought  never  to  be  without  a  basket-biltod  knife 
and  fork. 


22 


ENGLISH  POETRY. 


Jolin  Skelton,  who  was  the  rival  and  con- 
temporary of  Barklay,  was  laureate  to  the 
University  of  Oxford,  and  tutor  to  the  prince, 
afterwards  Henry  VIII.  Erasmus  must 
have  been  a  bad  judge  of  English  poetry,  or 
must  have  alluded  only  to  the  learning  of 
Skelton,  when  in  one  of  his  letters  he  pro- 
nounces him  "  Britannicarum  literarum 
lumen  et  decus."  There  is  certainly  a  ve- 
hemence and  vivacity  in  Skelton,  which  was 
worthy  of  being  guided  by  a  better  taste; 
and  the  objects  of  his  satii-e  bespeak  some 
degree  of  public  spirit.*  But  his  eccen- 
tricity in  attempts  at  humour  is  at  once  vul- 
gar and  flippant;  and  his  style  is  almost  a 
texture  of  slang  phrases,  patched  with 
shreds  of  French  and  Latin.  We  are  told, 
indeed,  in  a  periodical  work  of  the  present 
day,  that  his  manner  is  to  be  excused,  be- 
cause it  was  assumed  for  "  the  nonce,"  and 
was  suited  to  the  taste  of  his  contemporaries. 
But  it  is  surely  a  poor  apology  for  the  satir- 
ist of  any  age,  to  say  that  he  stooped  to  hu- 
mour its  vilest  taste,  and  could  not  ridicule 
vice  and  folly  without  degrading  himself  to 
buffoonery.!  Upon  the  whole,  we  might 
regard  the  poetical  feeling  and  genius  of 
England  as  almost  extinct  at  the  end  of  the 
fifteenth  century,  if  the  beautiful  ballad  of 
the  "  Nut-brown  Maid"  were  not  to  be  re- 
ferred to  that  period. J  It  is  said  to  have 
been  translated  from  the  German ;  but  even 

*  He  was  the  determined  enemy  of  the  mendicant 
friars  and  of  Cardinal  Wolsey.  The  courtiers  of  Henry 
VIII.,  whilst  obliged  to  flatter  a  minister  whom  they  de- 
t<'sted,  could  not  but  be  gratified  with  Skelton's  boldness 
in  singly  daring  to  attack  him.  In  his  picture  of  Wolsey 
at  the  Council  Board,  he  thus  describes  the  imperious 
minister : 

" in  chamber  of  Stars 

All  matters  there  he  mars; 

Clapping  his  rod  on  the  board, 

No  man  dare  speak  a  word ; 

For  he  hath  all  the  saying, 

Without  any  renaying. 

He  rolleth  in  his  Recdrds, 

He  sayeth,  How  say  ye,  my  loids, 

Is  not  my  reason  good  f 

Good  even,  good  Robin  Hood. 

Some  say  yes,  and  some 

Sit  still,  as  they  were  dumb." 
These  lines  are  a  remarkable  anticipationa  of  the  rery 
words  in  the  fifteenth  article  of  the  charges  preferred 
against  Wolsey  by  the  Parliament  of  1529.  "That  the 
said  Lord  Cardinal,  sitting  among  the  Lords  and  other  of 
your  majesty's  most  honourable  council,  used  himself  so, 
that  if  any  man  would  show  his  mind  according  to  his 
duty,  he  would  so  take  him  up  with  his  acoustomable 
words,  that  they  were  better  to  hold  their  peace  than  to 
«p<vik,  so  that  he  would  hear  no  more  speak,  but  one  or 
two  great  personages,  do  that  he  would  have  all  the  words 


considered  as  a  translation,  it  meets  us  as  a 
surprising  flower  amidst  the  winter-solstice 
of  our  poetry. 

The  literary  character  of  England  was 
not  established  till  near  the  end  of  the  six- 
Biitecnth  teenth  century,  at  the  beginning  of 
centuij.  ^^jj^^  century,  immediately  anterior  to 
Lord  Surrey,  we  find  Barklay  and  Skelton. 
popular  candidates  for  the  foremost  honours 
of  English  poetry.  They  are  but  poor 
names.  Yet  slowly  as  the  improvement  of 
our  poetry  seems  to  proceed  in  the  early  part 
of  the  sixteenth  century,  the  circumstances 
which  subsequently  fostered  the  national 
genius  to  its  maturity  and  magnitude,  begin 
to  be  distinctly  visible  even  before  the  year 
1500.  The  accession  of  Henry  VII.,  by 
fixing  the  monarchy  and  the  prospect  of  its 
regular  succession,  forms  a  great  era  of  com- 
mencing civilization.  The  art  of  printing, 
which  had  been  introdficed  in  a  former  pe- 
riod of  discord,  promised  to  diffuse  its  light 
in  a  steadier  and  calmer  atmosphere.  The 
great  discoveries  of  navigation,  by  quicken- 
ing the  intercourse  of  European  nations, 
extended  their  influence  to  England.  In 
the  short  portion  of  the  fifteenth  century 
during  which  printing  was  known  in  this 
country,  the-  press  exhibits  our  literature  at 
a  lower  ebb  than  even  that  of  France ;  but 
before  that  century  was  concluded,  the  tide 
of  classical  learning  had  fairly  set  in.   Eng- 

himself,  and  consumed  much  time  without  a  fair  tale." 
His  ridicule  drew  down  the  wrath  of  Wolsey,  who  or- 
dered him  to  he  apprehended.  But  Skelton  fled  to  the 
sanctuary  of  Westminster  Abbey,  where  he  was  pro. 
t«cted ;  and  died  in  the  same  year  in  which  Wolsey'g 
prosecutors  drew  up  the  article  of  impeachment,  so  simi- 
lar to  the  satire  of  the  poet. 

t  I  know  Skelton  only  by  the  modern  edition  of  his 
works,  dated  1736.  But  from  this  stupid  publication  I 
can  easily  discover  that  he  was  no  ordinary  man.  Why 
Warton  and  the  writers  of  his  school  rail  at  him  vehe- 
mently I  know  not;  he  was  perhaps  the  liest  scholar  of 
his  day,  and  displays  on  many  orcasions  strong  powers 
of  description,  and  a  vein  of  poetry  that  shines  through 
all  the  rubbish  which  ignorance  has  spread  over  it.  He 
flew  at  high  game,  and  therefore  occasionally  called  in 
the  aid  of  vulgar  ribaldry  to  mask  the  direct  attack  of 
his  satire. — Gifford,  Jonsiin.  vol.  viii.  p.  77. 

The  power,  the  strangeness,  the  volubility  of  his  lan- 
guage, the  intrepidity  of  his  satire,  and  the  perfect  origi- 
nality of  his  manner,  render  Skelton  one  of  the  most 
extraordinary  poets  of  any  age  or  country. — Southey, 
Specimens  and  Quar.  Sev.  vol.  xi.  p.  486. 

Mr.  Hallam  is  not  so  kind  ;  but  till  Mr.  Dyce  gives  us 
his  long-promised  edition  of  Skelton,  we  know  the  old 
rough,  ready-witted  writer  very  imperfectly. — C. 

X  Warton  places  it  about  the  year  1500.  It  was  in  print 
in  1521,  if  not  a  little  earlier.— C. 

o  Neve's  Cursory  Remarks  on  the  English  Poets. 


ENGLISH  POETRY. 


23 


land  had  received  Erasmus,  and  had  pro- 
duced Sir  Thomas  More.  The  English 
poetry  of  the  last  of  these  great  men  is  in- 
deed of  trifling  consequence,  in  comparison 
■with  the  general  impulse  which  his  other 
■writings  must  have  given  to  the  age  in  which 
he  lived.  But  every  thing  that  excites  the 
dormant  intellect  of  a  nation  must  be  re- 
garded as  contributing  to  its  future  poetry. 
It  IS  possible,  that  in  thus  adverting  to  the 
diffusion  of  knowledge  (especially  classical 
knowledge)  ■which  preceded  our  golden  age 
of  originality,  vre  may  be  challenged  by  the 
question,  how  much  the  greatest  of  all  our 
poets  ■was  indebted  to  learning.  We  are  apt 
to  compare  such  geniuses  as  Shakspeare  to 
comets  in  the  moral  universe,  which  baffle 
all  calculations  as  to  the  causes  ■which  ac- 
celerate or  retard  their  appearance,  or  from 
which  we  can  predict  their  return.  But 
those  phenomena  of  poetical  inspiration  are, 
in  fact,  still  dependent  on  the  laws  and  light 
of  the  system  which  they  visit.  Poets  may 
be  indebted  to  the  learning  and  philosophy 
of  their  age,  ■without  being  themselves  men 
of  erudition,  or  philosophers.  When  the 
fine  spirit  of  truth  has  gone  abroad,  it 
passes  insensibly  from  mind  to  mind,  inde- 
pendent of  its  direct  transmission  from 
books;  and  it  comes  hon\e  in  a  more  wel- 
come shape  to  the  poet,  when  caught  from 
his  social  intercourse  with  his  species,  than 
from  solitary  study.  Shakspeare's  genius 
was  certainly  indebted  to  the  intelligence 
and  moral  principles  which  existed  in  his 
age,  and  to  that  intelligence  and  to  those 

*  Namely,  in  the  year  1535.  The  decline  of  Aristotle's 
authority,  and  that  of  scholastic  divinity,  though  to  a 
certain  degree  connected,  are  not,  however,  to  be  identi- 
fied. What  were  called  the  doctrines  of  Aristotle  by  the 
schoolmen,  were  a  mass  of  metaphysics  established  in 
his  name,  first  by  Arabic  commentators,  and  afterwards 
by  Catholic  doctors :  among  the  latter  of  whom,  many 
expounded  the  philosophy  of  the  Stagyrite  without  un- 
derstanding a  word  of  the  original  language  in  which  his 
doctrines  were  written.  Some  Platonic  opinions  had  also 
mixed  with  the  metaphysics  of  the 'schoolmen.  Aristotle 
was  nevertheless  their  main  authority ;  though  it  is  pro- 
bable that,  if  he  had  come  to  life,  he  would  not  have 
fathered  much  of  the  philosophy  which  rested  on  his 
name.  Some  of  the  reformers  threw  off  scholastic  divi- 
nity and  Aristotle's  authority  at  once ;  but  others,  while 
they  abjured  the  schoolmen,  adhered  to  the  Peripatetic 
eystim.  In  fact,  until  the  revival  of  letters,  Aristotle 
could  not  be  said,  with  regard  to  the  modern  world,  to  be 
either  fully  known  by  his  own  works,  or  fairly  tried  by 
his  own  merit-).  Though  ultimately  overthrown  by  Ba- 
con, his  writings  and  his  name,  in  the  age  immediately 
preceding  Bacon,  had  ceased  to  be  a  mere  stalking-horse 
to  the  schoolmen,  and  he  was  found  to  contain  heresies 
which  th«  Catholic  metaphysiciaua  had  little  suspected. 


moral  principles,  the  revival  of  classical 
literature  undoubtedly  contributed.  So  also 
did  the  revival  of  pulpit  eloquence,  and  the 
restoration  of  the  Scriptures  to  the  people 
in  their  native  tongue.  The  dethronement 
of  scholastic  philosophy,  and  of  the  supposed 
infallibility  of  Aristotle's  authority,  an  au- 
thority at  one  time  almost  paramount  to  that 
of  the  Scriptures  themselves,  was  another 
good  connected  with  the  Reformation;  for 
though  the  logic  of  Aristotle  long  continued 
to  be  formally  taught,  scholastic  theology 
was  no  longer  sheltered  beneath  his  name. 
Bible  divinity  superseded  the  glosses  of  the 
schoolmen,  and  the  writings  of  Duns  Scotus 
were  consigned  at  Oxford  to  proclaimed  con- 
tempt.* The  reign  of  true  philosophy  was 
not  indeed  arrived,  and  the  Reformation  it- 
self produced  events  tending  to  retard  that 
progress  of  literature  and  intelligence,  which 
had  sprung  up  under  its  first  auspices. 
Still,  with  partial  interruptions,  the  culture 
of  classical  literature  proceeded  in  the  six- 
teenth century ;  and,  amidst  that  culture,  it 
is  difficult  to  conceive  that  a  system  of  Greek 
philosophy  more  poetical  than  Aristotle's, 
was  without  its  influence  on  the  English 
spirit — namely,  that  of  Plato.  That  Eng- 
land possessed  a  distinct  school  of  Platonic 
philosophy  in  the  sixteenth  century,  cannot, 
I  believe,  be  affirmed,!  but  we  hear  of  the 
Platonic  studies  of  Sir  Philip  Sydney;  and 
traits  of  Platonism  are  sometimes  beauti- 
fully visible  in  the  poetry  of  Surrey  and 
of  Spenser.J  The  Italian  Muse  communi- 
cated a  tinge  of  that  spirit  to  our  poetry, 

f  £nfield  mentions  no  English  school  of  Platonism 
before  the  time  of  Gale  and  Cudworth. 

Uallam  is  equally  silent. — C. 

X  In  one  of  Spenser's  hymns  on  Love  and  Beauty,  he 
breathes  this  Platonic  doctrine. 


'  Every  spirit,  as  it  is  most  pure 


And  hath  in  it  the  more  of  heavenly  light, 
So  it  the  fairer  body  doth  procure 
To  habit  in,  and  it  more  fairly  dight 
With  cheerful  grace  and  amiable  sight; 
For  of  the  soul  the  body  form  doth  take. 
For  soul  is  form,  and  doth  the  body  make." 
So,  also,  Surrey  to  his  fair  Qeraldine. 

"The  golden  gift  that  Nature  did  thee  give. 
To  fasten  friend.<<,  and  feed  them  at  thy  will 
With  form  and  favour,  taught  me  to  believe 
How  thou  art  made  to  show  her  grtatexl  skin." 
This  last  thought  was  probably  suggested  by  the  line* 
in  Petrarch,  which  express  a  doctrine  of  the  Platonk 
school,  respecting  the  idea  or  origin  of  beauty. 
"  In  qual  parte  del  ciel',  in  quale  idea 
Era  I'esempio  onde  Natura  tolse 
Quel  bel  viso  leggiadro,  in  che  ells  Tr.lae 
Mostrar  qoaggiO,  quantd  lasM  potea." 


24 


ENGLISH  POETRY. 


which  must  have  been  farther  excited  in  the 
minds  of  poetical  scholars  by  the  influence 
of  Grecian  literature.  Hurd  indeed  ob- 
serves, that  the  Platonic  doctrines  had  a 
deep  influence  on  the  sentiments  and  cha- 
racter of  Spenser's  age.  They  certainly 
form  a  very  poetical  creed  of  philosophy. 
The  Aristotelian  system  was  a  vast  me- 
chanical labyrinth,  which  the  human  facul- 
ties were  chilled,  fatigued,  and  darkened  by 
exploring.  Plato,  at  least,  expands  the  ima- 
gination, for  he  was  a  great  poet ;  and  if  he 
had  put  in  practice  the  law  respecting  poets, 
which  he  prescribed  to  his  ideal  republic,  he 
must  have  begun  by  banishing  himself. 

The  Reformation,  though  ultimately  bene- 
ficial to  literature,  like  all  abrupt  changes  in 
society,  brought  its  evil  with  its  good.  Its 
establishment  under  Edward  VI.  made  the 
English  too  fanatical  and  polemical  to  attend 
to  the  finer  objects  of  taste.  Its  commence- 
ment under  Henry  VIII.,  however  promis- 
ing at  first,  was  too  soon  rendered  frightful, 
by  bearing  the  stamp  of  a  tyrant's  charac- 
ter, who,  instead  of  opening  the  temple  of 
religious  peace,  established  a  Janus-faced 
persecution  against  both  the  old  and  new 
opinions.  On  the  other  hand,  Henry's  power, 
opulence,  and  ostentation,  gave  some  en- 
couragement to  the  arts.  He  himself,  mon- 
ster as  he  was,  afiected  to  be  a  poet.  His 
masques  and  pageants  assembled  the  beauty 
and  nobility  of  the  land,  and  prompted  a 
gallant  spirit  of  courtesy.  The  cultivation 
of  musical  talents  among  his  courtiers  fos- 
tered our  early  lyrical  poetry.  Our  inter- 
course with  Italy  was  renewed  from  more 
enlightened  motives  than  superstition;  and 
under  the  influence  of  Lord  Surrey,  Italian 
poetry  became  once  more,  as  it  had  been  in 
the  days  of  Chaucer,  a  source  of  refinement 
and  regeneration  to  our  own.     I  am  not  in- 


•  Onr  father  Chaucer  hath  used  the  same  liberty  In 
feet  and  measures  that  the  LatiniRts  do  use :  and  whoso- 
ever do  peruse  and  well  consider  his  works,  he  shall  find 
that  although  his  lines  are  not  always  of  one  self-same 
number  of  syllables,  yet  being  read  by  one  that  hath 
understanding,  the  longest  verse,  and  that  which  hath 
most  syllables,  will  fall  (to  the  ear)  correspondent  unto 
that  which  hath  in  it  fewest  syllables,  shall  be  found  yet 
to  consist  of  words  that  have  such  natural  sound,  as  may 
eeem  equal  in  length  to  a  verse  which  hath  many  more 
syllables  of  lighter  accent*. — Gascoigne. 

But  if  some  Englishe  woorde,  herein  seem  sweet. 
Let  Chaucer's  name  exalted  be  therefore  ; 
Tf  any  verse,  doe  passe  on  plesant  feet. 
The  praise  thereof  redownd  to  Petrark's  lore. 

Oascoione,  The  Grief  of  Joy. 


deed  disposed  to  consider  the  influence  of 
Lord  Surrey's  works  upon  our  language  in 
the  very  extensive  and  important  light  in 
which  it  is  viewed  by  Dr.  Nott.  I  am  doubt- 
ful if  that  learned  editor  has  converted  many 
readers  to  his  opinion,  that  Lord  Surrey 
was  the  first  who  gave  us  metrical  instead 
of  rhythmical  versification;  for,  with  just 
allowance  for  ancient  pronunciation,  the 
heroic  measure  of  Chaucer  will  be  found  in 
general  not  only  to  be  metrically  correct, 
but  to  possess  considerable  harmony.*  Sur- 
rey was  not  the  inventor  of  our  metrical 
versification ;  nor  had  his  genius  the  potent 
voice  and  the  magic  spell  which  rouse  all  the 
dormant  energies  of  a  language.  In  certain 
walks  of  composition,  though  not  in  the 
highest,  viz.  in  the  ode,  elegy,  and  epitaph, 
he  set  a  chaste  and  delicate  example ;  but  he 
was  cut  ofi"  too  early  in  life,  and  cultivated 
poetry  too  slightly,  to  carry  the  pure  stream 
of  his  style  into  the  broad  and  bold  chan- 
nels of  inventive  fiction.  Much  undoubtedly 
he  did,  in  giving  sweetness  to  our  numbers, 
and  in  substituting  for  the  rude  tautology 
of  a  former  age  a  style  of  soft  and  brilliant 
ornament,  of  selected  expression,  and  of 
verbal  arrangement,  which  often  winds  into 
graceful  novelties ;  though  sometimes  a  little 
objectionable  from  its  involution.  Our  lan- 
guage was  also  indebted  to  him  for  the  in 
troduction  of  blank  verse.  It  may  be  noticed 
at  the  same  time  that  blank  verse,  if  it  had 
continued  to  be  written  as  Surrey  wrote  it, 
would  have  had  a  cadence  too  uniform  and 
cautious  to  be  a  happy  vehicle  for  the  dra^ 
matic  expression  of  the  passions.  Grimoald, 
the  second  poet  who  used  it  after  Lord  Sur- 
rey, gave  it  a  little  more  variety  of  pauses ; 
but  it  was  not  till  it  had  been  tried  as  a 
measure  by  several  composers,  that  it  ac- 
quired a  bold  and  flexible  modulation.! 

It  is  a  disputed  question  whether  Chaucer's  verses  be 
rhythmical  or  metrical.  I  believe  them  to  have  been 
written  rhythmically,  upon  the  same  principle  on  which 
Coleridge  composed  his  Christabel — that  the  number  of 
heats  or  accentuated  syllables  in  every  line  should  be  the 
same,  although  the  number  of  syllables  themselves 
might  vary.  Verse  so  composed  will  often  be  strictly 
metrical ;  and  because  Chaucer's  is  frequently  so.  the  ar- 
gument has  been  raised  that  it  is  always  so  if  it  be  read 
properly,  according  to  the  intention  of  the  author. — 
SouTHET,  Coioper,  vol.  ii.  p.  117. — C. 

t  Surrey  is  not  a  great  poet,  but  he  was  an  influen- 
tial one ;  we  owe  to  him  the  introduction  of  the  Sonnet 
into  our  language,  and  the  first  taste  for  the  Italian 
poets. — C. 


ENGLISH  POETRY. 


25 


The  genius  of  Sir  Thomas  Wyat  was  re- 
fined and'  elevated  like  that  of  his  noble 
friend  and  contemporary;  but  his  poetry  is 
more  sententious  and  sombrous,  and  in  his 
lyrical  effusions  he  studied  terseness  rather 
than  suavity.  Besides  these  two  interest- 
ing men,  Sir  Francis  Bryan,  the  friend  of 
Wjat,  George  Viscount  Rochford,  the  bro- 
ther of  Anna  Boleyne,  and  Thomas  Lord 
Vaux,  were  poetical  courtiers  of  Henry  VIII. 
To  the  second  of  these  Ritson  assigns, 
though  but  by  conjecture,  one  of  the  most 
beautiful  and  plaintive  strains  of  our  elder 
poetry,  "  0  Death,  rock  me  on  sleep."  In 
Totell's  Collection,  the  earliest  poetical  mis- 
cellany in  our  language,  two  pieces  have 
been  ascribed  to  the  same  nobleman,  the  one 
entitled  "  The  Assault  of  Cupid,"  the  other 
beginning,  "  I  loath  that  I  did  love,"  which 
have  been  frequently  reprinted  in  modern 
times. 

A  poem  of  uncommon  merit  in  the  same 
collection,  which  is  entitled  "  The  restless 
state  of  a  Lover,"  and  which  commences 
with  these  lines, 

"Tbe  Sun,  when  he  hath  spread  his  rays, 
And  sbow'd  his  face  ten  thoa8and  ways," 

has  been  ascribed  by  Dr.  Nott  to  Lord  Sur- 
rey, but  not  on  decisive  evidence. 

In  the  reign  of  Edward  VI.  the  effects  of 
the  Reformation  became  visible  in  our  poe- 
try, by  blending  religious  with  poetical  en- 
thusiasm, or  rather  by  substituting  the  one 
for  the  other.  The  national  muse  became 
puritanical,  and  was  not  improved  by  the 
change.  Then  flourished  Sternhold  and 
Hopkins,  who,  with  the  best  intentions  and 
the  worst  taste,  degraded  the  spirit  of  He- 
brew psalmody  by  flat  and  homely  phrase- 
ology ;  and  mistaking  vulgarity  for  simpli- 
city, turned  into  bathos  what  they  found 
sublime.  Such  was  the  love  of  versifying 
holy  writ  at  that  period,  that  the  Acts  of  the 

•  To  the  reign  of  Edward  VI.  and  Mary  may  be  referred 
two  or  three  contributors  to  the  "  Paradise  of  Dainty 
Devices"  [1576],  who,  thou);b  their  liTes  extended  into  the 
reif;a  of  Elizabeth,  may  exemplify  the  state  of  poetical 
language  before  her  accession.  Among  these  may  be 
placed  Edwards,  autlior  of  the  pleasing  iittle  piece, 
"  Amantium  irse  amoris  integratio  est,"  and  Hunnis,  au- 
thor of  the  following  song.  [See  p.  34,  and  Hallam, 
Tol.  ii.  p.  303.] 

"When  first  mine  eyes  did  view  and  mark 
Thy  beauty  fair  for  to  behold. 
And  when  mine  ears  'gan  first  to  hark 
The  pleasant  words  that  thou  me  told, 
I  would  as  then  I  had  been  free, 
From  ears  to  hear,  and  eyes  to  see. 
4 


Apostles  were  rhymed,  and  set  to  music  by 
Christopher  Tye.* 

Lord  Sackville's  name  is  the  next  of  any 
importance  in  our  poetry  that  occurs  after 
Lord  Surrey's.  The  opinion  of  Sir  Egerton 
Brydges,  with  respect  to  the  date  of  the  first 
appearance  of  Lord  Sackville's  "  Induction 
to  the  Mirror  for  Magistrates,"  would  place 
that  production,  in  strictness  of  chronology, 
at  the  beginning  of  Elizabeth's  reign.  As 
an  edition  of  the  "  Mirror,"  however,  ap- 
peared in  1559,  supposing  Lord  Sackvllle 
not  to  have  assisted  in  that  edition,  the  first 
shape  of  the  work  must  have  been  cast  and 
composed  in  the  reign  of  Mary.  From  the 
date  of  Lord  Sack\-ille's  birth,t  it  is  also 
apparent,  that  although  he  flourished  under 
Elizabeth,  and  lived  even  to  direct  the  coun- 
cils of  James,  his  prime  of  life  must  have 
been  spent,  and  his  poetical  character 
formed,  in  the  most  disastrous  period  of  the 
sixteenth  century,  a  period  when  we  may 
suppose  the  cloud  that  was  passing  over  the 
public  mind  to  have  cast  a  gloom  on  the 
complexion  of  its  literary  taste.  During 
five  years  of  his  life,  from  twenty-five  to 
thirty,  the  time  when  sensibility  and  reflec- 
tion meet  most  strongly.  Lord  Sackville  wit- 
nessed the  horrors  of  Queen  Mary's  reign; 
and  I  conceive  that  it  is  not  fanciful  to  trace 
in  his  poetry  the  tone  of  an  unhappy  age. 
His  plan  for  "  The  Mirror  of  Magistrates" 
is  a  mass  of  darkness  and  despondency. 
He  proposed  to  make  the  figure  of  Sorrow 
introduce  us  in  Hell  to  every  unfortunate 
great  character  of  English  history.  The 
poet,  like  Dante,  takes  us  to  the  gates  of 
Hell ;  but  he  does  not,  like  the  Italian  ppet, 
bring  us  back  again.  It  is  true  that  those 
doleful  legends  Avere  long  continued,  during 
a  brighter  period ;  but  this  was  only  done 
by  an  inferior  order  of  poets,  and  was  owing 
to  their  admiration  of  Sackville.     Dismal  as 

And  when  in  mind  I  did  consent 
To  follow  thus  fcy  fancy's  will. 
And  when  my  heart  did  first  relent 
To  ta.«te  such  bait  myself  to  spill, 
I  would  my  heart  bad  been  hs  thine 
Or  else  thy  heart  as  soft  as  mine. 

0  flatterer  false  1  thou  traitor  bom. 
What  mischief  more  might  thou  devise. 
Than  thy  dear  friend  to  have  in  scorn. 
And  him  to  wound  in  sundry  wise ; 
Which  still  a  friend  pretends  to  be, 
And  art  not  so  by  proof  I  see  f 
Fie,  fie  upon  such  treachery." 

t  1636,  If  not  a  litUe  earlier.— 0. 
C 


26 


ENGLISH  POETRY. 


his  allegories  may  be,  his  genius  certainly 
displays  in  them  considerable  power.  But 
better  times  were  at  hand.  In  the  reign  of 
Elizabeth,  the  English  mind  put  forth  its 
energies  in  every  direction,  exalted  by  a 
purer  religion,  and  enlarged  by  new  views 
of  truth.  This  was  an  age  of  loyalty,  ad- 
venture, and  generous  emulation.  The 
chivalrous  character  was  softened  by  intel- 
lectual pursuits,  while  the  genius  of  chivalry 
itself  still  lingered,  as  if  unwilling  to  de- 
part, and  paid  his  last  homage  to  a  warlike 
and  female  reign.  A  degree  of  romantic 
fancy  remained  in  the  manners  and  super- 
stitions of  the  people;  and  allegory  might 
be  said  to  parade  the  streets  in  their  public 
pageants  and  festivities.  Quaint  and  pe- 
dantic as  those  allegorical  exhibitions  might 
often  be,  they  were  nevertheless  more  ex- 
pressive of  erudition,  ingenuity,  and  moral 
meaning  than  they  had  been  in  former 
times.  The  philosophy  of  the  highest  minds 
still  partook  of  a  visionary  character.  A 
poetical  spirit  infused  itself  into  the  prac- 
tical heroism  of  the  age ;  and  some  of  the 
worthies  of  that  period  seem  less  like  ordi- 
nary men  than  like  beings  called  forth  out 
of  fiction,  and  arrayed  in  the  brightness  of 
her  dreams.  They  had  "  high  thoughts 
seated  in  a  heart  of  courtesy."*  The  life 
of  Sir  Philip  Sydney  was  poetry  put  into 
action. 

The  result  of  activity  and  curiosity  in  the 
public  mind  was  to  complete  the  revival  of 
classical  literature,  to  increase  the  importa- 
tion of  foreign  books,  and  to  multiply  trans- 
lations, from  which  poetry  supplied  herself 
with  abundant  subjects  and  mater i.als,  and 
in  the  use  of  which  she  showed  a  frank  and 
fearless  energy,  that  criticism  and  satire  had 
not  yet  acquired  power  to  overawe.  Ro- 
mance came  back  to  us  from  the  southern 
languages,  clothed  in  new  luxury  by  the 
warm  imagination  of  the  south.  The  growth 
of  poetry  under  such  circumstances  might 


•  An  expression  used  by  Sir  P.  Sydney. 

f  Of  Shakspeare's  career  a  part  only  belongs  to  Eliza- 
oeth's  reign,  and  of  Jonson's  a  still  smaller. 

X  The  traaedy  of  Gorboduc,  l)y  Sackville  and  Norton, 
was  represented  in  1561-62.  Spenser's  Pastorals  were 
published  in  1579 ;  and  the  three  first  books  of  The  Fmry 
Queen  in  1590. 

§  Ben  Jonson  applied  his  remark  to  Spenser's  Pastorals. 

Malone  was  very  rash  In  his  correction  :  "  Spenser,  in 
affecting  the  ancients,"  says  Jonson,  "writ  no  language; 
yet  I  would  have  him  read  for  his  matter,  but  as  Virgil 
Xead  Ennius."   (Workg,  it.  215,)    Jonson's  remark  is  a 


indeed  be  expected  to  be  as  irregular  as  it 
was  profuse.  The  field  was  open*  to  daring 
absurdity,  as  well  as  to  genuine  inspiration; 
and  accordingly  there  is  no  period  in  which 
the  extremes  of  good  and  bad  writing  are  so 
abundant.  Stanihurst,  for  instance,  carried 
the  violence  of  nonsense  to  a  pitch  of  which 
there  is  no  preceding  example.  Even  late 
in  the  reign  of  Elizabeth,  Gabriel  Harvey 
was  aided  and  abetted  by  several  men  of 
genius  in  his  conspiracy  to  subvert  the  ver- 
sification of  the  language ;  and  Lj'ly  gained 
over  the  court,  for  a  time,  to  employ  his  cor- 
rupt jargon  called  Euphuism.  Even  Put- 
tenham,  a  grave  and  candid  critic,  leaves  an 
indication  of  crude  and  puerile  taste,  when, 
in  a  laborious  treatise  on  poetry,  he  directs 
the  composer  how  to  make  verses  beautiful 
to  the  eye,  by  writing  them  "  in  the  shapes 
of  eggs,  turbots,  fuzees,  and  lozenges." 

Among  the  numerous  poets  belonging  ex- 
clusively to  Elizabeth's  reign,!  Spenser 
stands  without  a  class  and  without  a  rival. 
To  proceed  from  the  poets  already  mentioned 
to  Spenser,  is  certainly  to  pass  over  a  con- 
siderable number  of  years,  which  are  im- 
portant, especially  from  their  including  the 
dates  of  those  early  attempts  in  the  regular 
drama  which  preceded  the  appearance  of 
Shakspeare.J  I  shall,  therefore,  turn  back 
again  to  that  period,  after  having  done  ho- 
mage to  the  name  of  Spenser. 

He  brought  to  the  subject  of  "  The  Fairy 
Queen,"  a  new  and  enlarged  structure  of 
stanza,  elaborate  and  intricate,  but  well  con- 
trived for  sustaining  the  attention  of  the 
ear,  and  concluding  with  a  majestic  ca- 
dence. In  the  other  poets  of  Spenser's  age 
we  chiefly  admire  their  language,  when  it 
seems  casually  to  advance  into  modern  po- 
lish and  succintness.  But  the  antiquity  of 
Spenser's  style  has  a  peculiar  charm.  The 
mistaken  opinion  that  Ben  Jonson  censured 
the  antiquity  of  the  diction  in  the  "  Fairy 
Queen,"§  has  been  corrected  by  Mr.  Malone, 


general  censure,  not  confined  to  the  Shepherd's  Calendar 
alone.  "  Some,"  he  says  in  another  place,  "  seek  Chaucer- 
isms  with  us,  which  were  better  expunged  and  banished." 
{Wurks,  ix.  220.)  Here  we  conceive  is  another  direct  al- 
lusion to  Spenser. 

If  Spenser's  language  Is  the  larguage  of  his  age,  who 
among  his  contemporaries  is  equa'ly  obsolete  in  phrase- 
ology ?  The  letters  of  the  times  have  none  of  his  words 
borrowed  of  antiquity,  nor  has  the  printed  prose,  the 
poetry  contnidistinguished  from  the  drama,  or  the  drama, 
which  is  always  the  language  of  the  day.  His  anti- 
quated words  were  bis  choice,  not  his  necessity.    Has 


ENGLISH  POETRY. 


27 


who  pronounces  it  to  be  exactly  that  of  his 
contemporaries.  His  authority  is  weighty ; 
still,  however,  without  reviving  the  exploded 
error  respecting  Jonson's  censure,  one  might 
imagine  the  difference  of  Spenser's  style 
from  that  of  Shakspeare's,  whom  he  so 
shortly  preceded,  to  indicate  that  his  gothic 
subject  and  story  made  him  lean  towards 
words  of  the  elder  time.  At  all  events, 
much  of  his  expression  is  now  become  anti- 
quated; though  it  is  beautiful  in  its  anti- 
quity, and  like  the  moss  and  ivy  on  some 
majestic  building,  covers  the  fabric  of  his 
language  with  romantic  and  venerable  as- 
sociTitions. 

His  command  of  imagery  is  wide,  easy, 
and  luxuriant.  He  threw  the  soul  of  har- 
mony into  our  verse,  and  made  it  more 
warmly,  tenderly,  and  magnificently  de- 
scriptive than  it  ever  was  before,  or,  with  a 
few  exceptions,  than  it  has  ever  been  since. 
It  must  certainly  be  owned  that  in  descrip- 
tion he  exhibits  nothing  of  the  brief  strokes 
and  robust  power  which  characterize  the 
very  greatest  poets ;  but  we  shall  nowhere 
find  more  airy  and  expansive  images  of  vi- 
sionary things,  a  sweeter  tone  of  sentiment, 
or  a  finer  flush  in  the  colours  of  language, 
than  in  this  Rubens  of  English  poetry.  His 
fancy  teems  exuberantly  in  minuteness  of 

Drayton,  or  Daniel,  or  Peele,  Marlowe,  or  Sbakspeare  the 
obscure  words  found  constantly  recurring  in  Spenser  ? 
"  Let  others,"  says  Daniel  (the  well-languaged  Daniel,  as 
Coleridge  calls  him) — 

"  Let  others  sing  of  knights  and  paladines. 
In  aged  accents  and  untimely  words, 

I  sing  of  Delia  in  the  language  of  those  who  are  about 
her  and  of  her  day."  Davenant  is  express  on  the  point, 
and  speaks  of  Spenser's  new  grafts  of  old  withered  words 
and  exploded  expressions.  Surely  the  writers  of  his  own 
age  are  better  authorities  than  Malone,  who  read  ver- 
bally, not  spiritually,  and,  emptying  a  commonplace  book 
of  obsolete  words,  called  upon  us  to  see  in  separate  ex- 
amples what  collectively  did  not  then  exist.  It  is  easy  to 
find  many  of  Spenser's  Chaucf.ritms  in  his  contempora- 
ries, but  they  do  not  crowd  and  characterize  their  writ- 
ings; they  tincture,  but  they  do  not  colour;  they  are 
there,  but  not  forever  there. 

Bolton,  who  wrote  in  1 622  of  language  and  style,  speaks 
to  this  point  in  his  Hypercritica.  He  is  recommending 
authors  for  imitation  and  study — ''Those  authors  among 
us,  whose  Kiiglish  hath  in  my  conceit  most  propriety,  and 
is  nearest  to  the  phrase  of  court,  and  to  the  speech  used 
among  the  noble,  and  among  the  better  sort  in  l/ondon  : 
the  two  sovereign  seats,  and  as  it  were  Parliament  tri- 
bunals, to  try  the  question  in."  "  In  verse  there  are," 
be  Riiys,  "  to  furnish  an  Knglish  Historian  with  copy  and 
tongue,  Ed.  Spenser's  Hymns.  I  cannot  advise  the  al- 
lowance of  other  of  his  Poems,  iis  for  practick  English, 
no  more  than  I  can  do  Jeff.  Chaucer,  Lydgate,  Peirce 
Plowman,  or  Laureat  Skeltou.    It  was  laid  as  a  fault  to 


circumstance,  like  a  fertile  soil  sending 
bloom  and  verdure  through  the  utmost  ex- 
tremities of  the  foliage  which  it  nourishes. 
On  a  comprehensive  view  of  the  whole  work, 
we  certainly  miss  the  charm  of  strength, 
symmetry,  and  rapid  or  interesting  progress ; 
for,  though  the  plan  which  the  poet  designed 
is  not  completed,  it  is  easy  to  see  that  no 
additional  cantos  could  have  rendered  it  less 
perplexed.*  But  still  there  is  a  richness  in 
his  materials,  even  where  their  coherence  is 
loose,  and  their  disposition  confused.  The 
clouds  of  his  allegory  may  seem  to  spread 
into  shapeless  forms,  but  they  are  still  the 
clouds  of  a  glowing  atmosphere.  Though 
his  story  grows  desultory,  the  sweetness  and 
grace  of  his  manner  still  abide  by  him.  He 
is  like  a  speaker  whose  tones  continue  to  be 
pleasing,  though  he  may  speak  too  long;  or 
like  a  painter  who  makes  us  forget  the  de- 
fect of  his  design,  by  the  magic  of  his  co- 
louring. We  always  rise  from  perusing  him 
with  melody  in  the  mind's  ear,  and  with 
pictures  of  romantic  beauty  impressed  on 
the  imagination.f  For  these  attractions 
**  The  Fairy  Queen"  will  ever  continue  to  be 
resorted  to  by  the  poetical  student.  It  is 
not,  however,  very  popularly  read,  and  sel- 
dom perhaps  from  beginning  to  end,  even  by 
those  who  can  fully  appreciate  its  beauties. 


the  charge  of  Sallust,  that  he  used  some  old  outworn 
words,  stolen  out  of  Cato  his  Books  de  Orlglnibus.  And 
for  an  Historian  in  our  tongue  to  affect  the  like  out  of 
those  our  Poets  would  be  accounted  a  foul  oversight. 
That  therefore  must  not  be." 

Gray  has  a  letter  to  prove  that  the  language  of  the  age 
is  never  the  language  of  poetry.  Was  Spenser  behind  or 
Shakspeare  in  advance  ?  Stage  language  must  neces- 
sarily be  the  language  of  the  time ;  and  Shakspeare  gives 
us  words  pure  and  neat,  yet  plain  and  customary — the 
style  that  Ben  Jonson  loved,  the  eldest  of  the  present 
and  the  newest  of  the  past — while  Spenser  fell  back  on 
Chaucer  as  the 

Well  of  English  undefilde, 

as  he  was  pleased  to  express  it.  (See  Wartds's  Eisny  on 
Spemer,  vol.  i,  and  Hali..km,  Lit.  Hist.  vol.  ii.  p.  328.) 
"The  language  of  Spen.ser,"  says  Hallam,  '-like  that  of 
Shakspeare,  is  an  instrument  manufactured  for  the  sake 
of  the  work  it  was  to  perform." — C. 

♦  Mr.  Campbell  has  given  a  character  of  Spenser,  not 
so  enthusiastic  as  that  to  which  I  have  alluded,  but  so 
discriminating,  and  in  general  sound,  that  I  shall  take 
the  liberty  of  extracting  it  from  bis  Specimens  of  the 
British  Poets.— Hallam.  Lit.  Hist.  vol.  ii.  p.  334.— C. 

t  Spenser's  allegorical  story  resembles,  methinks,  a 
continuance  of  extraordinary  dreams. — SiK  W.   Davb- 

SAST. 

After  my  reading  a  canto  of  Spenser  two  or  three  days 
ago,  to  an  old  lady  between  seventy  and  eighty,  she  said 
that  I  had  been  showing  hor  a  collection  of  pictures  Sb» 
said  very  right. — PoP£  to  Spence. — C. 


28 


ENGLISH  POETRY. 


This  cannot  be  ascribed  merely  to  its  pre- 
senting a  few  words  which  are  now  obso- 
lete; nor  can  it  be  owing,  as  has  been 
sometimes  alleged,  to  the  tedium  inseparable 
from  protracted  allegory.  Allegorical  fable 
viay  be  made  entertaining.  With  every  dis- 
advantage of  dress  and  language,  the  hum- 
ble John  Bunyan  has  made  this  species  of 
writing  very  amusing. 

The  reader  may  possibly  smile  at  the 
names  of  Spenser  and  Bunyan  being  brought 
forward  for  a  moment  in  comparison  ;  but  it 
is  chiefly  because  the  humblgr  allegorist  is 
BO  poor  in  language  that  his  power  of  inte- 
resting the  curiosity  is  entitled  to  admira- 
tion. We  are  told  by  critics  that  the 
passions  may  be  allegorized,  but  that  Holi- 
ness, Justice,  and  other  such  thin  abstrac- 
tions of  the  mind,  are  too  unsubstantial 
machinery  for  a  poet ; — ^yet  we  all  know  how 
well  the  author  of  the  Pilgrim's  Progress 
(and  he  was  a  poet,  though  he  wrote  in 
prose)  has  managed  such  abstractions  as 
Mercy  and  Fortitude.  In  his  artless  hands, 
those  attributes  cease  to  be  abstractions,  and 
become  our  most  intimate  friends.  Had 
Spenser,  with  all  the  wealth  and  graces  of 
his  fancy,  given  his  story  a  more  implicit 
and  animated  form,  I  cannot  believe  that 
there  was  any  thing  in  the  nature  of  his 
machinery  to  set  bounds  to  his  power  of 
enchantment.  Yet,  delicious  as  his  poetry 
is,  his  story,  considered  as  a  romance,  is 
obscure,  intricate,  and  monotonous.  He 
translated  .entire  cantos  from  Tasso,  but 
adopted  the  wild  and  irregular  manner  of 
Ariosto.  The  difference  is,  that  Spenser 
appears,  like  a  civilized  being,  slow  and 
sometimes  half  forlorn,  in  exploring  an  un- 
inhabited country,  while  Ariosto  traverses 
the  regions  of  romance  like  a  hardy  native 
of  its  pathless  wilds.  Hurd  and  others,  who 
forbid  us  to  judge  of  "  The  Fairy  Queen" 
by  the  test  of  classical  unity,  and  who  com- 
pare it  to  a  gothic  church,  or  a  gothic  gar- 
den, tell  us  what  is  little  to  the  purpose. 
They  cannot  persuade  us  that  the  story  is 
not  too  intricate  and  too  diffuse.  The  thread 
of  the  narrative  is  so  entangled,  that  the 
poet  saw  the  necessity  for  explaining  the 
design  of  his  poem  in  prose,  in  a  letter  to 
Sir  Walter  Raleigh ;  and  the  perspicuity  of 
a  poetical  design  which  requires  such  an  ex- 
planation may,  with  no  great  severity,  be 
pronounced  a  contradiction  in  terms.     It  ia 


degrading  to  poetry,  we  shall  perhaps  be 
told,  to  attach  importance  to  the  mere  story 
which  it  relates.  Certainly  the  poet  is  not 
a  great  one  Avhose  only  charm  is  the  manage- 
ment of  his  fable ;  but  where  there  is  a  fa- 
ble, it  should  be  perspicuous. 

There  is  one  peculiarity  in  "  The  Fairy 
Queen,"  which,  though  not  a  deeply  pervad- 
ing defect,  I  cannot  help  considering  as  an 
incidental  blemish;  namely,  that  the  alle- 
gory is  doubled  and  crossed  with  compli- 
mentary allusions  to  living  or  recent  per- 
sonages, and  that  the  agents  are  partly 
historical  and  partly  allegorical.  In  some 
instances  the  characters  have  a  thre^old 
allusion.  Gloriana  is  at  once  an  emblem  of 
true  glory,  an  empress  of  fairy-land,  and 
her  majesty  Queen  Elizabeth.  Envy  is  a 
personified  passion,  and  also  a  witch,  and, 
with  no  very  charitable  insinuation,  a  type 
of  the  unfortunate  Mary  Queen  of  Scots. 
The  knight  in  dangerous  distress  is  Henry 
ly.  of  France;  and  the  knight  of  magnifi- 
cence. Prince  Arthur,  the  son  of  Uther 
Pendragon,  an  ancient  British  hero,  is  the 
bulwark  of  the  Protestant  cause  in  the 
Netherlands.  Such  distraction  of  allegory 
cannot  well  be  said  to  make  a  fair  experi- 
ment of  its  power.  The  poet  may  cover  his 
moral  meaning  under  a  single  and  transpa- 
rent veil  of  fiction ;  but  he  has  no  right  to 
muffle  it  up  in  foldings  which  hide  the  form 
and  symmetry  of  truth. 

Upon  the  whole,  if  I  may  presume  to 
measure  the  imperfections  of  so  great  and 
venerable  a  genius,  I  think  we  may  say 
that,  if  his  popularity  be  less  than  universal 
and  complete,  it  is  not  so  much  owing  to  his 
obsolete  language,  nor  to  degeneracy  of 
modern  taste,  nor  to  his  choice  of  allegory 
as  a  subject,  as  to  the  want  of  that  consoli- 
dating and  crowning  strength,  which  alone 
can  establish  works  of  fiction  in  the  favour 
of  all  readers  and  of  all  ages.  This  want 
of  strength,  it  is  but  justice  to  sa}'^,  is  either 
solely  or  chiefly  apparent  when  we  examine 
the  entire  structure  of  his  poem,  or  so  large 
a  portion  of  it  as  to  feel  that  it  does  not  im- 
pel or  sustain  our  curiosity  in  proportion  to 
its  length.  To  the  beauty  of  insulated  pas- 
sages who  can  be  blind  ?  The  sublime  de- 
scription of  "  Him  who  with  the  Night  dvrst 
ride,"  "  The  House  of  Riches,"  "  The  Canto 
of  Jealousy,"  "  The  Masque  of  Cupid,"  and 
other  parts,  too  many  to  enumerate,  are  so 


ENGLISH  POETRY. 


29 


splendid,  tliat  after  reading  them,  vre  feel  it 
for  the  moment  invidious  to  ask  if  they  are 
symmetrically  united  into  a  whole.  Suc- 
ceeding generations  have  acknowledged  the 
pathos  and  richness  of  his  strains,  and  the 
new  contour  and  enlarged  dimensions  of 
grace  which  he  gave  to  English  poetry.  He 
is  the  poetical  father  of  a  Milton  and  a 
Thomson.  Gray  habitually  read  him  when 
he  wished  to  frame  his  thoughts  for  compo- 
sition ;  and  there  are  few  eminent  poets  in 
the  language  who  have  not  been  essentially 
indebted  to  him. 

"  Hither,  as  to  their  fountain,  other  stars 
Itepair,  and  in  their  urns  draw  golden  light." 

The  publication  of  "  The  Fairy  Queen," 
and  the  commencement  of  Shakspeare's  dra- 
matic career,  may  be  noticed  as  contempo- 
rary events;  for  by  no  supposition  can 
Shakspeare's  appearance  as  a  dramatist  be 
traced  higher  than  1589,*  and  that  of  Spen- 
ser's great  poem  was  in  the  year  1590.  I 
turn  back  from  that  date  to  an  earlier  pe- 
riod, when  the  first  lineaments  of  our  regu- 
lar drama  began  to  show  themselves. 

Before  Elizabeth's  reign  we  had  no  drar 
matic  authors  more  important  than  Bale  and 
Heywood  the  Epigrammatist.  Bale,  before 
the  titles  of  tragedy  and  comedy  were  well 
distinguished,  had  written  comedies  on  such 
subjects  as  the  Resurrection  of  Lazarus,  and 
the  Passion  and  Sepulture  of  our  Lord.  He 
was,  in  fact,  the  last  of  the  race  of  mystery- 
writers.  Both  Bale  and  Heywood  died  about 
the  middle  of  the  sixteenth  century,  but 
flourished  (if  such  a  word  can  be  applied  to 
them)  as  early  as  the  reign  of  Henry  VIII. 


♦  It  is  clear  that  before  1691,  or  even  1592,  Shaksipeare 
had  no  oeiebrity  as  a  writer  of  plays ;  he  must,  therefore, 
have  been  valuable  to  the  theatre  chiefly  tm  an  actor; 
and  if  this  was  the  case,  namely,  that  he  speedily  trode 
the  stage  with  some  respectability,  Mr.  Rowe's  tradition 
that  he  was  at  first  admitted  in  a  mean  capacity  must  be 
talcen  with  a  bushel  of  doubt. — Camfoell,  Li/e  of  Sliak- 
tpmre,  8vo,  1838,  p.  xxii.— C. 

t  The  MysUrUt  Mr.  Collier  would  have  called  Miradt- 
Playt,  and  the  Moralitits,  Morals  or  Moral-Plays. — C. 

{  Warton  also  mentions  Kastell,  the  brother-in-law  of 
Sir  Thomas  More,  who  was  a  printer ;  but  who  is  believed 
by  tlie  historian  of  our  poetry  to  have  been  also  an  au- 
thor, and  to  have  made  the  moralities  in  some  degree  the 
vehicle  of  science  and  philosophy.  He  published  [about 
l.lig]  a  new  interlude  on  The  Nature  of  the  Four  Ele- 
ments, in  which  The  Tracts  of  America  lately  discovered 
and  the  manners  of  the  natives  are  described. — [See 
Collier's  AnnaU,  vol.  ii.  p.  319.] 

J  SarkTille  became  a  statesman,  and  forsook  the  plea- 
sant paths  of  poetry ;  nor  does  he  appear  to  have  encou- 
raged it  in  others;    for  in  an  age  rife  with  poetical 


Until  the  time  of  Elizabeth,  the  public  was 
contented  with  mysteries,  moralities,  or  in- 
terludes, too  humble  to  deserve  the  name  of 
comedy.  The  first  of  these,  the  mysteries, 
originated  almost  as  early  as  the  Conquest, 
in  shows  given  by  the  church  to  the  people. 
The  moralities,t  which  were  chiefly  allego- 
rical, probably  arose  about  the  middle  of 
the  fifteenth  century,  and  the  interludes  be- 
came prevalent  during  the  reign  of  Henry 
Vlll.t 

Lord  Sackville's  Gorboduc,  first  repre- 
sented in  1561-G2,  and  Still's  Gammer  Gur- 
ton's  Needle,  about  1566,  were  the  earliest, 
though  faint,  drafts  of  our  regular  tragedy 
and  comedy.^  They  did  not,  however,  im- 
mediately supersede  the  taste  for  the  allego- 
rical moralities.  Sackville  even  introduced 
dumb  show  in  his  tragedy  to  explain  the 
piece,  and  he  was  not  the  last  of  the  old 
dramatists  who  did  so.  One  might  conceive 
the  explanation  of  allegory  by  real  person- 
ages to  be  a  natural  complaisance  to  an 
audience;  but  there  is  something  peculiarly 
ingenious  in  making  allegory  explain  reality, 
and  the  dumb  interpret  for  those  who  could 
speak.  In  reviewing  the  rise  of  the  drama. 
Gammer  Gurton's  Needle,  and  Sackville's 
Gorboduc,  form  convenient  resting-places 
for  the  memory ;  but  it  may  be  doubted  if 
their  superiority  over  the  mysteries  and 
moralities  be  half  so  great  as  their  real  dis- 
tance from  an  affecting  tragedy,  or  an  exhi- 
larating comedy.  The  main  incident  in 
Gammer  Gurton's  Needle  is  the  loss  of  a 
needle  in  a  man's  small-clothes. ||  Gorboduc 
has  no  interesting  plot  or  impassioned  dia- 


commendations,  he  seems  to  have  drawn  but  one  solitary 
sonnet,  and  that  attached  to  a  book  where  praises  were 
made  cheap — '"The  Kaerie  Queene."  He  died,  and  re- 
ceived a  funeral  sermon  from  Abbot,  but  no  tears  of  re- 
gret from  theMu.«es; — he  who  should  have  been  a  second 
Pembroke  or  Southampton.  Still  took  to  the  church  and 
became  a  bishop — but  not  before  the  creator  of  our 
comi-dy  had  written  a  supplicatory  letter  that,  for  acting 
at  Cambridge,  a  Latiu  play  should  be  preferred  to  an 
Eiigllsh  one.— C. 

y  Speaking  of  Gammer  Qurton,  Scott  writes,  "It  is  a 
piece  of  low  humour;  the  whole  jest  turning  upon  the 
loss  and  the  recovery  of  the  needle  with  which  Gammer 
Qurton  was  to  repair  the  breeches  of  her  man  Hod^re; 
but  in  point  of  manners,  it  is  a  great  curiosity,  as  the 
carta  tupvltex  of  our  ancestors  is  scarcely  anywhere  so 
well  described."  "The  unity,"  he  continues,  "of  time, 
p!iire,  and  action,  are  observed  through  the  play,  with  an 
accuracy  of  which  France  might  be  jealous."  And  adds, 
alluding  to  Gorboduc,  "It  is  remarkable,  that  the  earliest 
English  tragedy  and  comedy  are  both  works  of  conside 
rable  merit;  that  each  partakes  of  the  distinct  cbaract«t 
C2 


80 


ENGLISH  POETRY. 


logue ;  but  it  dignified  the  stage  with  moral 
reflection  and  stately  measure.  It  first  in- 
troduced blank  verse  instead  of  ballad 
rhymes  in  the  drama.  Gascoigne  gave  a 
farther  popularity  to  blank  verse  by  his 
paraphrase  of  Jocasta,  from  Euripides, 
which  appeared  in  1566.  The  same  author's 
"  Supposes,"  translated  from  Ariosto,  was 
OUT  earliest  prose  comedy.  Its  dialogue  is 
easj'  and  spirited.  Edward's  Palamon  and 
Arcite  was  acted  in  the  same  year,  to  the 
great  admiration  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  who 
called  the  author  into  her  presence,  and 
complimented  him  on  ha%nng  justly  drawn 
the  character  of  a  genuine  lover. 

Ten  tragedies  of  Seneca  Avere  translated 
into  English  verse  at  difi'erent  times,  and  by 
difierent  authors,  before  the  year  1581.  One 
of  these  translators  was  Alexander  Neyvile, 
afterwards  secretary  to  Archbishop  Parker, 
whose  Oedipus  came  out  as  early  as  1563 ; 
and  though  he  was  but  a  youth  of  nineteen, 
his  style  has  considerable  beauty.  The  fol- 
lowing lines,  which  open  the  first  act,  may 
serve  as  a  specimen : 

"  The  night  is  gone,  and  dreadful  day  begind  at  length 

t'  appear. 
And  Phoebus,  all  bedimm'd  with  clouds,  himself  aloft 

doth  rear ; 
And,  gliding  forth,  with  deadly  hue  and  doleful  blaze  in 

skies. 
Doth  bear  great  terror  and  dismay  to  the  beholder's  eyes. 
Now  shall  the  bouses  void  be  seen,  with  plague  devoured 

quite. 
And   slaughter  which  the  night  hath  made  shall  day 

bring  forth  to  light. 
Doth  any  man  in  princely  thrones  rejoice  ?   0  brittle  joy  1 
How  many  ills,  how  fair  a  face,  and  yet  how  much  annoy 
In  thee  doth  lurk,  and  hidden  lies  what  heaps  of  endless 

strife ! 
They  judge  amiss,  that  deem   the  Prince  to  have  the 

happy  life." 

In  1568  was  produced  the  tragedy  of 
'  Tancred  and  Sigismunda,"  by  Robert  Wil- 
mot,  and  four  other  students  of  the  Inner 
Temple.  It  is  reprinted  in  Reed's  plays; 
but  that  reprint  is  taken  not  from  the  first 
edition,  but  from  one  greatly  polished  and 
amended  in  1592.*     Considered  as  a  piece 

of  its  class;  that  the  tragedy  is  without  intermixture  of 
comedy ;  the  comedy  without  any  intermixture  of  tra- 
gedy."— ilisc.  Prose  Wjrks,  vol.  vi.  p.  333. — C. 

*  Neivty  reviv/i,  and  polished  atxnrding  to  the  de- 
cnrum  of  these  days.  That  is,  as  Mr.  Collier  supposes, 
by  the  removal  of  the  rhymes  to  a  blank  verse  fashion. 
— C. 

t  In  the  title-page  it  is  denominated  "A  lamentable 
Tragedy,  mixed  full  of  pleasant  Mirth."' 

J  The  Taiperlanes  and  Tamer-ch.-ims  of  the  late  age 
had  nothing  in  them  but  the  scenical  strutting,  and  furi- 


coming  within  the  verge  of  Shakspeare's 
age,  it  ceases  to  be  wonderful.  Immediately 
subsequent  to  these  writers  we  meet  with 
several  obscure  and  uninteresting  dramatic 
names,  among  which  is  that  of  Whetstone, 
the  author  of  "  Promos  and  Cassandra," 
[1578],  in  which  piece  there  is  a  partial  an- 
ticipation of  the  plot  of  Shakspeare's  Mea- 
sure for  Measure.  Another  is  that  of 
Preston,  whose  tragedy  if  Cambysesf  is 
alluded  to  by  Shakspeare,  when  Falstaff 
calls  for  a  cup  of  sack,  that  he  may  weep 
"  in  King  Cambyses'  vein."J:  There  is,  in- 
deed, matter  for  weeping  in  this  tragedy; 
for,  in  the  course  of  it,  an  elderly  gentleman 
is  flayed  alive.  To  make  the  skinning  more 
pathetic,  his  own  son  is  witness  to  it,  and 
exclaims, 

"  What  child  Is  he  of  Nature's  mould  could  bide  the  same 

to  see. 
His  father  fleaed  in  this  wise?    0  how  it  grieveth  me !" 

It  may  comfort  the  reader  to  know  that  this 
theatric  decortication  was  meant  to  be  alle- 
gorical; and  we  may  believe  that  it  was  per- 
formed with  no  degree  of  stage  illusion  that 
could  deeply  afiect  the  spectator.^ 

In  the  last  twenty  years  of  the  sixteenth 
century,  we  come  to  a  period  when  the  in- 
creasing demand  for  theatrical  entertain- 
ments produced  play-writers  by  profession. 
The  earliest  of  these  appears  to  have  been 
George  Peele,  who  was  the  city  poet  and  con- 
ductor of  the  civil  pageants.  His  "Arraign- 
ment of  Paris"  came  out  in  1584.  Nash 
calls  him  an  Atlas  in  poetry.  Unless  we 
make  allowance  for  his  antiquity,  the  expres- 
sion will  appear  hyperbolical ;  but,  with  that 
allowance,  we  may  justly  cherish  the  me- 
mory of  Peele  as  the  oldest  genuine  dramatic 
poet  of  our  language.  His  "  David  and 
Bethsabe"  is  the  earliest  fountain  of  pathos 
and  harmony  that  can  be  traced  in  our  dra- 
matic poetry.  His  fancy  is  rich  and  his 
feeling  tender,  and  his  conceptions  of  dra- 
matic character  have  no  inconsiderable  mix- 
ture  of  solid   veracity   and   ideal   beauty. 

ous  vociferation,  to  warrant  them  to  the  ignorant  gapers. 
— Ben  Joxson.    (Gijp'rd,  vol.  ix.  p.  ISO.) 

I  suspect  that  Shakspeare  confounded  King  Cambyset 
with  King  Darius.  FalstafTs  solemn  fustian  bears  not 
the  slightest  resemblance,  either  in  metre  or  in  matter, 
to  the  vein  of  King  Cambyses.  Kyng  Daryus,  whose 
doleful  strain  is  here  burlesqued,  was  a  pithie  and plesaunt 
Enterliuie,  printed  about  the  middle  of  the  sixteenth 
century. — Giff'jrd.  Note  on  Jortson'i  Poetaxter,  Wiirkty 
vol.  ii.  p.  465. — C. 

g  The  stage  direction  exdte.^  a  smile.  FUa  him  with  a 
falit  skin. — C. 


ENGLISH  POETRY. 


81 


There  is  no  such  sweetness  of  versification 
and  imagery  to  be  found  in  our  blank  verse 
anterior  to  Shakspeare.*  David's  character 
— the  traits  both  of  his  guilt  and  sensibility 
— his  passion  for  Bethsabe — his  art  in  in- 
flaming the  military  ambition  of  Urias,  and 
his  grief  for  Absalom,  are  delineated  with 
no  vulgar  skill.  The  luxuriant  image  of 
Bethsabe  is  introduced  by  these  lines: 

Come,  f^ntle  Zephyr,  trick'd  with  those  perfumes 
That  erst  in  Eden  sweeten'd  Adam's  love, 
And  stroke  my  bosom  with  thy  gentle  fan: 
This  shade,  sun-proof,  is  yet  no  proof  for  thee. 
Thy  body,  smoother  than  this  wareless  spring. 
And  purer  than  the  substance  of  the  same. 
Can  creep  through  that  bis  lances  cannot  pierce. 
Thou  and  thy  sister,  soft  and  sacred  Air, 
Goddess  of  life,  and  governess  of  health. 
Keeps  every  fountain  fresh,  and  arbour  sweet. 
No  brazen  gate  her  passage  can  refuse, 
Nor  bushy  thicket  bar  thy  subtle  breath : 
Then  deck  thee  with  thy  loose  delightsome  robes, 
And  on  thy  wings  bring  delicate  perfumes. 
To  play  the  wanton  with  us  through  the  leaves. 
David.    What  tunes,  what  words,  what  looks,  what 
wonders  pierce 
My  soul,  incensed  with  a  sudden  fire  f 
What  tree,  what  shade,  what  spring,  what  paradise. 
Enjoys  the  beauty  of  so  fair  a  dame  ? 
Fair  Eva,  placed  in  perfect  happiness, 
Lending  her  praise-notes  to  the  liberal  heavens,' 
Strook  with  the  accents  of  archangels'  tunes, 
Wrought  not  more  pleasure  to  her  husband's  thoughts. 
Than  this  fair  woman's  words  and  notes  to  mine. 
May  that  sweet  plain,  that  bears  her  pleasant  weight, 
B«  still  enamell'd  with  discolour'd  flowers! 
That  precious  fount  bear  sand  of  purest  gold  ; 
Ai  d,  for  the  pebble,  let  the  silver  streams 
Pli.y  upon  rubies,  sapphires,  chrysolites; 
The  brims  let  be  embraced  with  golden  curls 
Of  moss,  that  sleeps  with  sound  the  waters  make ; 
F<  r  joy  to  feed  the  fount  with  their  recourse 
Let  all  the  grass  that  beautifies  her  bower 
Bear  manna  every  morn  instead  of  dew. 
•  •«««« 

Joab  thus  describes  the  glory  of  David: 

Beauteous  and  bright  is  he  among  the  tribes; 

As  when  the  sun,  attired  in  glistering  robe. 

Comes  dancing  from  his  oriental  gate. 

And,  bridegroom-like,  hurls  through  the  gloomy  air 

His  radiant  beams :  such  doth  King  David  show, 

Crown'd  with  the  honour  of  his  enemies'  town. 

Shining  in  riches  like  the  firmament. 

The  starry  vault  that  overhangs  the  earth ; 

So  looketb  David,  King  of  Israel. 


•  Mr.  Dyce,  in  his  edition  of  Peele,  has  quoted  this 
passage  from  Mr.  Campbell,  "a  critic,"  he  styles  him, 
"who  is  by  no  means  sutject  to  the  pardonable  weak- 
ness of  discovering  beauties  in  every  writer  of  the  olden 
time." — p.  xxxviii. 

It  Is  quoted  too  by  Mr.  Ilallam,  {Lit.  Hist.  vol.  ii.  p. 
878),  who  concurs  with  Mr.  Collier  in  thinking  these  qopi- 
pliments  excessive. — C. 

t  An  interesting  sulfjec^  of  inquiry  in  Shakspeare's 
literary  history,  is  the  state  of  our  dramatic  poetry  when 
he  began  to  alter  and  originate  English  plays.  Before 
his  time  mere  mysteries  and  miracle  plays,  in  which 
Adam  and  Eve  appeared  naked,  in  which  Uie  devil  di*- 


At  the  conclusion  of  the  tragedy,  when 
David  gives  way  to  his  grief  for  Absalom,  he 
is  roused  with  great  dignity  and  energy  by 
the  speech  of  Joab.  When  informed  by 
Joab  of  the  death  of  his  son,  David  ex- 
claims : 

David.    Thou  man  of  blood  !  thou  sepulchre  of  death' 
Whose  marble  lireast  entombs  my  bowels  quick. 
Did  I  not  charge  thee,  nay,  entreat  thy  hand. 
Even  for  my  sake,  to  spare  my  Absalom  f 
And  hast  tbou  now,  in  spite  of  David's  health. 
And  scorn  to  do  my  heart  some  happiness. 
Given  him  the  sword,  and  spilt  his  purple  soul  ? 

JocA.     What!  irks  it  David,  that  he  victor  breathes, 
That  Juda,  and  the  fields  of  Israel 
Should  cleanse  their  faces  from  their  children's  blood? 
What !  art  thou  weary  of  thy  royal  rule  ? 
Is  Israel's  throne  a  serpent  in  thine  eyes. 
And  he  that  set  thee  there,  so  far  from  thanks. 
That  thou  must  curse  his  servant  for  his  sake? 
Hast  thou  not  said,  that,  as  the  morning  light. 
The  cloudless  morning,  so  should  be  thine  house, 
And  not  as  flowers,  by  the  brightest  rain, 
■Which  grow  up  quickly,  and  as  quickly  fade? 
Hast  thou  not  said,  the  wicked  are  as  thorns. 
That  cannot  be  preserved  with  the  hand; 
And  that  the  roan  shall  touch  them  must  be  arm'd 
With  coats  of  iron,  and  garments  made  of  steel, 
Or  with  the  shaft  of  a  defenced  spear  ? 
And  art  thou  angry  he  is  now  cut  off, 
That  led  the  guiltless  swarming  to  their  deaths. 
And  was  more  wicked  than  an  host  of  men  ? 
Advance  thee  from  thy  melancholy  den. 
And  deck  thy  body  with  thy  blissful  robes. 
Or,  by  the  Lord  that  sways  the  Heaven,  I  swear, 
I'll  lead  thine  armies  to  another  king. 
Shall  cheer  them  for  their  princely  chivalry ; 
And  not  sit  daunted,  frowning  in  the  dark, 
When  his  fair  looks,  with  oil  and  wine  refresh'd. 
Should  dart  into  their  bosoms  gladsome  beams. 
And  fill  their  stomachs  with  triumphant  feasts ; 
That,  when  elsewhere  stern  War  shall  sound  his  trump. 
And  call  another  battle  to  the  field. 
Fame  still  may  bring  thy  valiant  soldiers  home, 
And  for  their  service  happily  confess 
She  wanted  worthy  trumps  to  sound  their  prowess; 
Take  thou  this  course,  and  live; — Riff  use,  and  die. 

Lyly,  Peele,  Greene,  Kyd,  Nash,  Lodge, 
and  Marlowe,  were  the  other  writers  for  our 
early  stage,  a  part  of  whose  career  preceded 
that  of  Shakspeare.f  Lyly.  Avhose  dramatic 
language  is  prose,  has  traits  of  genius  which 
we  should  not  expect  from  his  generally  de- 
praved taste,  and  he  has  several  graceful 

played  his  horns  and  tail,  and  in  which  Noah's  wife  boxed 
the  patriarch's  ears  before  entering  the  ark,  had  fallen 
comparatively  into  disuse,  after  a  popularity  of  four  cen- 
turies :  and,  in  the  course  of  the  sixteenth  century,  the 
clergy  were  forbi^lden  by  orders  from  Rome  to  perform 
in  them.  Meanwhile  "  Moralities,"  which  had  made 
their  appearance  about  the  middle  of  the  fifteenth  cen- 
tury, were  also  hastening  their  retreat,  as  well  as  those 
pageanU  and  masques  in  honour  of  royalty,  which 
nevertheless  aided  the  introduction  of  the  drama.  But 
we  owe  our  first  regular  dramas  to  the  universities,  the 
inns  of  court,  and  public  seminaries.  The  scholars  of 
these  establishments  engaged  in  fVee  translations  of  cU» 


82 


ENGLISH  POETRY. 


interspersions  of  "  sweet  lyric  song."  But 
his  manner,  on  the  whole,  is  stilted.  "Brave 
Marlowe,  bathed  in  the  Thespian  springs,"* 
of  whose  "  mighty  muse"  Ben  Jonson  him- 
self speaks  reverentially,  had  powers  of  no 
ordinary  class,  and  even  ventured  a  few 
steps  into  the  pathless  sublime.  But  his 
pathos  is  dreary,  and  the  terrors  of  his  Muse 
remind  us  more  of  Minerva's  gorgon  than 
her  countenance.  The  first  sober  and  cold 
school  of  tragedy,  which  began  with  Lord 
Sackville's  Gorboduc,  was  succeeded  Ijy  one 
of  headlong  extravagance.  Kyd's  bombast 
was  proverbial  in  his  own  day.  With  him 
the  genius  of  tragedy  might  be  said  to  have 
run  mad;  and,  if  we  may  judge  of  one 
work,  the  joint  production  of  Greene  and 
Lodge,  to  have  hardly  recovered  her  wits  in 
the  company  of  those  authors.  The  piece 
to  which  I  allude  is  entitled  "A  Looking- 
glass  for  London"  [1594].  There,  tlie  Tam- 
burlane  of  Kyd  is  fairly  rivalled  in  rant  and 
blasphemy  by  the  hero  Rasni,  King  of 
Nineveh,  who  boasts 

"  Great  Jewry's  God,  that  foii'd  stout  Benhadad, 
Could  not  rebate  the  strength  tliat  Kasni  brought ; 
For  be  he  God  in  Heaven,  yet  Ticeroys  know 
Rasni  is  God  on  earth,  and  none  but  he." 


sical  dramatists,  though  with  so  little  taste,  that  Seneca 
was  one  of  their  favourites.  They  caught  the  coldness 
of  that  model,  however,  without  the  feeblest  trace  of  his 
Blender  graces ;  they  looked  at  the  ancients  without  un- 
derstanding them ;  and  they  brought  to  their  plots  nei- 
ther unity,  design,  nor  affecting  interest.  There  is  a 
general  similarity  among  all  the  plays  that  preceded 
Shakspeare  in  their  ill-conceived  plots,  in  the  bombast 
and  dulness  of  tragedy,  and  in  the  vulgar  buffoonery  of 
comedy. 

Of  our  great  poet's  immediate  predecessors,  the  most 
distinguished  were  Lyly,  Peele,  Greene,  Kyd,  Nash, 
Lodge,  and  Marlowe.  Lyly  was  not  entirely  devoid  of 
poetry,  for  we  have  some  pleasing  lyrical  verses  by  him ; 
but  in  the  drama  he  is  cold,  mythological,  and  conceited, 
and  he  even  polluted  for  a  time  the  juvenile  age  of  our 
literature  with  liis  abominable  Euphuism.  Peele  has 
left  some  melodious  and  fanciful  passages  in  his  "  David 
and  B«'thsabe."  Greene  is  not  unjustly  praised  for  his 
comedy  '•  Kriar  Bacon  and  Friar  Bungay."  Kyd's  "  Span- 
ish Tragedy"  was  at  first  admired,  but,  subsequently, 
quoted  only  for  its  samples  of  the  mock  sublime.  Nash 
wrote  no  poetry  except  for  the  stage ;  but  he  is  a  poor 
dramatic  poet — though  his  prose  satires  are  remarkably 
powerful.  Lodge  was  not  much  happier  on  the  stage 
than  Nash ;  his  prose  works  are  not  very  valuable ;  but 
he  wrote  one  satire  in  verse  of  considerable  merit,  and 
various  graceful  little  lyrics.  Marlowe  was  the  only 
great  man  among  Shakspeare's  precursors ;  his  concep- 
tions were  strong  and  original ;  his  intellect  grasped  his 
subject  as  a  whole:  no  doubt  be  dislocated  the  thews  of 
his  language  by  overstrsim'd  efforts  at  the  show  of 
strength,  but  he  delineated  character  with  a  degree  of 
truth  unknown  to  his  predecessors :  his  "  Edward  the 
Second"  is  pathetic;  and  his  "Faustus''  has  real  gran- 


In  the  course  of  the  play,  the  imperial 
swaggerer  marries  his  own  sister,  who  is 
quite  as  consequential  a  character  as  him- 
self; but  finding  her  struck  dead  by  light- 
ning, he  deigns  to  espouse  her  lady-in- 
waiting,  and  is  finally  converted  after  his 
wedding,  by  Jonah,  who  soon  afterwards 
arrives  at  Nineveh.  It  would  be  perhaps 
unfair,  however,  to  assume  this  tragedy  as 
a  fair  test  of  the  dramatic  talents  of  either 
Greene  or  Lodge.  Ritson  recommended  the 
dramas  of  Greene  as  well  worthy  of  being 
collected.  The  taste  of  that  antiquary  was 
not  exquisite,  but  his  knowledge  may  en- 
title his  opinion  to  consideration.! 

Among  these  precursors  of  Shakspeare 
we  may  trace,  in  Peele  and  Marlowe,  a 
pleasing  dawn  of  the  drama,  though  it  was 
by  no  means  a  dawn  corresponding  to  so 
bright  a  sunrise  as  the  appearance  of  his 
mighty  genius.  He  created  our  romantic 
drama,  or  if  the  assertion  is  to  be  qualified, 
it  requires  but  a  small  qualification.  J  There 
were,  undoubtedly,  prior  occupants  of  the 
dramatic  ground  in  our  language ;  but  they 
appear  only  like  unprosperous  settlers  on 
the   patches   and   skirts   of   a  wilderness, 


deur.    If  Marlowe  had  lived,  Shakspeare  might  have  had 
something  like  a  competitor. — Campbell,  Life  of  Shak- 
speare, p.  xxiii. — C. 
*  Drayton. — C. 

t  His  Dramas  and  Poems  were  printed   together  in 
1831,  by  Mr.  Dyce.    "  In  richness  of  fancy,  Greene,"  says 
Mr.  Dyce,  "is inferior  to  Peele;  and  with  the  exception 
of  his  amusing  comedy  Friar  Bacnn  and  Friar  Bungay, 
there  is,  perhaps,  but  little  to  admire  in  his  dramatic 
productions." — C. 
%  Untaught,  unpractised,  in  a  barbarous  age, 
I  found  not,  but  created  fir.«t  the  stage, — 
And  if  I  drain'd  no  Greek  or  Latin  store, 
'Twas  that  my  own  abundance  gave  me  more. 

Drtdem  of  Shakspeare. 
The  English  stage  might  be  considered  equally  without 
rule  and  without  model  when  Shakspeare  arose.  The 
effect  of  the  genius  of  an  individual  upon  the  taste  of 
a  nation  is  mighty ;  but  that  genius,  in  its  turn,  is  formed 
according  to  the  opinions  prevalent  at  the  period  when  it 
comes  into  existence.  Such  was  the  case  with  Shakspeare. 
Had  he  received  an  education  more  extensive,  and  pos- 
sessed a  taste  refined  by  the  classical  models,  it  is  probable 
that  he  also,  in  admiration  of  the  ancient  drama,  might 
have  mistaken  the  form  for  the  essence,  and  subscribed 
to  those  rules  which  had  produced  such  masterpieces  of 
art.  Fortunately  for  the  full  exertion  of  a  genius,  as 
comprehensive  and  versatile  as  intense  and  powerful, 
Shakspeare  had  no  access  to  any  models  of  which  the 
commanding  merit  might  have  controlled  and  limited  his 
own  exertions.  He  followed  the  path  which  a  nameless 
crowd  of  obscure  writers  had  trodden  before  him;  but  he 
moved  in  it  with  the  grace  and  majestic  step  of  a  being 
of  a  superior  order:  and  vindicated  for  ever  the  British 
theatre  fVom  a  pedantic  restriction  to  classical  rule- 


ENGLISH  POETRY. 


33 


which  he  converted  into  a  garden.  He  is, 
therefore,  never  compared  with  his  native 
predecessors.  Criticism  goes  back  for  names 
worthy  of  being  put  in  competition  with 
his,  to  the  first  great  masters  of  dramatic 
invention ;  and  even  in  the  points  of  dissi- 
milarity between  them  and  him,  discovers 
some  of  the  highest  indications  of  his  genius. 
Compared  with  the  classical  composers  of 
antiquity,  he  is  to  our  conceptions  nearer 
the  character  of  a  universal  poet;  more  ac- 
quainted with  man  in  the  real  world,  and 
more  terrific  and  bewitching  in  the  preter- 
natural. He  expanded  the  magic  circle  of 
the  drama  beyond  the  limits  that  belonged 
to  it  in  antiquity;  made  it  embrace  more 
time  and  locality ;  filled  it  with  larger  busi- 
ness and  action — with  vicissitudes  of  gay 
and  serious  emotion,  which  classical  taste 
had  kept  divided — with  characters  which 
developed  humanity  in  stronger  lights  and 
subtler  movements — and  with  a  language 
more  wildly,  more  playfully  diversified  by 
fancy  and  passion,  than  was  ever  spoken  on 
any  stage.  Like  Nature  herself,  he  presents 
alternations  of  the  gay  and  the  tragic ;  and 
his  mutability,  like  the  suspense  and  pre- 
cariousness  of  real  existence,  often  deepens 
the  force  of  our  impressions.  He  converted 
imitation  into  illusion.  To  say  that,  magi- 
cian as  he  was,  he  was  not  faultless,  is  only 
to  recall  the  flat  and  stale  truism,  that  every 
thing  human  is  imperfect.  But  how  to  esti- 
mate his  imperfections  !*  To  praise  him  is 
easy — In  facUi  causa  cuivis  licet  esse  diserto 
— ^But  to  make  a  special,  full,  and  accurate- 


Nothing  went  before  Shakspeare  which  in  any  renpect 
was  fit  to  fix  and  stamp  the  character  of  a  national 
Drama ;  and  certainly  no  one  will  succeed  him  capable 
of  establishing,  by  mere  authority,  a  form  more  restricted 
than  that  which  Sbakspeare  used. — Sir  Walter  Scott, 
Misc.  Pr.  Wnrks,  toI.  iii.  p.  336. 

Shakspeare  began  his  literary  career  by  alterations  and 
adaptations  of  former  dramas  and  copyright  pieces  to 
more  popular  and  poetical  purposes.  He  seems  to  have 
extended  his  desire  for  emendation  to  the  works  of  living 
writers;  and,  taught  by  nature,  to  have  done  for  the 
writings  of  University  Men  what  Pope  did  (with  equal 
offence)  for  the  rhymes  and  lines  of  Wycherley.  It  was 
the  common  practice  of  his  age  to  call  in  the  pen  of  a 
living  writer  to  aid  with  additions  the  Muse  of  a  fellow- 
dramatist  He  soon,  however,  learned  to  depend  on  his 
own  myriad-minded  genius,  on  his  own  thousand- 
tongucd  soul. — C. 

*  He  (Sbakspeare)  was  the  man  who  of  all  modem, 
and  perhaps  ancient  poets,  had  the  largest  and  most  com- 
prehensive soul.  All  the  images  of  nature  were  still  pre- 
sent to  him,  and  he  drew  them  not  laboriously  but 
luckily:  when  he  describes  any  thing,  you  more  than 
see  it,  you  feel  it  too.  Those  who  accuse  him  to  have 
6 


estimate  of  his  imperfections  would  require 
a  delicate  and  comprehensive  discrimination, 
and  an  authority  which  are  almost  as  seldom 
united  in  one  man  as  the  powers  of  Sbak- 
speare himself.  He  is  the  poet  of  the  world. 
The  magnitude  of  his  genius  puts  it  beyond 
all  private  opinion  to  set  defined  limits  to 
the  admiration  which  is  due  to  it.  We  know, 
upon  the  whole,  that  the  sum  of  blemishes 
to  be  deducted  from  his  merits  is  not  great,t 
and  we  should  scarcely  be  thankful  to  one 
who  should  be  anxious  to  make  it.  No  other 
poet  triumphs  so  anomalously  over  eccen- 
tricities and  peculiarities  in  composition 
which  would  appear  blemishes  in  others;  so 
that  his  blemishes  and  beauties  have  an  af- 
finity which  we  are  jealous  of  trusting  any 
hand  with  the  task  of  separating.  "We  dread 
the  interference  of  criticism  with  a  fascina- 
tion so  often  inexplicable  by  critical  laws, 
and  justly  apprehend  that  any  man  in 
standing  between  us  and  Sbakspeare  may 
show  for  pretended  spots  upon  his  disk  only 
the  shadows  of  his  own  opacity. 

Still  it  is  not  a  part  even  of  that  enthu- 
siastic creed,  to  believe  that  he  has  no  exces- 
sive mixture  of  the  tragic  and  comic,  no 
blemishes  of  language  in  the  elliptical  throng 
and  impatient  pressure  of  his  images,  no 
irregularities  of  plot  and  action,  which 
another  Sbakspeare  would  avoid,  if  "nature 
had  not  broken  the  mould  in  which  she 
made  him,"  or  if  he  should  come  back  into 
the  world  to  blend  experience  with  inspira- 
tion.t 

The  bare  name  of  the  dramatic  unities  is 


wanted  learning,  give  him  the  greater  commendation : 
he  was  naturally  learned ;  he  needed  not  the  spectacles 
of  books  to  read  nature ;  he  looked  inwards,  and  found 
her  there.  I  cannot  say  he  is  everywhere  alike ;  were 
be  so,  I  should  do  him  injury  to  compare  him  with  the 
greatest  of  mankind.  He  is  many  times  flat,  insipid ;  his 
comic  wit  degenerating  into  clenches,  his  serious  swelling 
into  bombast.  But  be  is  always  great,  when  great  occar 
sion  is  presented  to  him ;  no  man  can  say  he  ever  had  a 
fit  subject  for  his  wit,  and  did  not  then  raise  himself  as 
high  above  the  rest  of  poets — 

Quantum  lenta  solent  inter  vibuma  cupressi. 

DRTDK5r— C. 

•f-  If  Shakspeare's  embroideries  were  burnt  down,  there 
would  still  be  silver  at  the  bottom  of  the  melting-pot— 
Drtdkx,  MaVme,  vol.  ii.  p.  295. — C. 

\  Of  the  learning  of  Sbakspeare,  Mr.  Campbell  say* 
elsewhere :  "  There  is  not  a  doubt  that  he  lighted  up  his 
glorious  fancy  at  the  lamp  of  classical  mythology : — 

Hyperion's  curls — the  front  of  Jove  himself 
An  eye  like  Mars,  to  threaten  and  command; 
A  station  like  the  herald  Mercury, 
Mew  lighted  on  a  heaven-kissing  hill— 


84 


ENGLISH  POETRY. 


apt  to  excite  revolting  ideas  of  pedantry, 
arts  of  poetry,  and  French  criticism.  With 
none  of  these  do  I  wish  to  annoy  the  reader. 
I  conceive  that  it  may  be  said  of  those  uni- 
ties as  of  fire  and  -water,  that  they  are  good 
servants  but  bad  masters.  In  perfect  rigour 
they  were  never  imposed  by  the  Greeks,  and 
they  would  be  still  heavier  shackles  if  they 
were  closely  riveted  on  our  own  drama.  It 
would  be  worse  than  useless  to  confine  dra- 
matic action  literally  and  immovably  to  one 
spot,  or  its  imaginary  time  to  the  time  in 
which  it  is  represented.  On  the  other  hand, 
dramatic  time  and  place  cannot  surely  admit 
of  indefinite  expansion.  It  would  be  better, 
for  the  sake  of  illusion  and  probability,*  to 
change  the  scene  from  Windsor  to  London, 
than  from  London  to  Pekin ;  it  would  look 
more  like  reality  if  a  messenger,  who  went 
and  returned  in  the  course  of  the  play,  told 
us  of  having  performed  a  journey  of  ten  or 
twenty,  rather  than  of  a  thousand  miles; 
and  if  the  spectator  had  neither  that  nor 
any  other  circumstance  to  make  him  ask 
how  so  much  could  be  performed  in  so  short 
a  time. 

In  an  abstract  view  of  dramatic  art,  its 
principles  must  appear  to  lie  nearer  to  unity 
than  to  the  opposite  extreme  of  disunion,  in 
our  conceptions  of  time  and  place.  Giving 
up  the  law  of  unity  in  its  literal  rigour, 
there  is  still  a  latitude  of  its  application 
which  may  preserve  proportion  and  har- 
mony in  the  drama.t 

The  brilliant  and  able  Schlegel  has  traced 
the  principles  of  what  he  denominates  the 
romantic,  in  opposition  to  the  classical 
drama ;  and  conceives  that  Shakspeare's 
theatre,  when  tried  by  those  principles,  will 
be  found  not  to  have  violated  any  of  the 
unities,  if  they  are  largely  and  liberally  un- 


Who  can  read  these  lines  without  perceiving  that  Shak- 
■peare  had  imbibed  a  deeper  feeling  of  the  beauty  of 
Pagan  mythology  than  a  thousand  pedants  could  have 
imbibed  in  their  whole  lives?" — Lift  of  Shakspeare, 
p.  xvi.— C. 

*  Dr.  Johnson  has  said,  with  regard  to  local  unity  in 
the  drama,  that  we  can  as  easily  imagine  ourselves  in 
one  place  as  another.  So  we  can,  at  the  beginning  of  a 
pUy ;  but  having  taken  our  imaginary  station  with  the 
poet  in  one  country,  I  do  not  believe  with  Dr.  Johnson, 
that  we  change  into  a  different  one  with  perfect  facility 
to  the  imagination.  Lay  the  first  act  in  Europe,  and  we 
surely  do  not  naturally  expect  to  find  the  second  in 
America. 

+  For  some  admirable  remarks  on  dramatic  unities, 
see  Scott's  Essay  on  the  Drama  {Misc.  Pr.  Works,  vol.  vi. 
pp.  298 — 321.)    Dr.  Johnson  haa  numerous  obligations  to 


derstood.  I  have  no  doubt  that  Mr.  Schle- 
gel's  criticism  will  be  found  to  have  proved 
this  point  in  a  considerable  number  of  the 
works  of  our  mighty  poet.  There  are  traits, 
however,  in  Shakspeare,  which,  I  must  own, 
appear  t«  my  humble  judgment  incapable 
of  being  illustrated  by  any  system  or  prin- 
ciples of  art.  I  do  not  allude  to  his  histo- 
rical plays,  which,  expressly  from  being 
historical,  may  be  called  a  privileged  class. 
But  in  those  of  purer  fiction,  it  strikes  me 
that  there  are  licenses  conceded  indeed  to 
imagination's  "  chartered  libertine,"  but 
anomalous  with  regard  to  any  thing  which 
can  be  recognised  as  principles  in  dramatic 
art.  When  Perdita,  for  instance,  grows 
from  the  cradle  to  the  marriage  altar  in  the 
course  of  the  play,  I  can  perceive  no  unity 
in  the  design  of  the  piece,  and  take  refuge 
in  the  supposition  of  Shakspeare's  genius 
triumphing  and  trampling  over  art.  Yet 
Mr.  Schlegel,  as  far  as  I  have  observed, 
makes  no  exception  to  this  breach  of  tem- 
poral unity;  nor,  in  proving  Shakspeare  a 
regular  artist  on  a  mighty  scale,  does  he 
deign  t«  notice  this  circumstance,  even  as 
the  ultima  Thule  of  his  license.t  If  a  man 
contends  that  dramatic  laws  are  all  idle 
restrictions,  I  can  understand  him ;  or  if  he 
says  that  Perdita's  growth  on  the  stage  is  a 
trespass  on  art,  but  that  Shakspeare's  fasci- 
nation over  and  over  again  redeems  it,  I  can 
both  understand  and  agree  with  him.  But 
when  I  am  left  to  infer  that  all  this  is  right 
on  romantic  principles,  I  confess  that  those 
principles  become  too  romantic  for  my  con- 
ception. If  Perdita  may  be  born  and  mar- 
ried on  the  stage,  why  may  not  Webster's 
Duchess  of  Malfi  lie-in  between  the  acts, 
and  produce  a  fine  family  of  tragic  chil- 
dren ?     Her  grace  actually  does  so  in  Web- 


an  excellent  paper  of  Farquhar's ;  a  fact  not  generally 
enough  known. — C. 

J  Jfitis.  How  comes  it  that  in  some  one  play  we  see 
so  many  sea*,  countries,  and  kingdoms,  pas.sed  over  with 
such  admirable  dexterity  ? 

Orrrdatus.  0,  that  but  shows  how  well  the  authors  can 
travel  in  their  vocation,  and  outrun  the  apprehension  of 
their  auditory. — Eivry  Man  out  of  his  Humour. 

This  was  said  in  1.599,  and  at  The  Globe,  when  Shak- 
speare, that  very  year,  perhaps  the  performance  before, 
had  crossed  the  seas  in  his  chorus  from  England  to 
France,  and  from  France  to  England,  with  admirable 
dexterity.  Jonson  wrote  to  recommend  his  own  unities, 
and  to  instruct  his  audience;  not,  as  the  Shakspeare 
commentators  would  have  us  believe,  to  abuse  Shakspeare, 
if  not  in  his  own  house,  in  the  very  theatre  in  which  he 
was  a  large  sharer,  and  unquestionably  the  main-stay. — 0 


ENGLISH  POETRY. 


85 


Bter's  drama,  and  he  is  a  poet  of  some  genius, 
though  it  is  not  quite  so  sufficient  as  Shak- 
epeare's,  to  give  a  "sweet  oblivious  antidote" 
to  such  "  perilous  stuff."  It  is  not,  however, 
either  in  favour  of  Shakspeare's  or  of 
Webster's  genius  that  we  shall  be  called  on 
to  make  allowance,  if  we  justify  in  the 
drama  the  lapse  of  such  a  number  of  years 
as  may  change  the  apparent  identity  of  an 
individual.  If  romantic  unity  is  to  be  so 
largely  interpreted,  the  old  Spanish  dramas, 
where  youths  grow  graybeards  upon  the 
stage,  the  mysteries  and  moralities,  and  pro- 
ductions teeming  with  the  wildest  anachron- 
ism, might  all  come  in  with  their  grave  or 
laughable  claims  to  romantic  legitimacy. 

Nam  sic 
Et  Laberi  mimoa  ut  pulchra  poemata  mirer. — Hoa. 

On  a  general  view,  I  conceive  it  may  be 
said,  that  Shakspeare  nobly  and  legitimately 
enlarged  the  boundaries  of  time  and  place 
in  the  drama;  but  in  extreme  cases,  I  would 
rather  agree  with  Cumberland,  to  waive  all 
mention  of  his  name  in  speaking  of  dramatic 
laws,  than  accept  those  licenses  for  art  which 
are  not  art,  and  designate  irregularity  by 
the  name  of  order. 

There  were  other  poets  who  started  nearly 
coeval  with  Ben  Jonson  in  the  attempt  to 
give  a  classical  form  to  our  drama.  Daniel, 
for  instance,  brought  out  his  tragedy  of 
Cleopatra  in  1594;  but  his  elegant  genius 
wanted  the  strength  requisite  for  great  dra- 
matic efforts.  Still  more  unequal  to  the  task 
was  the  Earl  of  Sterline,  who  published  his 
cold  ^^  monarchic , tragedies,"  in  1604.  The 
triumph  of  founding  English  classical  come- 
dy belonged  exclusively  to  Jonson.  In  his 
tragedies  it  is  remarkable  that  he  freely 
dispenses  with  the  unities,  though  in  those 
tragedies  he  brings  classical  antiquity  in  the 
most  distinct  and  learnedly  authenticated 
traits  before  our  eyes.  The  vindication  of 
his  great  poetic  memory  forms  an  agreeable 
contrast  in  modern  criticism  with  the  bold 
bad  things  which  used  to  be  said  of  him  in 

•  "If  the  anclentx,"  says  Headley,  "wpre  to  reclaim 
their  own,  Jonson  would  not  have  a  rajr  to  cover  his  na- 
ketinesg:"  a  remarli  that  called  a  taunting  reply  from 
GifFord  in  one  of  his  most  bitter  moods.  Dryden  has 
beautifully  said  of  Jonson.  tfiat  you  may  track  him 
everywhere  in  the  snow  of  the  ancients. — C. 

t  Namely,  the  song  of  Night,  in  the  masque  of  "  The 
Vision  of  Delight." 

"Break,  Phant'sie,  from  thy  cave  of  cloud." — p.  117. 

His  lyrical  poetry  forms,  perhaps,  the  most  deligtatftil 


a  former  period ;  as  when  Young  compared 
him  to  a  blind  Samson,  who  pulled  down 
the  ruins  of  antiquity  on  his  head  and 
buried  his  genius  beneath  them.*  Hurd, 
though  he  inveighed  against  the  too  abstract 
conception  of  his  characters,  pronouncing 
them  rather  personified  humours  than  natu- 
ral beings,  did  him,  nevertheless,  the  justice 
to  quote  one  short  and  lovely  passage  from 
one  of  his  masques,  and  the  beauty  of  that 
passage  probably  turned  the  attention  of 
many  readers  to  his  then  neglected  compo- 
sitions.f  It  is  indeed  but  one  of  the  many 
beauties  which  justify  all  that  has  been  said 
of  Jonson's  lyrical  powers.  In  that  fanciful 
region  of  the  drama  (the  Masque)  he  stands 
as  pre-eminent  as  in  comedy ;  or  if  he  can 
be  said  to  be  rivalled,  it  is  only  by  Milton. 
And  our  surprise  at  the  wildness  and  sweet- 
ness of  his  fancy  in  one  walk  of  composition 
is  increased  by  the  stern  and  rigid  (some- 
times rugged)  air  of  truth  which  he  pre- 
serves in  the  other.  In  the  regular  drama 
he  certainly  holds  up  no  romantic  mirror  to 
nature.  His  object  was  to  exhibit  human 
characters  at  once  strongly  comic  and  se- 
verely and  instructively  true;  to  nourish  the 
understanding,  while  he  feasted  the  sense 
of  ridicule.  He  is  more  anxious  for  verisi- 
militude than  even  for  comic  effect.  He 
understood  the  humours  and  peculiarities 
of  his  species  scientifically,  and  brought 
them  forward  in  their  greatest  contrasts  and 
subtlest  modifications.  If  Shakspeare  care- 
lessly scattered  illusion,  Jonson  skilfully 
prepared  it.  This  is  speaking  of  Jonson  in 
his  happiest  manner.  There  is  a  great  deal 
of  harsh  and  sour  fruit  in  his  miscellaneous 
poetry.  It  is  acknowledged  that  in  the 
drama  he  frequently  overlabours  his  delinea- 
tion of  character,  and  wastes  it  tediously 
upon  uninteresting  humours  and  peculiari-. 
ties.  He  is  a  moral  painter,  who  delights 
overmuch  to  show  his  knowledge  of  moral 
anatomy.  Beyond  the  pale  of  his  three 
great  dramas,  "  The  Fox,"  "  The  Epicene, 

part  of  his  poetical  character.  In  songs  and  masques, 
and  Interludes,  his  fancy  has  a  wildness  and  a  sweetness 
that  we  should  not  expect  from  the  severity  of  his  dnv- 
matic  taste.  It  cannot  be  said,  indeed,  that  he  is  always 
free  from  metaphysical  conceit,  but  his  language  is 
weighty  with  thought,  and  polished  with  elegance.  Upon 
the  whole,  his  merits.  afl4'r  every  fair  deduction.  leavo 
him  in  possession  of  a  high  niche  in  our  literature,  an;J 
entitle  him  to  be  ranked  (next  to  Shak.opeare)  as  th» 
most  important  benefactor  of  our  early  Jrama. — Cami~ 
BXU,  artidt  Jonson,  m  Breiotter't  Enet/dopcedia. — C. 


86 


ENGLISH  POETRY. 


or  Silent  Woman,"  and  "  The  Alchemist," 
it  would  not  be  difficult  to  find  many  strik- 
ing exceptions  to  that  love  of  truth  and 
probability,  which,  in  a  general  view,  may 
be  regarded  as  one  of  his  best  characteris- 
tics. Even  within  that  pale,  namely,  in  his 
masterly  character  of  Volpone,  one  is  struck 
with  what,  if  it  be  not  an  absolute  breach, 
is  at  least  a  very  bold  stretch,  of  probability. 
It  is  true  that  Volpone  is  altogether  a  being 
daringly  conceived;  and  those  who  think 
that  art  spoiled  the  originality  of  Jonson, 
may  well  rectify  their  opinion  by  consider- 
ing the  force  of  imagination  which  it  re- 
quired to  concentrate  the  traits  of  such  a 
character  as  "The  Fox;"  not  to  speak  of 
his  Mosca,  who  is  the  phoenix  of  all  para- 
sites. Volpone  himself  is  not  like  the  com- 
mon misers  of  comedy,  a  mere  money-loving 
dotard — a  hard,  shrivelled  old  mummy,  with 
no  other  spice  than  his  avarice  to  preserve 
him ;  he  is  a  happy  villain,  a  jolly  misan- 
thrope— a  little  god  in  his  own  selfishness, 
and  Mosca  is  his  priest  and  prophet.  Vigor- 
ous and  healthy,  though  past  the  prime  of 
life,  he  hugs  himself  in  his  arch  humour, 
his  successful  knavery  and  imposture,  his 
sensuality  and  his  wealth,  with  an  unhal- 
lowed relish  of  selfish  existence.  His 
passion  for  wealth  seems  not  to  be  so  great 
as  his  delight  in  gulling  the  human  "  vul- 
tures and  gorecrows"  who  flock  round  him 
at  the  imagined  approach  of  his  dissolution ; 
the  speculators  who  put  their  gold,  as  they 
conceive,  into  his  dying  gripe,  to  be  returned 
to  them  a  thousand-fold  in  his  will.  Yet 
still,  after  this  exquisite  rogue  has  stood  his 
trial  in  a  sweat  of  agony  at  the  scnitineum, 
and  blest  his  stars  at  having  narrowly 
escaped  being  put  to  the  torture,  there  is 
something  (one  would  think)  a  little  too 
strong  for  probability,  in  that  mischievous 
mirth  and  love  of  tormenting  his  own  dupes, 
which  bring  him,  by  his  own  folly,  a  second 
time  within  the  fangs  of  justice.  "  The 
Fox"  and  "  The  Alchemist"  seem  to  have 
divided  Jonson's  admirers  as  to  which  of 
them  may  be  considered  his  masterpiece. 
In  confessing  my  partiality  to  the  prose 
comedy   of   "The  Silent  Woman,"   consi- 

•  The  plot  of  The  Fox  is  admirably  conceived ;  and 
that  of  The  Alchemist,  though  faulty  in  the  conclusion, 
is  nearly  equal  to  it.  In  the  two  comedies  of  Every  Man 
in  hit  Humour,  and  Every  Man  mil  of  his  ffuviour,  the 
plot  deserves  much  less  praise,  and  is  deficient  at  once  in 
'nterest  and  unity  of  action ;  but  in  that  of  The  SHent 


dered  merely  as  a  comedy,  I  am  by  no  means 
forgetful  of  the  rich  eloquence  which  poetry 
imparts  to  the  two  others.  But  "  The  Epi- 
cene," in  my  humble  apprehension,  exhibits 
Jonson's  humour  in  the  most  exhilarating 
perfection.*  With  due  admiration  for  "The 
Alchemist,"  I  cannot  help  thinking  the  jar- 
gon of  the  chemical  jugglers,  though  it 
displays  the  learning  of  the  author,  to  be 
tediously  profuse.  "  The  Fox"  rises  to 
something  higher  than  comic  effect.  It  is 
morally  impressive.  It  detains  us  at  parti- 
cular points  in  serious  terror  and  suspense. 
But  "  The  Epicene"  is  purely  facetious.  I 
know  not,  indeed,  why  we  should  laugh 
more  at  the  sufferings  of  Morose  than  at 
those  of  the  sensualist.  Sir  Epicure  Mam- 
mon, who  deserves  his  miseries  much  better 
than  the  rueful  and  pitiable  Morose.  Yet 
so  it  is,  that,  though  the  feelings  of  pathos 
and  ridicule  seem  so  widely  different,  a  cer- 
tain tincture  of  the  pitiable  makes  comic 
distress  more  irresistible.  Poor  Morose  suf- 
fers what  the  fancy  of  Dante  could  not  have 
surpassed  in  description,  if  he  had  sketched 
out  a  ludicrous  Purgatory.  A  lover  of  quiet 
— a  man  exquisitely  impatient  of  rude 
sounds  and  loquacity,  who  lived  in  a  retired 
street — who  barricadoed  his  doors  with  mat- 
resses  to  prevent  disturbance  to  his  ears, 
and  who  married  a  wife  because  he  could 
with  difficulty  prevail  upon  her  to  speak  to 
him — has  hardly  tied  the  fatal  knot  when 
his  house  is  tempested  by  female  eloquence, 
and  the  marriage  of  him  who  had  pensioned 
the  city-wakes  to  keep  away  from  his  neigh- 
bourhood, is  celebrated  by  a  concert  of 
trumpets.  He  repairs  to  a  court  of  justice 
to  get  his  marriage,  if  possible,  dissolved, 
but  is  driven  back  in  despair  by  the  intole- 
rable noise  of  the  court.  For  this  marriage 
how  exquisitely  we  are  prepared  by  the 
scene  of  courtship !  When  Morose  ques- 
tions his  intended  bride  about  her  likings 
and  habits  of  life,  she  plays  her  part  so 
hypocritically,  that  he  seems  for  a  moment 
impatient  of  her  reserve,  and  with  the  most 
ludicrous  cross-feelings  wishes  her  to  speak 
more  loudly,  that  he  may  have  a  proof  of 
her  taciturnity  from  her  own  lips ;  but,  re- 

Woman,  nothing  can  exceed  the  art  with  which  the  cir- 
cumstance upon  which  the  conclusion  turns  is,  until  the 
very  last  scene,  concealed  from  the  knowledge  of  the 
reader,  while  he  is  tempted  to  suppose  it  constantly 
within  his  reach. — Sir  Walter  Scott,  Misc.  Prose  Work*, 
vol.  vi.  p.  311.— C. 


ENGLISH  POETRY. 


87 


collecting  himself,  he  gives  way  to  the  rap- 
turous satisfaction  of  having  found  a  silent 
woman,  and  exclaims  to  Cutbeard,  "  Go  thy 
ways  and  get  me  a  clergyman  presently, 
with  a  soft,  low  voice,  to  marry  us,  and  pray 
him  he  will  not  be  impertinent,  but  brief  as 
he  can." 

The  art  of  Jonson  was  not  confined  to  the 
cold  observation  of  the  unities  of  place  and 
time,  but  appears  in  the  whole  adaptation 
of  his  incidents  and  characters  to  the  sup- 
port of  each  other.  Beneath  his  learning 
and  art  he  moves  with  an  activity  which 
may  be  compared  to  the  strength  of  a  man 
who  can  leap  and  bound  under  the  heaviest 
armour.* 

The  works  of  Jonson  bring  us  into  the 
seventeenth  century;  and  early  in  that  cen- 
tury, our  language,  besides  the  great  names 
already  mentioned,  contains  many  other 
poets  whose  works  may  be  read  with  a  plea- 
sure independent  of  the  interest  which  we 
take  in  their  antiquity. 

Drayton  and  Daniel,  though  the  most  op- 
posite in  the  cast  of  their  genius,  are  pre- 
eminent in  the  second  poetical  class  of  their 
age,  for  their  common  merit  of  clear  and 
harmonious  diction.  Drayton  is  prone  to 
Ovidian  conceits,  but  he  plays  with  them  so 
gayly,  that  they  almost  seem  to  become  him 
as  if  natural.  His  feeling  is  neither  deep, 
nor  is  the  happiness  of  his  fancy  of  long 
continuance,  but  its  short  April  gleams  are 
very  beautiful.  His  Legend  of  the  Duke 
of  Buckingham  opens  with  a  fine  descrip- 
tion. Unfortunately,  his  descriptions  in  long 
poems  are,  like  many  fine  mornings,  suc- 
ceeded by  a  cloudy  day. 

"  The  lark,  that  holds  observance  to  the  sun, 
Quaver'd  her  clear  notes  in  the  quiet  air, 
And  on  the  river's  murmuring  base  did  run. 
Whilst  the  pleased  heavens  her  fairest  livery  wear ; 
The  place  such  pleasure  gently  did  prepare. 
The  flowers  my  smell,  the  flood  my  taste  to  steep. 
And  the  much  softness  lulled  me  asleep. 
When,  in  a  vision,  as  it  see^n'd  to  me, 
Triumphal  music  from  the  flood  arose."  .... 

Of  the  grand  beauties  of  poetry  he  has 
none;  but  of  the  sparklhig  lightness  of  his 
best  manner  an  example  may  be  given  in 

•  He  (.Tonson)  was  deeply  conversant  in  the  ancients, 
both  Greek  and  Latin,  and  he  borrowed  boldly  from 
them:  there  is  scarce  a  poet  or  historian  among  the  Ro- 
man authors  of  those  times  whom  ho  has  not  translated 
in  Sejanus  and  Catiline.  But  he  has  done  his  robberies 
BO  openly  that  one  may  see  he  fears  not  to  be  taxed  by 
any  law.    He  invades  authors  like  a  monarch,  and  what 


the  following  stanzas,  from  his  sketch  of  the 
Poet's  Elysium. 

A  Paradise  on  earth  is  found, 

Though  far  from  vulgar  sight. 
Which  with  those  pleasures  doth  abonnd. 

That  it  Elysium  hight 

Ike  winter  here  a  summer  is, 

No  waste  is  made  by  time : 
Nor  doth  the  autumn  ever  miss 

The  blossoms  of  the  prime 


Those  cliffs  whose  craggy  sides  are  clad 

With  trees  of  sundry  suits. 
Which  make  continual  summer  glad. 

E'en  bending  with  their  fruits — 

Some  ripening,  ready  some  to  fall. 
Some  blossom'd,  some  to  bloom, 

Like  gorgeous  hangings  on  the  wall 
Of  some  rich  princely  room. 


There,  in  perpetual  summer  shade, 

Apollo's  prophets  sit, 
Among  the  flowers  that  never  fisule, 

But  flouriBb  like  their  wit; 

To  whom  the  nymphs,  upon  their  lyres, 

Tune  many  a  curious  laj, 
And,  with  their  most  melodious  quires, 

Make  abort  the  longest  day. 

Daniel  is  "  somewhat  arjlai"  as  one  of  his 
contemporaries  said  of  him,t  but  he  had 
more  sensibility  than  Drayton,  and  his  moral 
reflection  rises  to  higher  dignity.  The  lyri- 
cal poetry  of  Elizabeth's  age  runs  often  into 
pastoral  insipidity  and  fantastic  careless- 
ness, though  there  may  be  found  in  some  of 
the  pieces  of  Sir  Philip  Sydney,  Lodge, 
Marlowe,  and  Breton,  not  only  a  sweet,  wild 
spirit,  but  an  exquisite  finish  of  expression. 
Of  these  combined  beauties  Marlowe's  song, 
"  Come  live  with  me,  and  be  my  love,"  is  an 
example.  The  "  Soul's  Errand,"  by  whom- 
soever it  was  written,  is  a  burst  of  genuine 
poetry.J  I  know  not  how  that  short  pro- 
duction has  ever  afiected  other  readers,  but 
it  carries  to  my  imagination  an  appeal  which 
I  cannot  easily  account  for  from  a  few  sim- 
ple rhymes.  It  places  the  last  and  inex- 
pressibly awful  hour  of  existence  before  my 
view,  and  sounds  like  a  sentence  of  vanity 
on  the  things  of  this  world,  pronounced  by 

% 

would  be  theft  in  other  poets  is  only  victory  in  him. 
With  the  spoils  of  these  writers  he  so  represented  old 
Home  to  us  in  its  rites,  ceremonief^  and  customs,  that  if 
one  of  their  poets  had  written  either  of  his  tragedies  we 
had  seen  less  of  it  than  in  him. — Ortoen. — C. 

•(■  Bolton,  in  his  Hypercritica.  1622. — C. 

X  Vide  these  Selections,  p.  11& 
D 


38 


ENGLISH  POETRY. 


a  dying  man,  whose  eye  glares  on  eternity, 
and  whose  voice  is  raised  by  strength  from 
another  world.*  Raleigh,  also  (according 
to  Puttenham),  had  a  "  lofty  and  passionate" 
vein.  It  is  difficult,  however,  to  authenti- 
cate his  poetical  relics.  Of  the  numerous 
sonnetteers  of  that  time  (keeping  Shak- 
speare  and  Spenser  apart),  Drummond  and 
Daniel  are  certainly  the  best.  Hall  was 
the  master  satirist  of  the  age ;  obscure  and 
quaint  at  times,  but  full  of  nerve  and  pic- 
turesque illustration.  No  contemporary 
satirist  has  given  equal  grace  and  dignity  to 
moral  censure.  Very  unequal  to  him  in 
style,  though  often  as  original  in  thought, 
and  as  graphic  in  exhibiting  manners,  is 
Donne,  some  of  whose  satires  have  been 
modernized  by  Pope.f  Corbet  has  left  some 
humorous  pieces  of  raillery  on  the  Puri- 
tans. Wither,  all  fierce  and  fanatic  on  the 
opposite  side,  has  nothing  more  to  recom- 
mend him  in  invective,  than  the  sincerity 
of  that  zeal  for  God's  house,  which  ate  him 
up.  Marston,  better  known  in  the  drama 
than  in  satire,  was  characterized  by  his 
contemporaries  for  his  ruffian  style.  He  has 
more  will  than  skill  in  invective.  "  Hej/uis 
in  his  blows  with  love,"  as  the  pugilists  say 
of  a  hard  but  artless  fighter;  a  degrading 
image,  but  on  that  account  not  the  less  ap- 
plicable to  a  coarse  satirist. 

Donne  was  the  "  best  good-natured  man, 
with  the  worst-natured  Muse."  A  romantic 
and  uxorious  lover,  he  addresses  the  object 
of  his  real  tenderness  with  ideas  that  out- 
rage decorum.  He  begins  his  own  epitha- 
lamium  with  a  most  indelicate  invocation  to 
his  bride.  His  ruggedness  and  whim  are 
almost  proverbially  known.  J  Yet  there  is 
a  beauty  of  thought  which  at  intervals  rises 
from  his  chaotic  imagination,  like  the  form 
of  Venus  smiling  on  the  waters.  Giles  and 
Phineas  Fletcher  possessed  harmony  and 
fancy.  The  simple  Warner  has  left,  in  his 
"  Argentile  and  Curan,"  perhaps  the  finest 
pastoral  episode  in  our  language.     Browne 

*  I»  not  the  SouVg  Errand  the  same  poem  with  the 
fcoul's  Kuell,  which  is  always  ascribed  to  Richard  Ed- 
wards?— If  so,  why  has  it  been  inserte.1  in  Raleigh's 
poems  by  Sir  Egerton  Bryjges?  [They  are  distinct 
poems. — C.J 

t  Would  not  Donne's  satires,  which  abound  with  so 
much  wit,  appear  more  charming  if  he  bad  taken  rare 

of  his  words  and  his  numbt-rs  ? I  may  saft-ly 

say  of  this  present  age,  that  if  we  are  not  so  great  wits 
»«  Donne,  yet  certainly  we  are  better  poets. — Dktdbn. 
— C. 


was  an  elegant  describer  of  rural  scenes, 
though  incompetent  to  fill  them  with  life 
and  manners.  Chalkhill|  is  a  writer  of 
pastoral  romance,  from  whose  work  of  The- 
alma  and  Clearchus  a  specimen  should  have 
been  given  in  the  body  of  these  Selections, 
but  was  omitted  by  an  accidental  oversight. 
Chalkhill's  numbers  are  as  musical  as  those 
of  any  of  his  contemporaries,  who  employ 
the  same  form  of  versification.  It  was  com- 
mon with  the  writers  of  the  heroic  couplet 
of  that  age  to  bring  the  sense  to  a  full  and 
frequent  pause  in  the  middle  of  the  line. 
This  break,  by  relieving  the  uniformity  of 
the  couplet  measure,  sometimes  produces  a 
graceful  efiect  and  a  varied  harmony  which 
we  miss  in  the  exact  and  unbroken  tune  of 
our  later  rhyme;  a  beauty  of  which  the 
reader  will  probably  be  sensible,  in  perusing 
such  lines  of  Chalkhill's  as  these : — 

"  And  ever  and  anon  he  might  well  hear 
A  sound  of  music  steal  in  at  his  ear. 
As  the  wind  gave  it  being.    So  sweet  an  air 
Would  strike  a  siren  mute ." 

This  relief,  however,  is  used  rather  too  libe- 
rally by  the  elder  rhymists,  and  is  perhaps 
as  often  the  result  of  their  carelessness  as 
of  their  good  taste.  Nor  is  it  at  all  times 
obtained  by  them  without  the  sacrifice  of 
one  of  the  most  important  uses  of  rhyme; 
namely,  the  distinctness  of  its  effect  in 
marking  the  measure.  The  chief  source  of 
the  gratification  which  the  ear  finds  in 
rhyme  is  our  perceiving  the  emphasis  of 
sound  coincide  with  that  of  sense.  In  other 
words,  the  rhyme  is  best  placed  on  the  most 
emphatic  word  in  the  sentence.  But  it  is 
nothing  unusual  with  the  ancient  couplet 
writers,  by  laying  the  rhyme  on  unimportant 
words,  to  disappoint  the  ear  of  this  pleasure, 
and  to  exhibit  the  restraint  of  rhyme  with- 
out its  emphasis. 

As  a  poetical  narrator  of  fiction.  Chalk- 
hill  is  rather  tedious ;  but  he  atones  for  the 
slow  progress  of  his  narrative  by  many 
touches  of  rich  and  romantic  description. 

J  Nothing  could  hare  *made  Donne  a  poet,  unless  as 
great  a  change  had  been  worked  in  the  internal  struc- 
ture of  his  ears,  as  was  wrought  in  elongating  those  of 
Midas. — Soi'THFT,  Spedmenst.  p.  xxir. — C. 

J  Chalkhill  was  a  gentleman  and  a  scholar,  the  friend 
of  Spenser.  Ue  died  belore  he  could  finish  the  fable  of 
his  "Thealma  and  Clearchus."  which  was  published, 
long  after  his  di-atli,  by  Isaak  Walton. 

And  has  been  since  reprinted;  one  of  Mr.  Singer's 
numerous  contributions  to  our  literature. — C. 


ENGLISH  POETRY. 


89 


FROM    "THEALMA   and  CLEARCHUS." 
SESCRIPnON  OF  THE  PRIE8TES8  OF  DIANA. 

Within  a  little  silent  grove  hard  by, 

Cpon  a  small  ascent,  he  might  espy 

A  stately  chapel,  richly  gilt  without 

Beset  with  shady  sycamores  about ; 

And  ever  and  anon  he  might  well  hear 

A  sound  of  music  steal  in  at  his  ear, 

As  the  wind  gave  it  being.    So  sweet  an  air 

Would  stril^e  a  siren  mute,  and  ravish  her. 

He  sees  no  creature  that  might  cause  the  same, 

But  he  was  sure  that  from  the  grove  it  came, 

And  to  the  grove  he  goes  to  satisfy 

The  curiosity  of  ear  and  eye. 

Thorough  the  thiclc-leaved  boughs  he  makes  a  way, 

Kor  could  the  scratching  brambles  make  him  stay, 

But  on  he  rushes,  and  climlw  up  a  hill, 

Thorough  a  glade.     He  saw  and  heard  hi*  fill — 

A  hundred  virgins  there  he  might  espy. 

Prostrate  l)efore  a  marble  deity, 

Which,  by  its  portraiture,  appear'd  to  be 

The  image  of  Diana.    On  their  knee 

They  tended  their  devotions  with  sweet  airs, 

Offering  the  incense  of  their  praise  and  prayers, 

Their  garments  all  alike 

And  cross  their  snowy  silken  robes  they  wore 
An  azure  scarf^  with  stars  embroider'd  o'er ; 
Their  hair  in  curious  tresses  was  knot  up, 
Crown'd  with  a  silver  crescent  on  the  top ; 
A  silver  bow  their  left  hand  held,  their  right, 
For  their  defence,  held  a  sharp-headed  flight 

Of  arrows 

Under  their  vestments,  something  short  before. 

White  buskins,  laced  with  ribbanding,  they  wore ; 

It  was  a  catching  sight  to  a  young  eye. 

That  Love  had  fix'd  before.    He  might  espy 

One  whom  the  rest  had,  sphere-like,  circled  roand, 

M'hose  head  was  with  a  golden  chaplet  crown'd: 

He  could  not  see  her  face,  only  his  ear 

Was  blest  with  the  sweet  words  that  came  from  her. 


TH£  DIAaS  OF  JSALOUST  IN  THE  CHAPEL  OF  DIANA. 

A  curious  eye 

Might  see  some  relics  of  a  piece  of  art 

That  Psyche  made,  when  Love  first  fired  her  heart; 

It  was  the  story  of  her  thoughts,  that  she 

(furiously  wrought  in  lively  imagery ; 

Among  the  rest  she  thought  of  Jealousy, 

Time  left  untouch'd  to  grace  antiquity. 

She  was  decypher'd  by  a  tim'rous  dame. 

Wrapt  in  a  yellow  mantle  lined  with  flame ; 

Her  looks  were  pale,  contracted  with  a  frown. 

Her  eyes  suspicious,  wandering  up  and  down: 

Behind  her  Fear  attended,  big  with  child. 

Able  to  fright  Presumption  if  she  smiled; 

After  her  flew  a  sigh  between  two  springs 

Of  briny  waters.    On  her  dove-like  wings 

She  bore  a  letter  seal'd  with  a  half  moon. 

And  superscribed — this  from  Suspicion. 


ABODI  OP  TBB  WITCH  ORANVRA. 

Her  cell  was  hewn  out  in  the  marble  rock 
By  more  than  human  art.    She  need  not  knock — 
The  door  stood  always  open,  large  and  wide, 
,    Grown  o'er  with  woolly  moM  on  either  side. 
And  interwove  with  ivy's  flattering  twines. 
Through  which  the  cacbunele  and  diamond  shines ; 
Not  set  by  art,  but  there  by  Nature  sown 
It  the  world's  birth;  so  starlike  bright  they  shone, 


They  served  instead  of  tapers,  to  give  light 
To  the  dark  entry 

In  they  went : 

The  ground  was  strewn  with  flowers,  whose  sweet  scent, 

Mixt  with  the  choice  perfumes  from  India  brought, 

Intoxicates  his  brains,  and  quickly  caught 

His  credulous  sense.    The  walls  were  gilt,  and  set 

With  precious  stones,  and  all  the  roof  was  fret 

With  a  gold  vine,  whose  straggling  branches  spread 

O'er  all  the  arch — the  swelling  grapes  were  red; 

This  art  had  made  of  rubies,  cluster'd  so, 

To  the  quickest  eye  they  more  than  seem'd  to  grow. 

About  the  walls  lascivious  pictures  bung, 

Such  as  whereof  loose  Ovid  sometimes  song; 

On  either  side  a  crew  of  dwarfish  elves 

Held  waxen  tapers  taller  than  themselves. 

Yet  so  well  shaped  unto  their  little  stature. 

So  angel-like  in  face,  so  sweet  in  feature, 

Their  rich  attire  so  differing,  yet  so  well 

Becoming  her  that  wore  it,  none  could  tell 

Which  was  the  fairest. 

After  a  low  salute  they  all  'gan  singj 
And  circle  in  the  stranger  in  a  ring; 
Orandra  to  her  charms  was  stept  aside. 
Leaving  her  guest  half  won,  and  wanton  eyed: 
He  had  forgot  his  herb — cunning  delight 
Had  so  bewitrh'd  his  ears,  and  blear'd  his  sight, 
That  he  was  not  him.<<elf. 

Unto  his  view 

She  represents  a  banquet,  usher'd  in 
By  such  a  shape  as  she  was  sure  would  win 
His  appetite  to  taste — so  like  she  was 
To  his  Clarinda  both  in  shape  and  face. 
So  voiced,  so  habited— of  the  same  gait 
And  comely  gesture 

Hardly  did  he  reftain 

From  sucking  in  destruction  at  her  lip ; 

Sin's  cup  will  poison  at  the  smallest  sip. 

She  weeps  and  wooes  again  with  subtleness, 

And  with  a  frown  she  chides  his  backwardness: 

Have  you  (said  she)  sweet  prince,  so  soon  forgot 

Your  own  beloved  Clarinda  f    Are  you  not 

The  same  you  were,  that  you  so  slightly  set 

By  her  that  once  you  made  the  cabinet 

Of  your  choice  counsel  ?     Hath  some  worthier  lore 

Stole  your  aflections?    What  is  it  should  more 

You  to  dislike  so  soon  ?    Must  I  still  taste 

No  other  dish  but  sorrow?    When  we  last 

Emptied  our  souls  into  each  other's  breast^ 

It  was  not  so 

With  that  she  wept  afiwsh  .... 

She  seem'd  to  fall  into  a  swound; 

And  stooping  down  to  raise  her  from  the  ground. 
He  puts  his  herb  into  his  mouth,  whose  tasie 
Soon  changed  his  mind :  he  lifts  her — but  in  vain. 
His  hands  fell  off,  and  she  fell  down  again  : 
With  that  she  lent  him  such  a  frown  as  would 
Have  kill'd  a  common  lover,  and  made  oold 
Even  lust  itself. 

The  lights  went  out^ 

And  darkness  hung  the  chamber  round  about : 
A  yelling,  hellish  noise  was  each  where  heard. 

In  classical  translation  Phaer  and  Geld- 
ing were  the  earliest  successors  of  Lord 
Surrey.  Phaer  published  his  "  Virgil"  in 
1562,  and  Gelding  his  "  Ovid"  three  years 
later.*     Both  of  these  translators,  consi- 


[•  The  seven  first  books  of  Phaer's  Virgil  were  first 
printed  in  1558,  the  eighth,  ninth,  and  the  fragment  ol 


40 


ENGLISH  POETRY. 


dering  the  state  of  the  language,  have  con- 
siderable merit.  Like  them,  Chapman,  who 
came  later,  employed  in  his  version  of  the 
"Iliad"  the  fourteen-syllable  rhyme,  which 
was  then  in  favourite  use.  Of  the  three 
translators,  Phaer  is  the  most  faithful  and 
simple,  Golding  the  most  musical,  and  Chap- 
man the  most  spirited ;  though  Chapman  is 
prone  to  be  turgid,  and  often  false  to  the 
sense  of  Homer.  Phaer's  ^Eneid  has  been 
praised  by  a  modern  writer,+  in  the  "  Lives 
of  the  Nephews  of  Milton,"  with  absurd  ex- 


the  tenth  in  1562.  Twyne's  continuation  was  first 
printed  in  1573. 

In  1565,  Qolding  published  the  four  first  hooks  of  Ovid's 
Metamorphoses,  and  in  1567  a  translation  of  the  whole. 

We  have  had  the  good  fortune  to  fall  in  with  a  notice 
of  Arthur  Golding  in  a  Museum  MS.  of  orders  made  on 
petitions  to  the  Privy  Council  from  1605  to  1616.  "No 
particulars,"  says  Mr.  Collier,  "  of  the  life  of  Oolding 
have  been  recovered.  He  does  not  appear  to  have  written 
any  thing  after  1500,  but  the  year  of  his  death  is  uncer- 
tain."—Britfice.  Oat.  p.  130. 

Hitfeld,  tbe  urth  of  July,  1605. 

Arthure  Golding  His  Ma«««  is  graciouslie  pleased  that 
to  have  the  sole  the  lord  Archbyshopp  of  Canterburie 
printing  of  some  his  Grace  and  his  Ma"  Atturney 
hooks  translated  Ge&all  shall  advisedlie  consider  of 
by  himsdf.  this  sut,  and  for  such  of  the  books  as 

they  shall  think  meete  for  the  benefitt 
of  the  church  and  commonweale  to  h0 
solie  printed  by  this  peticon'  and 
wherby  noe  enormious  monopolies 
may  ensue,  his  Ma"  Atturney  is  to 
drawe  a  book  ready  for  his  Ma"  sig- 
nature, oontayning  agraunt  hereof  to 
the  peticoner,  leaving  a  blank  for  the 
number  of  yeires  to  be  inserted  at  his 
Ma"  pleasure. 

Lans.  MSS.  No.  266,  Folio  61.— C.] 
[♦  William  Godwin.— C.] 

t  INEAS'S  HAKEATITE   AFTER  THE  DEATH   OF  PRIAM. 
ENEID  n. 

Than  first  the  cruel  fear  me  caught,  and  sore  my  sprites 

appall'd. 
And  on  my  father  dear  I  thought,  his  face  to  mind  I 

call'd, 
Whan  slain  with  grisly  wound  our  king,  him  like  of  age 

in  sight. 
Lay  gasping  dead,  and  of  my  wife  Creuse  bethought  the 

plight. 
Alone,    forfiake,   my   house    despoil'd,  my   child  what 

chaunce  had  take, 
I  looked,  and  about  me  view'd  what  strength  I  might  me 

make. 
All  men  had  me  forsake  for  paynes,  and  down  their 

bodies  drew. 
To  ground  they  leapt,  and  some  for  woe  themselves  in 

fires  they  threw. 
And  now  alone  was  left  but  I  whan  Testa's  temple 

stair 
To  keep  and  secretly  to  lurk  all  crouching  close  in 

chair. 
Dame  Helen  I  might  see  to  sit;  bright  burnings  gave  me 

light, 
*?berever  I  went,  the  ways  I  pase'd,  all  tiling  was  set  in 

sight.' 


aggeration.  I  have  no  wish  to  disparage 
the  fair  value  of  the  old  translator ;  but  when 
the  biographer  of  Milton's  nephews  de- 
clares, "  that  nothing  in  language  or  con- 
ception can  exceed  the  style  in  which  Phaer 
treats  of  the  last  day  of  the  existence  of 
Troy,"  I  know  of  no  answer  to  this  assertion 
but  to  give  the  reader  the  very  passage  which 
is  pronounced  so  inimitable,  although,  to 
save  myself  farther  impediment  in  the  text, 
I  must  subjoin  it  in  a  note.t 

The  harmony  of  Fairfax  is  justly  cele- 


She  fearing  her  the  Trojans'  wrath,  for  Troy  destroy'd 

to  wreke, 
Greek's  torments  and  her  husband's  force,  whose  wed- 
lock she  did  break. 
The  plague  of  Troy  and  of  her  country,  monster  most 

ontame, 
There  sat  she  with  her  hated  head,  by  the  altars  liid  for 

shame. 
Straight  in  my  breast  I  felt  a  fire,  deep  wrath  my  heart 

did  strain, 
My  country's  fall  to  wreak,  and  bring  that  cursed  wretch 

to  pain. 
What !  shall  she  into  her  country  soil  of  Sparta  and 

high  Mycene, 
All  safe  shall  she  return,  and  there  on  Troy  triumph  as 

queen  I 
Her  husband,  children,  country,  kynne,  her  house,  her 

parents  old. 
With  Trojan  wives,  and  Trqjan  lords,  her  slaTes  shall  sh* 

behold  r 
Was  Priam  slain  with  sword  for  this  ?    Troy  burnt  with 

fire  so  wood  ? 
Is  it  herefore  that  Dardan  strondes  so  often  hath  sweat 

with  blood? 
Not  so,  for  though  it  be  no  praise  on  woman  kind  to 

wreak, 
And  honour  none  there  lieth  in  this,  nor  name  for  men 

to  speak; 
Yet  quench  I  shall  this  poison  here,  and  due  deserts  to 

dight. 
Men  shall  commend  my  seal,  and  ease  my  mind  I  shall 

outright : 
This  much  for  all  my  peoples'  hones  and  country's  flame 

to  quite. 
These  things  within  myself  I  tost,  and  fierce  with  force 

I  ran, 
Whan  to  my  face  my  mother  great,  so  brim  no  time  till 

than, 
Appearing  shew'd  herself  in  sight,  all  shining  pure  by 

night, 
Right  goddess-like  appearing,  such  as  heavens  beholds 

her  bright. 
So  great  with  mtyesty  she  stood,  and  me  by  right-haul 

take, 
She  stay'd,  and  red  as  rose,  with  mouth  these  words  to 

me  she  spake : 
My  son,  what  sore  outrage  so  wild  thy  wrathful  mind 

upstares  ? 
Why  frettest  thou,  or  where  alway  from  us  thy  care  witl»- 

drawn  appears  f 
Nor  first  unto  thy  father  see'st,  whom,  feeble  in  all  this  woe, 
Thou  hast  forsake,  nor  if  thy  wife  doth  live  thou  know'st  ■ 

or  no. 
Nor  young  Ascanius,  thy  child,  whom  throngs  of  Greeks 

about 


ENGLISH  POETRY. 


41 


brated.*  Joshua  Sylvester's  version  of  the 
"  Divine  Weeks  and  Works"  of  the  French 
poet  Dubartas  was  among  the  most  popular 
of  our  early  translations ;  and  the  obliga^ 
tions  which  Milton  is  alleged  to  have  owed 
to  it,  have  revived  Sylvester's  name  with 
some  interest  in  modern  criticism.  Sylves- 
ter was  a  puritan,  and  so  was  the  publisher 
of  his  work,  Humphrey  Lownes,  who  lived 
in  the  same  street  with  Milton's  father ;  and 
from  the  congeniality  of  their  opinions,  it  is 
not  improbable  that  they  might  be  ac- 
quainted. It  is  easily  to  be  conceived  that 
Milton  often  repaired  to  the  shop  of  Lownes, 
and  there  first  met  with  the  pious  didactic 
poem.  Lauder  was  the  earliest  to  trace 
Milton's  particular  thoughts  and  expres- 
sions to  Sylvester ;  and,  as  might  be  expected, 
maliciously  exaggerated  them.  Later  wri- 
ters took  up  the  subject  with  a  very  diflPerent 
spirit.  Mr.  Todd,  the  learned  editor  of 
Spenser,  noticed  in  a  number  of  the  Gentle- 
man's Magazine,t  the  probability  of  Mil- 
ton's early  acquaintance  with  the  translation 
of  Dubartas's  poem;  and  Mr.  Dunster  has 
since,  in  his  "  Essay  on  Milton's  early  read- 
ing," supported  the  opinion,  that  the  same 
work  contains  the  prima  stamina  of  Para- 
dise Lost,  and  laid  the  first  foundation  of 
that " monumentumcereperennius."  Thoughts 
and  expressions  there  certainly  are  in  Mil- 
ton, which  leave  his  acquaintance  with  Syl- 
vester hardly  questionable ;  although  some 
of  the  expressions  quoted  by  Mr.  Dunster, 
which  are  common  to  them  both,  may  be 
traced  back  to  other  poets  older  than  Syl- 


Doth  swarming  run,  and,  were  not  my  relief;  witbouten 

doubt 
By  tbia  time  flitmeB  bad  by  devoured,  or  swords  of  en'mieg 

killed. 
It  is  not  Helen's  fale  of  Gi«eoe  tbis  town,  my  son,  bath 

spill'd, 
Nor  Paris  is  to  blame  fbr  this,  but  OodB,  with  grace  uu- 

liind, 
This  wealth  bath  overthrown,  a  Troy  fivm  top  to  ground 

outwind. 
Behold!   for  now  away  the  cloud  and  dim  fog  will  I 

take. 
That  over  mortal  eyes  doth  hang,  and  blind  thy  sight 

doth  make ; 
Thou  to  thy  parents  baste,  take  het>d  (dread  not)  my  mind 

obey. 
In  yonder  place,  where  stones  teova  stones,  and  buildings 

huge  to  sway, 
Tbou  spest,  and  mixt  in  dust  k&d  smoke,  thick  streams 

of  richness  rise. 
Himself  the  Ood  Neptune  that  side  doth  turn  in  wonders 

wise, 
With  fork  three-tined  the  walls  uproots,  foundations  all 

too  shakes, 

6 


vester.  The  entire  amount  of  his  obliga 
tions,  as  Mr.  Dunster  justly  admits,  cannot 
detract  from  our  opinion  of  Milton.  K 
Sylvester  ever  stood  high  in  his  favour,  it 
must  have  been  when  he  was  very  young.J 
The  beauties  which  occur  so  strangely  in- 
termixed with  bathos  and  flatness  in  Syl- 
vester's poem,  might  have  caught  the  youth- 
ful discernment,  and  long  dwelt  in  the 
memory,  of  the  great  poet.  But  he  must 
have  perused  it  with  disgust  at  Sylvester's 
general  manner.  Many  of  his  epithets  and 
happy  phrases  were  really  worthy  of  Mil- 
ton ;  but  by  far  the  greater  proportion  of  his 
thoughts  and  expressions  have  a  quaintness 
and  flatness  more  worthy  of  Quarles  and 
Wither. 

The  following  lines  may  serve  as  no  un- 
favourable specimens  of  his  translation  of 
Dubartas's  poem. 

PROBABnjTT  OP  THE  CELE8TIAI,  OEBS  BEING  DtBABIIED. 

I  not  believe  that  the  great  architect 

With  all  these  fires  the  heavenly  arches  deck'd 

Only  for  show,  and  with  these  glistering  shields 

T'amaze  poor  shepherds,  watching  in  the  fields; 

I  not  believe  that  the  least  flower  which  pranks 

Our  garden  borders,  or  our  common  banks, 

And  the  least  stone,  that  in  her  warming  lap 

Our  mother  earth  doth  covetously  wrap. 

Hath  some  peculiar  virtue  of  its  own. 

And  that  the  glorious  stars  of  Heaven  have  none. 

THE  serpent's  address  to  ete  when  he  tempted  heb 

IN  EDEN. 

As  a  false  lover,  that  thick  snares  hath  laid 
T'  entrap  the  honour  of  a  fair  young  maid. 
If  she  (though  little)  list'ning  ear  affords 
To  his  sweet-courting,  deep-affecting  words, 
Feels  some  assuaging  of  bis  ardent  flame. 
And  soothes  himself  with  hopes  to  win  his  game. 


And  quite  trova  under  soil  the  town  with  ground-works 

all  uprakes. 
On  yonder  side,  with  fUries  mixt,  Bame  Juno  fiercely 

stands. 
The  gates  she  keeps,  and  fK>m  their  ships  the  Greeks,  her 

ftriendly  bands. 
In  armour  girt,  she  calls. 

[*  Many  besides  myself  have  heard  our  &mou8  Waller 
own  that  he  derived  the  harmony  of  his  numtiers  from 
the  Godfrey  of  Bulloigne,  which  was  turned  into  Knglish 
by  Mr.  Fairfax. — Dkydeh,  Malone,  vol.  It.  p.  592.  iSk 
Note  A  at  the  end  of  thU  volume, — C.] 

t  For  November,  1796. 

[X  I  rememtier,  when  I  was  a  boy,  I  thought  inimitable 
Spenser  a  mean  poet  in  comparison  of  Sylvester's  Dubar- 
tas, and  was  rapt  into  ecstasy  when  I  read  these  lines : 

Now,  when  the  Winter's  keener  breath  began 
To  crystallize  the  Baltic  ocean ; 
To  glaze  the  lakes,  to  bridle  up  the  floods. 
And  periwig  with  wool  the  bald-pate  woods. 

I  am  much  deceived  if  this  be  not  abominable  fustiaa. 
^Detdki.— C] 

p2 


42 


ENGLISH  POETRY. 


While,  wrapt  with  jo}-,  he  on  his  point  persists, 
That  parleying  city  never  long  resists — 

Even  so  the  serpent 

Perceiving  Kve  his  flattering  gloze  digest, 
He  prosecutes,  and  jocund  doth  not  rest. 
No,  Fair  (quoth  he),  believe  not  that  the  care 
God  hath  from  spoiling  Death  mankind  to  spare 
Makes  him  forbid  you,  on  such  strict  condition, 

His  purest,  rarest,  fairest  fruit's  fruition 

Begin  thy  bliss,  and  do  not  fear  the  threat 

Of  an  uncertain  Godhead,  only  great 

Through  self-awed  zeal — put  on  the  glist'ning  pall 

Of  immortality. 

MORNING). 

Arise  betimes,  while  th'  opal-colour'd  mom 
In  golden  pomp  doth  May-day's  door  adorn. 

The  "  opal-colour'd  morn"  is  a  beautiful 
expression,  that  I  do  not  remember  any 
other  poet  to  have  ever  used. 

The  school  of  poets,  which  is  commonly 
called  the  metaphysical,  began  in  the  reign 
of  Elizabeth  with  Donne ;  but  the  term  of 
metaphysical  poetry  would  apply  with  much 
more  justice  to  the  quatrains  of  Sir  John 
Davies,  and  those  of  Sir  Fulke  Greville, 
writers  who,  at  a  later  period,  found  imi- 
tators in  Sir  Thomas  Overbury  and  Sir  Wil- 
liam Davenant.*  Davies's  poem  on  the  Im- 
mortality of  the  Soul,  entitled  "  Nosce  teip- 
sum,"  will  convey  a  much  more  favourable 
idea  of  metaphysical  poetry  than  the  wit- 
tiest effusions  of  Donne  and  his  followers. 
Davies  carried  abstract  reasoning  into  verse 
with  an  acuteness  and  felicity  which  have 
seldom  been  equalled.  He  reasons,  un- 
doubtedly, with  too  much  labour,  formality, 
and  subtlety,  to  afford  uniform  poetical 
pleasure.  The  generality  of  his  stanzas  ex- 
hibit hard  arguments  interwoven  with  the 
pliant  materials  of  fancy,  so  closely,  that  we 
may  compare  them  to  a  texture  of  cloth 
and  metallic  threads,  which  is  cold  and 
stiff,  while  it  is  splendidly  curious.  There 
is  this  difference,  however,  between  Davies 
and  the  commonly  styled  metaphysical 
poets,  that  he  argues  like  a  hard  thinker, 
and  they,  for  the  most  part,  like  madmen. 
If  we  conquer  the  drier  parts  of  Davies's 
poem,  and  bestow  a  little  attention  on 
thoughts  which  were  meant,  not  to  gratify 
the  indolence,  but  to  challenge  the  activity 
of  the  mind,  we  shall  find  in  the  entire  es- 
say fresh  beauties  at  every  perusal;  for  in 
the  happier  parts  we  come  to  logical  truths 

[•  This  has  been  re-echoed  by  Mr.  Hallam  in  his  His- 
tory. Johnson  has  been  unjustly  blamed  for  the  name 
applied  to  Donne  and  his  followers  of  metaphysical 
poete,  but  it  was  given  to  thU  school  before  Johnson 


80  well  illustrated  by  ingenious  similes,  that 
we  know  not  whether  to  call  the  thoughts 
more  poetically  or  philosophically  just. 
The  judgment  and  fmcv  are  reconciled, 
and  the  imagery  of  the  poem  seems  to  start 
more  vividly  from  the  surrounding  shades 
of  abstraction. 

Such  were  some  of  the  first  and  inferior 
luminaries  of  that  brilliant  era  of  our 
poetry,  which,  perhaps,  in  general  terms, 
may  be  said  to  cover  about  the  last  quarter 
of  the  sixteenth,  and  the  first  quarter  of  the 
seventeenth  century;  and  which,  though 
commonly  called  the  age  of  Elizabeth,  com- 
prehends many  writers  belonging  to  the 
reign  of  her  successor.  The  romantic 
spirit,  the  generally  unshackled  style,  and 
the  fresh  and  fertile  genius  of  that  period, 
are  not  to  be  called  in  question.  On  the 
other  hand,  there  are  defects  in  the  poetical 
character  of  the  age,  which,  though  they 
may  disappear  or  be  of  little  account  amidst 
the  excellencies  of  its  greatest  writers,  are 
glaringly  conspicuous  in  the  works  of  their 
minor  contemporaries.  In  prolonged  nar- 
rative and  description  the  writers  of  that 
age  are  peculiarly  deficient  in  that  charm, 
which  is  analogous  to  ^^  keeping"  in  pictures. 
Their  warm  and  cold  colours  are  generally 
without  the  gradations  which  should  make 
them  harmonize.  They  fall  precipitately 
from  good  to  bad  thoughts,  from  strength 
to  imbecility.  Certainly  they  are  profuse 
in  the  detail  of  natural  circumstances,  and 
in  the  utterance  of  natural  feelings.  For 
this  we  love  them,  and  we  should  love  them 
still  more  if  they  knew  where  to  stop  in  de- 
scription and  sentiment.  But  they  give  out 
the  dregs  of  their  mind  without  reserve,  till 
their  fairest  conceptions  are  overwhelmed 
by  a  rabble  of  mean  associations.  At  no 
period  is  the  mass  of  vulgar  mediocrity  in 
poetry  marked  by  more  formal  gallantry,  by 
grosser  adulation,  or  by  coarser  satire.  Our 
amatory  strains  in  the  time  of  Charles  the 
Second  may  be  more  dissolute,  but  those  of 
Elizabeth's  age  often  abound  in  studious 
and  prolix  licentiousness.  Nor  are  exam- 
ples of  this  solemn  and  sedate  impurity  to 
be  found  only  in  the  minor  poets:  our  reve- 
rence for  Shakspeare  himself  need  not  make 


wrote,  by  Dryden  and  by  Pope.  However,  as  Mr.  Southey 
has  said,  "If  it  were  easy  to  find  a  better  name,  so 
much  deference  is  due  to  Johnson,  that  lus  should  b<) 
still  adhered  to." — C.] 


ENGLISH  POETRY. 


43 


it  necessary  to  disguise  that  he  willingly 
adopted  that  style  in  his  youth,  when  he 
wrote  his  Venus  and  Adonis.* 

The  fashion  of  the  present  day  is  to  soli- 
cit public  esteem  not  only  for  the  best  and 
better,  but  for  the  humblest  and  meanest 
writers  of  the  age  of  Elizabeth.  It  is  a  bad 
book  which  has  not  something  good  in  it; 
and  even  some  of  the  worst  writers  of  that 
period  have  their  twinkling  beauties.  In 
one  point  of  view,  the  research  among  such 
obscure  authors  is  undoubtedly  useful.  It 
tends  to  throw  incidental  lights  on  the  great 
old  poets,  and  on  the  manners,  biography, 
and  language  of  the  country.  So  far  all  is 
well — but  as  a  matter  of  taste,  it  is  apt  to 
produce  illusion  and  disappointment.  Men 
like  to  make  the  most  of  the  slightest  beauty 
which  they  can  discover  in  an  obsolete 
versifier ;  and  they  quote  perhaps  the  soli- 
tary good  thought  which  is  to  be  found  in 
such  a  writer,  omitting  any  mention  of  the 
dreary  passages  which  surround  it.  Of 
course  it  becomes  a  lamentable  reflection, 
that  so  valuable  an  old  poet  should  have 
been  forgotten.  When  the  reader  however 
(repairs  to  him,  he  finds  that  there  are  only 
one  or  two  grains  of  gold  in  all  the  sands 
of  this  imaginary  Pactolus.  But  the  dis- 
play of  neglected  authors  has  not  been  even 


[•  Sbahspcai«'8  sonnets  are  addressed  to  a  youth  of 
both  sexes,  to  some  hermaphrodite  or  Stella  of  his  own 
fancy,  and  Barnfeild  is  guilty  of  eulogizing  a  youth  in 
the  language  of  love  in  its  most  womanly  signification. 
Had  Shakspeare  published  these  now  orer-tated  produc- 
tions of  his  muse,  (of  which  no  one  throughout  is  posi- 
tively excellent,)  this  unnatural  as>:ociation  had  never 
existed,  but  several  of  his  mgared  sonnets  among  his 
private  friends,  when  copyrights  were  not  acknowledged 
or  made  the  subject  of  law,  falling  into  the  hanils  of 
T.  T.,  a  iiookseller,  the  said  T.  T.,  whose  name  waj  Tho- 
mas Thorpe,  printed  them  with  a  hieroglyphicil  -nscrip- 
tion,  that  is  the  puzzle  of  commentator,  critic  and  reader. 
It  deserves  transcription : 

To  the 

Only  bvgetter  of  these  ensuing  Smnets^ 

Mr.  W.  H. 

all  Happiness 

and  that  Eternity 

promised  by  our  ever-living  Poet 

wisheth  the 

well-wishing  Advr.ntorer 

in  getting  forth.  T.  T. 


confined  to  glimmering  beauties ;  it  has  been 
extended  to  the  reprinting  of  large  and 
heavy  masses  of  dulness.  Most  wretched 
works  have  been  praised  in  this  enthusiasm 
for  the  obsolete ;  even  the  dullest  works  of 
the  meanest  contributors  to  the  "  Mirror  for 
Magi8trate8."t  It  seems  to  be  taken  for 
granted,  that  the  inspiration  of  the  good  old 
times  descended  to  the  very  lowest  dregs 
of  its  versifiers;  whereas  the  bad  writers 
of  Elizabeth's  age  are  only  more  stiff"  and 
artificial  than  those  of  the  preceding,  and 
more  prolix  than  those  of  the  succeeding 
period. 

Yet  there  are  men,  who,  to  all  appear- 
ance, would  wish  to  revive  such  authors — 
not  for  the  mere  use  of  the  antiquary,  to 
whom  every  volume  may  be  useful,  but  as 
standards  of  manner,  and  objects  of  gene- 
ral admiration.  Books,  it  is  said,  take  up 
little  room.  In  the  library  this  may  be  the 
case;  but  it  is  not  so  in  the  minds  and  time 
of  those  who  peruse  them.  Happily,  in- 
deed, the  task  of  pressing  indifferent  au- 
thors on  the  public  attention  is  a  fruitless 
one.  They  may  be  dug  up  from  oblivion, 
but  life  cannot  be  put  into  their  reputations. 
"  Can  these  bones  live  ?"  Nature  will  have 
her  course,  and  dull  books  will  be  forgotten, 
in  spite  of  bibliographers. 

Who  was  Mr.  W.  H.  f  A  host  of  learned  and  unlearned, 
with  Mr.  Hallam  of  their  number,  would  have  us  to  be- 
lieve William  Herbert,  Earl  of  Pembroke;  which  we 
shall  credit  when  an  instance  is  adduced  of  a  peer  of 
nine  years'  standing  described,  dedicated  to,  or  shadowed 
as  Mr.  This  or  That  by  mere  initials.  Mr.  W.  H.  was 
well  enough  known  in  his  own  day;  what  is  enigmatical 
to  us  was  no  obscurity  then.  T.  T.  had  not  dared  to  ad- 
dress the  Earl  of  Pembroke  as  .Mr.  W.  H. 

The  same  -Mr.  W.  H.  is  said  to  have  been  "  the  only 
begetter  of  these  ensuing  Sonnets ;"  but  in  what  signifi- 
cation is  the  word  used?  An  instance  is  given  fn>m 
Dekker,  where  its  purport  is  to  procure.  Was  Mr.  W.  H. 
the  procurer — the  person  by  whose  means  T.  T.  had  been 
able  to  print  themf — a  character  akin  to  the  mysterious 
man  who  brought  the  letter  of  Pope  to  the  piratical 
Curll;  or  is  be  the  individual  to  whom  they  are  ad- 
dressed? But  all  is  conjecture;  one  thing  however  is 
evident,  that  if  T.  T.  meant  that  Mr.  W.  H.  was  addressed 
throughout  by  the  po<-t,  he  had  never  read  the  Sonnets, 
for  the  last  twenty-eight  are  to  a  woman. — C.] 

[t  The  Mirror  for  Magistrates  was  one  of  Haslewood's 
reprints — a  heavy  man,  with  no  kind  or  degree  of  good 
taste.— C.] 


41 


ENGLISH  POETRY. 


PART  III. 


The  pedantic  character  of  James  I.  has 
been  frequently  represented  as  the  cause  of 
degeneracy  in  English  taste  and  genius.  It 
must  be  allowed  that  James  was  an  indif- 
ferent author;  and  that  neither  the  manners 
of  his  court  nor  the  measures  of  his  reign 
were  calculated  to  excite  romantic  virtues 
in  his  subjects.  But  the  opinion  of  his 
character  having  influenced  the  poetical 
spirit  of  the  age  unfavourably  is  not  borne 
out  by  facts.  He  was  friendly  to  the  stage 
and  to  its  best  writers :  he  patronized  Ben 
Jonson,  and  is  said  to  have  written  a  com- 
plimentary letter  to  Shakspeare  with  his 
own  hand.*  We  may  smile  at  the  idea  of 
James's  praise  being  bestowed  as  an  honour 
upon  Shakspeare;  the  importance  of  the 
compliment,  however,  is  not  to  be  estimated 
by  our  present  opinion  of  the  monarch,  but 
by  the  excessive  reverence  with  which  roy- 
alty was  at  that  time  invested  in  men's 
opinions.  James's  reign  was  rich  in  poeti- 
cal names,  some  of  which  have  been  already 
enumerated.  We  may  be  reminded,  indeed, 
that  those  poets  had  been  educated  under 
Elizabeth,  and  that  their  genius  bore  the 
high  impress  of  her  heroic  times;  but  the 
same  observation  will  also  oblige  us  to  re- 
collect that  Elizabeth's  age  had  its  traits  of 
depraved  fashion,  (witness  its  Euphuism,!) 
and  that  the  first  examples  of  the  worst 
taste  which  ever  infected  our  poetry  were 
given  in  her  days,  and  not  in  those  of  her 
successor.  Donne,  (for  instance,)  the  pa- 
triarch of  the  metaphysical  generation,  was 
thirty  years  of  age  at  the  date  of  James's 
accession;  a  time  at  which  his  taste  and 
Htyle  were  sufficiently  formed  to  acquit  his 
learned  sovereign  of  all  blame  in  having 
corrupted  them.  Indeed,  if  we  were  to  make 
the  memories  of  our  kings  accountable  for 
the  poetical  faults  of  their  respective  reigns, 
we  might  reproach  Charles  I.,  among  whose 


*  TTii*  anecdote  is  given  by  Oldys  on  the  authority  of 
the  Duke  of  Buckingham,  who  [is  said  to  have]  had  it 
from  Sir  William  Davenant  [The  cause  assigned,  an 
obscure  allusion  in  Macbeth,  is  a  very  lame  and  unlikely 
one.  Shakspeare's  plays  were  In  the  greatest  esteem 
with  King  .luneB :  of  the  fourteen  plavg  acted  at  Court 


faults  bad  taste  is  certainly  not  to  be  reck- 
oned, with  the  chief  disgrace  of  our  meta- 
physical poetry;  since  that  school  never 
attained  its  unnatural  perfection  so  com- 
pletely as  in  the  luxuriant  ingenuity  of 
Cowley's  fancy,  and  the  knotted  deformity 
of  Cleveland's.  For  a  short  time  after  the 
suppression  of  the  theatres,  till  the  time  of 
Milton,  the  metaphysical  poets  are  forced 
upon  our  attention  for  want  of  better  ob- 
jects. But  during  James's  reign  there  is  no 
such  scarcity  of  good  writers  as  to  oblige  us 
to  dwell  on  the  school  of  elaborate  conceit. 
Phineas  Fletcher  has  been  sometimes  named 
as  an  instance  of  the  vitiated  taste  which 
prevailed  at  this  period.  He,  however, 
though  musical  and  fanciful,  is  not  to  be 
admitted  as  a  representative  of  the  poetical 
character  of  those  times,  which  included 
Jonson,  Beaumont  and  John  Fletcher,  Ford, 
Massinger,  and  Shirley.  Shakspeare  was 
no  more;  but  there  were  dramatic  authors 
of  great  and  diversified  ability.  The  ro- 
mantic school  of  the  drama  continued  to  be 
more  popular  than  the  classical,  though  in 
the  latter  Ben  Jonson  lived  to  see  imitators 
of  his  own  manner,  whom  he  was  not 
ashamed  to  adopt  as  his  poetical  heirs.  Of 
these  Cartwright  and  Eandolph  were  the 
most  eminent.  The  originality  of  Cart- 
wright's  plots  is  always  acknowledged ;  and 
Jonson  used  to  say  of  him,  "  My  son  Caiir 
wright  vyrites  all  like  a  mati," 

Massinger  is  distinguished  for  the  har- 
mony and  dignity  of  his  dramatic  eloquence. 
Many  of  his  plots,  it  is  true,  are  liable  to 
heavy  exceptions.  The  fiends  and  angels 
of  his  Virgin  Martyr  are  unmanageable 
tragic  machinery;  and  the  incestuous  pas- 
sion of  his  Ancient  Admiral  excites  our 
horror.  The  poet  of  love  is  driven  to  a 
frightful  expedient,  when  he  gives  it  the 
terrors  of  a  maniac  passion  breaking  down 


between  the  Ist  of  November,  1604,  and  the  31st  of  Octo- 
ber, 1605,  eight  were  Shakspeare's,  the  remaining  nix  were 
divided  among  Ben  Jonson,  Heywood,  and  Chapman. — C.]  . 

t  An  affected  jargon  of  style,  which  was  fashionable 
for  some  time  at  the  court  of  Klizabeth,  and  so  called 
from  the  work  of  Lyly  entitled  Euphua. 


ENGLISH  POETRY. 


45 


the  most  sacred  pale  of  instinct  and  con- 
sanguinity. The  ancient  admiral  is  in  love 
■with  his  own  daughter.  Such  a  being,  if 
we  fancy  him  to  exist,  strikes  us  as  no  ob- 
ject of  moral  warning,  but  as  a  man  under 
the  influence  of  insanity.  In  a  general 
view,  nevertheless,  Massinger  has  more  art 
and  judgment  in  the  serious  drama  than 
any  of  the  other  successors  of  Shakspeare. 
His  incidents  are  less  entangled  than  those 
of  Fletcher,  and  the  scene  of  his  action  is 
more  clearly  throwr  open  for  the  free  evo- 
lution of  character  Fletcher  strikes  the 
imagination  with  more  vivacity,  but  more 
irregularly,  and  amidst  embarrassing  posi- 
tions of  his  own  choosing.  Massinger  puts 
forth  his  strength  more  collectively.  Flet- 
cher has  more  action  and  character  in  his 
drama,  and  leaves  a  greater  variety  of  im- 
pressions upon  the  mind.  His  fancy  is  more 
volatile  and  surprising,  but  then  he  often 
blends  disappointment  with  our  surprise, 
and  parts  with  the  consistency  of  his  cha- 
racters even  to  the  occasionally  apparent 
loss  of  their  identity.  This  is  not  the  case 
with  Massinger.  It  is  true  that  Massinger 
excels  more  in  description  and  declamation 
than  in  the  forcible  utterance  of  the  heart, 
and  in  giving  character  the  warm  colouring 
of  passion.  Still,  not  to  speak  of  his  one 
distinguished  hero*  in  comedy,  he  has  de- 
lineated several  tragic  characters  with 
strong  and  interesting  traits.  They  are 
chiefly  proud  spirits.  Poor  himself,  and 
struggling  under  the  rich  man's  contumely, 
we  may  conceive  it  to  have  been  the  solace 
of  his  neglected  existence  to  picture  worth 
and  magnanimity  breaking  through  exter- 
nal disadvantages,  and  making  their  way  to 
love  and  admiration.  Hence  his  fine  con- 
ceptions of  Paris,  the  actor,  exciting  by  the 
splendid  endowments  of  his  nature  the  jea- 
lousy of  the  tyrant  of  the  world ;  and  Don 
John  and  Pisander,  habited  as  slaves,  woo- 
ing and  winning  their  princely  mistresses. 
He  delighted  to  show  heroic  virtue  stripped 
of  all  adventitious  circumstances,  and  tried, 
like  a  gem,  by  its  shining  through  darkness. 
His  Duke  of  Milan  is  particularly  admira- 
ble for  the  blended  interest  which  the  poet 
excites  by  the  opposite  weaknesses  and 
magnanimity  of  the  same  character.  Sforza, 
Duke  of  Milan,  newly  married  and  uxorious- 

*  Sir  ones  Overreach. 


ly  attached  to  the  haughty  Marcelia,  a  wo- 
man of  exquisite  attractions,  makes  her  an 
object  of  secret  but  deadly  enmity  at  his 
court,  by  the  extravagant  homage  which  he 
requires  to  be  paid  to  her,  and  the  prece- 
dence which  he  enjoins  even  his  own  mother 
and  sisters  to  yield  her.  As  Chief  of  Milan, 
he  is  attached  to  the  fortunes  of  Francis  I. 
The  sudden  tidings  of  the  approach  of 
Charles  V.,  in  the  campaign  which  termi- 
nated with  the  battle  of  Pavia,  soon  after- 
wards spread  dismay  through  his  court  and 
capital  Sforza,  though  valiant  and  self- 
collected  in  all  that  regards  the  warrior  or 
politician,  is  hurried  away  by  his  immode- 
rate passion  for  Marcelia ;  and  being  obliged 
to  leave  her  behind,  but  unable  to  bear  the 
thoughts  of  her  surviving  him,  obtains  the 
promise  of  a  confidant  to  destroy  her,  should 
his  own  death  appear  inevitable.  He  re- 
turns to  his  capital  in  safety.  Marcelia, 
having  discovered  the  secret  order,  receives 
him  with  coldness.  His  jealousy  is  in- 
flamed; and  her  perception  of  that  jealousy 
alienates  the  haughty  object  of  tiis  affec- 
tion, when  she  is  on  the  point  of  reconcile- 
ment. The  fever  of  Sforza's  diseased  heart 
is  powerfully  described,  passing  from  the 
extreme  of  dotage  to  revenge,  and  return- 
ing again  from  thence  to  the  bitterest  re- 
pentance and  prostration,  when  he  has 
struck  at  the  life  which  he  most  loved,  and 
has  made,  when  it  is  too  late,  the  discovery 
of  her  innocence.  Massinger  always  en- 
forces this  moral  in  love ; — he  punishes  dis- 
trust, and  attaches  our  esteem  to  the 
unbounded  confidence  of  the  passion.  But 
while  Sforza  thus  exhibits  a  warning  against 
morbidly-selfish  sensibility,  he  is  made  to 
appear,  without  violating  probability,  in  all 
other  respects  a  firm,  frank,  and  prepossess- 
ing character.  When  his  misfortunes  are 
rendered  desperate  by  the  battle  of  Pavia, 
and  when  he  is  brought  into  the  presence 
of  Charles  V.,  the  intrepidity  with  which  he 
pleads  his  cause  disarms  the  resentment  of 
his  conqueror;  and  the  eloquence  of  the 
poet  makes  us  expect  that  it  should  do  so. 
Instead  of  palliating  his  zeal  for  the  lost 
cause  of  Francis,  he  thus  pleads — 

I  come  not  Emperor,  to  invade  thy  mercy 

By  fawning  on  thy  fortune,  nor  bring  with  me 

Excuses  or  denials ;  I  profess, 

And  with  a  good  man's  confidence,  even  this  ln«tan* 

That  T  am  in  thy  power,  I  wa«  thine  enemy, 

Thy  deadly  and  vow'd  enemy ;  one  that  wish'd 


46 


ENGLISH  POETRY. 


Confusion  to  thy  person  and  estates, 
And  with  my  utmost  power  and  deepest  counsels. 
Had  they  been  truly  fnllow'd,  further'd  it 
Nor  will  I  now,  although  my  n»-ck  were  under 
The  hangman's  axe,  with  one  poor  syllable 
Confess  but  that  I  honour'd  the  French  king 
More  than  thyself  and  all  men. 

After  describing  his  obligations  to  Fran- 
cis, he  says — 

He  was  indeed  to  me  as  my  good  angel. 
To  guard  me  from  all  danger.     I  dare  speak. 
Nay  must  and  wi7/,  his  praise  now  in  a"  high 
And  loud  a  key  as  when  he  was  thy  equal. 
The  benefits  he  sow'd  in  me  met  not 

Uutbankful  ground 

If  then  to  be  grateful 

For  benefits  received,  or  not  to  leave 

A  friend  in  his  necessities,  be  a  crime 

Amongst  you  Spaniards,  Sforza  brings  his  head 

To  pay  the  forfeit.     Nor  come  I  as  a  slave, 

Pinion'd  and  fetter'd,  in  a  squalid  weed. 

Falling  before  thy  feet,  kneeling  and  howling 

For  a  forestall'd  remission — that  were  poor, 

And  would  but  shame  thy  victory,  for  conquest 

Over  base  foes  is  a  captivity, 

And  not  a  triumph.     I  ne'er  fear'd  to  die 

More  than  I  wish'd  to  live.    When  I  had  reach'd 

My  ends  in  being  a  Duke,  I  wore  these  robes, 

This  crown  upon  my  head,  and  to  my  side 

This  sword  was  girt;  and,  witness  truth,  that  now 

'Tis  in  another's  power,  when  I  shall  part 

With  life  and  them  together,  I'm  the  same — 

My  veins  then  did  not  swell  with  pride,  nor  now 

Shrink  they  for  fear. 

If  the  vehement  passions  were  not  Mas- 
singer's  happiest  element,  he  expresses  fixed 
principle  with  an  air  of  authority.  To 
make  us  feel  the  elevation  of  genuine  pride 
was  the  master-key  which  he  knew  how  to 
touch  in  human  sympathy;  and  his  skill  in 
it  must  have  been  derived  from  deep  expe- 
rience in  his  own  bosom.* 

The  theatre  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher 
contains  all  manner  of  good  and  evil.  The 
respective  shares  of  those  dramatic  part- 
ners, in  the  works  collectively  published 
with  their  names,  have  been  stated  in  a  dif^ 


[♦  Although  incalculably  superior  to  his  contempora- 
hen,  Shakspeare  had  successful  imitators;  and  the  art  of 
.Tonson  was  not  unrivalled.  Massinger  appears  to  have 
studied  the  works  of  both,  with  the  intention  of  uniting 
their  excellences.  He  knew  the  strength  of  plot ;  and 
al<houi:h  his  plays  are  altogether  irregular,  yet  he  well 
understood  the  advantage  of  a  strong  and  defined  inte- 
rest :  and  in  unravelling  the  intricacy  of  his  intrigues, 
he  often  displays  the  management  of  a  master. — SIR 
Waltfr  Scott,  Misc.  Prose  Wirls,  vol.  vi.  p.  342. — C.] 

f-f  Ravenscroft,  the  filthiest  writer  for  the  stage  in  the 
reign  of  the  second  Charles,  is  not  mori;  obscene  than 
Beaumont  and  Fletcher.  Yet  Karle,  who  was  in  the 
church  and  a  bi.shop  withal,  praises  their  plays  for  their 
purity:  and  I,ovelace  likens  the  nakedness  of  their  lan- 
guage to  Cupid  dressed  in  Diana's  linen.  The  outspoken 
nature  of  their  writings  is  in  the  very  character  of  their 
age,  for  Charles  I.  would  address  the  ladies  of  his  court 


ferent  part  of  this  volume.  Fletcher's  share 
in  them  is  by  far  the  largest;  and  he  is 
chargeable  with  the  greatest  number  of 
faults,  although  at  the  same  time  his  genius 
was  more  airy,  prolific,  and  fanciful.  There 
are  such  extremes  of  grossness  and  magni- 
ficence in  their  drama,  so  much  sweetness 
and  beauty  interspersed  with  views  of  na- 
ture either  falsely  romantic,  or  vulgar  be- 
yond reality;  there  is  so  much  to  animate 
and  amuse  us,  and  yet  so  much  that  we 
would  willingly  overlook,  that  I  cannot  help 
comparing  the  contrasted  impressions  which 
they  make,  to  those  which  we  receive  from 
visiting  some  great  and  ancient  city,  pic- 
turesquely but  irregularly  built,  glittering 
with  spires  and  surrounded  with  gardens, 
but  exhibiting  in  many  quarters  the  lanes 
and  hovels  of  wretchedness.  Tliey  have 
scenes  of  wealthy  and  high  life  which  re- 
mind us  of  courts  and  palaces  frequented 
by  elegant  females  and  high-spirited  gal- 
lants, whilst  their  noble  old  martial  charac- 
ters, with  Caractacus  in  the  midst  of  them, 
may  inspire  us  with  the  same  sort  of  regard 
which  we  pay  to  the  rough-hewn  magnifi 
cence  of  an  ancient  fortress. 

Unhappily,  the  same  simile,  without  being 
hunted  down,  will  apply  but  too  faithfully 
to  the  nuisances  of  their  drama.  Their  lan- 
guage is  often  basely  profligate.  Shak- 
speare's  and  Jonson's  indelicacies  are  but 
casual  blots ;  whilst  theirs  are  sometimes 
essential  colours  of  their  painting,  and  ex- 
tend, in  one  or  two  instances,  to  entire  and 
ofi'ensive  scenes.  This  fault  has  deservedly 
injured  their  reputation;  and,  saving  a  very 
slight  allowance  for  the  fashion  and  taste 
of  their  age,  admits  of  no  sort  of  apology.t 
Their  drama,  nevertheless,  is  a  very  wide 


in  a  style  that  would  meet  with  no  toleration  now.  Pro- 
priety of  speech  and  conduct  one  does  not  look  for  at  the 
Restoration.    All  was  license  then  : 

Love  was  liberty,  and  nature  law. 

Plays  were  beheld  by  ladies  in  masks,  who  blushed  un- 
seen at  situations,  language,  and  allusions  of  the  most 
obscene  description.  Something  of  this  continued  to  a 
later  time.  Ramsay  dedicates  his  Tea  Table  Miscellany 
to  the  ladies  and  lassies  of  Britain,  and  boasts  that  his 
book  is  without  a  word  or  an  allusion  to  redden  the 
brow  of  offended  beauty.  Yet  the  book  abounds  in 
naked  vulgarities  and  songs  of  studied  obscenity.  The 
novels  of  the  once  immaculate  Richardson,  that  ladies 
talked  and  quoted  into  deserved  celebrity,  few  ladies  now 
own  to  their  perusal,  and  no  clergymen  he  found  to  re- 
commend, as  of  old,  to  their  flock  from  the  pulpit. 
While  the  letters  of  the  maids  of  honour  about  the  court 


ENGLISH  POETRY. 


47 


one,  and  "  has  ample  room  and  verge 
enough"*  to  permit  the  attention  to  wander 
from  these,  and  to  fix  on  more  inviting  pe- 
culiarities— as  on  the  great  variety  of  their 
fables  and  personages,  their  spirited  dia- 
logue, their  wit,  pathos,  and  humour. 
Thickly  sown  as  their  blemishes  are,  their 
merit  will  bear  great  deductions,  and  still 
remain  great.  We  never  can  forget  such 
beautiful  characters  as  their  Cellide,  their 
Aspatia,  and  Bellario,  or  such  humorous 
ones  as  their  La  Writ  and  Cacafogo.  Awake 
they  will  always  keep  us,  whether  to  quar- 
rel or  to  be  pleased  with  them.  Their  in- 
vention is  fruitful;  its  beings  are  on  the 
whole  an  active  and  sanguine  generation ; 
and  their  scenes  are  crowded  to  fulness  with 
the  warmth,  agitation,  and  interest  of  life. 
In  thus  speaking  of  them  together,  it 
may  be  necessary  to  allude  to  the  general 
and  traditionary  understanding,  that  Beau- 
mont was  the  graver  and  more  judicious 
genius  of  the  two.  Yet  the  plays  in  which 
he  may  be  supposed  to  have  assisted  Flet- 
cher are  by  no  means  remarkable  either  for 
harmonious  adjustment  of  parts,  or  scrupu- 
lous adherence  to  probability.  In  their 
"  Laws  of  Candy,"  the  winding  up  of  the 
plot  is  accomplished  by  a  young  girl  com- 
manding a  whole  bench  of  senators  to  de- 

of  the  first  and  second  Georges — the  Howes,  the  Bcl- 
lendens,  and  Lepells — are  rife  with  the  very  dirt  of 
our  language.  The  cleanest  are  in  the  Suffolk  Par 
pers ;  and  there,  as  the  proverb  goes,  a  spade  is  called  a 
spade: 

Themselves  they  studied;  as  they  felt  they  writ. — C.] 

[•  Dryden.— C.] 

t  The  most  amusingly  absurd  perhaps  of  all  Fletcher's 
bad  plays  is  The  Island  Princess.  One  mif  ht  absolutely 
take  it  for  a  burlesque  on  the  heroic  drama,  If  its  reli- 
gious conclusion  did  not  show  the  author  to  be  in  earn- 
est. Quisars,  princess  of  the  island  of  Tidore,  where 
the  Portuguese  have  a  fort,  offers  her  hand  in  marriage 
to  any  champion  who  shall  deliver  her  brother,  a  captive 
of  the  governor  of  Ternata.  Ruy  Dia-s  her  Portuguese 
lover,  is  shy  of  the  adventure;  but  another  lover,  Ar- 
musia,  hires  a  boat,  with  a  few  followers,  which  he  hides 
on  landini;  at  Tidore,  among  the  reeds  of  the  invaded 
island.  He  then  disguises  himself  as  a  merchant,  hires 
a  cellar,  like  the  Popish  conspirators,  and  in  the  most 
credible  manner  blows  up  a  considerable  portion  of  a 
large  town,  re-'cues  the  king,  slaughters  all  opposer8,and 
re-embarks  in  his  yawl  from  among  the  reeds.  On  his 
return  he  finds  the  lovely  Quisara  loth  to  fulfil  her  pro- 
mise, from  her  being  still  somewhat  attached  to  Ruy 
Dias.  The  base  Ruy  Dias  sends  bis  nephew,  Piniero,  to 
The  Island  Princess,  with  a  project  of  assassinating  Ar» 
musia ;  but  Piniero,  who  is  a  merry  fellow,  thinks  it  bet- 
ter to  prevent  his  uncle's  crime,  and  to  make  love  for 
himself.  Before  his  introduction  to  the  Princess,  how- 
ever, he  meets  with  her  aunt  Quisana,  to  whom  he  talks 


scend  from  their  judgment-seats,  in  virtue 
of  an  ancient  law  of  the  state  which  she 
discovers ;  and  they  obey  her  with  the  most 
polite  alacrity.  "  Cupid's  Revenge"  is  as- 
signed to  them  conjointly,  and  is  one  of  the 
very  weakest  of  their  worst  class  of  pieces. 
On  the  other  hand,  Fletcher  produced  his 
"  Rule  a  Wife  and  Have  a  Wife,"  after 
Beaumont's  death,  so  that  he  was  able,  when 
he  chose,  to  write  with  skill  as  well  as 
spirit. 

Of  that  skill,  however,  he  is  often  so 
sparing  as  to  leave  his  characters  subject  to 
the  most  whimsical  metamorphoses.  Some- 
times they  repent,  like  methodists,  by  in- 
stantaneous conversion.  At  other  times 
they  shift  from  good  to  bad,  so  as  to  leave 
us  in  doubt  what  they  were  meant  for.  In 
the  tragedy  of  "  Valentinian"  we  have  a 
fine  old  soldier,  Maximus,  who  sustains  our 
affection  through  four  acts,  but  in  the  fifth 
we  are  suddenly  called  upon  to  hate  him, 
on  being  informed,  by  his  own  confession, 
that  he  is  very  wicked,  and  that  all  his  past 
virtue  has  been  but  a  trick  on  our  credulity. 
The  imagination,  in  this  case,  is  disposed  to 
take  part  with  the  creature  of  the  poet'? 
brain  against  the  poet  himself,  and  to  think 
that  he  maltreats  and  calumniates  his  own 
offspring  unnaturally .f   But  for  these  faults 

abundance  of  ribaldry  and  dnublt  enUndre,  and  so  capti- 
vates the  aged  woman,  that  she  exclaims  to  her  attend- 
ant, "  Pray  thee  let  him  talk  still,  for  methinks  be  talks 
handsomely  1"  With  the  young  lady  he  is  equally  sue- 
ces.4ful,  offers  to  murder  anybody  she  pleases,  and  gains 
her  affections  so  far  that  she  kisses  him.  The  poor  vir- 
tuous Armusia.  in  the  mean  time,  determines  to  see  his 
false  Princess,  makes  his  way  to  her  chamber,  and  in 
spite  of  her  reproaches  and  her  late  kiss  to  Piniero,  at 
last  makes  a  new  impression  on  her  heart.  The  dear 
Island  Princess  is  in  love  a  third  time,  in  the  third  act. 
In  the  fourth  act,  the  king  of  Tidore,  lately  delivered  by 
Armusia,  plots  against  the  Christians;  he  is  accompanied 
by  a  Moorish  priest,  who  is  no  other  than  the  governor 
of  Ternata,  disguised  in  a  false  wig  and  beard;  but  his 
Tidorian  miye.«ty  recollects  his  old  enemy  so  imperfectly 
as  to  be  completely  deceived.  This  conspiracy  alarms  the 
Portuguese:  the  cowardly  Ruy  Dias  all  at  once  grows 
brave  and  generous;  Quisara  joins  the  Christians,  and 
for  the  sake  of  Armusia  and  her  new  faith  offers  to  be 
burnt  alive.  Nothing  remains  but  to  open  the  eyes  of 
her  brother,  the  king  of  Tidore.  This  is  accomplished 
by  the  merry  Piniero  laying  hold  of  the  ma-oqued  gover- 
nor's beard,  which  comes  away  without  the  aj^sistance  of 
a  barber.  The  monarch  exclaims  that  he  cannot  speak 
&)r  astonishment,  and  every  thing  concludes  agreeably. 
The  Island  Princess  is  not  unlike  some  of  the  romantic 
dramas  of  Dryden's  time;  but  the  later  play-writera 
superadded  a  style  of  outrageous  rant  and  turgid  ima- 
gery.— [Such  is  the  plot,  nor  is  the  dialogue  better.  Still 
Armusia  is  a  fine  fellow,  and  Piniero  a  merry  one,  while 
Quisara,  who  loves  »  nnter,  transfers  her  affections  witb 


48 


ENGLISH  POETRY. 


Fletcher  makes  good  atonement,  and  has 
many  affecting  scenes.  We  must  still  in- 
deed say  scenes;  for,  except  in  "  The  Faith- 
ful Shepherdess,"  which,  unlike  his  usual 
manner,  is  very  lulling,  where  shall  we  find 
him  uniform  ?  If  "  The  Double  Marriage" 
could  be  cleared  of  some  revolting  passages, 
the  part  of  Juliana  would  not  be  unworthy 
of  the  powers  of  the  finest  tragic  actress. 
Juliana  is  a  high  attempt  to  portray  the 
saint  and  heroine  blended  in  female  charac- 
ter. When  her  husband  Virolet's  conspiracy 
against  Ferrand  of  Naples  is  discovered,  she 
endures  and  braves  for  his  sake  the  most 
dreadful  cruelties  of  the  tyrant.  Virolet 
flies  from  his  country,  obliged  to  leave  her 
behind  him;  and  falling  at  sea  into  the 
hands  of  the  pirate  Duke  of  Sesse,  saves 
himself  and  his  associates  from  death,  by 
consenting  to  marry  the  daughter  of  the 
pirate  (Martia),  who  falls  in  love  and  elopes 
with  him  from  her  father's  ship.  As  they 
carry  off  with  them  the  son  of  Ferrand, 
who  had  been  a  prisoner  of  the  Duke  of 
Sesse,  Virolet  secures  his  peace  being  made 
at  Naples ;  but  when  he  has  again  to  meet 
Juliana,  he  finds  that  he  has  purchased  life 
too  dearly.  When  the  ferocious  Martia, 
seeing  his  repentance,  revenges  herself  by 
plotting  his  destruction,  and  when  his  di- 
vorced Juliana,  forgetting  her  injuries,  flies 
to  warn  and  to  save  him,  their  interview  has 
no  common  degree  of  interest.  Juliana  is 
perhaps  rather  a  fine  idol  of  the  imagination 
than  a  probable  type  of  nature ;  but  poetry 
which  "  conforms  the  shows  of  things  to  the 
desires  of  the  soul,"*  has  a  right  to  the 
highest  possible  virtues  of  human  character. 
And  there  have  been  women  who  have 
prized  a  husband's  life  above  their  own,  and 
his  honour  above  his  life,  and  who  have 
united  the  tenderness  of  their  sex  to  heroic 
intrepidity.  Such  is  Juliana,  who  thus  ex- 
horts the  wavering  fortitude  of  Virolet  on 
the  eye  of  his  conspiracy. 

VirriUt.  Unless  our  hands  were  cannon 

To  batter  down  his  walls,  our  weak  breath  mines 
To  blow  his  forts  up,  or  our  curses  lightning. 
Our  power  is  like  to  yours,  and  we,  like  you, 
•       Weep  our  misfortunes 

She  replies — 

Walls  of  brass  resist  not 

A  noble  undertaking — nor  can  vice 


marvellous  celerity.  Piniero  is  evidently  more  her  match 
than  Armusia,  whom  she  marries,  but  not  before  he  has 
won  her  waiting- woman  to  admit  him  to  her  bed-chamber, 


Raise  any  bulwark  to  make  good  a  place 
Where  virtue  seeks  to  enter. 

The  joint  dramas  of  Beaumont  and  Flet- 
cher, entitled  "Philaster"  and  "The  Maid's 
Tragedy,"  exhibit  other  captivating  female 
portraits.  The  difficulty  of  giving  at  once 
truth,  strength,  and  delicacy  to  female  re- 
pentance for  the  loss  of  honour,  is  finely 
accomplished  in  Evadne.  The  stage  has 
perhaps  few  scenes  more  affecting  than  that 
in  which  she  obtains  forgiveness  of  Amin- 
tor,  on  terms  which  interest  us  in  his  com- 
passion, without  compromising  his  honour. 
In  the  same  tragedy,!  the  plaintive  image 
of  the  forsaken  Aspatia  has  an  indescri- 
bably sweet  spirit  and  romantic  expression. 
Her  fancy  takes  part  with  her  heart,  and 
gives  its  sorrow  a  visionary  gracefulness. 
When  she  finds  her  maid  Antiphila  working 
a  picture  of  Ariadne,  she  tells  her  to  copy 
the  likeness  from  herself,  from  *.'  the  lost 
Aspatia." 

Afp.    But  Where's  the  lady  f  • 

Ant.    There,  madam. 

Asp.    Fie,  you  nave  miss'd  it  here,  Antiphila; 
These  colours  are  not  dull  and  pale  enough. 
To  show  a  soul  so  full  of  misery 
As  this  sad  lady's  was.    Do  it  by  me —  . 
Do  it  again  by  me,  the  lost  Aspatia, 
And  you  shall  find  all  true.    Put  me  on  the  wild  island. 
I  stand  upon  the  sea-beach  now,  and  think 
Mine  arms  thus,  and  my  hair  blown  by  the  wind 
Wild  as  that  desert,  and  let  all  about  me 

Be  teachers  of  my  story 

Strive  to  make  me  look 

Like  Sorrow's  monument,  and  the  trees  about  me, 
Let  them  be  dry  and  leafless ;  let  the  rocks 
Groan  with  continual  surges,  and  behind  me 
Make  all  a  desolation.     See,  sec,  wenches, 
A  miserable  life  of  this  poor  picture,. 

The  resemblance  of  this  poetical  picture 
to  Guido's  Bacchus  and  Ariadne  has  been 
noticed  by  Mr.  Seward  in  the  preface  to  his 
edition  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher.  "  In 
both  representations  the  extended  arms  of 
the  mourner,  her  hair  blown  by  the  wind, 
the  barren  roughness  of  the  rocks  around 
her,  and  the  broken  trunks  of  leafless  trees, 
make  her  figure  appear  like  Sorrow's  monu- 
ment." 

Their  masculine  characters  in  tragedy  are 
generally  much  less  interesting  than  their 
females.  Some  exceptions  may  be  found  to 
this  remark;  particularly  in  the  British 
chief  Caractacus  and  his  interesting  nephew, 
the  boy  Hengo.    With  all  the  faults  of  th« 


where  Quisara  scolds  him  with  all  the  anxious  importu- 
nity of  desire. — C.] 
*  Expression  of  Lord  Bacon's,     f  The  Maid's  Tragedy. 


ENGLISH  POETRY. 


49 


tragedy  of  Bonduca,  its  British  subject  and 
its  native  iieroes  attach  our  hearts.  "We 
follow  Caractacus  to  battle  and  captivity 
with  a  proud  satisfaction  in  his  virtue.  The 
stubbornness  of  the  old  soldier  is  finely  tem- 
pered by  his  wise,  just,  and  candid  respect 
for  his  enemies  the  Romans,  and  by  his 
tender  affection  for  his  princely  ward.  He 
never  gives  way  to  sorrow  till  he  looks  on 
the  dead  body  of  his  nephew,  Hengo,  when 
he  thus  exclaims — 

Farewell  the  hopes  of  Britain  1 

Farewell  thou  royal  graft  for  ever  1    Time  and  Death, 
Ye  b&ve  done  your  worst.  Fortune,  now  see,  now  proudly 
Pluck  off  thy  veil,  and  view  thy  triumph. 

O  fair  flower. 

How  lovely  yet  thy  ruins  show — how  sweetly 
Ev'n  Death  embraces  thee  1    The  peace  of  heaven, 
The  fellowship  of  all  great  souls,  go  with  thee  1 

The  character  must  be  well  supported  which 
yields  a  sensation  of  triumph  in  the  act  of 
surrendering  to  victorious  enemies.  Carac- 
tacus does  not  need  to  tell  us,  that  when  a 
brave  man  has  done  his  duty,  he  cannot  be 
humbled  by  fortune — but  he  makes  us  feel 
it  in  his  behaviour.  The  few  brief  and  sim- 
ple sentences  which  he  utters  in  submitting 
to  the  Romans,  together  with  their  respect- 
ful behaviour  to  him,  give  a  sublime  com- 
posure to  his  appearance  in  the  closing 
scene. 

Dryden  praises  the  gentlemen  of  Beau- 
mont and  Fletcher  in  comedy  as  the  true 
men  of  fashion  of  "the  times."  It  was 
necessary  that  Dryden  should  call  them  the 
men  of  fashion  of  the  times,  for  they  are 

[*  Beaumont  and  Fletcher  seemed  to  have  followed 
Shakspeare's  mode  of  composition,  rather  than  Jonson's. 
They  may,  indeed,  be  rather  said  to  hare  taken  for  their 
model  the  boundless  license  of  the  Spanish  stage,  from 
which  many  of  their  pieces  are  expressly  and  avowedly 
derived.  The  acts  of  their  plays  are  so  detached  from 
each  other,  in  substance  and  consistency,  that  the  plot 
can  scarce  be  said  to  hang  together  at  all,  or  to  have,  in 
any  sen«e  of  the  word,  a  beginning,  progress,  and  con- 
clusion. It  seems  as  if  the  play  began  bei-ause  the  cur- 
tain rose,  and  ended  because  it  felL — Sir  Waltsb  ScoTt; 
Misc.  Pnue  Works,  vol.  vi.  p.  343. 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher's  plots  are  wholly  inartificial ; 
tbey  only  oare  to  pitch  a  character  into  a  position  to 
make  him  or  her  talk;  you  must  swallow  all  their  groas 
improbabilities,  and,  taking  it  all  for  granted,  attend 
•nly  to  the  dialogue. — Oolebidoe,  IhbU  Thik,  p.  200. 

Shakspeare  iiorrowed  his  plots,  Jonson  invented  his ; 
while  Beaumont  and  Fletcher  disregarded  a  story,  and 
relied  on  dialogue  and  situation.  What  they  sought, 
they  achieved.  You  could  not  publish  taUt  from  their 
plays,  but  scenes  and  incidents  of  truth  and  beauty  with- 
out number.  Where  had  they  stood,  with  plots  like 
ehakspeare?  Not  above  Shakspeare,  certainly,  but 
above  Ben  Jonson,  not  as  now  aMnredly  below,  though 
the  next. 

7 


not  in  the  highest  sense  of  the  word  gentle- 
men. Shirley's  comic  characters  have  much 
more  of  the  conversation  and  polite  man- 
ners, which  we  should  suppose  to  belong  tc 
superior  life  in  all  ages  and  countries.  The 
genteel  characters  of  Fletcher  form  a  nar- 
rower class,  and  exhibit  a  more  particular 
image  of  their  times  and  country.  But 
their  comic  personages,  after  all,  are  a 
spirited  race.  In  one  province  of  the  face- 
tious drama  they  set  the  earliest  example ; 
witness  their  humorous  mock-heroic  come- 
dy. The  Knight  of  the  Burning  Pestle.* 

The  memory  of  Ford  has  been  deservedly 
revived  as  one  of  the  ornaments  of  our  an- 
cient drama ;  though  he  has  no  great  body 
of  poetry,  and  has  interested  us  in  no  other 
passion  except  that  of  love ;  but  in  that  he 
displays  a  peculiar  depth  and  delicacy  of 
romantic  feeling.f  Webster  has  a  gloomy 
force  of  imagination,  not  unmixed  with  the 
beautiful  and  pathetic.  But  it  is  "  beauty 
in  the  lap  of  horror:"  he  caricatures  the 
shapes  of  terror,  and  his  Pegasus  is  like  a 
nightmare-  Middleton,t  Marston,  Thomas 
Heywood,  Decker,  and  Chapman,  also  pre- 
sent subordinate  claims  to  remembrance  in 
that  fertile  period  of  the  drama. 

Shirley  was  the  last  of  our  good  old  dra- 
matists. When  his  works  shall  be  given  to 
the  public,  they  will  undoubtedly  enrich 
our  popular  literature.^  His  language 
sparkles  with  the  most  exquisite  images. 
Keeping  some  occasional  pruriences  apart, 
the  fault  of  his  age  rather  than  of  himself, 

What  Ibm  Jones  is  among  our  novels,  The  Fax  and  2A< 
Alchemist  are  among  our  dramas. — C.] 

[f  Mr.  Campbell  observes,  that  Ford  interests  us  in  no 
other  passion  than  that  of  Ume ;  "  in  which  he  displays  a 
peculiar  depth  and  delicacy  of  romantic  feeling."  Com- 
paratively speaking,  this  may  be  admitted ;  but  in  justice 
to  the  poet,  it  should  be  added  that  be  was  not  insensibl* 
to  the  power  of  friendship,  and  in  more  than  one  of  hia 
dramas  has  delineated  it  with  a  master  hand.  Had  the 
critic  forgotten  the  noble  Dalyell  7  the  generous  and  de- 
voted Halfato?  Mr. Campbell,  however,  terms  him  "one 
of  the  ornaments  of  our  ancient  drama." — Qifford^ 
Pard,  p.  xl.— C.] 

X  Middleton's  hags,  in  the  tragi-comedy  of  The  Witch, 
were  conjectured  by  Mr.  Steevens  to  have  given  the  hint 
to  Shakspeare  of  bis  witches  in  Macbeth.  It  has  been 
repeatedly  remarked,  however,  that  the  resemblance 
scarcely  extends  beyond  a  few  forms  of  incantation.  The 
hags  of  Middletou  are  merely  mischievous  old  women, 
those  of  Shakspeare  influence  the  elements  of  nature 
and  the  destinies  of  man. 

[J  They  have  been  since  published  in  six  volumes  oe- 
tavo,  the  plays  with  notes  by  Qifford,  the  poem<  and 
memoirs  by  Mr.  Dyce. — 0.] 


50 


ENGLISH  POETRY. 


he  speaks  the  most  polished  and  refined 
dialect  of  the  stage;  and  even  some  of  his 
over-heightened  scenes  of  voluptuousness 
are  meant,  though  with  a  very  mistaken 
judgment,  to  inculcate  morality,*  I  con- 
sider his  genius,  indeed,  as  rather  brilliant 
and  elegant  than  strong  or  lofty.  His  tra- 
gedies are  defective  in  fire,  grandeur,  and 
passion;  and  we  must  select  his  comedies, 
to  have  any  favourable  idea  of  his  humour. 
His  finest  poetry  comes  forth  in  situations 
rather  more  familiar  than  tragedy  and  more 
grave  than  comedy,  which  I  should  call 
sentimental  comedy,  if  the  name  were  not 
associated  with  ideas  of  modern  insipidity. 
That  he  was  capable,  however,  of  pure  and 
excellent  comedy  will  be  felt  by  those  who 
have  yet  in  reserve  the  amusement  of  read- 
ing his  Gamester,  Hyde-park,  and  Lady  of 
Pleasure.  In  the  first  and  last  of  these 
there  is  a  suljtle  ingenuity  in  producing 
comic  efiect  and  surprise,  which  might  be 
termed  Attic,  if  it  did  not  surpass  any 
thing  that  is  left  us  in  Athenian  comedy. 

I  shall  leave  to  others  the  more  special 
enumeration  of  his  faults,  only  observing, 
that  the  airy  touches  of  his  expression,  the 
delicacy  of  his  sentiments,  and  the  beauty 
of  his  similes,  are  often  found  where  the 
poet  survives  the  dramatist,  and  where  he 
has  not  power  to  transfuse  life  and  strong 
individuality  through  the  numerous  charac- 
ters of  his  voluminous  drama.  His  style, 
to  use  a  line  of  his  own,  is  "  studded  like 
a  frosty  night  with  stars;"  and  a  severe 
critic  might  say,  that  the  stars  often  shine 
when  the  atmosphere  is  rather  too  frosty. 
In  other  words,  there  is  more  beauty  of 
fancy  than  strength  of  feeling  in  his  works. 
From  this  remark,  however,  a  defender  of 
his  fame  might  justly  appeal  to  exceptions 
in  many  of  his  pieces.  From  a  general 
impression  of  his  works  I  should  not  paint 
his  Muse  with  the  haughty  form  and  fea- 
tures of  inspiration,  but  with  a  countenance, 
in  its  happy  moments,  arch,  lovely,  and 
interesting  both  in  smiles  and  in  tears ; 
crowned  with  flowers,  and  not  unindebted 
to  ornament,  but  wearing  the  drapery  and 

*  The  scene  in  Shirley's  LoTe'8  Cruelty,  for  example, 
between  Hippolito  and  the  object  of  his  admiration,  Act  4, 
scene  i.,  and  another  in  The  Grateful  Servant,  between 
Belinda  and  Lodwick.  Seyeral  more  might  be  mentioned. 

[t  Mr.  Campbell  has  been  too  kind  to  Shirley,  whose 
merits  are  exaggerated  by  the  length  and  frequency  of 
bis  quotations  from  him.    The  reader  who  will  turn  to 


chaplet  with  a  claim  to  them  from  natural 
beauty.  Of  his  style  I  subjoin  one  or  two 
more  examples,  lest  I  may  not  have  done 
justice  to  him  in  that  respect  in  the  body 
of  the  work.f 

FROM    "  THE   GRATEFUL   SERVANT." 

0L£ONA  INFORMED  BT  THE  PAOE  DDLCINO  OF  FOSCARI,  WHOM 
SHE   BAD   THOUOHT  DEAD,    BEINO   8TUX  AUTE. 

CUona.     The  day    breaks  glorions  to  my  darken'd 
thoughts. 
He  lives,  he  lives  yet  I  cease,  ye  amorous  fears, 
More  to  perplex  me.    Prithee  speak,  sweet  youth : 
How  fares  my  lord  ?    Upon  my  virgin  heart 
I'll  build  a  flaming  altar,  to  offer  up 
A  thankful  sacrifice  for  his  return 
To  life  and  me.    Speak,  and  increase  my  comforts. 
Is  he  in  perfect  health  ? 

Dulcino.  Not  perfect,  madam. 

Until  you  bless  him  with  the  knowledge  of 
Your  constancy. — 

Clean.  O  get  thee  wings  and  fly  then: 

Tell  him  my  love  doth  bum  like  vestal  fire. 
Which  with  his  memory,  richer  than  all  spices, 
Dispersed  odours  round  about  my  soul, 
And  did  refresh  it,  when  'twas  dull  and  sad, 

With  thinking  of  his  absence 

Yet  stey. 

Thou  goest  away  too  soon ;  where  is  he  ?  speak. 

Dul.    He  gave  me  no  commission  for  that,  lady; 
He  will  soon  save  that  question  by  his  presence. 

OUon.  Time  has  no  feathers — ^he  walks  now  on  crutches. 
Relate  his  gestures  when  he  gave  thee  this. 
What  other  words  ? — Did  mirth  smile  on  his  brow  ? 
I  would  not,  for  the  wealth  of  this  great  world, 
He  should  suspect  my  faith.    What  said  he,  prithee? 

Dul.    He  said  what  a  warm  lover,  when  desire 
Makes  eloquent,  could  speak — ^he  said  you  were 
Both  star  and  pilot. 

CUon.    The  sun's  loved  flower,  that  shuts  his  yellow 
curtain 
When  he  declineth,  opens  it  again 
At  his  fair  rising :  with  my  parting  lord 
I  closed  all  my  delight — till  bis  approach 
It  shall  not  spread  itself. 


FROM    THE   SAME. 

rOSCARI,   IN   HIS  KELANCHOLT,   ANNODNCINS  TO  FATHER 
TALEMTIO  HIS  RESOLUTION  TO  BECOME  A  HONK. 

Ihscari.    There  is  a  sun,  ten  times  more  glorious 
Than  that  which  rises  in  the  east,  attracts  me 
To  feed  upon  his  sweet  beams,  and  become 
A  bird  of  Paradise,  a  religious  man. 
To  rise  from  earth,  and  no  more  to  turn  b«ck 
But  for  a  burial. 

Valentio.    My  lord,  the  truth  is,  like  your  coat  of  anii% 
Richest  when  plainest.    I  do  fear  the  world 
Hath  tired  you,  and  you  seek  a  cell  to  rest  in ; 
As  birds  that  wing  it  o'er  the  sea  seek  ships 
Till  they  get  breath,  and  then  they  fly  away. 

Shirley's  six  volumes,  and  seek  there  for  a  succession  ol 
such  passages  as  Mr.  Campbell  has  here  given,  for  happi- 
ness of  plot,  dialogue,  and  language,  is  certain  only  of 
disappointment.  In  endeavouring  to  atone  for  the  in- 
justice of  one  age.  another  is  apt  to  overleap  the  mark, 
and  to  err  as  far  in  the  other  way.  Shirley  shines  in 
extract — in  passages— not  in  plays,  or  even  in  scenes.— <!.] 


ENGLISH  POETRY. 


51 


FROM  "THE  TRAITOR." 

THB  SDKI  OF  rLO&ENOS  TO  HIS  MUKDERER,   LORENZO. 

*        *        •      For  thee,  inhuman  murderer,  expect 

My  blood  shall  fly  to  heaven,  and  there  inflamed, 

Hang  a  prodigious  meteor  all  thy  life: 

And  when,  by  some  as  bloody  hand  as  thine, 

Thy  Boul  is  ebbing  forth,  it  shall  descend, 

In  flaming  drops,  upon  thee.    O!  I  faint  I 

Thou  flattering  world,  farewell.     Let  princes  gather 

My  dust  into  a  glass,  and  learn  to  spend 

Their  hour  of  state — that's  all  they  have — for  when 

That's  out,  Time  never  turns  the  glass  again. 


FROM  THE  SAME. 

•       •      When  our  souls  shall  leave  this  dwelling. 
The.  glory  of  one  fair  and  virtuous  action 
Is  ibove  all  the  scutcheons  on  our  tomb, 
Or  silken  banners  over  us. 


FROM  THE  COMEDY  OF  "THE  BROTHERS." 

FERNANDO  DE8CRIBIN0  BIS  MISTRESS  TO  FRANCISCO. 

Fkm.    You  have,  then,  a  mistress. 

And  thrive  upon  her  favours but  thou  art 

My  brother;  I'll  deliver  thee  a  secret: 
I  was  at  St.  Sebastian's,  last  Sunday, 
At  vespers. 

Fran.    Is  it  a  secret  that  you  went  to  church  1 
You  need  not  blush  to  tell't  your  ghostly  father. 

tkm.    I  prithee  leave  thy  impertinence :  there  I  saw 
So  sweet  a  face,  so  harmless,  so  intent 
Upon  her  prayers;  it  frosted  my  devotion 
To  gaze  upon  her,  till  by  degrees  I  took 
Her  fair  idea,  through  my  covetous  eyes, 
Into  my  heart,  and  know  not  how  to  ease 
It  since  of  the  impression. 


Her  eye  did  seem  to  labour  with  a  tear, 
Which  suddenly  took  birth,  but  overwetgh'd 
With  Its  own  swelling,  dmpp'd  upon  her  bosom, 
Which,  by  reflection  of  her  light,  appear'd 
As  nature  meant  her  sorrow  for  an  ornament. 
After,  her  looks  grew  cheerful,  and  I  saw 
A  smile  shoot  graceful  upwanl  from  her  eyes, 
As  if  they  had  gain'd  a  victory  over  grief; 
And  with  it  many  beams  twisted  themselves, 
Uiion  whose  golden  threads  the  angels  walk 
To  and  again  from  heaven.* 

[*  The  citation  of  this  beautiful  passage  by  Dr.  Farmer 
in  his  Etsay  on  the  Learning  of  Sha^  spear e,  17(56.  may  be 
regarded  as  one  of  the  earliest  attempts  to  rescue  the 
works  of  Shirley  tram  the  long  oblivion  to  which  they 
bad  been  consigned.— Dtce's  Shirley,  vol.  I.  p.  xi.] 

[fin  Mac  Flecknoe.  "  The  critical  decisions  of  Dryden," 
says  Dyce,  "however  unjust,  had  no  slight  influence  on 
the  public  mind."] 

[JThat  Dryden  at  any  time  undervalued  Otway,  we 
have  no  very  positive  proof— a  coffee-house  criticism  re- 
tailed, though  the  n-tniler  was  Otway  himself,  at  second- 
band.    The  play  that  Dryden  is  said  to  have  spoken  p«- 


The  contempt  which  Dryden  expresses  for 
Shirley  t  might  surprise  us,  if  it  were  not 
recollected  that  he  lived  in  a  degenerate  age 
of  dramatic  taste,  And  that  his  critical  sen- 
tences were  neither  infallible  nor  immutable, 
lie  at  one  time  undervalued  Otway,  though 
he  lived  to  alter  his  opinion.  J 

The  civil  wars  put  an  end  to  this  dynasty 
of  our  dramatic  poets.  Their  immediate  suc- 
cessors or  contemporaries,  belonging  to  the 
reign  of  Charles  I.,  mafly  of  whom  resumed 
their  lyres  after  the  interregnum,  may,  in  a 
general  view,  be  divided  into  the  classical 
and  metaphysical  schools.  The  former  class, 
containing  Denham,  Waller,  and  Carew,  upon 
the  whole  cultivated  smooth  and  distinct  me- 
lody of  numbers,  correctness  of  imagery,  and 
polished  elegance  of  expression.  The  latter, 
in  which  Herrick  and  Cowley  stood  at  the 
head  of  Donne's  metaphysical  followers,  were 
generally  loose  or  rugged  in  their  versifica- 
tion, and  preposterous  in  their  metaphors. 
But  this  distinction  can  only  be  drawn  in  very 
general  terms ;  for  CoWley,  the  prince  of  the 
metaphysicians,  has  bursts  of  natural  feeling 
and  just  thoughts  in  the  midst  of  his  absur- 
dities. And  Herrick,  who  is  equally  whim- 
sical, has  left  some  little  gems  of  highly- 
finished  composition.  Oa  the  other  hand,  the 
correct  Waller  is  sometimes  mataphysical ; 
and  ridiculous  hyperboles  are  to  be  found  in 
the  elegant  style  of  Carew. 

The  characters  of  Denham,  Waller,  and 
Cowley  have  been  often  described.  Had 
Cowley  written  nothing  but  his  prose,  it 
would  have  stamped  him  a  man  of  genius,  and 
an  improver  of  our  language.  Of  his  poetry, 
Rochester  indecorously  said,  that "  not  being 
of  God,  it  could  not  stand."|  Had  the  word 
nature  been  substituted,  it  would  have  equally 
conveyed  the  intended  meaning,  but  still  that 
meaning  would  not  have  been  strictly  just. || 
There  is  much  in  Cowley  that  will  stand.  He 
teems,  in  many  places,  with  the  imagery,  the 
feeling,  the  grace  and  gayety  of  a  poet.  No- 

tulantly  and  disparagingly  about,  was  Don  Carin$.  The 
Orphan  and  Venice  Piaerved  were  of  a  lat<>r  date,  and 
Justified  Dryden 's  firm  conviction,  that  Otway  pos-^e^Sfd 
the  art  of  expressing  the  pa-ssions  and  emotions  of  the 
mind  as  thoroughly  as  any  of  the  ancients  or  modi-rns. 
Dim  Oirlot  gives  no  promise  of  The  Orphan,  or  of  Venice 
Preserved.] 

[{Told  on  the  authority  of  Dryden.    {Muloru,  vol.  iv 
p.  612.)   Yet  Burnet.  Joseph  Warton,  and  Johnson  speak 
of  Cowley  as  UochesU^r's  favourite  author.] 
[II  Nature  is  but  a  name  for  an  effect.] 
Whose  cause  is  Uod. — Cowper,  TTie  Task,  B.Ti] 


b2 


ENGLISH  POETRY, 


thing  but  a  severer  judgment  was  wanting  to 
collect  the  scattered  lights  of  his  fancy.  His 
unnatural  flights  arose  less  from  affecta- 
tion than  self-deception.  He  cherished  false 
thoughts  as  men  often  associate  with  false 
friends,  not  from  insensibility  to  the  differ- 
ence between  truth  and  falsehood,  but  from 
being  too  indolent  to  examine  the  difference. 
Herrick,  if  we  were  to  fix  our  eyes  on  a  small 
portion  of  his  works,  might  be  pronounced 
a  writer  of  delightful  Anacreontic  spirit.  He 
has  passages  where  the  thoughts  seem  to 
dance  into  numbers  from  his  very  heart,  and 
where  he  frolics  like  a  being  made  up  of 
melody  and  pleasure ;  as  when  he  sings — 

Gather  ye  rose-buds  while  ye  may, 

Old  Time  is  still  a  flying; 
And  this  same  flower  that  blooms  to-day. 

To-morrow  will  be  dying. 

In  the  same  spirit  are  his  verses  to  Anthea, 
concluding — 

Thou  art  my  life,  my  lore,  my  heart. 

The  very  eyes  of  me ; 
And  hast  rommand  of  every  part, 

To  live  and  die  for  thee. 

^■ 

But  his  beauties  are  so  deeply  involved  in 
surrounding  coarseness  and  extravagance,  as 
to  constitute  not  a  tenth  part  of  his  poetry  ; 
or  rather  it  may  be  safely  affirmed,  that  of 
1400  pages  of  verse  which  he  has  left,  not  a 
hundred  are  worth  reading. 

In  Milton  there  may  be  traced  obligations 
to  several  minor  English  poets  ;  but  his  ge- 
nius had  too  great  a  supremacy  to  belong  to 
any  school.  Though  he  acknowledged  a  filial 
reverence  for  Spenser  as  a  poet,  he  left  no 
Gothic  irregular  tracery  in  the  design  of  his 
own  great  work,  but  gave  a  classical  harmony 
of  parts  to  its  stupendous  pile.  It  thus  re- 
sembles a  dome,  the  vastness  of  which  is  at 
first  sight  concealed  by  its  symmetry,  but 
which  expands  more  and  more  to  the  eye 
while  it  is  contemplated.  Ilis  early  poetry 
seems  to  have  neither  disturbed  nor  corrected 
the  oad  taste  of  his  age.  Comus  came  into 
the  world  unacknowledged  by  its  author,  and 
Lycidas  appeared  at  first  only  with  his  ini- 

[*  Comus,  1637— Lycidas,  163S.] 

[tl673.] 

[J  ?e«  note  B.  at  the  end  of  the  volume.] 

[g  There  is  asolfmnity  of  sentiment,  as  well  as  majesty 
of  numbers.  In  the  exordium  of  this  noblf  poem,  which 

\n  tlie  worlds  of  the  ancients  has  no  example We 

cannot  read  this  exonlium  without  percfivinp  that  the 
author  possesses  more  fire  than  be  shows.  There  is  a  sup- 


tials.*  These  and  other  exquisite  pieces,  com* 
posed  in  the  happiest  years  of  his  life,  at  his 
father's  country-house  at  Horton,  were  col- 
lectively published,  with  his  name  affixed 
to  them,  in  1645  ;  but  that  precious  volume 
which  included  L' Allegro  and  II  Penseroso, 
did  not  come  to  a  second  edition,  till  it  was 
republished  by  himself  at  the  distance  of 
eight-and-twenty  years.f  Almost  a  century 
elapsed  before  his  minor  works  obtained 
their  proper  fame.  Handel's  music  is  said, 
by  Dr.  Warton,  to  have  drawn  the  first  at- 
tention to  them ;  but  they  must  have  been 
admired  before  Handel  set  them  to  music ; 
for  he  was  assuredly  not  the  first  to  discover 
their  beauty.  But  of  Milton's  poetry  being 
above  the  comprehension  of  his  age,  we 
should  have  a  sufficient  proof,  if  we  had  no 
other,  in  the  grave  remark  of  Lord  Claren- 
don, that  Cowley  had,  in  his  time,  "taken  a 
flight  above  all  men  in  poetry.  Even  when 
"  Paradise  Lost"  appeared,  though  it  was  not 
neglected,  it  attracted  no  crowd  of  imitators 
and  made  no  visible  change  in  the  poetical 
practice  of  the  age.J  He  stood  alone  and 
aloof  above  his  times,  the  bard  of  immortal 
subjects,  and,  as  far  as  there  is  perpetuity 
in  language,  of  immortal  fame.  The  very 
choice  of  those  subjects  bespoke  a  contempt 
for  any  species  of  excellence  that  was  attain- 
able by  other  men.  There  is  something  that 
overawes  the  mind  in  conceiving  his  long 
deliberated  selection  of  that  theme — his  at- 
tempting it  when  his  eyes  were  shut  upon  the 
face  of  nature — his  dependence,  we  might 
almost  say,  on  supernatural  inspiration,  and 
in  the  calm  air  of  strength  with  which  he 
opens  "Paradise  Lost,"  beginning  a  mighty 
performance  without  the  appearance  of  an 
effort.^  Taking  the  subject  all  in  all,  his 
powers  could  nowhere  else  have  enjoyed  the 
same  scope.  It  was  only  from  the  height  of 
this  great  argument  that  he  could  look  back 
upon  eternity  past,  and  forward  upon  eter- 
nity to  come  ;  that  he  could  survey  the  abyss 
of  infernal  darkness,  open  visions  of  Para- 
dise, or  ascend  to  heaven  and  breathe  em- 
pyreal air.  Still  the  subject  had  precipitous 

pressed  forw  in  it.  the  effect  of  judgment.  His  judgment 
controls  his  genius,  and  his  genius  reminds  us  (to  use  his 
own  beautiful  similitude)  of 

A  proud  steed  rein'd. 
Champing  his  iron  curb. 
He  addresses  himself  to  the  performance  of  great  things, 
but  makes  no  great  exertion  in  doing  it;  a  sure  symptom 
of  uncommon  vigour. — Cowpbr,  Oammentary.^ 


ENGLISH  POETRY. 


68 


diflBculties.  It  obliged  him  to  relinquish  the 
warm,  multifiirious  interests  of  human  life. 
For  these  indeed  he  could  substitute  holier 
things  ;  but  a  more  insuperable  objection  to 
the  theme  was,  that  it  involved  the  repre- 
sentation of  a  war  between  the  Almighty  and 
his  created  beings.  To  the  vicissitudes  of 
such  a  warfare  it  was  impossible  to  make  us 
attach  the  same  fluctuations  of  hope  and  fear, 
the  same  curiosity,  suspense,  and  sympathy, 
which  we  feel  amidst  the  battles  of  the  Iliad, 
and  which  make  every  brave  young  spirit 
long  to  be  in  the  midst  of  them. 

Milton  has  certainly  triumphed  over  one 
difficulty  of  his  subject,  the  paucity  and  the 
loneliness  of  its  human  agents  ;  for  no  one  in 
contemplating  the  garden  of  Eden  would 
■wish  to  exchange  it  for  a  more  populous 
world.  His  earthly  pair  could  only  be  re- 
presented, during  their  innocence,  as  beings 
of  simple  enjoyment  and  negative  virtue, 
with  no  other  passions  than  the  fear  of 
heaven  and  the  love  of  each  other.  Yet 
from  these  materials  what  a  picture  has  he 
drawn  of  their  homage  to  the  Deity,  their 
mutual  affection,  and  the  horrors  of  their 
alienation!  By  concentrating  all  exquisite 
ideas  of  external  nature  in  the  representa- 
tion of  their  abode — by  conveying  an  in- 
spired impression  of  their  spirits  and  forms, 
while  they  first  shone  under  the  fresh  light 
of  creative  heaven — by  these  powers  of  de- 
scription, he  links  our  first  parents,  in  har- 
monious subordination,  to  the  angelic  na- 
tures— he  supports  them  in  the  balance  of 
poetical  importance  with  their  divine  coad- 
jutors and  enemies,  and  makes  them  appear 
at  once  worthy  of  the  friendship  and  envy 
of  gods. 

In  the  angelic  warfare  of  the  poem,  Mil- 
ton has  done  whatever  human  genius  could 
accomplish.  But,  although  Satan  speaks 
of  having  "  put  to  proof  his  (Maker's)  high 
supremacy,  in  dubious  battle,  on  the  plains 
of  heaven,"  the  expression,  though  finely 
characteristic  of  his  blasphemous  pride,  does 
not  prevent  us  from  feeling  that  the  battle 
cannot  for  a  moment  be  dubious.  Whilst 
the  powers  of  description  and  language  are 


[•  Book  t1.  1. 712.  The  hme  and  moord  of  the  Almighty 
•re  copied  from  the  Psalms  vii.  and  xIt.] 

[+  In  this  line  we  seem  to  hear  a  thunder  suited  both 
to  the  scene  and  the  occai<ion,  incomparably  more  awful 
than  any  ever  heard  on  earth.  The  thunder  of  Milton  Is 
not  hurled  from  the  hand,  like  Homer's,  but  discharged 


taxed  and  exhausted  to  portray  the  combat, 
it  is  impossible  not  to  feel,  with  regard  to 
the  blessed  spirits,  a  profound  and  reposing 
security  that  they  have  neither  great  dangers 
to  fear  nor  reverses  to  suffer.  At  the  same 
time  it  must  be  said  that,  although  in  the  ac- 
tual contact  of  the  armies  the  inequality  of 
the  strife  becomes  strongly  visible  to  the 
imagination,  and  makes  it  a  contest  more  of 
noise  than  terror  ;  yet,  while  positive  action 
is  suspended,  there  is  a  warlike  grandeur  in 
the  poem,  which  is  nowhere  to  be  paralleled. 
When  Milton's  genius  dares  to  invest  the 
Almighty  himself  with  arms,  "  his  bow  and 
tlmnder,"  the  astonished  mind  admits  the 
image  with  a  momentary  credence.*  It  is 
otherwise  when  we  are  involved  in  the  cir- 
cumstantial details  of  the  campaign.  We 
have  then  leisure  to  anticipate  its  only  pos- 
sible issue,  and  can  feel  no  alarm  for  any 
temporary  check  that  may  be  given  to  those 
who  fight  under  the  banners  of  Omnipotence. 
The  warlike  part  of  Paradise  Lost  was  in- 
separable from  its  subject.  Whether  it  could 
have  been  difierently  managed,  is  a  problem 
which  our  reverence  for  Milton  will  scarcely 
permit  us  to  state.  I  feel  that  reverence  too 
strongly  to  suggest  even  the  possibility  that 
Milton  could  have  improved  his  poem  by 
having  thrown  his  angelic  warfare  into  more 
remote  perspective ;  but  it  seems  to  me  to  be 
most  sublime  when  it  is  least  distinctly 
brought  home  to  the  imagination.  What  an 
awful  effect  has  the  dim  and  undefined  con- 
ception of  the  conflict,  which  we  gather  from 
the  opening  of  the  first  book !  There  the 
veil  of  mystery  is  left  undrawn  between  us 
and  a  subject  which  the  powers  of  descrip- 
tion were  inadequate  to  exhibit.  The  mi- 
nisters of  divine  vengeance  and  pursuit  had 
been  recalled — the  thunders  had  ceased 

"  To  bellow  through  the  yast  and  boundless  deep," 
Far.  Lost,  Book  i.v.  177. 

(in  that  line  what  an  image  of  sound  and 
space  is  conveyed!)! — and  our  terrific  con- 
ception of  the  past  is  deepened  by  its  indis 
tinctness.J  In  optics  there  are  some  phe 
nomena  which  are  beautifully  deceptive  at 


like  an  arrow:  as  if  jealous  for  the  honour  of  a  trueOod, 
the  poet  disdained  to  arm  him  like  the  Ood  of  the  be^- 
then. — CowpER.] 

[t  Of  all  the  articles  of  which  the  dreadful  scenery  of 
Milton's  hell  consists.  Scripture  furnished  him  only  with 
a  lake  of  fire  and  brimstone.  Yet,  thus  slevderly  assisted 


o4 


ENGLISH  POETRY. 


a  certain  distance,  but  which  lose  their  illu- 
sive charm  on  the  slightest  approach  to  them 
that  changes  the  light  and  position  in  which 
they  are  viewed.  Something  like  this  takes 
place  in  the  phenomena  of  fancy.  The  ar- 
ray of  the  fallen  angels  in  hell — the  unfurl- 
ing of  the  standard  of  Satan — and  the  march 
of  his  troops 

"In  perfect  phalanx,  to  the  Dorian  mood 
Of  flutes  and  soft  recorders" — Book  i.  1.  550  ; 

all  this  human  pomp  and  circumstance  of 
war — is  magic  and  overwhelming  illusion. 
The  imagination  is  taken  by  surprise.  But 
the  noblest  efforts  of  language  are  tried  with 
very  unequal  effect  to  interest  us,  in  the  im- 
mediate and  close  view  of  the  battle  itself 
in  the  sixth  book  ;  and  the  martial  demons, 
who  charmed  us  in  the  shades  of  hell,  lose 
some  portion  of  their  sublimity  when  their 
artillery  is  discharged  in  the  daylight  of 
heaven. 

If  we  call  diction  the  garb  of  thought, 
Milton,  in  his  style,  may  be  said  to  wear  the 
costume  of  sovereignty.  The  idioms  even 
of  foreign  languages  contributed  to  adorn  it. 
He  was  the  most  learned  of  poets  ;  yet  his 
learning  interferes  not  with  his  substantial 
English  purity.*  His  simplicity  is  unim- 
paired by  glowing  ornament,  like  the  bush 
in  the  sacred  flame,  which  burnt,  but  "  was 
not  consumed." 

In  delineating  the  blessed  spirits,  Milton 
has  exhausted  all  the  conceivable  variety 
that  could  be  given  to  pictures  of  unshaded 
sanctity ;  but  it  is  chiefly  in  those  of  the 
fallen  angels  that  his  excellence  is  conspicu- 
ous above  every  thing  ancient  or  modern. 
Tasso  had,  indeed,  portrayed  an  infernal 
council,  and  had  given  the  hint  to  our  poet 
of  ascribing  the  origin  of  pagan  worship  to 
those  reprobate  spirits.  But  how  poor  and 
squalid  in  comparison  of  the  Miltonic  Pan- 
demonium are  the  Scyllas,  the  Cyclopses, 
and  the  Chimeras  of  the  Infernal  Council  of 
the  Jerusalem  !  Tasso's  conclave  of  fiends 
is  a  den  of  ugly,  incongruous  monsters. 

0  come  Btrane,  o  come  orribil  forme! 
Quant  &  negli  occhi  lor  terror,  e  mortet 


what  a  world  of  wo  has  he  constructed,  proved  in  this 
idni;le  instance,  the  most  creative  that  ever  poet  owned. — 

COWPER. 

The  plender  materials  for  ComuD  and  Paradise  Reirained 
are  alike  wonderful,  and  attest  the  truth  of  Gowper's 
remark.] 


Stampano  alcuni  11  suol  di  ferine  orme, 

E'n  fronte  umana  ban  chiome  d'  angui  attorto; 

E  lor  s'aggira  dietro  immensa  loda, 

Che  quasi  8ferza  si  ripiega,  e  snoda. 

Qui  mille  immonde  Arpie  vedresti,  e  mllle 

Centauri.  e  Sfingi,  e  pallid«  Gorgoni, 

Molte  6  molte  latrar  Torai^i  Scille 

E  flschiar  Idre,  e  sibilar  Pitoni, 

£  vomitar  Cbimere  atre  faville 

E  Polifemi  orrendi,  e  Gerioni, 

•         «         *         •         •         * 

La  Gerusalemme,  Canto  IT. 

The  powers  of  Milton's  hell  are  godlike 
shapes  and  forms.  Their  appearance  dwarfs 
every  other  poetical  conception,  when  we 
turn  our  dilated  eyes  from  contemplating 
them.  It  is  not  their  external  attributes 
alone  which  expand  the  imagination,  but 
their  souls,  which  are  as  colossal  as  their 
stature — their  "  thoughts  that  wander  through 
eternity" — the  pride  that  burns  amid  the 
ruins  of  their  divine  natures — and  their  ge- 
nius, that  feels  with  the  ardour  and  debates 
with  the  eloquence  of  heaven. 

The  subject  of  Paradise  Lost  was  the  origi^  f 
of  evil — an  era  in  existence — an  event  more 
than  all  others  dividing  past  from  future 
tinTfr^an  isthmus  in  the  ocean  of  eternity. 
The  theme  was  in  its  nature  connected  with 
every  thing  important  in  the  circumstances 
of  human  history ;  and  amid  these  circum- 
stances, Milton  saw  that  the  fables  of  pa- 
ganism were  too  important  and  poetical  to 
be  omitted.  As  a  Christian,  he  was  entitled 
wholly  to  neglect  them ;  but  as  a  poet,  he 
chose  to  treat  them,  not  as  dreams  of  the 
human  mind,  but  as  the  delusions  of  infernal 
existences.  Thus  anticipating  a  beautiful 
propriety  for  all  classical  allusions,  thus  con- 
necting and  reconciling  the  co-existence  of 
fable  and  of  truth,  and  thus  identifying  the 
fallen  angels  with  the  deities  of  "gfay  reli- 
gions, full  of  pomp  and  gold,"  he  yoked  thej  , 
heathen  mythology  in  triumph  to  his  sul/i 
ject,  and  clothed  himself  in  the  spoils  of  si^  ; 
perstition. 

One  eminent  production  of  wit,  namely, 
Hudibras,  may  be  said  to  have  sprung  out 
of  the  Restoration,  or  at  least  out  of  the  con- 
tempt of  fanaticism,  which  had  its  triumph 
in  that  event;  otherwise,  the  return  of  royalty 


[•  Our  most  learned  poets  were  classed  by  Joseph  War- 
ton,  a  very  competent  judge,  in  the  following  order : — 
1.  Milton;  2  Jonson ;  3  Gray;  4  Akenside.  Milton  and 
Gray  were  of  Cambridge,  Ben  Johnson  was  a  very  short 
time  there,  not  long  enough  however  to  catch  much  of 
the  learning  of  the  place ;  bat  Akenside  was  of  no  college 
— ^it  is  believed  self-taught.] 


ENGLISH  POETRY. 


55 


contributed  as  little  to  improve  the  taste  as 
the  morality  of  the  public.  The  drama  de- 
generated, owing,  as  we  are  generally  told,  to 
the  influence  of  French  literature,  although 
some  infection  from  the  Spanish  stage  might 
also  be  taken  into  the  account.  Sir  William 
Davenant,  who  presided  over  the  first  revival 
of  the  theatre,  was  a  man  of  cold  and  didactic 
spirit ;  he  created  an  era  in  the  machinery, 
costume,  and  ornaments  of  the  stage,  but  he 
was  only  fitted  to  be  its  mechanical  benefac- 
tor. Dryden,  M'ho  could  do  even  bad  things 
with  a  good  grace,  confirmed  the  taste  for 
rhyming  and  ranting  tragedy.  Two  beautiful 
plays  of  Otway  formed  an  exception  to  this 
degeneracy ;  but  Otway  was  cut  ofi"  in  the 
spring-tide  of  his  genius,  and  his  early  death 
was,  according  to  every  appearance,  a  heavy 
loss  to  our  drama.  It  has  been  alleged,  in- 
deed, in  the  present  day,  that  Otway's  imagi- 
nation showed  no  prognostics  of  great  future 
achievements ;  but  when  I  remember  Venice 
Preserved,  and  The  Orphan,  as  the  works  of 
a  man  of  thirty,  I  can  treat  this  opinion  no 
otherwise  than  to  dismiss  it  as  an  idle  asser- 
tion.* 

Baax'  idt^  olt^  ovttpt. 

During  the  last  thirty  years  of  the  seven- 
teenth century,  Dryden  was  seldom  long 
absent  from  the  view  of  the  public,  and  he 
alternately  swayed  and  humoured  its  pre- 


[*  The  talents  of  Otway,  in  his  scenes  of  passionate 
affection,  rival  at  least,  and  sometimes  excel,  those  of 
Shakspeare.  More  tears  have  been  shed,  probably,  for 
the  sorrows  of  Belvidera  and  Monimia,  than  for  those  of 
Juliet  and  Desdemona. — Sir  Walter  Scott,  Misc.  Prote 
Worki,  Tol.  Ti.  p.  356.] 

[f  Shakspeare  died  at  fifty-two.  The  average  probabi- 
lity of  life  is  twenty  years  beyond  that  age,  and  the  pro- 
bable endurance  of  the  human  faculties  in  their  vigour  is 
not  a  great  deal  shorter.  jChaueer  wrote  his  best  poetry 
after  he  was  sixty;  Dryden,  when  he  was  seventy.  Cowper 
was  also  late  in  his  poetical  maturity;  and  Young  never 
'  wrote  any  thing  that  could  be  called  poetry  till  he  was  a 
sexagenarian.  Sophocles  wrote  his  "  (Edipus  Coloneus" 
certainly  beyond  the  age  of  eighty.  But  the  pride  of 
England,  it  may  be  said,  died  in  the  prime  of  life. — 
Campbell,  Shakspeare,  8vo,  1833,  p.  Ixv.] 

[X  Cowley  and  Sylvester,  he  tells  us,  were  the  darling 
writers  of  his  youth;  and  that  Davenant  introduced  him 
to  the  folio  of  Shakspeare's  plays.  He  lived  long  enough 
to  dethrone  Sylvester,  to  lessen  his  esteem  for  Cowley, 
and  increase  his  predilection  for  Shaks|)eare; — his  tastt* 
was  betterini;  to  the  la.<<t — but  it  was  long  in  arriving  to 
maturity.  Like  Sir  Walter  Scott,  he  was  nearer  forty 
than  thirty  before  he  had  distinguished  himself — an  age 
at  which  both  Burns  and  Byron  were  in  their  graves.] 

[J  I  think  Dryden's  translations  from  Boccace  are  the 
Iwat.  at  least  the  most  poetical,  of  his  poems.    Bat  aa  a 


dilections.  Whatever  may  be  said  of  his  ac- 
commodating and  fluctuating  theories  of 
criticism,  his  perseverance  in  training  and 
disciplining  his  own  faculties  is  entitled  to 
much  admiration.  He  strengthened  his  mind 
by  action,  and  fertilized  it  by  production.  In 
his  old  age  he  renewed  his  youth  like  the 
eagle;  or  rather  his  genius  acquired  stronger 
wings  than  it  had  ever  spread.  He  rose  and 
fell,  it  is  true,  in  the  course  of  his  poetical 
career ;  but  upon  the  whole,  it  was  a  career 
of  improvement  to  the  very  last.f  Even  in 
the  drama,  which  was  not  his  natural  pro- 
vince, his  good  sense  came  at  last  so  far  in 
aid  of  his  deficient  sensibility,  that  he  gave 
up  his  system  of  rhyming  tragedy,  and  adopt- 
ed Shakspeare  (in  theory  at  least)  for  his 
model.  In  poetry  not  belonging  to  the  drama, 
he  was  at  first  an  admirer  of  Cowley,  then 
of  Davenant;  and  ultimately  he  acquired 
a  manner  above  the  peculiarities  of  either.  J 
The  Odes  and  Fables  of  his  latest  volume 
surpass  whatever  he  had  formerly  written.^ 
He  was  satirized  and  abused  as  well  as  ex- 
tolled by  his  contemporaries ;  but  his  genius 
was  neither  to  be  discouraged  by  the  seve- 
rity, nor  spoiled  by  the  favour  of  criticism. 
It  flourished  alike  in  the  sunshine  and  the 
storm,  and  its  fruits  improved  as  they  mul- 
tiplied in  profusion.  When  we  view  him  out 
of  the  walk  of  purely  original  composition, 
it  is  not  a  paradox,  that,  though  he  is  one 


poet,  he  is  no  great  favourite  of  mine.  I  admire  his  talent* 
and  genius  highly,  but  his  is  not  a  poetical  genius.  The 
only  qualities  I  can  find  in  Dryden  that  are  essentially 
poetical,  are  a  certain  ardour  and  impetuosity  of  mind, 
with  an  excellent  ear.  It  may  seem  strange  that  I  do  not 
add  to  this,  great  command  of  language:  that  be  certainly 
has,  and  of  such  language  too  as  it  is  desirable  that  a  poet 
should  possess,  or  rather  that  he  should  not  be  without. 
But  it  is  not  langusLge  that  is,  in  the  highest  .«ense  of  the 
word,  poetical,  being  neither  of  the  imagination  nor  of 
the  passions;  I  mean  the  amiable,  the  ennobling,  or  the 
intense  passions.  I  do  not  mean  to  say  that  there  is 
nothing  of  this  in  Dryden,  but  as  little  I  think  as  is  pos- 
sible, considering  how  much  he  has  written.  You  will 
easily  understand  my  meaning,  when  I  refer  to  his  versi- 
fication of  Palamon  and  Arcite,  as  contrasted  with  the 
language  of  Chaucer.  Dryden  had  neither  a  tender 
heart  nor  a  lofty  sense  of  moral  dignity.  Whenever  his 
language  is  poetically  impassioned,  it  is  mostly  upon  un- 
pleasing  subjects,  such  as  the  follies,  vices,  and  crimes 
of  classes  of  men  or  of  individuaJs.  That  his  cannot  be 
the  language  of  imagination  must  have  necessarily  fol- 
lowed from  this. — that  there  is  not  a  single  image  from 
nature  in  the  whole  body  of  his  works;  and  in  his  trans> 
lation  from  Virgil,  wherever  Virgil  can  be  fairly  said  to 
have  his  eye  upon  his  otiject,  Dryden  always  spoils  the 
passage.  His  love  is  nothing  but  sensuality  and  appetite, 
he  had  no  other  notion  of  the  passion. — WoRDdWORTH— 
LockarttLife<ifSoott,Tol.a.p.^;  tce^fd.] 


66 


ENGLISH  POETRY. 


of  the  greatest  artists  in  language,  and 
perhaps  the  greatest  of  English  translators, 
be  nevertheless  attempted  one  task  in  which 
his  failure  is  at  least  as  conspicuous  as  his 
success.  But  that  task  was  the  translation 
of  Virgil.  And  it  is  not  lenity,  but  absolute 
justice,  that  requires  us  to  make  a  very  large 
and  liberal  allowance  for  whatever  deficien- 
cies he  may  show  in  transfusing  into  a  lan- 
guage less  harmonious  and  flexible  than  the 
Latin,  the  sense  of  that  poet,  who  in  the  his- 
tory of  the  world,  has  had  no  rival  in  beauty 
of  expression.  Dryden  renovates  Chaucer's 
thoughts,*  and  fills  up  Boccaccio's  narrative 
outline  with  many  improving  touches :  and 
though  paraphrase  suited  his  free  spirit  bet- 
ter than  translation,  yet  even  in  versions  of 
Horace  and  Juvenal  he  seizes  the  classical 
character  of  Latin  poetry  with  a  boldness 
and  dexterity  which  are  all  his  own.  But  it 
was  easier  for  him  to  emulate  the  strength 
of  Juvenal  than  the  serene  majesty  of  Virgil. 
His  translation  of  Virgil  is  certainly  an  in- 
adequate representation  of  the  Roman  poet. 
It  is  often  bold  and  graceful,  and  generally 
idiomatic  and  easy.  But  though  the  spirit 
of  the  original  is  not  lost,  it  is  sadly  and  un- 
equally difi'used.  Nor  is  it  only  in  the  magic 
of  words,  in  the  exquisite  structure  and  rich 
economy  of  expression,  that  Dryden  (as  we 
might  expect)  falls  beneath  Virgil,  but  we 
too  often  feel  the  inequality  of  his  vital  sen- 
sibility as  a  poet.  Too  frequently,  when  the 
Roman  classic  touches  the  heart,  or  imbodies 
to  our  fancy  those  noble  images  to  which 
nothing  could  be  added,  and  from  which 
nothing  can  be  taken  away,  we  are  sensible 
of  the  distance  between  Dryden's  talent  and 
Virgil's  inspiration.  One  passage  out  of 
many,  the  representation  of  Jupiter,  in  the 
first  book  of  the  Georgics,  may  show  this 
iifference. 

GEORGICS,  lib.  5. 1.328. 

Ipse  Pater,  medi&  Dimborum  in  nocte,  comsca 
Fulmlna  molitur  dextrfi :  quo  maxima  motu 
Terra  tremit,  fugere  ferae,  et  mortalia  corda 
Per  gentes  humillg  stravit  payor 


[♦  True  It  is,  however,  that  Chaucer  evaporated  In  his 
hands — and  that  he  did  greater  justice  to  himself  than 
to  his  original — that  his  Tales  are  rather  imitations  or 
adaptations  than  renovations  or  translations — that  he 
missed  his  pathos  and  description.  With  Boccaccio  he 
succeeded  better— prose  he  turned  into  poetry— but  what 
was  poetry  at  the  first  gained  from  him  no  additional 
graces.] 


The  father  of  the  Qods  his  glory  shrouds, 
Involved  in  tempests  and  a  night  of  clouds. 
And  from  the  middle  darkness  flashing  out, 
By  fits  he  deals  his  fiery  bolts  about. 
Earth  feels  the  motion  of  her  angry  God, 
Her  entrails  treml)le,  and  her  mountains  nod, 
And  flying  beasts  in  forests  seek  abode : 
Deep  horror  seizes  every  human  breast. 
Their  pride  is  humbled  and  their  fear  confessed. 

Virgil's  three  lines  and  a  half  might  challenge 
the  most  sublime  pencil  of  Italy  to  the  same 
subject.  His  words  are  no  sooner  read  than, 
with  the  rapidity  of  light,  they  collect  a  pic- 
ture before  the  mind  which  stands  confessed 
in  all  its  parts.  There  is  no  interval  between 
the  objects  as  they  are  presented  to  our  per- 
ception. At  one  and  the  same  moment  we 
behold  the  form,  the  uplifted  arm,  and  daz- 
zling thunderbolts  of  Jove,  amidst  a  night 
of  clouds; — the  earth  trembling,  and  the 
wild  beasts  scudding  for  shelter— ;/M5'ere — 
they  have  vanished  while  the  poet  describes 
them,  and  we  feel  that  mortal  hearts  are  laid 
prostrate  with  fear,  throughout  the  nation. 
Dryden,  in  the  translation,  has  done  his  best, 
and  some  of  his  lines  roll  on  with  spirit  and 
dignity,  but  the  whole  description  is  a  pro- 
cess rather  than  a  picture — the  instantane- 
ous effect,  the  electric  unity  of  the  original, 
is  lost.  Jupiter  has  leisure  to  deal  out  his 
fiery  bolts  by  fits,  while  the  entrails  of  the 
earth  shake  and  her  mountains  nod,  and 
the  flying  beasts  have  time  to  look  out 
very  quietly  for  lodgings  in  the  forest.  The 
weakness  of  the  two  last  lines,  which  stand 
for  the  weighty  words,  "  Mortalia  corda  per 
gentes  humilis  stravit  pavor,"  need  not  be 
pointed  out. 

I  cannot  quote  this  passage  without  recur- 
ring to  the  recollection,  already  suggested, 
that  it  was  Virgil  with  whom  the  English 
translator  had  to  contend.  Dryden's  ad- 
mirers might  undoubtedly  quote  many  pas- 
sages much  more  in  his  favour;  and  one 
passage  occurs  to  me  as  a  striking  example 
of  his  felicity.  In  the  following  lines  (with 
the  exception  of  one)  we  recognise  a  great 
poet,  and  can  scarcely  acknowledge  that  he 
is  translating  a  greater.f 


[t  He  who  sits  down  to  Dryden's  translation  of  Virgil, 
with  the  original  text  spread  before  him,  will  be  at  no 
loss  to  point  out  many  passages  that  are  faulty,  many 
indifferently  understood,  many  Imperfectly  translated, 
some  in  which  di.^nity  is  lost,  others  in  which  )>omba.st  is 
substituted  in  its  stead.  But  the  unabated  vigour  and 
spirit  of  the  version  more  than  overbalance  these  and  all 
its  other  deficiencies.    A  sedulous  scholar  might  often 


ENGLISH  POETRr. 


57 


JENEID,  lib.  xii.  1.  331. 

Qualis  apud  f;elidi  cnm  flumina  concitus  Hebrl 
Sangaineng  Mavors  clipeo  intonat*  atque  furentes 
Bella  moTens  immittit  equos,  illi  tequore  aperto 
Ante  Notos Zepbyrumque  volant,  gemit  ultima pulsa 
Thraca  pedum,  circumque  atrae  Formidinis  ora, 
Ira,  in8idiseque,.0ei  comitatus  aguntur— — 

Thus  on  the  banks  of  Hebrus'  freezing  floodi 
The  god  of  battles,  in  his  angry  mood, 
Clashing  his  sword  against  his  brazen  shield, 
Lets  loose  the  reins,  and  scours  along  the  field : 
Before  the  wini  his  fiery  coursers  fly, 
Groans  the  sad  earth,  resounds  the  rattling  sky; 
Wrath,  terror,  treason,  tumult,  and  despair, 
Dire  faces  and  deform'd,  surround  the  car, 
Friends  of  the  god,  and  followers  of  the  war. 

If  it  were  asked  how  far  Dryden  can  strict- 
ly be  called  an  inventive  poet,  his  drama  cer- 
tainly would  not  furnish  many  instances  of 
characters  strongly  designed;  though  his 
Spanish  Friar  is  by  no  means  an  insipid 
personage  in  comedy.  The  contrivance,  in 
The  Hind  and  Panther,  of  beasts  disputing 
about  religion,  if  it  were  his  own,  would 
do  little  honour  to  his  ingenuity.  The  idea, 
in  Absalom  and  Achitophel,  of  couching 
modern  characters  under  Scripture  names, 
was  adopted  from  one  of  the  Puritan  writers ; 


approach  more  nearly  to  tbe  dead  letter  of  Virgil,  and 
give  an  exact,  distinct,  sober-minded  idea  of  the  mean- 
ing and  scope  of  particular  passages.  Trapp,  Pitt,  and 
others  have  done  so.  But  the  essential  spirit  of  poetry  is 
so  volatile,  that  it  escapes  during  such  an  operation,  like 
the  life  of  the  poor  criminal,  whom  the  ancient  anatomist 
is  said  to  have  dissected  alive,  in  order  to  ascertain  the 
seat  of  the  soul.  The  carcass,  indeed,  is  presented  to  the 
English  reader,  but  the  animating  vigour  is  no  more. — 
SiK  Walter  Scott,  Lift  of  Dryden.] 

*  InUmaL—l  follow  Wakefield's  edition  of  Virgil  in 
preference  to  others,  which  have  ^'■increpat." 

[f  The  plan  of  Absalom  and  Achitophel  was  not  new  to 
the  public.  A  Catholic  poet  had,  in  1679,  paraphrased 
the  scriptural  story  of  Naboth's  Vineyard,  and  applied  it 
to  the  condemnation  of  Lord  Stafford  on  account  of  tbe 
Popish  Plot.  This  poem  is  written  in  the  style  of  a  scrip- 
tural allusion;  the  names  and  situations  of  personages 
in  the  holy  text  being  applied  to  those  contemporaries  to 
whom  the  author  assigned  a  place  in  his  piece.  Neither 
was  the  obvious  application  of  the  story  of  Absalom  and 
Achitophel  to  the  persons  of  Monmouth  and  Shaftesbury 
first  made  by  our  poet.  A  prose  paraphrase,  published 
in  1680,  bad  already  been  composed  upon  this  allusion. 
But  the  vigour  of  the  satire,  the  happy  adaptation,  not 
only  of  the  incidents,  but  of  the  very  names,  to  the  in- 
dividuals characterized,  gave  Dryden's  poem  the  full 
effect  of  novelty. — Sir  Waltbr  Scott,  Mite.  Prost  Worlg, 
vol.  i.  p.  2()8  ] 

[J  The  distinguishing  characteristic  of  Dryden's  genius 
seems  to  have  been  the  power  of  rearaning,  and  of  ex-- 

pressing  the  result  in  appropriate  language Tbe 

best  of  Dryden's  performances  in  the  more  pure  and 
chaste  styto  of  tragedy  are  unquestionably  D<m  Sebastian 
and  All  for  Livve.  Of  these,  the  former  is  in  the  poet's 
vervbest  manner;  exhibiting  dramatic  persons,  consist- 
ing of  such  bold  and  impetuous  characters  as  he  delighted 
8 


yet  there  is  so  much  ingenuity  evinced  in 
supporting  the  parallel,  and  so  admirable  a 
gallery  of  portraits  displayed  in  the  work, 
as  to  render  that  circumstance  insignificant 
with  regard  to  its  originality.f  Nor,  though 
his  Fables  are  borrowed,  can  we  regard  him 
with  much  less  esteem  than  if  he  had  been 
their  inventor.  He  is  a  writer  of  manly  and 
elastic  character.  His  strong  judgment  gave 
force  as  well  as  direction  to  a  flexible  fancy  ; 
and  his  harmony  is  generally  the  echo  of 
solid  thoughts.!  But  he  was  not  gifted  with 
intense  or  lofty  sensibility ;  on  the  contrary, 
the  grosser  any  idea  is,  the  happier  he  seems 
to  expatiate  upon  it.  The  transports  of  the 
heart,  and  the  deep  and  varied  delineations 
of  the  passions,  are  strangers  to  his  poetry. 
He  could  describe  character  in  the  abstract, 
but  could  not  imbody  it  in  the  drama,  for 
he  entered  into  character  more  from  clear 
perception  than  fervid  sympathy.  This 
great  high-priest  of  all  the  Nine  was  not 
a  confessor  to  the  finer  secrets  of  the  human 
breast.  Had  the  subject  of  Eloisa  fallen 
into  his  hands,  he  would  have  left  but  a 
coarse  draught  of  her  passion.g 

to  draw,  well-contrasted,  forcibly  marked,  and  engaged 
in  an  interesting  succession  of  events.  To  many  tempers, 
the  scene  between  Sebastian  and  Dorax  must  apprar  one 
of  the  mo.st  moving  that  ever  adorned  the  British  st*ge. 
....  The  satirical  powers  of  Dryden  were  of  the  highest 
order.    He  draws  his  arrow  to  the  head,  and  diiimisses  it 

straight  upon  his  object  of  aim The  occasional 

po«-try  of  Dryden  is  marked  strongly  by  ma^iculine  cha- 
racter. The  epistles  vary  with  the  subject;  and  are  light, 
humorous  and  satirical,  or  grave,  argumentative,  and 

philosophical,  as  the  case  required Few  of  his 

elegiac  effusions  seem  prompt«>d  by  sincere  sorrow.  That 
to  Oldham  may  Ije  an  exception ;  but  even  there  he  rather 
strives  to  do  honour  to  the  talents  of  his  departed  friend, 

than  to  pour  out  lamentations  for  his  loss No 

author,  excepting  Pope,  has  done  so  much  to  endenizen 
the  eminent  poets  of  antiquity. — Sir  Walter  Scott,  Life 
if  Dryden.'] 

[g  Writing  of  Pope's  EloUa,  Lord  Byron  says,  "The 
licentiousness  of  the  story  was  not  Pope's — it  was  a  fact. 
All  that  it  had  of  gross  he  has  softened; — all  that  it  had 
of  indelicate  he  has  purified ; — all  that  it  had  of  passionate 
he  has  beautified; — all  that  it  bad  of  holy  he  has  hal- 
lowed. Mr.  Campbell  has  admirably  marked  this,  in  a 
few  words,  (I  quote  fW>m  memory,)  in  drawing  the  dit- 
Unction  between  Pope  and  Dryden,  and  pointing  out 
where  Dryden  was  wanting.  •  I  fear,'  says  he,  '  that  had 
the  subject  of  Eloisa  fallen  into  bis  (Dryden's)  hands, 
that  he  would  have  given  as  but  a  coarse  draught  of  her 
pa«sion.' " 

This  is  very  generally  admitted — "The  love  of  th« 
senses,"  writes  Sir  Walter  Scott,  "  he  (Dryden)  has  in 
many  places  expressed  in  as  forcible  and  dignified  coloar- 
lug  as  the  subject  could  admit;  but  of  a  more  moral 
and  sentimental  passion  he  seems  to  have  had  little  idea, 
since  he  frequently  substitutes  in  its  place  the  absurd,  un- 
natural, and  fictitious  lefloementa  of  romance.   In  short 


68 


ENGLISH  POETRY. 


Dryden  died  in  the  last  year  of  the  seven- 
teenth century.  In  the  intervening  period 
between  his  death  and  the  meridian  of 
Pope's  reputation,  we  may  be  kept  in  good 
humour  with  the  archness  of  Prior  and  the 
wit  of  Swift.  Parnell  was  the  most  elegant 
rhymist  of  Pope's  early  contemporaries; 
and  K,owe,  if  he  did  not  bring  back  the 
full  fire  of  the  drama,  at  least  preserved 
its  vestal  spark  from  being  wholly  extin- 
guished. There  are  exclusionists  in  taste, 
who  think  that  they  cannot  speak  with  suf- 
ficient disparagement  of  the  English  poets 
of  the  first  part  of  the  eighteenth  century ; 
and  they  are  armed  with  a  noble  provocative 
to  English  contempt,  when  they  have  it  to 
say,  that  those  poets  belong  to  a  French 
school.  Indeed,  Dryden  himself  is  generally 
included  in  that  school;  though  more  ge- 
nuine English  is  to  be  found  in  no  man's 
pages.  But  in  poetry  "  there  are  many  man- 
sions." I  am  free  to  confess,  that  I  can 
pass  from  the  elder  writers,  and  still  find  a 
charm  in  the  correct  and  equable  sweetness 
of  Parnell.  Conscious  that  his  diction  has 
not  the  freedom  and  volubility  of  the  better 
strains  of  the  elder  time,  I  cannot  but  re- 
mark his  exemption  from  the  quaintness 
and  false  metaphor  which  so  often  disfigure 
the  style  of  the  preceding  age;  nor  deny 
my  respect  to  the  select  choice  of  his  ex- 
pression, the  clearness  and  keeping  of  his 
imagery,  and  the  pensive  dignity  of  his 
moral  feeling. 

Pope  gave  our  heroic  couplet  its  strictest 
melody  and  tersest  expression. 

D'un  mot  mia  en  sa  place  il  enseigne  le  pouvoir. 

If  his  contemporaries  forgot  other  poets  in 

bis  love  is  always  indecorous  nakedness,  or  sheatlied  in 
the  stiff  panoply  of  chivalry.  The  most  pathetic  verses 
which  Dryden  has  composed  are  unquestionably  con- 
tained in  his  Epistle  to  Congreve,  where  he  recommends 
his  laurels,  in  such  moving  terms,  to  the  care  of  his 
surviving  friend.  The  quarrel  and  reconciliation  of  Se- 
bai>tian  and  Dorax  are  also  full  of  the  noblest  emotion. 
In  both  cases,  however,  the  interest  is  excited  by  means 
of  masculine  and  exalted  passion,  not  of  those  which 
arise  from  the  more  delicate  sensibilities  of  our  nature." 
It  is  upon  this  pasiage  that  Mr.  Lockhart  remarks : — 
"The  reader  who  wishes  to  see  the  most  remarkable  in- 
stances of  Dryden's  deficiency  in  the  pathetic,  is  requested 
to  compare  him  with  Chaucer  in  the  death-bed  scene  of 
Palamon  and  ArcUe." — Scott's  Misc.  Rrose  Works,  vol.  i. 
p.  409. 

••  What  had  been  is  unknown — what  is  appears." 

"Remember  Dryden,"  Gray  writes  to  BeatUe,  "and  be 
Mind  to  all  his  &ulta."] 


admiring  him,  let  him  not  be  robbed  of  his 
just  fame  on  pretence  that  a  part  of  it  was 
superfluous.  The  public  ear  was  long  fa- 
tigued with  repetitions  of  his  manner  ;  but 
if  we  place  ourselves  in  the  situation  of 
those  to  whom  his  brilliancy,  succinctness, 
and  animation  were  wholly  new,  we  cannot 
wonder  at  their  being  captivated  to  the 
fondest  admiration.  In  order  to  do  justice 
to  Pope,  we  should  forget  his  imitators,  if 
that  were  possible ;  but  it  is  easier  to  re- 
member than  to  forget  by  an  efi'ort — to  ac- 
quire associations  than  to  shake  them  oflT. 
Every  one  may  recollect  how  often  the  most 
beautiful  air  has  palled  upon  his  ear  and 
grown  insipid  from  being  played  or  sung 
by  vulgar  musicians.  It  is  the  same  thing 
with  regard  to  Pope's  versification.*  That 
his  peculiar  rhythm  and  manner  are  the 
very  best  in  the  whole  range  of  our  poetry 
need  not  be  asserted.  He  has  a  gracefully 
peculiar  manner,  though  it  is  not  calculated 
to  be  an  universal  one ;  and  where,  indeed, 
shall  we  find  the  style  of  poetry  that  could 
be  pronounced  an  exclusive  model  for  every 
composer  ?  His  pauses  here  have  little  va- 
riety, and  his  phrases  are  too  much  weighed 
in  the  balance  of  antithesis.  But  let  us 
look  to  the  spirit  that  points  his  antithesis, 
and  to  the  rapid  precision  of  his  thoughts, 
and  we  shall  forgive  him  for  being  too  anti- 
thetic and  sententious. 

Pope's  works  have  been  twice  given  to 
the  world  by  editors  who  cannot  be  taxed 
with  the  slightest  editorial  partiality  towards 
his  fame.  The  last  of  these  is  the  Rev.  Mr. 
Bowles.t  in  speaking  of  whom  I  beg  leave 
most  distinctly  to  disclaim  the  slightest  in- 
tention of  undervaluing  his  acknowledged 


[*  No  two  great  writers  ever  wrote  blank  verse  with 
pauses  and  cadences  the  same.  Shakspeare,  Jonson, 
Beaumont,  Fletcher,  Massinger,  and  Ford  had  a  dramatie 
blank  verse  of  their  own.  Milton's  manner  of  verse  ii 
his  own ;  so  is  Thomson's,  Akenside's,  Cowper's,  Southey'a, 
Wordsworth's.  With  our  couplet  verse  it  is  the  same. 
Denbam  and  Waller  are  unlike  Dryden.  Prior  is  differ- 
ent again.  Pope's  strictness  and  terseness  are  his  own. 
Who  is  Goldsmith  like,  or  Falconer,  or  Rogers,  or  Camp- 
bell himself?  Inferior  writers  imitate — men  of  genius 
strike  out  a  path  for  themselves — their  numbers  are  all 
their  own,  like  their  thoughts.] 

[t  Mr.  Campbell  wrote  this  in  1819 ;  and  in  1824  the 
late  Mr.  Roscoe  gave  another  edition  of  Pope,  but  not 
the  edition  that  is  wanted.  Mr.  Bowles  was  one  of 
Joseph  Warton's  Winchester  wonders ;  and  the  taste  he 
imbibed  there  for  the  romantic  school  of  poetry  was 
strengthened  and  confirmed  by  his  removal  to  Tri- 
nity College,  Oxford,  when  Tom  Warton  was  master 
there.] 


ENGLISH  POETRY. 


59 


merit  as  a  poet,  however  freely  and  fully  I 
may  dissent  from  his  critical  estimate  of  the 
genius  of  Pope.  Mr.  Bowles,  in  forming 
this  estimate,  lays  great  stress  upon  the 
argument,  that  Pope's  images  are  drawn 
from  art  more  than  from  nature.  That 
Pope  was  neither  so  insensible  to  the  beau- 
ties of  nature,  nor  so  indistinct  in  describ- 
ing them  as  to  forfeit  the  character  of  a 
genuine  poet,  is  what  I  mean  to  urge,  with- 
out exaggerating  his  picturesqueness.  But 
before  speaking  of  that  quality  in  his  writ- 
ings, I  would  beg  leave  to  observe,  in  the 
first  place,  that  the  faculty  by  which  a  poet 
luminously  describes  objects  of  art  is  essen- 
tially the  same  faculty  which  enables  him 
to  be  a  faithful  describer  of  simple  nature; 
in  the  second  place,  that  nature  and  art  are 
to  a  greater  degree  relative  terms  in  poetical 
description  than  is  generally  recollected; 
and,  thirdly,  that  artificial  objects  and  man- 
ners are  of  so  much  importance  in  fiction, 
as  to  make  the  exquisite  description  of  them 
no  less  characteristic  of  genius  than  the  de- 
scription of  simple  physical  appearances. 
The  poet  is  "  creation's  heir."  He  deepens 
our  social  interest  in  existence.  It  is  surely 
by  the  liveliness  of  the  interest  which  he 
excites  in  existence,  and  not  by  the  class 
of  subjects  which  he  chooses,  that  we  most 
fairly  appreciate  the  genius  or  the  life  of 
life  which  is  in  him.     It  is  no  irreverence 

*  But  are  his  descriptions  of  works  of  art  more  poetical 
tban  bis  descriptions  of  the  great  feelings  of  nature? — 
Bowles's  InvariahU  Principles,  p.  15.] 

[f His  ponderous  shield, 

Ethereal  temper,  massy,  large,  and  round, 
Behind  him  cast;  the  broad  circumference 
Hung  on  his  shoulders,  like  the  moon,  whose  orb 
Through  optic  gloss  the  Tuscan  artist  views 
At  evening,  firom  the  top  of  ITesold, 
Or  in  Valdamo,  to  descry  new  lands, 
Kivers,  or  mountains,  on  her  spotty  globe. 
His  spear,  to  equal  which  the  tallest  pines, 
Hewn  on  Norwegian  hills  to  be  the  mast 
Of  some  great  ammlral,  were  but  a  wand. 

Par.  Lost,  b.  1. 
It  is  evident  that  Satan's  spear  is  not  compared  to  the 
mast  of  some  great  ammiral,  though  bis  shield  is  to  the 
moon  as  seen  through  the  glass  of  Qalileo.    Milton's  ori- 
ginal, (Cowley,)  whose  images  from  art  are  of  constant 
occurrence,  draws  his  description  of  Ooliab's  spear  firom 
Norwegian  bills: — 
His  spear  the  trunk  was  of  a  lofty  tree 
Which  Nature  mount  some  tall  ship's  mast  should  be. 
The  poetry  of  the  whole  passage  in   Milton  is  in  the 
images  and  names  from  nature,  not  from  art.    "It  is 
FesolS  and  Valdarno  that  are  poetical,"  says  Mr.  Bowles, 
"  not  the  telescope."    There  is  a  spell,  let  us  add,  in  the 
very  names  of  Fesol$  and  Valdarno. 
Milton's  olgect  in  likening  the  shield  of  Satan  to  the 


to  the  external  charms  of  nature  to  say, 
that  they  are  not  more  important  to  a  poet's 
study  than  the  manners  and  affections  of 
his  species.  Nature  is  the  poet's  goddess ; 
but  by  nature,  no  one  rightly  understand.'^ 
her  mere  inanimate  face — however  charm- 
ing it  may  be — or  the  simple  landscape- 
painting  of  trees,  clouds,  precipices,  and 
flowers.  Why  then  try  Pope,  or  any  other 
poet,  exclusively  by  his  powers  of  describ- 
ing inanimate  phenomena?  Nature,  in  the 
wide  and  proper  sense  of  the  word,  means 
life  in  all  its  circumstances — nature  moral 
as  well  as  external.  As  the  subject  of 
inspired  fiction,  nature  includes  artificial 
forms  and  manners.  Richardson  is  no  less 
a  painter  of  nature  than  Homer.  Homer 
himself  is  a  minute  describer  of  works  of 
art;*  and  Milton  is  full  of  imagery  derived 
from  it.  Satan's  spear  is  compared  to  the 
pine  that  makes  *'  the  mast  of  some  great 
ammiral,"  and  his  shield  is  like  the  moon, 
but  like  the  moon  artificially  seen  through 
the  glass  of  the  Tuscan  artist.f  The  "spirit- 
stirring  drum,  the  ear-piercing  fife,  the  royal 
banner,  and  all  quality,  pride,  pomp,  and  cir- 
cumstance of  glorious  war,"J  are  all  artifi- 
cial images.  When  Shakspeare  groups  into 
one  view  the  most  sublime  objects  of  the 
universe,  he  fixes  first  on  "the  cloud-capt 
towers,  the  gorgeous  palaces,  the  solemn 
temples."^     Those  who  have  ever  witnessed 

moon,  as  seen  through  the  glass  of  the  Tuscan  artist,  was 
to  give  the  clearest  possible  impression  of  the  thing 
alluded  to.  "It  is  by  no  means  necessary,"  saysCowper, 
"that  a  simile  should  be  more  magnificent  tban  the 
subject;  it  is  enough  that  it  gives  us  a  clearer  and  more 
distinct  perception  of  it  than  we  could  have  had  with- 
out it.  Were  it  the  indispensable  duty  of  a  simile  to 
elevate  as  well  as  to  illustrate,  what  must  be  done  with 
many  of  Homer's?  When  he  compares  the  Grecian 
troops,  pouring  themselves  forth  from  camp  and  fleet  in 
the  plain  of  Troy,  to  bees  issuing  from  a  hollow  rock — or 
the  body  of  Patroclus  in  dispute  between  the  two  armies 
to  an  ox-hide  larded  and  stretched  by  the  currier — we 
must  condemn  him  utterly,  as  guilty  of  degrading  his 
subject  when  he  should  exalt  it.  But  the  exaltation  of 
his  snttjpct  was  no  part  of  Homer's  concern  on  these 
occasions ;  he  intended  nothing  more  than  the  clearest 
popsible  impression  of  it  on  the  minds  of  bis  hearers."— 
Works,  by  Southey,  vol.  xv.p.  321. 

When  Johnson,  in  his  life  of  Gray,  laid  it  down  as  a 
rule  that  an  epithet  or  metaphor  drawn  from  Nature 
ennobles  Art,  an  epithet  or  metaphor  drawn  ftom  Art 
degrades  Nature,  he  had  forgotten  Homer,  and  the  custom 
of  all  our  poets.] 

[t  Otfidlo,  Act  iii.  Scene  3.] 

[§  Tlie  Tempest  Act  iv.  Scene  1.  One  of  the  finest  pas- 
sages in  Shakspeare  is  where  he  describes  Foi'iane  as  • 
whe<'lright  would : 

Out,  out,  thou  strumpet  Fortunr  I  All  you  godf . 


60 


ENGLISH  POETRY. 


the  spectacle  of  the  launching  of  a  ship  of 
the  line,  will  perhaps  forgive  me  for  adding 
this  to  the  examples  of  the  sublime  objects 
of  artificial  life.  Of  that  spectacle  I  can 
never  forget  the  impression,  and  of  having 
■witnessed  it  reflected  from  the  faces  of  ten 
thousand  spectators.  They  seem  yet  before 
me — I  sympathize  with  their  deep  and  silent 
expectation,  and  with  their  final  burst  of 
enthusiasm.  It  was  not  a  vulgar  joy,  but 
an  afifecting  national  solemnit}'.  When  the 
vast  bulwark  sprang  from  her  cradle,  the 
calm  water  on  which  she  swung  majesti- 
cally round,  gave  the  imagination  a  contrast 
of  the  stormy  element  on  which  she  was 
soon  to  ride.  All  the  days  of  battle  and 
the  nights  of  danger  which  she  had  to  en- 
counter, all  the  ends  of  the  earth  which  she 
had  to  visit,  and  all  that  she  had  to  do  and 
to  suffer  for  her  country,  rose  in  awful  pre- 
sentiment before  the  mind;  and  when  the 
heart  gave  her  a  benediction,  it  was  like 
one  pronounced  on  a  living  being.* 

Pope,  while  he  is  a  great  moral  writer, 
though  not  elaborately  picturesque,  is  by  no 
means  deficient  as  a  painter  of  interesting 
external  objects.     No  one  will  say  that  he 


In  general  synod,  take  away  her  power; 
Break  all  the  spokes  and  feJlifs  from  her  wheel. 
And  bowl  the  round  nave  down  the  hill  of  heaven. 
As  low  as  to  the  fiends. — Hamlet,  Act  ii.  Scene  2.] 

[*  In  the  controversy  which  these  Specimens  gave  rise 
to,  Mr.  Bowles  contended  for  this — •'  Whether  poetry  be 
more  immediat«!y  indebttKl  to  what  is  sublime  or  beauti- 
ful in  the  works  of  Nature  or  the  works  of  Art?"  and 
taking  Nature  to  himself,  he  argued  that  Mr.  Campbell's 
thip  had  greater  obligations  to  nature  than  to  art  for  its 
poetic  excellencies.  "It  was  indebt«*d  to  Nature,"  he 
writes,  '-for  the  winds  that  filled  the  sails;  for  the  sun- 
shine that  touched  them  with  light;  for  the  waves  on 
which  it  so  triumphantly  rode:  for  the  ai>sociated  ideas 
of  the  distant  regions  of  the  earth  it  was  to  visit;  the 
tempests  it  was  to  encounter;  and  for  being,  as  it  were, 
endu "d  with  existence— a  tldnrj  nfliff." 

"Mr.  Bowles  asserts,"  says  Lord  Byron,  "that  Camp- 
bell's '  Ship  of  the  Line'  derives  all  its  poetry  not  from 
art  but  from  nature.  'Take  away  the  waves,  the  winds, 
the  sun,  Ac.  Ac, one  will  become  a  stripe  of  blue  bunting, 
anil  the  other  a  piece  of  coarse  canvas  on  three  tall  poles.' 
Very  true;  take  away  Me  waves,  the  winds,  and  there  will 
be  no  ship  at  all,  not  only  for  poetical,  but  for  any  other 
purpose ;  and  take  away  the  sun.  and  we  mvist  read  Mr. 
Bowles'  pamphlet  by  candle-light.  But  the  poetry  of  the 
Sliip  does  not  depend  on  the  waves.  Ac. :  on  the  contrary, 
the  Ship  of  the  Line  confers  its  own  poetry  upon  the 
waters  and  heightens  theirs.  What  was  it  attracted  the 
thousands  to  tlie  launch  ?  They  mi^ht  have  seen  the 
poetii^al  calm  water  at  Wapping,  or  in  the  London  Dock, 
or  in  thn  Paddington  Canal,  or  in  a  horse-pond,  or  in  a 
glop-ba«in,  or  in  any  other  vase!  Mr.  Bowles  contends," 
Lord  Byron  goes  on  to  say,  "  that  the  pyramids  of  Egypt 
ftre  poetical  because  of  the  'association  with  boundless 


peruses  Eloisa's  Epistle  without  a  solemn 
impression  of  the  pomp  of  catholic  supersti- 
tion. In  familiar  description,  nothing  can 
be  more  distinct  and  agreeable  than  Mb 
lines  on  the  Man  of  Ross,  when  he  asks, 

Whose  causeway  parts  the  vale  with  shady  rows? 
Whose  seats  the  weary  traveller  repose? 
Who  taught  that  heaven-directed  spire  to  rise? 
The  Man  of  Koss.  each  lisping  babe  replies. 
B«'hold  the  market-place  with  poor  o'erspread — 
?he  Man  of  Ross  divides  the  weekly  bread ; 
He  feeds  yon  almshouse,  neat,  but  void  of  state, 
Where  Age  and  Want  sit  smiling  at  the  gate: 
Him  portion'd  maids,  apprenticed  orphans  blest, 
The  young  who  labour  and  the  old  who  rest. 

Nor  is  he  without  observations  of  animal 
nature  in  which  every  epithet  is  a  decisive 
touch,  as. 

From  the  green  myriads  in  the  peopled  grass, 
What  modes  of  sight  betwixt  each  wide  extreme, 
The  mole's  dim  curtain,  and  the  lynx's  beam; 
Of  smell  the  headhmg  lione.«s  between. 
And  hound  sagacious,  on  the  tainted  green ; 
Of  hearing,  from  the  life  that  fills  the  flood, 
To  that  which  warbles  through  the  vernal  wood ; 
The  spider's  touch,  how  exquisit«?Iy  fine, 
Feels  at  each  thread,  and  lives  along  the  line. 

His  picture  of  the  dying  pheasant  is  in 
every  one's  memory, f  and  possibly  the  lines 
of  his  winter-piece  may  by  this  time  [1819J 


deserts,'  and  that  a  'pyramid  of  the  same  dimensions' 
would  not  be  sublime  in  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields:  not  so 
poetical  certainly;  but  take  away  the  'pyramids,'  and 
what  is  the  'desert?'  Take  away  Stone-henge  from  Salis- 
bury Plain,  and  it  is  nothing  more  than  Hounslow  Heath, 
or  any  other  unenclosed  down. 

"  There  can  be  nothing  more  poetical  in  its  aspect"  he 
continues,  "  than  the  city  of  Venice.  Does  this  depend 
upon  the  sea  or  the  canal  ? 

The  dirt  and  sea-weed  whence  proud  Venice  rose. 

Is  it  the  canal  which  runs  between  the  palace  and  the 
prison,  or  the  Bridge  of  Sighss,  which  connects  them,  that 
render  it  poetical  ?  There  would  be  nothing  to  make  the 
canal  of  Venice  more  poetical  than  that  of  Paddington, 
were  it  not  for  its  artificial  adjuncts." 

But  why  should  Nature  and  Art  be  made  divisible 
by  these  controversialists?  in  poetry  they  are  not  so: — 
OvTt  0v(rtf  iKavii  yivtrai  rtxvijl  arep,  ovre  nav  Ttxvrt 
firi  (pvaiv  KeKTriiiini.  Without  Art  Nature,  am_7ismt.be  j 
perfict,  and  without  Nature  Art  can  claim  no  being.  In 
a  poet  no  kind  of  knowledge  is  tg  be  overlooked — to  a 
poet  nothiug  can  be  useless.] 

[t  Ah !  what  avail  his  glossy  varying  dyes. 
His  purple  crest,  and  scarlet-oircled  eyes — 
The  vivid  green  his  shining  plumes  unfold, 
Uis  painted  wings,  and  breast  that  flames  with  gold? 
Windfor  J^brejst. 

This  is  like  Whitbread's  Fhcenix,  which  Sheridan  averred 
that  he  had  described  •' like  a  poulterer;  it  was  green  and 
yellow,  and  red  and  blue :  he  did  not  let  us  o£f  for  a  single 
feather." — Byron't  Works,  vol.  vi.  p.  372. 

When  Pope  epithetizes  the  Kennett,  the  Loddon,  the 
Mole,  and  the  Wey,  he  is  very  happy ;  and  he  is  equally 
80  when  be  poetizes  the  fish.] 


ENGLISH  POETRY. 


61 


have  crossed  the  recollection  of  some  of  our 
brave  adventurers  in  the  polar  enterprise. 

So  Zembls'*  rocko,  the  bi^iiuteous  work  of  frost, 
Ki»e  white  in  air,  and  glitter  o'er  the  coast; 
Pale  8uns,  unfelt  at  disCAnoe,  roll  away, 
And  on  the  impas-sive  ice  the  lightnings  play ; 
Kternal  snows  the  growing  mass  supply, 
Till  the  bright  mountains  prop  th'  incumbent  sky; 
As  Atlas  fix'd,  earh  hoary  pile  appears, 
The  gathered  winter  of  a  thousand  years. 

I  am  well  aware  that  neither  these  nor  si- 
milar instances  will  come  up  to  Mr.  Bowles's 
idea  of  that  talent  for  the  picturesque  which 
he  deems  essential  to  poetry.*  "  The  true 
poet,"  says  that  writer,  "  should  have  an  eye 
attentive  to  and  familiar  with  every  change 
of  season,  every  variation  of  light  and  shade 
of  nature,  every  rock,  every  tree,  and  every 
leaf  in  her  secret  places.  He  who  has  not 
an  eye  to  observe  these,  and  who  cannot 
with  a  glance  distinguish  every  hue  in  her 
variety,  must  be  so  far  deficient  in  one  of 
tKe  essential  qualities  of  a  poet."  Every 
rock,  every  leaf,  every  diversity  of  hue  in 


[*  It  is  remarkable  that,  excepting  the  Nocturnal 
Reverie  of  Lady  Winchelsea.  and  a  pag.'iage  or  two  in  the 
Windsor  Forest  of  Pope,  the  poetry  of  the  perio<l  between 
the  publication  of  Paradise  Lost  and  the  Seasons  does 
not  contain  a  single  new  image  of  external  nature;  and 
scarcely  presents  a  fomiliar  one,  from  which  it  can  be 
Inferred  that  the  eye  of  the  poet  had  been  steadily  fixed 
upon  his  objiHit,  much  less  that  his  feelings  had  urged 
him  to  work  upon  it  in  the  spirit  of  genuine  imagina- 
tion. To  what  a  low  state  knowledge  of  the  most  obvious 
and  important  phenomena  had  sunk,  is  evident  from  the 
style  in  which  Dryden  has  executed  a  doscription  of  night 
In  one  of  his  tragedies,  and  Pope  his  tran^^lation  of  the 
celebrated  moonlight  scene  in  the  flliad.  A  blind  man,  in 
the  habit  of  attending  accurately  to  descriptions  casually 
dropped  from  the  lips  of  those  around  him.  might  easily 
depict  thene  appearances  with  more  truth.  Dryden's  lines 
are  vague,  bombastic,  and  senseless ;  those  of  Pope,  though 
he  had  Homer  to  guide  him,  are  throughout  &lse  and 
contradictory.  The  verses  of  Dryden,  once  highly  cele- 
brated, are  forgotten;  those  of  Pope  still  retain  "their 
hold  upon  public  estimation," — nay,  there  is  not  a  passage 
of  descriptive  poetry,  which  at  this  day  finds  so  many 
and  such  ardent  admirers. — Wordsworth,  Supp.  to  the 
P>tf. 

Here  is  the  passage  in  Drydeu  Mr.  Wordsworth  alludes 
tor- 
All  things  are  hush'd  as  Nature's  self  lay  dead; 
The  mountains  seem  to  nod  their  drowsy  head ; 
The  little  birds  in  dreams  their  songs  repeat. 
And  sleeping  flowers  beneath  the  night.dew  sweat: 
Even  lu.st  and  envy  sleep;  yet  love  denies 
Rest  to  my  soul,  and  slumber  to  my  eyes. 

3V/«  Indian  Empemr. 
And  here  the  moonlight  scene  in  Homer,  as  rendered 
by  Pope  and  by  Cowper: — 
As  when  the  moon,  refulgent  lamp  of  nightl 
O'er  heaven's  clear  azure  spreads  her  sacred  light. 
When  not  a  breath  disturbs  the  deep  serene, 
And  not  a  cloud  o'eroasts  tlin  solemn  scene; 


nature's  variety !  Assuredly  this  botanizing 
perspicacity  might  be  essential  to  a  Dutch 
flower-painter;  but  Sophocles  displays  no 
such  skill,  and  yet  he  is  a  genuine,  a  great 
and  affecting  poet.  Even  in  describing  the 
desert  island  of  Philoctetes,  there  is  no  mi- 
nute observation  of  nature's  hues  in  secret 
places.  Throughout  the  Greek  tragedians 
there  is  nothing  to  show  them  more  at- 
tentive observers  of  inanimate  objects  than 
other  men.f  Pope's  discrimination  lay  in 
the  lights  and  shades  of  human  manners, 
which  are  at  least  as  interesting  as  those 
of  rocks  and  leaves.  In  moral  eloquence  he 
is  for  ever  densus  d  instans  sibi.  The  mind 
of  a  poet  employed  in  concentrating  such 
lines  as  these  descriptive  of  creative  power, 
which 

"  Builds  life  on  death,  on  change  duration  founds. 
And  bids  th'  eternal  wheels  to  know  their  rounds," 

might  well  be  excused  for  not  descending  to 
the  minutely  picturesque.  The  vindictive 
personality  of  his  satire  is  a  fault  of  the 


Around  her  throne  the  vivid  planets  roll. 
And  stars  unnumbered  gild  the  glowing  pole, 
O'er  the  dark  trees  a  yellower  verdure  shed 
And  tip  with  silver  every  mountain's  head; 
Then  shine  the  vales,  the  rocks  in  prospect  rise, 
A  flood  of  glory  bursts  from  all  the  skies: 
The  conscious  swains,  rejoicing  in  the  sight, 
Eye  the  blue  vault,  and  bless  the  useful  light. 

POPR. 

As  when  around  the  clear  bright  moon,  the  stars 
Shine  in  full  splendour,  and  the  winds  are  hush'd, 
The  groves,  the  mountain  tops,  the  headland  heighta 
Stand  all  apparent,  not  a  vapour  streaks 
The  boundless  blue,  but  ether  opened  wide 
All  glitters,  and  the  shepherd's  heart  is  cheer'd. 

COWPBB. 

The  scraps  of  external  nature  in  Lee,  Otway,  and  Garth 
are  no  whit  better  than  Dryden's.  Swift  gave  some  true 
touches  of  artificial  nature  in  his  City  Shmoer,  and  Morn- 
ing in  Town,  but  it  was  left  to  Thomson  and  Dyer  tp 
recall  us  to  country  life. 

Mr.  Southey  has  given  no  bad  comment  on  the  passage 
from  Pope  we  have  quoted  above : — "  Here,"  says  Southey, 
**  are  the  planets  rolling  round  the  moon ;  here  is  the  pole 
gilt  and  glowing  with  stars;  here  am  trees  made  yellow, 
and  mountains  tipt  with  silver  by  the  moonlight;  and 
liere  is  the  whole  sky  in  a  flood  of  glory ;  appearances 
not  to  be  found  either  in  Homer  or  in  nature;  finally, 
these  gilt  and  glowing  skies,  at  the  very  time  when  they 
are  thus  pouring  forth  a  flood  of  glory,  are  represented 
as  a  blue  vault!  The  a<<tronomy  in  the.sH  lines  would 
not  appear  more  extraordinary  to  Dr.  Herschell  than  the 
imagery  to  every  person  who  has  observed  a  moonlight 
scene."  — Quar.  Rev.  vol.  xii.  p.  87.] 

[t  With  Shakspeare  it  is  otherwise'  his  inanimate  n» 
ture  is  unsurpassed  for  truthfulness  and  distinct  poetical 
^rsonation.    Description  in  Shakspeare  is  a  shadow  r» 
I  eeived  by  the  ear,  and  perceived  by  th<>  er-*.] 


62 


ENGLISH  POETRY. 


man,  and  not  of  the  poet.  But  his  wit  is 
not  all  his  charm.  He  glows  with  passion 
in  the  Epistle  of  Eloisa,  and  displays  a  lofty 
feeling,  much  above  that  of  the  satirist  and 
the  man  of  the  world,  in  his  Prologue  to 
Cato,  and  his  Epistle  to  Lord  Oxford.*  I 
know  not  how  to  designate  the  possessor  of 

[*  Mr. Campbell  might  have  added  his  noble  conclusion 
to  Tlie  Dwiciad,  which  is  written  in  the  highest  vein  of 
poetry,  and  exhibits  a  genius  that  wanted  direction,  oppor- 
tunity, or  inclination,  rather  than  cultivation  or  increase 
of  streugth.] 

[t  -Mr.  Bowles's  position  is  this,  that  Pope  saw  rural  or 
field  nature  through  what  Dryden  expressively  calls  tM 
spectacles  of  books:  that  he  did  not  see  it  for  himself;  as 
Homer,  Virgil,  Chaucer,  Shakspeare,  and  Milton  saw  it,— 
as  it  was  seen  by  Thomson  and  Cowper — that  his  country 
nature  is  by  reflection,  cold,  un  warming,  and  dead -coloured 
— that  he  did  not  make  what  Addison  calls  addiiions  to 
nature,  as  every  great  poet  has  done — that  Dr  Blacklock's 
descriptive  nature  is  as  good,  who  was  blind  from  his 
birth— that /oc/.s  that  graze  tlie  Under  green  in  Vope graze 
audVily  in  true  descriptive  writers — and  that  his  Para- 
dise had  been  a  succession  of  alleys,  platforms,  and  quin- 
cunxes— a  Hagley  or  a  Stowe,  not  au  Kden,  as  Milton 
has  made  it.  All  this  is  true  enough,  liut  its  importance 
has  been  overrated.  Pope  is  still  a  greater  poet,  though 
he  did  not  dwell  long  in  the  mazes  of  fancy,  but  stooped, 
as  he  expresses  it,  to  truth,  and  moralized  his  song — that 
he  made  sense,  or  wit,  or  intellectuality  hold  the  place 
of  mere  de8<:ription,  and  gave  us  peopled  pictures  rather 
than  landscapes  with  people.  True  it  is  too  that  imagina- 
tion (a  nobler  kind  of  fancy)  is  the  first  great  quality  of 
a  poet — that  when  it  is  found  united  to  all  the  lesser 
qualities  required,  it  forms  what  Cowley  ca.\\s  poetry  and 
sanctity.  Mr.  Campbell  has  properly  extended  the  ofices 
of  poetry,  and  written  a  defence  of  Pope,  which  will  exist 
as  long  as  Eloisa's  Letter,  or  any  poem  of  its  great  writer. 

Gray,  whose  scattered  touches  of  external  nature  are 
exquisitely  true,  has  laid  it  down  as  a  rule  that  descrip- 
tion, the  most  graceful  ornament  of  poetry  as  he  calls  it, 
should  never  form  the  bulk  or  subject  of  a  poem :  Pope, 
who  was  not  very  happy  in  his  strokes  from  landscape 
nature— that  where  it  forms  the  body  of  a  poem,  it  is  as 
absurd  as  a  feast  made  up  of  sauces :  while  Swift,  who 
knew  nothing  of  trees  and  streams,  and  lawns  and  meads, 
objected  to  Thomson's  philosophical  poem  that  it  was 
all  description  and  nothing  was  doing,  whereas  Milton 
engaged  men  in  actions  of  the  highest  importance. 

To  try  poetry  by  the  sister  art, — in  paiating  we  see  that 
^  menj  iap<iiM-juy  Ig  of  toaa  Ttlue  Uuua  a  Uodicape  with 


such  gifts  but  by  the  name  of  a  genuine 
poetf — 


'  qualem  vix  repperit  unum 


Millibus  in  multis  hominum  consultus  Apollo. 

Ansoious. 

Of  the  poets  in  succession  to  Pope  I  have 
spoken  in  their  respective  biographies. 

figures  and  a  story,  that  is,  where  the  art  of  both,  in  re- 
presenting nature,  is  the  same.  An  historical  landscape, 
like  the  subject  of  Joshua  comm.anding  the  sun  to  stand 
still,  where  high  acts  are  performed  in  alliance  with  in- 
animate nature,  seems  to  meet  the  ideas  of  Pope,  of  Swift, 
and  of  Gray.  "'Selection,"  says  Fuseli,  falsely,  "is  the  in- 
vention of  a  landscape-painter." 

To  diversify  and  animate  his  poems,  Thomson  had  re. 
course  to  episodes  of  human  interest.  The  first  Shipwrejck 
was  devoid  of  story,  it  was  all  description ;  as  Falconer 
left  it,  there  was  an  action  to  heighten  and  relieve  the 
nature,  that  made  description  the  secondary  object  of  the 
poem. 

Had  not  the  notes  to  this  Essay  already  run  to  a  dis- 
proportionate length,  we  had  been  tempted  to  extract 
what  Crabbe  says  in  defence  of  Pope,  and  that  portion 
of  poetry  he  himself  excelled  in;  to  have  quoted  Lord 
Byron's  exaggerated  praises,  and  Mr.  Southey's  depre- 
ciatory notice  of  the  same  writer.  We  must  find  room, 
however,  for  Mr.  Bowles's  short  character  from  his  Final 
..^ppeo^  observing  generally  on  thissulyect,  that  in  lower- 
ing the  rank  of  the  poetry  that  Pope  sustains,  tco  much 
stress  has  been  laid  upon  Horace's  exclusion  of  himself 
from  the  name  of  a  poet  on  the  score  of  his  Kpistles  and 
Satires,  which  was  a  becoming  modesty  too  literally  un- 
derstood. When  a  man  lowers  himself,  there  are  always 
some  ready  to  take  him  at  his  own  valuation. 

•■Asa  poet,"'  says  Mr.  Bowles. "  I  sought  not  tjo  depredate, 
but  discriminate,  and  assign  to  him  his  proper  rank  and 
station  in  his  art  among  English  poets;  below  Shakspeare, 
Spenser,  and  Milton,  in  the  highest  order  of  imagination 
or  impassioned  poetry ;  but  above  Dryden,  Lucretius,  and 
Horace,  in  moral  and  satirical.  Inferior  to  Dryden  in 
lyric  sublimity;  equal  to  him  in  painting  characters  from 
real  life,  (such  as  are  so  powerfully  delineated  in  Absalom 
and  Achitophel;)  but  superior  to  him  in  passion — for 
what  ever  equalled,  or  ever  will  approach,  in  its  kind, 
the  Epistle  of  Eloisa  to  Abelard  ?  In  consequence  of  the 
exquisite  pathos  of  this  epistle,  I  have  assigned  Pope  a 
poetical  rank  far  above  Ovid.  I  have  placed  him  above 
Horace,  in  consequence  of  the  perfect  finish  of  his  satires 
and  moral  poems ;  but  in  descriptive  poetry,  such  as 
Windsor  Forest,  beneath  Cowper  or  Thomson." — Final 
Appeal,  1825,  p.  56.] 


SPECIMENS 


a* 


THE   BRITISH   POETS. 


CHAUCER. 


[Bora,  1328.    Died,  October  25,  I400.J 


Geoffket  Chacceb,  according  to  his  own  ac- 
count, was  born  in  London,  and  the  year  1328 
is  generally  assigned  as  the  date  of  his  birth. 
The  name  is  Norman,  and,  according  to  Francis 
Thynne,  the  antiquary,  is  one  of  those,  on  the 
roll  of  Battle  Abbey,  which  came  in  with  William 
the  Conqueror.*  It  is  uncertain  at  which  of  the 
universities  he  studied.  Warton  and  others,  who 
allege  that  it  was  at  Oxford,  adduce  no  proof  of 
their  assertion ;  and  tlie  signature  of  Philogenet 
of  Cambridge,  which  the  poet  himself  assumes  in 
one  of  his  early  pieces,  as  it  was  fictitious  in  the 
name, might  be  equally  so  in  the  place;  although 
it  leaves  it  rather  to  be  conjectured  that  the  latter 
university  had  the  honour  of  his  education. 

The  precise  time  at  which  he  first  attracted 
the  notice  of  his  munificent  patrons,  Edward  III. 
aiid  John  of  Gaunt,  cannot  be  ascertained ;  but 
if  his  poem,  entitled  The  Dreme,  be  rightly  sup- 
posed to  be  an  epithalamium  on  the  nuptials  of 
the  latter  prince  with  Blanche,  heiress  of  Lan- 
caster, he  must  have  enjoyed  the  court  patronage 
in  his  thirty-first  year.  The  same  poem  contains 
an  allusion  to  the  poet's  own  attachment  to  a  lady 
at  court,  whom  he  afterwards  married.  She  was 
maid  of  honour  to  Philippa,  queen  of  Edward  III., 
and  a  younger  sister  of  Catherine  Swinford,"!" 
who  was  first  the  mistress,  and  ultimately  the 
wife  of  John  of  Gaunt. 

By  this  connection  Chaucer  acquired  the  pow- 
erfiil  support  of  the  Lancastrian  family;  and 
during  his  life  his  fortune  fluctuated  with  theirs. 

•  Vide  Thynne'g  animadvergions  on  Speght's  edition  of 
Chaucer,  in  the  Rev.  J.  H.  Todd's  lllastratious  of  Gower 
and  Chaucer,  p.  18.  Thynne  calls  in  question  Speght's 
Rupposition  of  Chaucer  being  the  son  of  a  viutner,  which 
Mr.  Godwin,  in  his  life  of  Chaucer,  has  adopted.  Respect- 
ing the  arms  of  the  poet,  Thynne  (who  was  a  herald)  farther 
remarks  to  Speght,  •'  you  set  down  that  some  heralds  are 
of  opinion  that  he  did  not  de.scend  from  any  great  house, 
whiche  they  gather  by  his  armes :  it  is  a  slender  conjec- 
ture ;  for  as  honourable  howses  and  of  as  great  antiquytye 
have  borne  as  mean  armes  as  Chaucer,  and  yet  Chaucer's 
armes  are  not  so  mean  eyther  for  colour,  chardge,  or  par- 
ticion,  as  some  will  make  them."  If  indeed  the  fact  of 
Chaucer's  residence  in  the  Temple  could  be  proved,  in- 
stead of  resting  on  mere  rumour,  it  would  be  tolerable 
evidence  of  his  high  birth  and  fortune ;  for  only  young 
men  of  that  description  were  anciently  admitted  to  the 
inns  of  court.  But  unfortunately  for  the  claims  of  the 
Inner  Temple  to  the  honour  of  Chaucer's  re.-'idenoe,  Mr. 
Thynne  declares  "it  most  certaine  to  bo  gathered  by  cyr- 
cumstances  of  recordes,  that  the  lawyers  were  not  of  the 
Temple  till  the  latter  parte  of  the  reygiie  of  Kdw.  III.,  at 
which  tyme  Chaucer  was  a  grave  manne,  bolden  in  greate 
credyt,  and  employed  in  emba.ssye." 

t  Catherine  was  the  widow  of  Sir  John  Swinford,  and 
daughter  of  Payne  de  Kouet,  king  at  arms  to  the  province 
of  Ouienne.  It  appears  from  other  evidence,  however,  that 
Chaucer's  wife's  name  was  Philippa  Pykani.  Mr.  Tyrwhitt 
explains  the  circumstance  of  the  sisti-rs  having  different 
names,  by  supposing  that  the  father  and  his  eldest  daugh- 
ter Catherine  might  bear  the  name  of  De  Kouet,  from 
lome  estate  in  their  possession;  while  the  family  name 


Tradition  has  assigned  to  him  a  lodge,  near  the 
royal  abode  of  Woodstock,  by  the  park  gate, 
where  it  is  probable  that  he  composed  some  of 
his  early  works ;  and  there  are  passages  in  these 
which  strikingly  coincide  with  the  scenery  of  his 
supposed  habitation.  There  is  also  reason  to  pre- 
sume that  he  accompanied  his  warlike  monarch 
to  France  in  the  year  1359 ;  and  from  the  record 
of  his  evidence  in  a  military  court,  which  has  been 
lately  discovered,  we  find  that  he  gave  testimony 
to  a  fact  which  he  witnessed  in  that  kingdom  in  the 
capacity  of  a  soldier. J  But  the  expedition  of  that 
year,  which  ended  in  the  peace  of  Br^tigne,  gave 
little  opportunity  of  seeing  military  service  ;  and 
he  certainly  never  resmned  the  profession  of  arms. 
In  the  year  1367  he  received  from  Edward  III. 
a  pension  of  twenty  marks  per  annum,  a  sum 
which  in  those  times  might  probably  be  equiva- 
lent to  two  or  three  hundred  pounds  at  the  pre- 
sent day.  In  the  patent  for  this  annuity  he  is 
styled  by  the  king  valettus  noster.  The  name 
valeltus  was  given  to  young  men  of  the  highest 
quality  before  they  were  knighted,  though  not  as 
a  badge  of  service.  Chaucer,  however,  at  the  date 
of  this  pension,  was  not  a  young  man,  being  then 
in  his  thirty-ninth  year.  He  did  not  acquire  the 
title  of  scutifer,  or  esquire,  till  five  years  after, 
when  he  was  appointed  joint  envoy  to  Genoa 
with  Sir  James  Pronan  and  Sir  John  de  Mari. 
It  has  been  conjectured,  that  after  finishing  the 
business  of  this  mission  he  paid  a  reverential 
visit  to  Petrarch,  who  was  that  year  at  Padua.§ 

Pykard  was  retained  by  the  younger  daughter  Philippa, 
who  was  Chaucer's  wife. 

X  Chaucer  was  made  prisoner  at  the  siege  of  Betters,  in 
France,  in  1359,  as  appears  from  his  deposition  in  the  fa- 
mous controversy  between  Lord  Scrope  and  Sir  Robert  Gros- 
venor  upon  the  right  to  bear  the  shield  '  azure  a  bend  or,* 
which  had  been  assumed  by  Grosveuor,  and  which  after  a 
long  suit  he  was  obliged  to  discontinue.  The  roll  of  the 
depositions  is  in  the  Tower,  and  was  printed  in  1832,  by 
Sir  N.  Harris  Nicolas  (2  vols,  folio.)  See  also.  Quarterly 
Retrino,  No.  cxi. — C. 

3  Mr.  Tyrwhitt  is  upon  the  whole  inclined  to  doubt  of 
this  poetical  meeting ;  and  De  Sade,  who,  in  his  Memoires 
pour  la  Vie  de  Petrarque,  conceived  he  should  be  able  to 
prove  that  it  took  place,  did  not  live  to  fulfil  his  promise. 
The  circumstance  which,  taken  collaterally  with  the  fact 
of  Chaucer's  appointment  to  go  to  Italy,  has  been  consi- 
dered as  giving  the  strongest  probability  to  the  Knglish 
poet's  having  visited  Petrarch,  is  that  Chaucer  makes  one 
of  the  pilgrims  in  the  Canterbury  Tales  declare,  that  he 
learned  his  story  from  the  worthy  clerk  of  Padua.  The 
story  is  that  of  Patient  Orisilde :  which,  in  fact,  originally 
belonged  to  Boccaccio,  and  wa^  only  translated  into  Latin 
by  Petrarch.  It  is  not  easy  to  explain,  as  Mr.  Tyrwhitt 
remarks,  why  Chaucer  should  have  proclaimed  his  obli 
gation  to  Petrarch,  while  he  really  owed  it  to  Boccaccio. 
According  to  Sir.  Godwin,  it  was  to  have  an  occasion  of 
boasting  of  his  friendship  with  the  Italian  laureat.  But 
why  does  he  not  boa«t  of  it  in  his  own  person  f  He  makeM 
the  clerk  of  Oxford  declare  that  he  had  his  story  from  the 
clerk  of  Padua;  but  he  does  not  say  that  he  had  it  him- 
self ttoia  that  quarter.     Mr.  Godwin,  however,  believes 

r  2  6.5 


66 


CHAUCER. 


The  fact,  however,  of  an  interview,  so  pleasing 
to  the  imagination,  rests  upon  no  certain  evi- 
dence ;  nor  are  there  even  satisfactory  proofs  that 
he  ever  went  on  his  Italian  embassy. 

His  genius  and  connections  seem  to  have  kept 
him  in  prosperity  during  the  whole  of  Edward 
HI.'s  reign,  and  during  the  period  of  John  of 
Gaunt's  influence  in  the  succeeding  one.  From 
Edward  he  had  a  grant  of  a  pitcher  of  wine  a 
day,  in  1374,  and  was  made  comptroller  of  the 
small  customs  of  wool  and  of  the  small  customs 
of  wine  in  the  port  of  London.  In  the  next  year 
the  king  granted  him  the  wardship  of  Sir  Simon 
Staplegate's  heir,  for  which  he  received  jE104. 
The  following  year  he  received  some  forfeited 
wool,  to  the  value  of  £71,  4«.  6c/, — sums  probably 
equal  in  effective  value  to  twenty  times  their 
modem  denomination.  In  the  last  year  of  Ed- 
ward he  was  appointed  joint  envoy  to  France 
with  Sir  Guichard  Dangle  and  Sir  Richard  Stan, 
or  Sturrey,  to  treat  of  a  marriage  between  Richard 
Prince  of  Wales  and  the  daughter  of  the  French 
king.  His  circumstances  during  this  middle  part 
of  his  life  must  have  been  honourable  and  opu- 
lent ;  and  they  enabled  him,  as  he  tells  us  in  his 
Testament  of  liOve,  to  maintain  a  plentiful  hos- 
pitality ;  but  the  picture  of  his  fortunes  was  sadly 
reversed  by  the  decline  of  John  of  Gaunt's  in- 
fluence at  the  court  of  Richard  II.,  but  more  im- 
mediately by  the  poet's  connection  with  an  ob- 
noxious political  party  in  the  city.  This  faction, 
whose  resistance  to  an  arbitrary  court  was  dig- 
nified with  the  name  of  a  rebellion,  was  headed 
by  John  of  Northampton,  or  Comberton,  who  in 
religious  tenets  was  connected  with  the  followers 
of  Wickliffe,  and  in  political  interests  with  the 
Duke  of  Lancaster ;  a  connection  which  accounts 
for  Chaucer  having  been  implicated  in  the  busi- 
ness. His  pension,  it  is  true,  was  renewed  under 
Richard;  and  an  additional  allowance  of  twenty 
marks  per  annum  was  made  to  him  in  lieu  of  his 
daily  pitcher  of  wine.  He  was  also  continued 
in  his  office  of  comptroller,  and  allowed  to  exe- 
cute it  by  deputy,  at  a  time  when  there  is  every 
reason  to  believe  that  he  must  have  been  in  exile. 
It  is  certain,  however,  that  he  was  compelled  to 
fly  from  the  kingdom  on  account  of  his  political 
connections ;  and  retired  first  to  Hainault,  then 
to  France,  and  finally  to  Zealand.  He  returned 
to  England,  but  was  arrested  and  committed  to 
prison.  The  coincidence  of  the  time  of  his  se- 
verest usage  with  that  of  the  Duke  of  Glouces- 
ter's power,  has  led  to  a  fair  supposition  that  that 
usurper  was  personally  a  greater  enemy  to  the 
poet  than  King  Richard  himself,  whose  disposi- 
tion towards  him  might  have  been  softened  by 
the  good  offices  of  Anne  of  Bohemia,  a  princess 
never  mentioned  by  Chaucer  but  in  terms  of  the 
warmest  panegyric. 


that  he  shadows  forth  himeelf  under  the  character  of  the 
lean  scholar.  This  is  surely  improbalile  ;  when  the  poet 
in  another  place  describes  himself  as  round  and  jolly, 
whiie  the  poor  Oxford  scholar  is  lank  and  meagre.  If 
Chaucer  really  wa.s  corpulent,  it  was  indeed  giving  but  a 
shadow  of  himself  to  paint  this  figure  as  very  lean :  but 


While  he  was  abroad,  his  circumstances  had 
been  impoverished  by  his  liberality  to  some  of  his 
fellow  fugitives ;  and  his  effects  at  home  had  been 
cruelly  embezzled  by  those  intrusted  with  their 
management,  who  endeavoured,  as  he  tells  us,  to 
make  him  perish  for  absolute  want. 

In  1388,  while  yet  a  prisoner,  he  was  obliged 
to  dispose  of  his  two  pensions,  which  were  all  the 
resources  now  left  to  him  by  his  persecutors.  As 
the  price  of  his  release  from  imprisonment,  he  was 
obliged  to  make  a  confession  respecting  the  late 
conspiracy.  It  is  not  known  what  he  revealed ;  cer- 
tainly nothing  to  the  prejudice  of  John  of  Gaunt, 
since  that  prince  continued  to  be  his  friend. 

To  his  acknowledged  partisans,  who  had  be- 
trayed and  tried  to  starve  him  during  his  banish- 
ment, he  owed  no  fidelity.  It  is  true,  that  ex- 
torted evidence  is  one  of  the  last  ransoms  which 
a  noble  mind  would  wish  to  pay  for  liberty  ;  but 
before  we  blame  Chaucer  for  making  any  con- 
fession, we  should  consider  how  fair  and  easy  the 
lessons  of  uncapitulating  fortitude  may  appear  ou 
the  outside  of  a  prison,  and  yet  how  hard  it  may 
be  to  read  them  by  the  light  of  a  dungeon.  As 
far  as  dates  can  be  guessed  at,  in  so  obscure  a 
transaction,  his  liberation  took  place  after  Richard 
had  shaken  off  the  domineering  party  of  Glou- 
cester, and  had  begun  to  act  for  himself.  Chau- 
cer's political  errors — and  he  considered  his  share 
in  the  late  conspiracy  as  errors  of  judgment,  though 
not  of  intention^ — ^had  been  committed  while 
Richard  was  a  minor,  and  the  acknowledgment 
of  them  might  seem  less  humiliating  when  made 
to  the  monarch  himself,  than  to  an  usurping  fac- 
tion ruling  in  his  name.  He  was  charged  too, 
by  his  loyalty,  to  make  certain  disclosures  im- 
portant to  the  peace  of  the  kingdom ;  and  his 
duty  as  a  subject,  independent  of  personal  con- 
siderations, might  well  be  put  in  competition 
with  ties  to  associates  already  broken  by  their 
treachery.* 

While  in  prison,  he  began  a  prose  work  en- 
titled The  Testament  of  Love,  in  order  to  beguile 
the  tedium  of  a  confinement,  which  made  every 
hour,  he  says,  appear  to  him  a  hundred  winters ; 
and  he  seems  to  have  published  it  to  allay  the 
obloquy  attendant  on  his  misfortunes,  as  an  ex- 
planation of  his  past  conduct.  It  is  an  allegory, 
in  imitation  of  Boethius's  Consolations  of  Philo- 
sophy ;  an  universal  favourite  in  the  early  litera- 
ture of  Europe.  Never  was  an  obscure  affair 
conveyed  in  a  more  obscure  apology ;  yet  amidst 
the  gloom  of  allegory  and  lamentation,  the  vanity 
of  the  poet  sufficiently  breaks  out.  It  is  the 
goddess  of  Love  who  visits  him  in  his  confine- 
ment, and  accosts  him  as  her  own  immortal  bard. 
He  descants  to  her  on  his  own  misfortunes,  on 
the  politics  of  London,  and  on  his  devotion  to  the 
Lady  Marguerite,  or  pearl,  whom  he  found  in  a 


why  should  he  give  himself  a  double  existence,  and  de- 
scribe both  the  jolly  substance  and  the  meagre  shadow? 

*  "  For  my  trothe  and  my  conscience,"  he  says  in  his 
Testament  of  Love,  "  bene  witnesse  to  me  bothe,  that  this 
knowing  sotbe  have  I  saide  for  troathe  of  my  leigiaune« 
by  whicSi  I  was  charged  on  my  kinges  behalfe." 


CHAUCER. 


67 


mussel  shell,  and  who  turns  out  at  last  to  mean 
the  spiritual  comfort  of  the  Church.* 

In  1389  the  Duke  of  Lancaster  returned  from 
Spain,  and  he  had  once  more  a  steady  protector. 
In  that  year  he  was  appointed  clerk  of  the  works 
at  Westminster,  and  in  the  following  year  clerk 
of  those  at  Windsor,  with  a  salary  of  j£36 
per  annum.  His  resignation  of  those  offices, 
which  it  does  not  appear  he  held  for  more  than 
twenty  months,  brings  us  to  the  sixty-fourth  year 
of  his  age,  when  he  retired  to  the  country,  most 
probably  to  Woodstock,  and  there  composed  his 
immortal  Canterbury  Tales,  amidst  the  scenes 
which  had  inspired  his  youthful  genius. 

In  1394  a  pension  of  j£20  a  year  was  granted 
to  him,  and  in  the  last  year  of  Richard's  reign  he 
had  a  grant  of  a  yearly  tun  of  wine;  we  may 
suppose  in  lieu  of  the  daily  pitcher,  which  had 
been  stopped  during  his  misfortunes. 

Tradition  assigns  to  our  poet  a  residence  in  his 
old  age  at  Donnington  Castle,  near  Newbury,  in 
Berkshire;  to  which  he  must  have  moved  in 
1397,  if  he  ever  possessed  that  mansion:  but  Mr. 
Grose,  who  affirms  that  he  purchased  Donnington 
Castle  in  that  year,  has  neglected  to  show  the 
documents  of  such  a  purchase.  One  of  the  most 
curious  particulars  in  the  latter  part  of  his  life  is 
the  patent  of  protection  granted  to  Chaucer  in 
the  year  1398,  which  his  former  inaccurate  bio- 
grraphers  had  placed  in  the  second  year  of  Richard, 
till  Mr.  Tyrwhitt  corrected  the  mistaken  date. 
The  deed  has  been  generally  supposed  to  refer 
to  the  poet's  creditors ;  as  it  purports,  however, 
to  protect  him  conira  cemulos  suos,  the  expression 
has  led  Mr.  Godwin  to  question  its  having  any 
relation  to  his  debtors  and  creditors.  It  is  true 
that  rivals  or  competitors  are  not  the  most  obvious 
designation  for  the  creditors  of  a  great  poet ;  but 
still,  as  the  law  delights  in  fictions,  and  as  the 
writ  for  securing  a  debtor  exhibits  at  this  day 
such  figurative  personages  as  John  Doe  and 
Richard  Roe,  the  form  of  protection  might  in 
those  times  have  been  equally  metaphorical ;  nor, 
as  a  legal  metonymy,  are  the  terms  rival  and 
competitor  by  any  means  inexpressive  of  that 
interesting  relation  which  subsists  between  the 
dun  and  the  fugitive ;  a  relation  which  in  all  ages 
has  excited  the  warmest  emulation,  and  the 
promptest  ingenuity  of  the  human  mind.  Within 
a  year  and  a  half  from  the  date  of  this  protection, 
Bolingbroke,  the  son  of  John  of  Gaunt,  ascended 
the  throne  of  England  by  the  title  of  Henry  IV. 

It  is  creditable  to  the  memory  of  that  prince, 

*  Mr.  Todd  has  given,  in  his  IIluBtrations,  somi>  poems 
Buppuded  to  be  written  by  Chaucer  during  hit)  imprison- 
ment; in  which,  in  the  8ame  allegorical  manner,  under 
the  praises  of  Sjirin;;,  he  appears  to  implore  the  assist- 
ance of  Vere,  Earl  oi'  Oxford,  the  principal  favourite  of 
Uichard  II. 

t  Dryden  has  accused  Chaucer  of  introducing  Galli- 
cisms into  the  English  language:  not  aware  that  French 
was  the  language  of  the  Court  of  England  not  long  before 
Chaucer's  time,  and  that,  far  from  intro<lucing  French 
phrases  into  the  English  tongue,  the  ancient  bard  was 
Bucc»>sKfully  active  in  introducint;  the  Knirlish  hs  a  fashion- 
able dialect,  instead  of  the  French,  which  had.  before  his 
time,  been  the  only  language  of  polite  literature  in  Eng- 


that,  however  basely  he  abandoned  so  many  of 
his  father's  fidends,  he  did  not  suffer  the  poetical 
ornament  of  the  age  to  be  depressed  by  the  revo- 
lution. Chaucer's  annuity  and  pipe  of  wine 
were  continued  under  the  new  reign,  and  an 
additional  pension  of  forty  marks  a  year  was  con- 
ferred upon  him.  But  the  poet  did  not  long  en- 
joy this  accession  to  his  fortune.  He  died  in 
London,  on  the  twenty-fifth  of  October,  1400, 
and  was  interred  in  the  south  cross  aisle  of 
Westminster  Abbey.  The  monument  to  his 
memory  was  erected  a  century  and  a  half  after 
his  decease,  by  a  warm  admirer  of  his  genius, 
Nicholas  Brigham,  a  gentleman  of  Oxford.  It 
stands  at  the  north  end  of  a  recess  formed  by  four 
obtuse  foliated  arches,  and  is  a  plain  altar  with 
three  quatrefoils  and  the  same  numlier  of  shields. 
Chaucer,  in  his  Treatise  of  the  Astrolabe,  men- 
tions his  son  Lewis,  for  whom  it  was  composed 
in  1391,  and  who  was  at  that  time  ten  years  of 
age.  Whether  Sir  Thomas  Chaucer,  who  was 
Speaker  of  the  House  of  Commons  in  the  reign 
of  Henry  IV.  was  another  and  elder  son  of  the 
j)oet,  as  many  of  his  biographers  have  supposed, 
is  a  point  which  has  not  been  distinctly  ascertained. 

Mr.  Tyrwhitt  has  successfully  vindicated  Chau- 
cer from  the  charge  brought  against  him  by  Ver- 
stegan  and  Skinner,  of  having  adulterated  English 
by  vast  importations  of  French  words  and  phrases. 
If  Chaucer  had  indeed  naturalized  a  multitude  of 
French  words  by  his  authority,  he  might  be  re- 
garded as  a  bold  innovator,  yet  the  language 
would  have  still  been  indebted  to  him  for  en- 
riching it.  But  such  revolutions  in  languages 
are  not  wrought  by  individuals;  and  the  style  of 
Chaucer  will  bear  a  fair  comparison  with  that  of 
his  contemporaries,  Gower,  Wickliffe,  and  Man- 
deville.  That  the  polite  English  of  that  period 
should  have  been  highly  impregnated  with  French 
is  little  to  be  wondered  at,  considering  that  Eng- 
lish was  a  new  language  at  court,  where  French 
had  of  late  been  exclusively  used,  and  must  have 
still  been  habitual-t  English  must,  indeed,  have 
been  known  at  court  when  Chaucer  began  his 
poetical  career,  for  he  would  not  have  addressed 
his  patrons  in  a  language  entirely  plebeian ;  but 
that  it  had  not  been  long  esteemed  of  sufficient 
dignity  for  a  courtly  muse  appears  from  Gower's 
continuing  to  write  French  verses,  till  the  ex- 
ample of  his  great  contemporary  taught  him  to 
polish  his  native  tongue.J 

The  same  intelligent  writer,  Mr.  Tyrwhitt, 
while  he  vindicates  Chaucer  from  the  imputation 

land. — StR  Waltbe  Scott's  Mite.  Prose  Workt,  vol.  i.  p. 
4-20.— C. 

J  Mr.  Todd,  in  his  Illustrations  of  Qower  and  Chaucer, 
p.  26,  observes,  that  authors,  both  historicul  and  poetical, 
in  the  century  after  the  dewase  of  these  poets,  in  usually 
coupling  their  names,  plare  Gower  before  Chaucer  mecely 
as  a  tribute  to  his  seniority.  Kut  though  Gower  might 
be  an  older  man  than  Chaucer,  and  |>oft!iibly  earlier  known 
as  a  writer,  yet  unless  it  can  be  proved  that  he  publish<-d 
English  poetry  before  his  Coiifessio  Amantis.  of  which 
there  appears  to  be  no  evidence,  Chaucer  must  still  >-laim 
precedency  as  the  earlier  English  p<»t.  The  Confessio 
Amantis  was  publish<'<l  in  the  sixti-enth  year  of  Kichard 
ll.'s  reign,  at  which  time  Chaucj^r  bad  written  all  hi» 
poema  except  the  Caat'Tbary  Tales. 


68 


CHAUCER. 


of  leaving  English  more  full  of  French  than  he 
found  it,  considers  it  impossible  to  ascertain,  with 
any  degree  of  certainty,  the  exact  changes  which 
he  produced  upon  the  national  style,  as  we  have 
neither  a  regular  series  of  authors  preceding  him, 
nor  authentic  copies  of  their  works,  nor  assurance 
that  they  were  held  as  standards  by  their  con- 
temporaries. In  spite  of  this  difficulty,  Mr.  Ellis 
ventures  to  consider  Chaucer  as  distinguished 
from  his  predecessors  by  his  fondness  for  an 
Italian  inflexion  of  words,  and  by  his  imitating 
the  characteristics  of  the  poetry  of  that  nation. 

He  has  a  double  claim  to  rank  as  the  founder 
of  English  poetry,  from  having  been  the  first  to 
make  it  the  vehicle  of  spirited  representations  of 
life  and  native  manners,  and  from  having  been 
the  first  great  architect  of  our  versification,  in 
giving  our  language  the  ten  syllable,  or  heroic 
measure,  which  though  it  may  sometimes  be 
found  among  the  lines  of  more  ancient  versifiers, 
evidently  comes  in  only  by  accident.  This  mea- 
sure occurs  in  the  earliest  poem  that  is  attributed 
to  him,*  The  Court  of  Love,  a  title  borrowed 
from  the  fantastic  institutions  of  that  name,  where 
points  of  casuistry  in  the  tender  passion  were 
debated  and  decided  by  persons  of  both  sexes. 
It  is  a  dream,  in  which  the  poet  fancies  himself 
taken  to  the  Temple  of  Love,  introduced  to  a 
mistress,  and  sworn  to  observe  the  statutes  of  the 
amatory  god.  As  the  earliest  work  of  Chaucer, 
it  interestingly  exhibits  the  successful  effort  of 
his  youthful  hand  in  erecting  a  new  and  stately 
fabric  of  English  numbers.  As  a  piece  of  fancy, 
it  is  grotesque  and  meagre ;  but  the  lines  often 
flow  with  great  harmony. 

His  story  of  Troilus  and  Cresseide  was  the  de- 
light of  Sir  Philip  Sydney ;  and  perhaps,  excepting 
the  Canterbury  Tales,  was,  down  to  the  time  of 
Queen  Elizabeth,  the  most  popular  poem  in  the 
English  language.  It  is  a  story  of  vast  length 
and  almost  desolate  simplicity,  and  abounds  in  all 
those  glorious  anacronisms  which  were  then,  and 
so  long  after,  permitted  to  romantic  poetry  :  such 
as  making  the  son  of  King  Priam  read  the  The- 
bais  of  Statius,  and  the  gentlemen  of  Troy  con- 
verse about  the  devil,  justs  and  tournaments, 
bishops,  parliaments,  and  scholastic  divinity. 

The  languor  of  the  story  is,  however,  relieved 
by  many  touches  of  pathetic  beauty.  The  con- 
fession of  Cresseide  in  the  scene  of  felicity,  when 
the  poet  compares  her  to  the  "new  abashed 
nightingale,  that  stinteth  first  ere  she  beginneth 
sing,"  is  a  fine  passage,  deservedly  noticed  by 
Warton.  The  grief  of  Troilus  after  the  departure 
of  Cresseide  is  strongly  portrayed  in  Troilus's 
buliloquy  in  his  bed. 

Where  i«  mine  owne  ladie,  lief,  and  dere  f 
Where  is  her  whit6  brest — where  is  it — where? 
Where  been  her  armes,  and  her  iyen  clere, 
That  yesterday  this  time  with  me  were  ? 
Now  may  1  wcpe  alone  with  many  a  teare. 
And  graspe  about  I  may ;  but  in  this  place, 
Save  a  pilldwe,  I  find  nought  to  embrace. 

•  Written,  as  some  lines  in  the  piece  import,  at  the  age 
of  nineteen. 


The  sensations  of  Troilus,  on  coming  to  the 
house  of  his  faithless  Cresseide,  when,  instead  of 
finding  her  returned,  he  beholds  the  barred  doors 
and  shut  windows,  giving  tokens  of  her  absence, 
as  well  as  his  precipitate  departure  from  the  dis- 
tracting scene,  are  equally  well  described. 

Therwith  whan  he  was  ware,  and  gan  behold 
How  shet*  was  every  window  of  the  place. 
As  frost  him  thought  his  hert^  gan  to  cold, 
For  which,  with  changed  decdly  pale  face, 
Withouten  worde,  he  for  by  gan  to  pace. 
And.  as  God  would,  he  gan  so  faste  ride. 
That  no  man  his  continuance  espied. 
Then  said  he  thus :  0  paleis  desolate, 
0  house  of  houses,  whilom  best  yhight, 
0  paleis  empty  and  disconsolate, 
O  thou  lant^rne  of  which  queintf  is  the  light, 
0  paleis  whilom  day,  that  now  art  night; 
Wei  oughtest  thou  to  fall  and  I  to  die, 
SensJ  she  is  went,  that  wont  was  us  to  gie.§ 

The  two  best  of  Chaucer's  allegories,  The 
Flower  and  the  Leaf,  and  the  House  of  Fame, 
have  been  fortunately  perpetuated  in  our  lan- 
guage ;  the  former  by  Dryden,  the  latter  by  Pope. 
The  Flower  and  the  Leaf  is  an  exquisite  piece 
of  fairy  fancy.  With  a  moral  that  is  just  suffi- 
cient to  apologize  for  a  dream,  and  yet  which  sits 
so  lightly  on  the  story  as  not  to  abridge  its  most 
visionary  parts,  there  is,  in  the  whole  scenery 
and  objects  of  the  poem,  an  air  of  wonder  and 
sweetness ;  an  easy  and  surprising  transition  that 
is  truly  magical.  Pope  had  not  so  enchanting  a 
subject  in  the  House  of  Fame ;  yet,  with  defer- 
ence to  Warton,  that  critic  has  done  Pope  in- 
justice in  assimilating  his  imitations  of  Chaucer 
to  the  modem  ornaments  in  Westminster  Abbey, 
which  impair  the  solemn  effect  of  the  ancient 
building.  The  many  absurd  and  fantastic  par- 
ticulars in  Chaucer's  House  of  Fame  will  not 
suffer  us  to  compare  it,  as  a  structure  in  poetry, 
with  so  noble  a  pile  as  Westminster  Abbey  in 
architecture.  Much  of  Chaucer's  fantastic  matter 
has  been  judiciously  omitted  by  Pope,  who  at  the 
same  time  has  clothed  the  best  ideas  of  the  old 
poem  in  spirited  numbers  and  expression.  Chau- 
cer supposes  himself  to  be  snatched  up  to  heaven 
by  a  large  eagle,  who  addresses  him  in  the  name 
of  St.  James  and  the  Virgin  Mary,  and,  in  order 
to  quiet  the  poet's  fears  of  being  carried  up  to 
Jupiter,  like  another  Ganymede,  or  turned  into  a 
star  like  Orion,  tells  him,  that  Jove  wishes  him 
to  sing  of  other  subjects  than  love  and  "blind 
Cupido,"  and  has  therefore  ordered,  that  Dan 
Chaucer  should  be  brought  to  behold  the  House 
of  Fame.  In  Pope,  the  philosophy  of  fame  comes 
with  much  more  propriety  from  the  poet  himself, 
than  from  the  beak  of  a  talkative  eagle. 

It  was  not  until  his  green  old  age  that  Chaucer 
put  forth,  in  the  Canterbury  Tales,  the  full  variety 
of  his  genius,  and  the  pathos  and  romance,  as 
well  as  the  playfulness  of  fiction.  In  the  serious 
part  of  those  tales  he  is,  in  general,  more  deeply 
indebted  to  preceding  materials  than  in  the  comic 
stories,  which  he  raised  upon  slight  hints  to  the 
air  and  spirit  of  originals.     The  design  of  the 

*  Shut    t  Extinguished.    X  Since,    g  To  make  joyous. 


CHAUCER. 


69 


whole  work  is  after  Boccaccio's  Decaraerone ; 
but  exceedingly  improved.  The  Italian  novelist's 
ladies  and  gentlemen  who  have  retired  from  the 
city  of  Florence,  on  account  of  the  plague,  and 
who  agree  to  pass  their  time  in  teUing  stories, 
have  neither  interest  nor  variety  in  their  indivi- 
dual characters;  the  time  assigned  to  their  con- 
gress is  arbitrary,  and  it  evidently  breaks  up 
because  the  author's  stores  are  exhausted.  Chau- 
cer's design,  on  the  other  hand,  though  it  is  left 
unfinished,  has  definite  boundaries,  and  incidents 
to  keep  alive  our  curiosity,  independent  of  the 
tales  theinselves.  At  the  same  time,  while  the 
action  of  the  poem  is  an  event  too  simple  to  di- 
vert the  attention  altogether  from  the  pilgrims' 
stories,  the  pilgrimage  itself  is  an  occasion  suffi- 
ciently important  to  draw  together  almost  all  the 
varieties  of  existing  society,  from  the  knight  to 
the  artisan,  who,  agreeably  to  the  old  simple 
manners,  assemble  in  the  same  room  of  the  hos- 
telerie.  The  enumeration  of  those  characters  in 
the  Prologue  forms  a  scene,  full,  without  con- 
fusion; and  the  object  of  their  journey  gives  a 
fortuitous  air  to  the  grouping  of  individuals  who 
collectively  represent  the  age  and  state  of  society 
in  which  they  live.  It  may  be  added,  that  if  any 
age  or  state  of  society  be  more  favourable  than 
another  to  the  uses  of  the  poet,  that  in  which 
Chaucer  lived  must  have  been  peculiarly  pic- 
turesque;— an  age  in  which  the  differences  of 
rank  and  profession  were  so  strongly  distin- 
guished, and  in  which  the  broken  masses  of 
society  gave  out  their  deepest  shadows  and 
strongest  colouring  by  the  morning  light  of  civili- 
zation. An  unobtrusive  but  sufficient  contrast  is 
supported  between  the  characters,  as  between  the 
demure  prioress  and  the  genial  wife  of  Bath,  the 
rude  and  boisterous  miller  and  the  polished  knight, 
&c.  &c  Although  the  object  of  the  journey  is 
religious,  it  casts  no  gloom  over  the  meeting; 
and  we  know  that  our  Catholic  ancestors  are 


justly  represented  in  a  state  of  high  good-humour, 
on  the  road  to  such  solemnities. 

The  sociality  of  the  pilgrims  is,  on  the  whole, 
agreeably  sustained;  but  in  a  journey  of  thirty 
persons,  it  would  not  have  been  adhering  to  pro- 
bability to  have  made  the  harmony  quite  unin- 
terrupted. Accordingly  the  bad-humour  which 
breaks  out  between  the  lean  friar  and  the  cherub- 
faced  sompnour,  while  it  accords  with  the  hosti- 
lity known  to  have  subsisted  between  those  two 
professions,  gives  a  diverting  zest  to  the  satirical 
stories  which  the  hypocrite  and  the  Ubertine  level 
at  each  other. 

Chaucer's  forte  is  description;  much  of  his 
moral  reflection  is  superfluous ;  none  of  his  cha- 
racteristic painting.  His  men  and  women  are 
not  mere  ladies  and  gentlemen,  like  those  who 
furnish  apologies  for  Boccaccio's  stories.  They 
rise  before  us  minutely  traced,  profusely  varied, 
and  strongly  discriminated.  Their  features  and 
casual  manners  seem  to  have  an  amusing  con- 
gruity  with  their  moral  characters.  He  notices 
minute  circumstances  as  if  by  chance ;  but  every 
touch  has  its  effect  to  our  conception  so  distinctly, 
that  we  seem  to  live  and  travel  with  his  person 
ages  throughout  the  journey. 

What  an  intimate  scene  of  English  life  in  the 
fourteenth  century  do  we  enjoy  in  those  tales, 
beyond  what  history  displays  by  glimpses,  through 
the  stormy  atmosphere  of  her  scenes,  or  the  anti- 
quary can  discover  by  the  cold  light  of  his  re- 
searches !  Our  ancestors  are  restored  to  us,  not 
as  phantoms  from  the  field  of  battle,  or  the  scaffold, 
but  in  the  full  enjoyment  of  their  social  existence. 
Af\er  four  hundred  years  have  closed  over  the 
mirthful  features  which  formed  the  living  originals 
of  the  poet's  descriptions,  his  pages  impress  the 
fancy  with  the  momentary  credence  that  they  are 
still  alive ;  as  if  Time  had  rebuilt  his  ruins,  and 
were  reacting  the  lost  scenes  of  existence 


THE  PROLOGUE  TO  THE  CANTERBURY  TALES. 


Whann£  that  April  with  his  shoures  sote« 

The  droughte  of  March  hath  perced  to  the  rote,* 

And  bathed  every  veine  in  swiche<=  licour. 

Of  whiche  vertiie  engendred  is  the  flour ; 

W  han  Zephirus  eke  with  his  sote  brethe 

Enspired  hath  in  every  holt  and  hethe 

The  tendre  croppes,  and  the  yonge  sonne 

Hath  in  the  Ram  his  halfe  cours  yronne,^ 

And  smale  foules  maken  melodic. 

That  slepen  alle  night  with  open  eye. 

So  priketh  hem'  nature  in  hir/  corages ;» 

Than  longen  folk  to  gon  on  pilgrimages. 

And  palmares  for  to  seken  strange  strondes. 

To  serve*  halweys*  coutheJ  in  sondry  londes ; 

And  specially,  from  every  shires  ende 

Of  Englelond,  to  Canterbury  they  wende,* 

The  holy  blisflil  martyr  for  to  seke, 

That  hem  hath  holpen,  whan  that  they  were  seke.' 

Befelle,  that,  in  that  seson  on  a  day, 
In  Southwerk  at  the  Tabard  as  I  lay, 


Redy  to  wenden  on  my  pilgrimage 
To  Canterbury  with  devoute  corage. 
At  night  was  come  into  that  hostelrie 
Wei  nine  and  twenty  in  a  compagnie 
Of  sondry  folk,  by  aventure  yfalle™ 
In  felawship,  and  pilgrimes  were  they  alle, 
That  toward  Canterbury  wolden"  ride. 
The  chambres  and  the  stables  weren  wide, 
And  wel  we  weren  esed  atte  beste. 

And  shortly,  whan  the  sonne  was  gon  to  reste, 
So  hadde  I  spoken  with  hem  everich  on," 
That  I  was  of  hir  felawship  anon. 
And  made  forword  erly  for  to  rise, 
To  take  oure  way  ther  as  I  you  devise. 

But  natheles,  while  I  have  time  and  space, 
Or  that  I  forther  in  this  tale  pace. 


«  Sweot — »  Root.— «  Such. — <*  Run. — '  Them.—/  Their.— 
g  Inrlination. — *  To  ket-p. — «  Holidayfi. — J  Kaown. — '  Uo 
'  Sick. — n»  Fallen. — »  Would. — o  Every  one. 


70 


CHAUCER. 


Me  thinketh  it  accordant  to  reson, 

To  tellen  you  alle  the  condition 

Of  eche  of  hem,  so  as  it  seemed  me, 

And  whiche  they  weren,  and  of  what  degre ; 

And  eke  in  what  araie  that  they  were  inne : 

And  at  a  knight  than  wol  I  firste  beginne. 

A  Knight  ther  was,  and  that  a  worthy  man 
That  fro  the  time  that  he  firste  began 
To  riden  out,  he  loved  Chevalrie, 
Trouthe  and  honour,  fredom  and  curtesie. 
Fui  worthy  was  he  in  his  lordes  werre,P 
And  therto  hadde  he  ridden,  no  man  ferre,? 
As  wel  in  Cristendom  as  in  Hethenesse, 
And  ever  honoured  for  his  worthinesse. 

At  Alisandre  he  was  whan  it  was  wonne. 
Ful  often  time  he  hadde  the  bord''  begonne' 
Aboven  alle  nations  in  Pruce, 
In  Lettowe  hadde  he  reysed'  and  in  Ruce, 
No  cristen  man  so  ofte  of  his  deg^re. 
In  Gernade  at  the  siege  eke  hadde  he  be 
Of  Algesir,  and  ridden  in  Belmarie. 
At  Leyes  was  he,  and  at  Satalie, 
Whan  they  were  wonne;  and  in  the  Grete  see 
At  many  a  noble  armee  hadde  he  be. 
At  mortal  batailles  hadde  he  ben  fiftene. 
And  foughten  for  our  faith  at  Tramissene 
In  listes  thries,  and  ay  slain  his  fo. 
This  Uke  worthy  knight  hadde  ben  also 
Sometime  with  the  Lord  of  Palatie, 
Agen  another  hethen  in  Turkic : 
And  evermore  he  hadde  a  sovereine  pris." 
And  though  that  he  was  worthy  he  was  wise, 
And  of  his  port  as  meke  as  is  a  mayde. 
He  never  yet  no  vilanie  ne  sayde 
In  alle  his  lif,  unto  no  manere  wight. 
He  was  a  veray  parfit  gentil  knight. 

But  for  to  tellen  you  of  his  araie. 
His  hors  was  good,  but  he  ne  was  not  gaie. 
Of  fustian  he  wered  a  gipiin," 
Alle  besmotred""  with  his  habergeon,* 
For  he  was  late  ycome  fro  his  viage, 
And  wente  for  to  don  his  pilgrimage. 

With  hirn  ther  was  his  sone  a  yonge  Squier, 
A  lover  and  a  lusty  bacheler. 
With  lockes  cruUv  as  they  were  laide  in  presse. 
Of  twenty  yere  of  age  he  was  I  gesse. 
Of  his  stature  he  was  of  even  lengthe. 
And  wonderly  deliver,^  and  grete  of  strengthe. 
And  he  hadde  be  somtime  in  chevachie," 
In  Flaundres,  in  Artois,  and  in  Picardie, 
And  borne  him  wel,  as  of  so  litel  space, 
In  hope  to  stonden  in  his  ladies  grace. 

Embrouded*  was  he,  as  it  were  a  mede 
Alle  ful  of  fresshe  flourcs,  white  and  rede. 
Singing  he  was,  or  floyting*  alle  the  day, 
He  was  as  fresshe  as  is  the  moneth  of  May. 
Short  was  his  goune,  with  sieves  long  and  wide. 
Well  coude  he  sitte  on  hors,  and  fayre  ride. 
He  coude  songes  make,  and  wel  endite, 
Juste  and  eke  dance,  and  wel  pourtraie  and  write. 


P  War.— 4  Farther.— r  »  Been  placed  at  the  head  of 
tbfi  table. — «  Travelli'd. — u  Praise. — v  Wore  a  short 
ca8so>!k. — "Smutted. — «  Coat  of  mail. — y  Curled. — JNinihle. 
•  Horse  akirmiabing. — 1>  Embroidered. — •  Playing  the 
flute 


So  hote  he  loved,  that  by  nightertale"* 

He  slep  no  more  than  doth  the  nightingale. 

Curteis  he  was,  lowly,  and  servisable, 
And  cart*  before  his  fader  at  the  table. 

A  Yeman  hadde  he,  and  servantes  no  mo 
At  that  time,  for  him  luste/  to  ride  so ; 
And  he  was  cladde  in  cote  and  hode  of  grene. 
A  shefe  of  peacock  arwes  bright  and  kene 
Under  his  belt  he  bare  ful  thriftily. 
Well  coude  he  dresse  his  takel?  yemanly : 
His  arwesJ'  drouped  not  with  fetheres  low. 
And  in  his  hond  he  bare  a  mighty  bowe. 

A  not-hed'  hadde  he,  with  a  broune  visage. 
Of  wood-craft  coude?  he  wel  alle  the  usage. 
Upon  his  arme  he  bare  a  gaie  bracer,* 
And  by  his  side  a  swerd  and  a  bokeler, 
And  on  that  other  side  a  gaie  daggere, 
Hameised  wel,  and  sharpe  as  point  of  spere : 
A  Cristofre  on  his  brest  of  silver  shene. 
An  home  he  bare,  the  baudrik  was  of  grene, 
A  forster  was  he  sothely  as  I  gesse. 

Ther  was  also  a  Nonne,  a  Prioresse, 
That  of  hire  smiling  was  full  simple  and  coy ; 
Hire  gretest  othe  n'as  but  by  Seint  Eloy  ; 
And  she  was  cleped'  Madame  Eglentine. 
Ful  wel  she  sange  the  service  divine, 
Entuned  in  hire  nose  ful  swetely  ; 
And  Frenche  she  spake  ful  fayre  and  fetisly,"* 
After  the  scole  of  Stratford  atte  Bowe, 
For  Frenche  of  Paris  was  to  hire  unknowe. 
At  mete  was  she  wel  ytaughte  withalle ; 
She  lette  no  morsel  from  her  lippes  fall, 
Ne  wette  hire  fingres  in  hire  sauce  depe. 
Wel  coude  she  carie  a  morsel,  and  wel  kepe, 
Thatte  no  drope  ne  fell  upon  hire  brest. 
In  curtesie  was  sette  ful  moche  hire  lest." 
Hire  over  lippe  wiped  she  so  clene. 
That  in  hire  cuppe  was  no  ferthing  sene" 
Of  grese,  whan  she  dronken  hadde  hire  draught. 
Ful  semely  after  her  mete  she  raught.? 
And  sikerly  she  was  of  grete  disport. 
And  ful  plesant,  and  amiable  of  port. 
And  peined?  hire  to  contrefeten""  chore 
Of  court,  and  ben  estatelich  of  manere, 
And  to  ben  holden  digne*  of  reverence. 

But  for  to  speken  of  hire  conscience, 
She  was  so  charitable  and  so  pitoiis, 
She  wolde  wepe  if  that  she  saw  a  mous 
Caughte  in  a  trappe,  if  it  were  ded  or  bledde. 
Of  smale  houndes  hadde  she,  that  she  fedde 
With  rested  flesh,  and  milk,  and  wastel  brede. 
But  sore  wept  she  if  on  of  hem  were  dede. 
Or  if  men  smote  it  with  a  yerde'  smert," 
And  all  was  conscience  and  tendre  herte. 

Ful  semely  hire  wimple  ypinched  was ; 
Hire  nose  tretis;"  hire  eyen  grey  as  glas; 
Hire  mouth  ful  smale,  and  therto  soft  and  red ; 
But  sikerly  she  hadde  a  fayre  forehed. 
It  was  almost  a  spanne  brode  I  trowe; 
For  hardily  she  was  not  undergrowe.*" 


d  Night-time. — «  Carved.—/  It  pleased  him. — ff.\rrow.— 
i  A  rounil  heail. — j  Knew. — »  Armour  for  the  arm. — 
I  Called. — "»  .N'eatly. — »  Her  pleasure. — o  Smallest  spot. — 
P  Rose. — '  Took  pains. — r  I'o  Imitatr. — »  Worthy. — « Stick.— 
»  Smartly,  adv.— »  Straight. — *»  Of  low  stature. 


CHAUCER. 


71 


Ful  fetise*  was  hire  clock,  as  I  was  ware. 
Of  smale  corall  aboute  hire  arm  she  bare 
A  pair  of  bedes,  gauded  all  with  grene ; 
And  theron  heng  a  broche  of  gold  ful  shene, 
On  whiche  was  first  ywritten  a  crouned  A, 
And  after,  Anmr  vincit  omnia. 
Another  Nonne  also  with  hire  hadde  she, 
That  was  hire  chapelleine,  and  Preestes  thre. 

A  Monk  ther  was,  a  fayre  for  the  maistrie, 
An  outrider,  that  loved  venerie  ;y 
A  manly  man,  to  ben  an  abbot  able. 
Ful  many  a  deinte  hors  hadde  he  in  stable : 
And  whan  he  rode,  men  might  his  bridel  here 
Gingeling  in  a  whistling  wind  as  clere, 
And  eke  as  loude,  as  doth  the  chapell  belle, 
Ther  as  this  lord  was  keeper  of  the  celle. 

The  reule  of  Seint  Maure  and  of  Seint  Beneit, 
Because  that  it  was  olde  and  somdele  streit, 
This  ilke  monk  lette  olde  thinges  pace. 
And  held  after  the  newe  worlde  the  trace. 
He  yave*  not  of  the  text  a  pulled  hen, 
That  saith,  that  hunters  ben  not  holy  men ; 
Ne  that  a  monk,  whan  he  is  rekkeles," 
Is  like  to  a  fish  that  is  waterles ; 
This  is  to  say,  a  monk  out  of  his  cloistre. 
This  ilke  text  held  he  not  worth  an  oistre. 
And  I  say  his  opinion  was  good. 
What  shulde  he  studie,  and  make  himselven  wood' 
Upon  a  book  in  cloistre  alway  to  pore. 
Or  swinken«  with  his  hondes,  and  laboiire. 
As  Austin  bit  I"*  how  shal  the  world  be  served  1 
Let  Austin  have  his  swink  to  him  reserved. 
Therfore  he  was  a  prickasoure'  a  right: 
Greihoundes  he  hadde  as  swift  as  foul  of  flight: 
Of  pricking  and  of  hunting  for  the  hare 
Was  all  his  lust,  for  no  cost  wolde  he  spare. 

I  saw  his  sieves  purf  iled/  at  the  bond 
With  gris,*'  and  that  the  finest  of  the  lond. 
And  for  to  fasten  his  hood  under  his  chinne, 
He  hadde  of  gold  ywrought  a  curious  pinne ; 
A  love-knotte  in  the  greter  end  ther  was. 
His  bed  was  balled,  and  shone  as  any  glas, 
And  eke  his  face,  as  it  hadde  ben  anoint. 
He  was  a  lord  ful  fat  and  in  good  point. 
His  eyen  stepe,*  and  rolling  in  his  hed, 
That  stemcd  as  a  forneis  of  led. 
His  botes  souple,  his  hors  in  gret  estat ; 
Now  certainly  he  was  a  fayre  prelat. 
He  was  not  pale  as  a  forpined  gost. 
A  fat  swan  loved  he  best  of  any  rost. 
His  palfrey  was  as  broune  as  is  a  bery. 

A  Frere  ther  was,  a  wanton  and  a  meiy, 
A  Limitour,  a  ful  solempne  man. 
In  all  the  ordres  foure  is  none  that  can* 
So  muche  of  daliance  and  fayre  langage. 
He  hadde  ymade  ful  many  a  mariage 
Of  yonge  wimmen,  at  his  owen  cost. 
Until  his  ordre  he  was  a  noble  post. 
Ful  wel  beloved,  and  familier  was  he 
With  fi-ankeleins  over  all  in  his  contree, 

«  Neat  — y  Hunting.—*  Gave.— «  Mr.  Twyrhitt  supposeg, 
that  thia  should  be  righelles  i.  e.  out  of  the  rules  by  which 
the  inonk'<  were  bound. — >>  Mad. — °  Toil. — i  Biddetb. — 
•  Hard  rider.—/  Wrought  on  the  edge.— <r  A  fine  kind  of 
fur.— A  Deep  in  the  bead. — «  Knew. 


I   And  eke  with  worthy  wimmen  of  the  toun : 
For  he  had  power  of  confession, 
As  saide  himselfe,  more  than  a  curat, 
For  of  his  ordre  he  was  licenciat. 
Ful  swetely  herde  he  confession, 
And  plesant  was  his  absolution. 
He  was  an  esy  man  to  give  penance, 
Ther  as  he  wiste  to  ban'  a  good  pitance : 
For  unto  a  poure*  ordre  for  to  give 
Is  signe  that  a  man  is  wel  yshrive.' 
For  if  he  gave,  he  dorste™  make  avfint. 
He  wiste  that  a  man  was  repentant. 
For  many  a  man  so  hard  is  of  his  herte, 
He  may  not  wepe  although  him  sore  smerte. 
Therfore  in  stede  of  weping  and  praieres, 
Men  mote  give  silver  to  the  poure  freres. 

His  tippet  was  ay  farsed"  ful  of  knives. 
And  pinnes,  for  to  given  fayre  wives. 
And  certainly  he  hadde  a  mery  note. 
Wel  coude  he  singe  and  plaien  on  a  rote." 
Of  yeddingesP  he  bare  utterly  the  pris. 
His  nekke  was  white  as  the  flour  de  lis 
Therto  he  strong  was  as  a  champioun. 
And  knew  wel  the  tavemes  in  every  toun. 
And  every  hosteler  and  gay  tapstere, 
Better  than  a  lazar  or  a  beggere. 
For  unto  swiche  a  worthy  man  as  he 
Accordeth  nought,  as  by  his  faculte. 
To  haven?  with  sike  lazars  acqueiintance. 
It  is  not  honest,  it  may  not  avance, 
As  for  to  delen  with  no  swiche  pourilille,'' 
But  all  with  riche,  and  sellers  of  vitaille. 

And  over  all,  ther  as  profit  shuld  arise, 
Curteis  he  was,  and  lowly  of  servise. 
Ther  n'  as  no  man  no  wher  so  vertuous. 
He  was  the  beste  begger  in  all  his  hous : 
And  gave  a  certain  ferme'  for  the  grant, 
Non  of  his  bretheren  came  in  his  haunt 
For  though  a  widewe  hadde  but  a  shoo, 
(So  plesant  was  his  in  principid) 
Yet  wold  he  have  a  ferthing  or  he  went. 
His  pourchas'  was  wel  better  than  his  rent 
And  rage  he  coude  as  it  hadde  ben  a  whelp, 
In  lovedayes,"  ther  could  he  mochel  help. 
For  ther  was  he  nat  like  a  cloisterere. 
With  thredbare  cope,  as  is  a  poure  scolere, 
But  he  was  like  a  maister  or  a  pope. 
Of  double  worsted  was  his  semicope,' 
That  round  was  as  a  belle  out  of  the  presse. 
Somwhat  he  lisped  for  his  wantonnesse. 
To  make  his  English  swete  upon  his  tonge ; 
And  in  his  harping,  whan  that  he  hadde  songe. 
His  eyen  twrinkeled  in  his  hed  aright. 
As  don  the  sterres  in  a  frosty  night. 
This  worthy  limitour  was  cleped  Huberd- 

A  Marchant  was  ther  with  a  forked  herd. 
In  mottelee,  and  highe  on  hors  he  sat. 
And  on  his  hed  a  Flaundrish  bever  hat. 
His  botes  elapsed  fayre  and  fetisly. 
His  resons  spake  he  ful  solempnely, 


'  Have. — *  Poor.^  Shriven. — ■»  Durst  make  a  boast.— 
n  StulTed. — <>  A  xtringed  inmtrumeut. — f  Story-telling.— 
f  Have. — r  Poor  people. — •  Farm. — «  Purchase. — «  Days  ap 
pointed  for  the  kmicaUe  getUement  of  differences.— 
•  Uaif-cloak. 


CHAUCER. 


8ouriing  alway  the  encrese  of  his  winning. 
He  wold  the  see  were  kept  for  any  thing" 
Betwixen  Middelburgh  and  Orewell. 
Wei  coud  he  in  eschanges*  sheldesv  selle. 
This  worthy  man  ful  wel  his  wit  besette ; 
Ther  wiste  no  wighl  that  he  was  in  dette, 
So  stedefastly  didde  he  his  governance, 
With  his  bargeines,  and  with  his  chevisance* 
Forsothe  he  was  a  worthy  man  withalle, 
But  soth  to  sayn,  I  n'ot  how  men  him  calle. 

A  Clerk  ther  was  of  Oxenforde  also, 
That  unto  logike  hadde  long  ygo. 
As  lene  was  his  hors  as  is  a  rake, 
And  he  was  not  right  fat,  I  undertake  ; 
But  loked  holwe,"  and  therto  soberly. 
Ful  thredbare  was  his  overest  courtepy,* 
For  he  hadde  geten  him  yet  no  benefice, 
Ne  was  nought  worldly  to  have  an  office. 
For  him  was  lever*  han  at  his  beddes  hed 
A  twenty  bokes,  clothed  in  black  and  red, 
Of  Aristotle,  and  his  philosophie, 
Than  robes  riche,  or  fidel,  or  sautrie. 
But  all  be  that  he  was  a  philosophre, 
Yet  hadde  he  but  litel  gold  in  cofre. 
But  all  that  he  might  of  his  frendes  hente,** 
On  bokes  and  on  lerning  he  it  spente. 
And  besily  gan  for  the  soules  praie 
Of  hem,  that  yave  him  wherwith  to  scolaie.' 
Of  studie  toke  he  moste  cure  and  hede. 
Not  a  word  spake  he  more  than  was  nede ; 
And  that  was  said  in  forme  and  reverence, 
And  short  and  quike,  and  ful  of  high  sentence. 
Souning  in  moral  vertue  was  his  speche. 
And  gladly  wolde  he  lerne,  and  gladly  teche. 

A  Sergeant  of  the  Lawe  ware/  and  wise, 
That  often  hadde  yben  at  the  paruis,ff 
Ther  was  also,  ful  riche  of  excellence. 
Discrete  he  was,  and  of  gret  reverence : 
He  semed  swiche,  his  wordes  were  so  wise. 
Justice  he  was  ful  often  in  assise. 
By  patent,  and  by  pleine  commissioun ; 
For  his  science,  and  for  his  high  renoun, 
Of  fees  and  robes  had  he  many  on. 
So  grete  a  pourchasour  was  nowher  non. 
All  was  fee  simple  to  him  in  effect. 
His  pourchasing  might  not  ben  in  suspect.* 
Nowher  so  besy  a  man  as  he  ther  n'as, 
And  yet  he  semed  besier  than  he  was. 
In  termes  hadde  he  cas»  and  domes  alle. 
That  fro  the  time  of  king  Will,  weren  falle. 
Therto  he  coude  endite,  and  make  a  thing, 
Ther  coude  no  wight  pinchei  et  his  writing. 
And  every  statute  coude  he  plaine  by  rote. 
He  rode  but  homely  in  a  medlee*  cote,' 


M>  Kept,  or  guarded.  The  old  subsidy  of  tonnage  and 
poundage  was  giTen  to  the  king  'pour  la  gaufgarde  et 
cu.«todie  del  mer.'  (TyrujhiU.) — *  Exchanges. — *  Crowns. 
— s  An  agreement  for  borrowing  money. — «  Hollow. — 

*  Uppermost  cloak  of  coarse  cloth. — »  lie  would  rather 
have. — rf  Get. — '  Study. — f  Wary. — s  The  paruis,  or  portico 
before  a  church — a  place  frequented  by  lawyers.  The 
place  of  the  lawyers'  paruis  in  London  is  assigned  to 
different  places  by  different  antiquaries.    (Tyrwhill.)— 

*  Suspicion. — •  Cases  and  decisions. — j  Is'o  one  could  find  a 
Saw  in  his  writings. — *  '  Coat  of  mixed  stuff. — m  A  girdle. — 

With  small  stripes. — o  A  freeholder  of  considerable  estate. 


Girt  with  a  seint™  of  silk,  with  barres"  smale ; 
Of  his  array  tell  I  no  lenger  tale. 

A  Frankelein"  was  in  this  corapagnie ; 
White  was  his  herd,  as  is  tlie  dayesie. 
Of  his  complexion  he  was  sangiiin. 
Wel  loved  he  by  the  morwe*"  a  sop  ie  win.fl 
To  liven  in  delit  was  ever  his  wone, 
For  he  was  Epicures  owen  sone, 
That  held  opinion,  that  plein  delit 
Was  veraily  felicite  parfite. 
An  housholder,  and  that  a  grete  was  he ; 
Seint  Julian'  he  was  in  his  contree. 
His  brede,  his  ale,  was  alway  after  on ; 
A  better  envyned'  man  was  no  wher  non. 
Withouten  bake  mete  never  was  his  hous. 
Of  fish  and  flesh,  and  that  so  plenteous, 
It  snewed'  in  his  hous  of  mete  and  drinke. 
Of  alle  deintees  that  men  coud  of  thinke, 
After  the  sondry  sesons  of  the  yere. 
So  changed  he  his  mete  and  his  soupere. 
Ful  many  a  fat  partrich  hadde  he  in  mewe," 
And  many  a  breme,  and  many  a  luce  in  stewe. 
Wo  was  his  coke,  but  if  his  sauce  were 
Poinant  and  sharpe,  and  redy  all  his  gere. 
His  table  dormant"  in  his  halle  alway 
Stode  redy  covered  alle  the  longe  day. 

At  sessions  ther  was  he  lord  and  sire. 
Ful  often  time  he  was  knight  of  the  shire. 
An  anelace""  and  a  gipciere*  all  of  silk, 
Hen  at  his  girdel,  white  as  morwev  milk. 
A  shereve  hadde  he  ben,  and  a  countoiir.* 
Was  no  wher  swiche  a  worthy  vavasour." 

An  Haberdasher,  and  a  Carpenter, 
A  Webbe,*  a  Deyer,  and  a  Tapiser,* 
Were  alle  yclothed  in  o  livere,'' 
Of  a  solempne  and  grete  fratemite. 
Ful  freshe  and  newe  hir*  gere  ypikid/  was. 
Hir  knives  were  ychaped  not  with  bras. 
But  all  with  silver  wrought  fill  clene  and  wel, 
Hir  girdeles  and  hir  pouches  every  del.f 
Wel  semed  eche  of  hem  a  fayre  burgeis,* 
To  sitten  in  a  gild  halle,  on  the  deis.* 
Everich,  for  the  wisdom  that  he  can, 
Was  shapeliclv  for  to  ben  an  alderman. 
For  catel  hadden  they  ynough  and  rent, 
And  eke  hir  wives  would  it  well  assent : 
And  elles*  certainly  they  were  to  blame. 
It  is  ful  fayre  to  ben  ycleped  madame. 
And  for  to  gon  to  vigiles  all  before. 
And  have  a  mantel  realhch'  ybore.™ 

A  Coke  they  hadden  with  hem  for  the  nones," 
To  boile  the  chikenes  and  the  marie  bones. 
And  poudre"  marchant,  tart  and  galingale.P 
Wel  coude  he  knowe  a  draught  of  London  ale. 


p  Morning. — '  Wine. — '  The  saint  of  hospitality . — » Stored 
with  wine. — I  It  sueweU,  that  is,  there  was  great 
abundance. — u  Secret. — "  Fixed  ready. — «•  Knife. — *  Purse. 
— y  Morning. — ^  Mr.  Tyrwhitt  conjectures,  but  merely 
offers  it  as  a  conjecture,  that  the  contour  was  foreman 
of  the  hundred  court. — «  Vavasour.  Of  this  term  Mr. 
T.  is  doubtful  of  the  meaning. — '  A  weaver. — "  A  maker 
of  tapestry. — <*  Livery. — «/Their  gear  wa-i  spruce. — g  Kvery 
way.  A  Burgher. — >  The  deis;  a  part  of  the  hall  that  was 
floored  and  set  apart  for  a  place  of  respect.  (Tyrwhitt.) — 
j  Fit. — »  Klse.— '  Koyally. — »  Supported. — »  For  the  pur- 
pose.— 0  The  meaning  not  ascertained. — f>  Sweet  cyperuji. 


t 


CHAUCER. 


78 


He  coulde  loste,  and  sethe,  and  broile,  and  frie, 
Maken  moitrewes,'  and  wel  bake  a  pie. 
But  gret  harm  was  it,  as  it  thoughte  me, 
Tiiat  on  his  shinne  a  mormal""  hadde  he. 
For  bianc  manger  that  made  he  with  the  best. 

A  Shipinan  was  ther,  woned'  fer  by  West : 
For  ought  I  wote,  he  was  of  Dertemouth. 
He  rode  upon  a  rouncie,'  as  he  couthe, 
All  in  a  goune  of  falding  to  the  knee. 
A  dagger  hanging  by  a  las"  hadde  hee 
About  his  nckke  under  his  arm  adoun. 
The  bote  sommer  hadde  made  his  hewe  al  broun. 
And  certainly  he  was  a  good  felaw. 
Ful  many  a  draught  of  win  he  hadde  draw 
From  B  urdeux  ward,  while  that  the  chapman  slepe. 
Of  nice  conscience  toke  he  no  kepe. 
If  that  he  faught,  and  hadde  the  higher  hand. 
By  water  he  sent  hem  home  to  every  land. 
But  of  his  craft  to  reken  well  his  tides, 
His  stremcs  and  his  strandes  him  besides, 
His  herberwe,"  his  mone,""  and  his  lodemanage,' 
Ther  was  none  swiche,  from  Hull  unto  Csirtage. 
Hardy  he  was,  and  wise,  I  undertake : 
With  many  a  tempest  hadde  his  berd  be  shake. 
He  knew  wel  alle  the  havens,  as  they  were, 
Fro  Gotland,  to  the  Cape  de  finistere. 
And  every  creke  in  Bretagne  and  in  Spaine : 
His  barge  ycleped  was  the  Magdelaine. 

With  us  ther  was  a  Doctour  of  Phisike, 
In  all  this  world  ne  was  ther  non  him  like 
To  speke  of  phisike,  and  of  surgerie : 
For  he  was  grounded  in  astronomie. 
He  kept  his  patient  a  ful  gret  del 
In  houres  by  his  magike  naturel. 
Wel  coude  he  fortunenv  the  ascendent* 
Of  his  images  for  his  patient. 

He  knew  the  cause  of  every  maladie, 
Were  it  of  cold,  or  bote,  or  moist,  or  drie. 
And  wher  engendred,  and  of  what  humour, 
He  was  a  veray  prafite  practisour. 
The  cause  yknowe,  and  of  his  harm  the  rote,"* 
Anon  he  gave  to  the  sike  man  his  bote.* 
Ful  redy  hadde  he  his  apothecaries 
To  send  him  dragges,«  and  his  lettuaries,'' 
For  eche  of  hem  made  other  for  to  winne ; 
Hir  friendship  na's  not  newe  to  begiime. 
Wel  knew  he  the  old  Esculapius, 
And  Dioscorides,  and  eke  Rufiis  ; 
Old  Hippocras,  Hali,  and  Gallien, 
Serapion,  Rasis,  and  Avicen ; 
Averrois,  Damascene,  and  Constantin; 
Bernard,  and  Gatisden,  and  Gilbertin. 
Of  his  diete  mesurable  was  he, 
For  it  was  of  no  superfluitee. 
But  of  gret  nourishing,  and  digestible. 
His  studie  was  but  little  on  the  Bible. 
In  sanguin'  and  in  perse/  he  clad  was  alle 
Lined  with  taffata,  and  with  sendalle.* 
And  yet  he  was  but  esy  of  dispence  :* 
He  kepte  that  he  wan'  in  the  pestilence. 


9  A  dish  of  rich  broth,  In  which  the  meat  was  stamped 
»nd  the  substance  strained. — '  A  fcangreue. — »  Lived. — 
*  Hack-horsH. — u  Lace.—*  Place  of  the  Sun. — to  Mo(in. — 
«  Pilotship. — y  Make  fortunate. — «  The  ascendant. — o  Root. 
~J  Bemedy. — c  Drugs. — ^  Electuaries. — «  Blood-red  colour. 
10 


For  golde  in  phisike  is  a  cordial ; 
Therfore  he  loved  gold  in  special. 

A  good  Wif  was  ther  of  beside  Bathe, 
But  she  was  som  del  defe,  and  that  was  scatheJ 
Of  cloth  making  she  hadde  swiche  an  haunt. 
She  passed  hem  of  Ipres,  and  of  Gaunt. 
In  all  the  parish  wif  ne  was  ther  non. 
That  to  the  oflring  before  hire  shulde  gon, 
And  if  ther  did,  certain  so  wroth  was  she, 
That  she  was  out  of  alle  charitee. 
Hire  coverchiefs  weren  ful  fine  of  ground ; 
I  dorste  swere,  they  weyeden*  a  pound ; 
That  on  the  Sonday  were  upon  hire  hede. 
Hire  hosen  weren  of  fine  scarlet  rede, 
Ful  streite  yteyed,'  and  shoon  ful  moist  and  newe. 
Bold  was  hire  face,  and  fayre  and  rede  of  hew. 
She  was  a  worthy  woman  all  hire  live, 
Housbondes  at  the  chirche  dore  had  she  had  five, 
Withouten  other  compagnie  in  youthe. 
But  therof  nedeth  not  to  speke  as  nouthe.*" 
And  thries  hadde  she  ben  at  Jerusaleme, 
She  hadde  passed  many  a  strange  streme. 
At  Rome  she  hadde  ben,  and  at  Boloine, 
In  Galice  at  Seint  James,  and  at  Coloine. 
She  coude"  moche  of  wandering  by  the  way. 
Gat-tothed  was  she,  sothly  for  to  say. 
Upon  an  ambler  esily  she  sat, 
Ywimpled  wel,  and  on  hire  hede  an  hat, 
As  brode  as  is  a  bokeler,  or  a  targe. 
A  fote-mantel"  about  hire  hippes  large. 
And  on  hire  fete  a  pair  of  sporres  sharpe. 
In  felawship  wel  coude  she  laughe  and  carped 
Of  remedies  of  love  she  knew  parchance. 
For  of  that  arte  she  coude  the  olde  dance. 

A  good  man  there  was  of  religioun. 
That  was  a  poure  Persone?  of  a  toun : 
But  riche  he  was  of  holy  thought  and  werk. 
He  was  also  a  lerned  man,  a  clerk, 
That  Cristes  gospel  trewely  wolde  preche. 
His  parishens  devoutly  wolde  he  teche. 
Benigne  he  was,  and  wonder  diligent. 
And  in  adversite  ful  patient : 
And  swiche  he  was  ypreved'  often  sithes.* 
Ful  loth  were  him  to  cursen  for  his  tithes. 
But  rather  wolde  he  yeven'  out  of  doute, 
Unto  his  poure  parishens  aboute. 
Of  his  offring,  and  eke  of  his  substance. 
He  coude  in  litel  thing  have  suffisance. 
Wide  was  his  parish,  and  houses  fer  asonder. 
But  he  ne  left  nought  for  no  rain  ne  thonder, 
In  sikenesse  and  in  mischief  to  visite 
The  ferrest  in  his  parish,  moche  and  lite," 
Upon  his  fete,  and  in  his  hand  a  staf. 
This  noble  ensample  to  his  shepe  he  yaf." 
That  first  he  wrought  and  afterward  he  taught 
Out  of  the  gospel  he  the  wordes  caught, 
And  this  figure  he  added  yet  thereto. 
That  if  golde  ruste,  what  shuld  iren  do  ] 
For  if  a  preest  be  foule,  on  whom  we  trust. 
No  wonder  is  a  lewed  man  to  rust : 


/Sity-ooloured,  or  bluish  gray. — ffThin  silk. — AKxpense. 
— i  Gained,  (jot. — i  Misfortune.^-*  Weighed. — '  Tied.— 
m  Now;  adv. — n  Knew. — o  \  riding  petticoat. — P  Talk.— 
«  Par-ion. — r  Proved. — •  Times. — «  Give. — «  The  nearest 
and  mo»t  distant  of  the  parishioners. — <*  Qave. 

G 


CHAUCER. 


And  shame  it  is,  if  that  a  preest  take  kepe, 
To  see  a  shitten  shepherd,  and  ciene  shape : 
Wei  ought  a  preest  ensainple  for  to  yeve, 
By  his  clenenesse  how  his  shepe  shuld  live. 

He  sette  not  his  benefice  to  hire, 
And  lette  his  shepe  accombred  in  the  mire. 
And  ran  unto  London,  unto  Seint  Poules, 
To  seeken  him  a  chanterie  for  soules, 
Or  with  a  brotherhede  to  be  withold : 
But  dwelt  at  home,  and  kepte  wel  his  fold, 
So  that  the  wolf  ne  made  it  not  miscarie. 
He  was  a  shepherd,  and  no  mercenarie. 
And  though  he  holy  were,  and  vertuous, 
He  was  to  sinful  men  not  dispitous, 
IVe  of  his  speche  dangerous  ne  digne. 
But  in  his  teching  discrete  and  benigne. 
To  drawen  folk  to  heven,  with  fairenesse, 
By  good  ensample,  was  his  besinesse : 
But  it  were  any  persone  obstinat, 
What  so  he  were  of  highe,  or  low  estat. 
Him  wolde  he  snibben""  sharply  for  the  nones. 
A  better  preest  I  trowe  that  nowher*  non  is 
He  waited  after  no  pompe  ne  reverence, 
Ne  maked  him  no  spiceds  conscience, 
But  Cristes  lore,  and  his  apostles  twelve, 
He  taught,  but  first  he  folwed  it  himselve. 

With  him  ther  was  a  Plowman,  was  his  brother. 
That  hadde  ylaid  of  dong*  ful  many  a  fother." 
A  trewe  swinker,  and  a  good  was  he, 
Living  in  pees,*  and  parfite  charitee. 
God  loved  he  beste  with  alle  his  herte 
At  alle  times,  were  it  gain  as  smerte,* 
And  than  his  neighebour  right  as  himselve. 
He  wolde  thresh,  and  therto  dike,  and  delve. 
For  Cristes  sake,  for  every  poure  wight, 
Withouten  hire,  if  it  lay  in  his  might. 

His  tithes  paied  he  ful  fajTe  and  wel 
Bothe  of  his  propre  swinke,  and  his  catel. 
In  a  tabard  he  rode  upon  a  mere. 

There  was  also  a  reve,  and  a  millere, 
A  sompnour,"*  and  a  pardoner*  also, 
A  manciple,/  and  myself,  ther  ne'ere  no  mo. 

The  Miller  was  a  stout  carl  for  the  nones, 
Ful  bigge  he  was  of  braun,  and  eke  of  bones ; 
That  proved  wel,  for  over  all  ther  he  came. 
At  wrastling  he  wold  here  away  the  ram.? 
He  was  short  shuldered  brode,  a  thikke  gnarre,* 
Ther  n'as  no  dore,  that  he  n'olde  heve  of  barre. 
Or  breke  it  at  a  renning*  with  his  hede. 
His  herd  as  any  so  we  or  fox  was  rede, 
And  therto  brode,  as  though  it  were  a  spade. 
Upon  the  copJ  right  of  his  nose  he  hade 
A  wert,  and  theron  stode  a  tufte  of  heres, 
Rede  as  the  bristles  of  a  sowes  eres. 
His  nose-thirles*  blacke  were  and  wide. 
A  swerd  and  bokeler  bare  he  by  his  side. 
His  mouth  as  wide  was  as  a  forneis. 
He  was  a  jangler,'  and  a  goliardeis,"* 


w  Snub,  reprove. — at  No  where. — »  Nice,  in  an  affected 
■lensM. — s  Dung.— «  Load. — *  Peace. — c  Pain. — *  A  somp- 
Dour,  an  officer  employed  to  summon  delinquenU  in  eccle- 
ifia«tical  court*,  now  called  an  apparitor.  (Tyrvihitt.y—*  A 
pardoner,  a  !<eller  of  pardono  or  indulicences. — f  A  manci- 
ple, an  officer  who  has  the  care  of  furnishing  victuals  for 
an  inn  of  court. — t  Xhe  prize.—*  A  hard  knot  in  a  tree. 


And  that  was  most  of  sinne,  and  harlotries. 
Wel  coude  he  stelen  corne,  and  toUen  thries. 
And  yet  he  had  a  thomb"  of  gold  parde," 
A  white  cote  and  a  blew  hode  wered  he. 
A  baggepipe  wel  coude  he  blowe  and  soune. 
And  therwithall  he  brought  us  out  of  toune. 

A  gentil  Manciple^  was  ther  of  a  temple. 
Of  which  achatours?  mighten  take  ensemple 
For  to  ben  wise  in  bying  of  vitaille. 
For  whether  that  he  paide,  or  toke  by  taille, 
Algate  he  waited  so  in  his  achate,*" 
That  he  was  ay  before  in  good  estate. 
Now  is  not  that  of  God  a  fill  fayre  grace. 
That  swiche  a  lewed  mannes  wit  shal  pace 
The  wisdom  of  an  hepe  of  lered  men  1 

Of  maisters  had  he  mo  than  thries  ten, 
That  were  of  lawe  expert  and  curious : 
Of  which  ther  was  a  dosein  in  that  hous. 
Worthy  to  ben  stewardes  of  rent  and  lond 
Of  any  lord  that  is  in  Englelond, 
To  makn  him  hve  by  his  propre  good. 
In  honour  detteles,'  but  if  he  were  wood. 
Or  live  as  scarsly,  as  him  list  desire ; 
And  able  for  to  helpen  all  a  shire 
In  any  cas  that  mighte  fallen  or  happe : 
And  yet  this  manciple  sette  hir  aller  cappe.' 

The  Reve  was  a  slendre  colprike  man. 
His  herd  was  shave  as  neighe  as  ever  he  can. 
His  here  was  by  his  eres  round  yshorne. 
His  top  was  docked  like  a  preest  befome. 
Ful  longe  were  his  legges,  and  ful  lene, 
Ylike  a  staff,  there  was  no  calf  ysene. 
Wel  coude  he  kepe  a  gamer  and  a  binne : 
Ther  was  non  auditour  coude  on  him  winne. 
Wel  wiste  he  by  the  drought,  and  by  the  rain. 
The  yelding"  of  his  seed,  and  of  his  grain. 
His  lordes  shepe,  his  nete,"  and  his  deirie, 
His  swine,  his  hors,  his  store,  and  his  pultrie. 
Were  holly  in  his  reves"  governing. 
And  by  his  covenant  yave  he  rekening. 
Sin  that  his  lord  was  twenty  yere  of  age ; 
Ther  coude  no  man  bring  him  in  arerage. 
Ther  n'as  baillif,  ne  herde,  ne  other  hine, 
That  he  ne  knew  his  sleight  and  his  covine :' 
They  were  adradde  of  him,  as  of  the  deth. 
His  wonning  was  ful  fayre  upon  an  heth, 
With  grene  trees  yshadewed  was  his  place. 
He  coude  better  than  his  lord  pourchace. 
Ful  ryche  he  was  ystored  privily. 
HLs  lord  wel  coude  he  plesen  subtilly. 
To  yeve  and  lene  him  of  his  owen  good. 
And  have  a  thank,  and  yet  a  cote  and  hood. 
In  youthe  he  lemed  hadde  a  good  mistered" 
He  was  a  wel  good  wright,  a  carpentere. 
This  reve  sat  upon  a  right  good  stot,* 
That  was  all  pomelee"  grey,  and  highte  Scot. 
A  long  surcote  of  perse  upon  he  hade, 
And  by  his  side  he  bare  a  rus^  blade. 


1  A  running.— i  Top. — *  Nostrils. — I  Prater. — "•  BuP 
foon. — n  0  He  was  as  honest  as  other  millers,  though 
he  had,  according  to  the  proverb,  like  every  mill<*r,  a 
thumbof  p'lld. — r  Vide  note/aljove. — <1  Purchasers. — '  Pur- 
cha.se. — •  Fn-e  from  debt. — «  Made  a  fool  of  them  all. — 
«  Yielding. — •  Cows. — "  Steward. — '  Secret  contrivances.— 
Jf  Trade,  occupation. — *  Horse,  beast. — •  Dappled. 


CHAUCER. 


75 


Of  Norfolk  was  this  reve,  of  which  I  tell, 
Beside  a  toun,  men  clepen  Baldeswell. 
Tucked  he  was,  as  is  a  frere,  aboute. 
And  ever  he  rode  the  hindrest  of  the  route. 

A  Sompnour  was  ther  with  us  in  that  place. 
That  had  a  fire-red  chembinnes*  face. 
For  sausefleme<=  he  was,  with  eyen  narwe.* 
As  hote  he  was,  and  hkerous  as  a  sparwe. 
With  scalled  browes  blake,  and  pilled  berd : 
Of  his  visage  children  were  sore  aferd. 
Ther  n'as  quicksilver,  litarge,  ne  brimston, 
Boras,  ceruse,  ne  oile  of  tartre  non, 
]Ve  oinement  that  wolde  dense  or  bite. 
That  him  might  helpen  of  his  whelkes*  white, 
Ne  of  the  knobbes  sitting  on  his  chekes. 
Wei  loved  he  garlike,  onions,  and  lekes. 
And  for  to  drinke  strong  win  as  rede  as  blood. 
Than  wolde  he  speke,  and  crie  as  he  were  wood. 
And  whan  that  he  wel  dronken  had  the  win, 
Than  wold  he  speken  no  word  but  Latin. 
A  fewe  termes  coude  he,  two  or  three. 
That  he  had  lerned  out  of  som  decree ; 
No  wonder  is,  he  herd  it  all  the  day. 
iVnd  eke  ye  knowen  wel,  how  that  a  jay 
Can  clepen  watte,  as  wel  as  can  the  pope. 
But  who  so  wolde  in  other  thing  him  grope, 
Than  hadde  he  spent  all  his  philosophie. 
Ay,  Questio  quid  juris,  wolde  he  crie. 

He  was  a  gentil  harlot/  and  a  kind ; 
A  better  felaw  shulde  a  man  not  find. 
He  wolde  suffre  for  a  quart  of  wine, 
A  good  felaw  to  have  his  concubine 
A  twelve  month,  and  excuse  him  at  the  full. 
Ful  prively  a  finch  eke  coude  he  pull. 
And  if  he  found  owhere  a  good  felawe. 
He  wolde  techen  him  to  have  non  awe 
In  swiche  a  cas  of  the  archedekenes  curse ; 
But  if  a  mannes  soule  were  in  his  purse; 
For  in  his  purse  he  shulde  ypunished  be. 
Purse  is  the  archdekens  kelle,  said  he. 
But  wel  I  wote,  he  lied  right  in  dede : 
Of  cursing  ought  eche  gilty  man  him  drede. 
For  curse  wol  sle  right  as  assoiUng  saveth, 
And  also  ware  him  of  a  signijicavit. 

In  danger  hadde  he  at  his  owen  gise 
The  yonge  girles  of  the  diocise. 
And  knew  hir  conseil,  and  was  of  hir  rede.* 
A  gerlond  hadde  he  sette  upon  his  hede, 
As  gret  as  it  were  for  an  alestake:* 
A  bokeler  hadde  he  made  him  of  a  cake. 

With  him  ther  rode  a  gentil  Pardonere' 
Of  Rouncevall,^  his  fi-end  and  his  compere. 
That  streit  was  comen  from  the  court  of  Rome. 
Ful  loude  he  sang.  Come  hither,  love,  to  me. 


>>  Cherub's  &oe. — c  Bed  pimpled  beb. — <<  Narrow,  close. — 
«  S|)ots. 

/  The  name  harlot  was  anciently  (rfven  to  men  as  well 
as  wnmen,  and  without  any  bad  »iKnii1cation.  "  When  the 
word  harlot,"  says  Gilford,  "b<'came  (like  k-nave)  a  term 
of  repn^ach,  it  was  appropriat«Hl  solely  to  males  :  in  Jon- 
son's  days  it  was  applied  indiscriminat<?Iy  to  both  sexes; 
though  without  any  determinate  import;  and  it  was  not 
till  long  afterwards  Ujat  it  was  rectricted  to  females,  and 
to  the  sense  which  it  now  bears.  To  derive  harlot  from 
Arlotte,  the  mistress  of  the  Duke  of  Normandy,  is  ridicu- 
iou*."    (Ben  Jo.nson,  vol.  iii.  p.  312.)    "  The  word  harlott," 


This  sompnour  bare  to  him  a  stiff  burdoun,* 
Was  never  trompe  of  half  so  gret  a  soun. 
This  pardoner  had  here  as  yelwe'  as  wax, 
But  smoth  it  heng,  as  doth  a  strike  of  flax : 
By  unces*"  heng  his  lokkes  that  he  hadde, 
And  therwith  he  his  shulders  overspradde. 
Ful  thinne  it  lay,  by  culpons"  on  and  on. 
But  hode,  for  jolite,  ne  wered  he  non. 
For  it  was  trussed  up  in  his  wallet. 
Him  thought  he  rode  al  of  the  newe  get, 
Dishevele,  sauf  his  cappe,  he  rode  all  bare. 
Swiche  glaring  eyen  hadde  he,  as  an  hare. 
A  vemicle  hadde  he  sewed  ubon  his  cappe. 
His  wallet  lay  beforne  him  in  his  lappe, 
Bret-ful"  of  pardon  come  fi^om  Rome  al  hote. 
A  vois  he  hadde,  as  smale  as  hath  a  gote. 
No  berd  hadde  he,  ne  never  non  shulde  have. 
As  smothe  it  was  as  it  were  newe  shave ; 
I  trowe  he  were  a  gelding  or  a  mare. 

But  of  his  craft,  fro  Berwike  unto  Ware, 
Ne  was  ther  swiche  an  other  pardonere. 
For  in  his  maleP  he  hadde  a  pilwebere,? 
Which,  as  he  saide,  was  Our  Ladies  veil : 
He  saide,  he  hadde  a  gobbef  of  the  seyl' 
Thatte  seint  Peter  had,  whan  that  he  went 
Upon  the  see,  till  Jesu  Crist  him  henU* 
He  had  a  crois  of  laton"  ful  of  stones. 
And  in  a  glas  he  hadde  pigges  bones. 
But  with  these  relikes,  whanne  that  he  fond 
A  poure  persone  dwelUng  up  on  lond. 
Upon  a  day  he  gat  him  more  moneie 
Than  that  the  persone  gat  in  monethes  tweie. 
And  thus  with  fained  flattering  and  japes," 
He  made  the  persone,  and  the  peple,  his  apes ' 

But  trewely  to  tellen  atte  last. 
He  was  in  chirche  a  noble  ecclesiast. 
Wel  coude  he  rede  a  lesson  or  a  storie, 
But  alderbest'  he  sang  an  offertorie  -.v 
For  wel  he  wiste,  whan  that  song  was  songe. 
He  muste  preche,  and  wel  afile*  his  tonge, 
To  winne  silver,  as  he  right  wel  coude : 
Therefore  he  sang  the  merrier  and  loude. 


SIMILE. 


And  as  the  newe-abashed  nightingale. 
That  stinteth  first  whan  she  beginneth  sing. 
Whan  that  she  heareth  any  herdes  tale, 
Or  in  the  hedges  any  wight  stirring, 
And  after  sicker  doth  her  voice  outring ; 
Right  so  Creseide  whan  her  dred  stent 
Opened  her  hart  and  told  him  her  intent. 


Jonson  told  Drummond,  "was  taken  from  Arlotte,  who 
was  the  mother  of  William  the  Conqueror;  a  Rogue  from 
the  Latine,  Krro,  by  putting  a  6  to  't.°'  (Arch.  Scot. 
vol.  iv.  p.  100.)  This  supposition  of  Jonson's  has  been 
discovered  since  Gifford  wrote. — C. 

f  Advised. — »  An  alehouse  sign. — '  Tide  note  («)  in  pre- 
cedini;  page. — j  Supposed  by  Stevens  to  be  Kunceval  Hall, 
in  Oxford. — *  Sang  the  bass.^  Yellow. — "•  Ounces. — 
»  Shreds. — o  Brimful. — p  Budget. — V  Covering  of  a  pil  low. — 
'  Morsel. — »  Sail. — '  As.sisted.  took. — »  A  mixfd  metal  of  the 
colour  of  brass. — v  Xricks. — *»  Dupes. — »  Best. — »  Part  c? 
the  mass. — z  Polish. 


JOHN  GOWER. 


[Born  about  1323.    Died  about  1409.] 


Li7TLE  is  known  of  Gower's  personal  history. 
The  proud  tradition  in  the  Marquis  of  Staflbrd's 
family,"  says  Mr.  Todd,"  "  has  been,  and  still  is, 
that  he  was  of  Stitenham;  and  who  would 
not  consider  the  dignity  of  his  genealogy  aug- 
mented, by  enrolling  among  its  worthies  the 
moral  Gowerl" 

His  effigies  in  the  church  of  St.  Mary  Overies 
is  often  inaccurately  described  as  having  a  garland 
of  ivy  and  roses  on  the  head.  It  is,  in  fact,  a 
chaplet  of  roses,  such  as,  Thynne  says,  was  an- 
ciently worn  by  knights ;  a  circumstance  which 
is  favourable  to  the  suspicion  that  has  been  sug- 
gested, of  his  having  been  of  the  rank  of  knight- 
hood. If  Thynne's  assertion,  respecting  the  time 
of  the  lawyers  first  entering  the  temple  be  cor- 
rect, it  will  be  difficult  to  reconcile  it  with  the 
tradition  of  Gower's  having  been  a  student  there 
in  his  youth. 

By  Chaucer's  manner  of  addressing  Gower, 
the  latter  appears  to  have  been  the  elder.  He 
was  attached  to  Thomas  of  Woodstock,  as  Chau- 
cer was  to  John  of  Gaunt.  The  two  poets  ap- 
pear to  have  been  at  one  time  cordial  friends,  but 
ultimately  to  have  quarrelled.  Gower  tells  us 
himself  that  he  was  blind  in  his  old  age.     From 


his  will  it  appears  that  he  was  living  in  1408. 
His  bequests  to  several  churches  and  hospitals,  and 
his  legacy  to  his  wife  of  100^.,  of  all  his  valuable 
goods,  and  of  the  rents  arising  from  his  manors 
of  Southwell  in  the  county  of  Nottingham,  and 
of  Multon  in  the  county  of  Suffolk,  undeniably 
prove  that  he  was  rich. 

One  of  his  three  great  works,  the  Speculum 
Meditantis,  a  poem  in  French,  is  erroneously  de- 
scribed by  Mr.  Godwin  and  others  as  treating  of 
conjugal  fidelity.  In  an  account  of  its  contents 
in  a  MS.  in  Trinity  College,  Cambridge,  we  are 
told  that  its  principal  subject  is  the  repentance  of 
a  sinner.  The  Vox  Clamantis,  in  Latin,  relates 
to  the  insurrection  of  the  commons,  in  the  reign 
of  Richard  II.  The  Confessio  Amantis,  in  Eng- 
lish, is  a  dialogue  between  a  lover  and  his  con- 
fessor, who  is  a  priest  of  Venus,  and  who  explains, 
by  apposite  stories,  and  philosophical  illustrations 
all  the  evil  aflections  of  the  heart  which  impede, 
or  counteract  the  progress  and  success  of  the  ten- 
der passion. 

His  writings  exhibit  all  the  crude  erudition  and 
science  of  his  age ;  a  knowledge  sufficient  to  have 
been  the  fuel  of  genius,  if  Gower  had  possessed 
its  fire. 


THE  TALE  OF  THE  COFFERS  OR  CASKETS,  &c., 

IN  THB  FIFTH  BOOK  OP  THE   "CO.VPESSIO   AMANTIS." 


In  a  cronique  thus  I  rede : 
Aboute  a  king,  as  must  nede, 
Ther  was  of  knyghtes  and  squiers 
Gret  route,  and  eke  of  officers : 
Some  of  long  time  him  hadden  served, 
And  thoughten  that  they  haue  deserved, 
Avancement,  and  gone  withoute  : 
And  some  also  ben  of  the  route, 
That  comen  but  a  while  agon. 
And  they  advanced  were  anon. 

These  olde  men  upon  this  thing. 
So  as  they  durst,  ageyne  the  king 
Among  hemself  compleignen  ofte : 
But  there  is  nothing  said  so  softe, 
That  it  ne  comith  out  at  laste : 
The  king  it  wiste,  and  als  so  faste, 
As  he  which  was  of  high  prudence : 
He  shope  therefore  an  evidence 
Of  hem'  that  pleignen  in  the  cas 
To  knowe  in  whose  defalte  it  was : 
And  all  within  his  owne  entent. 
That  non  ma  wiste  what  it  ment. 
Anon  he  let  two  cofi-es  make, 
Of  one  semblance,  and  of  one  make. 


So  lich,''  that  no  lif  thilke  throwe. 
That  one  may  fro  that  other  knowe : 
They  were  into  his  chamber  brought, 
But  no  man  wot  why  they  be  wrought. 
And  natheles  the  king  hath  bede 
That  they  be  set  in  privy  stede, 
As  he  that  was  of  wisdom  slih, 
When  he  therto  his  time  sih,« 
All  prively  that  none  it  wiste, 
His  owne  hondes  that  one  chiste 
Of  fin  gold,  and  of  fin  perie,/ 
The  which  out  of  his  tresorie 
Was  take,  anon  he  fild  full ; 
The  other  cofre  of  straw  and  mull' 
With  stones  meynd*  he  fild  also : 
Thus  be  they  full  bothe  two. 
So  that  erliche'  upon  a  day 
He  had  within,  'where  he  lay, 
Ther  should  be  tofore  his  bed 
A  bord  up  set  and  faire  spred: 
And  than  he  let  the  cofi-es  fetteJ 
Upon  the  bord,  and  did  hem  sette. 
He  knewe  the  names  well  of  tho,* 
The  whiche  agein  him  grutched  so. 


«  In  Illustrations  of  Gower  and  Chaucer  by  the  Rev.  J.    i        d  Like. — «  Saw.—/  Jewels,  or  precious  stones.— f  Rub- 
H.  lodd. — fc  Xheuuelves. — «  Them.  j    bish.— A  Mingled. — »  Early.— j  Fetched. — *  Those 


JOHN  GOWER. 


77 


Both  of  his  chambre,  and  of  his  halle, 
Anon  and  sent  for  hem  alle; 
And  seide  to  hem  in  this  wise. 

There  shall  no  man  his  hap  despise: 
I  wot  well  ye  have  longe  served, 
And  god  wot  what  ye  have  deserved ; 
But  if  it  is  along  on  me 
Of  that  ye  unavanced  be, 
Or  elles  if  it  belong  on  yow. 
The  sothe  shall  be  proved  now : 
To  stoppe  with  your  evil  word, 
Lo !  here  two  cofres  on  the  bord ; 
Chese  which  you  list  of  bothe  two; 
And  witeth  well  that  one  of  tho 
Is  with  trcsor  so  full  begon, 
That  if  he  happe  therupon 
Ye  shall  be  riche  men  for  ever : 
Now  chese'  and  take  which  you  is  lever, 
But  be  well  ware  ere  that  ye  take, 
For  of  that  one  I  undertake 
Ther  is  no  maner  good  therein, 
Wherof  ye  mighten  profit  wmne. 
Now  goth"»  together  of  one  assent. 
And  taketh  your  avisement ; 
For  but  I  you  this  day  avance, 
It  slant  upon  your  owne  chance, 
Al  only  in  defalte  of  grace ; 
So  shall  be  shewed  in  this  place 
Upon  you  all  well  afyn," 
That  no  defalte  shal  be  myn. 

They  knelen  all,  and  with  one  vois 
The  king  they  thonkcn  of  this  chois . 
And  after  that  they  up  arise, 
And  gon  aside  and  hem  avise, 
And  at  laste  they  accorde 
(Wherof  her«  tale  to  recorde 
To  what  issue  they  be  falle) 
A  knyght  shall  speke  for  him  alle : 
He  kneleth  doun  unto  the  king, 
And  seith  that  they  upon  this  thing. 
Or  for  to  winne,  or  for  to  lese,' 
Ben  all  avised  for  to  chese. 

Tho?  toke  this  knyght  a  yerd""  on  honde, 
And  goth  there  as  the  cofres  stonde. 
And  with  assent  of  everychone* 
He  leith  his  yerde  upon  one, 
And  seith'  the  king  how  thilke  same 
They  chese  in  reguerdon"  by  name. 
And  preith  him  that  they  might  it  have. 

The  king,  which  wolde  his  honor  save. 
Whan  he  had  heard  the  common  vois, 
Hath  granted  hem  her  owne  chois. 
And  toke  hem  therupon  the  keie ; 
But  for  he  wolde  it  were  seie" 
What  good  they  have  as  they  suppose. 
He  bad  anon  the  cofre  unclose, 
Which  was  fulfild  with  straw  and  stones : 
Thus  be  they  served  all  at  ones. 

This  king  than  in  the  same  stede, 
Anon  that  other  cofre  undede. 
Where  as  they  sihen  gret  richesse, 
Wei  more  than  they  couthen  gesse. 

Lo !  seith  the  king,  now  may  ye  see 

t  Choose.— »»  Go.— n  At  last.— »  Their.— P  Lose.—*  Then. 
— '  A  rod. — •  Every  one.— <  Sayeth  to  the  king. 


That  ther  is  no  defalte  in  me ; 
Forthy""  my  self  I  wol  acquite. 
And  bereth  he  your  owne  wite* 
Of  thatv  fortune  hath  you  reftised. 

Thus  was  this  wise  king  excused : 
And  they  lefte  off  her  evil  speche. 
And  mer(^  of  her  king  beseche. 


OF  THE  GRATIFICATION  WHICH  THE  LOVER'S 
PASSION  RECEIVES  FROM  THE  SENSE  OF  HEAIb 
INQ. 

IN  THK  SIXTH  BOOK. 

Right  as  mine  eye  with  his  loke 
Is  to  myn  herte  a  lusty  cooke 
Of  loves  foode  delicate ; 
Right  so  myn  eare  in  his  estate, 
Wher  as  myn  eye  may  nought  serve 
Can  wel  myn  hertes  thonk*  deserve ; 
And  feden  him,  fro  day  to  day. 
With  such  deynties  as  he  may. 

For  thus  it  is  that,  over  all 
Wher  as  I  come  in  speciall, 
I  may  heare  of  my  lady  price  :• 
I  heare  one  say  that  she  is  wise ; 
Another  saith  that  she  is  good ; 
And,  some  men  sain,  of  worthy  blood 
That  she  is  come ;  and  is  also 
So  fair  that  no  wher  is  none  so : 
And  some  men  praise  hir  goodly  chere. 
Thus  every  thing  that  I  may  heare, 
Which  souneth  to  my  lady  goode, 
Is  to  myn  eare  a  lusty  foode. 
And  eke  myn  eare  hath,  over  this, 
A  deyntie  feste  whan  so  is 
That  I  may  heare  hirselve  speke ; 
For  than  anon  my  fast  I  breke 
On  suche  wordes  as  she  saith. 
That  ful  of  trouth  and  ful  c>f  faith 
They  ben,  and  of  so  good  disport, 
That  to  myn  eare  great  comfort 
They  don,  as  they  that  ben  delices 
For  all  the  meates,  and  all  the  spices, 
That  any  Lombard  couthe  make, 
Ne  be  so  lusty  for  to  take, 
Ne  so  far  forth  restauratif, 
(I  say  as  for  myn  owne  lif,) 
As  ben  the  wordes  of  hir  mouth. 
For  as  the  windes  of  the  South 
Ben  most  of  alle  debonaire; 
So,  whan  her  list  to  speke  faire. 
The  vertue  of  hir  goodly  speche 
Is  verily  myn  hertes  leche. 

And  if  it  so  befalle  among, 
That  she  carol  upon  a  song. 
Whan  I  it  hear,  I  am  so  fedd, 
That  I  am  fro  miself  so  ledd 
As  though  I  were  in  Paradis ; 
For,  certes,  as  to  myn  avis. 
Whan  I  heare  of  her  voice  the  steven. 
Me  thinketh  it  is  a  blisse  of  heven. 

And  eke  in  other  wise  also, 


«  As  their  reward. — »  St-on. — «>  Therefore.- 
y  i.  e.  that  which. — *  Thank. — >  Praise. 
02 


78 


JOHN   LTDGATE. 


Full  ofte  time  it  falleth  so, 
Myn  e'are  with  a  good  pitance 
Is  fedd  of  reding  of  romance 
Of  Ydoine  and  of  Amadas, 
That  whilom  weren  in  my  cas ; 
And  eke  of  other  many  a  score, 
That  loveden*  long  ere  I  was  bore.* 


For  whan  I  of  her  loves  rede, 
Myn  eiire  with  the  tale  I  fede. 
And  with  the  lust  of  her  histoire 
Sometime  I  draw  into  memoire. 
How  sorrow  may  not  ever  last ; 
And  so  hope  cometh  in  at  last. 

i  Loved.  e  Born. 


JOHN   LYDGATE. 

tBorn,  1375.    Died,  1461.] 


Was  bom  at  a  place  of  that  name  in  Suffolk, 
about  the  year  1375.  His  translation  (taken 
through  the  medium  of  Laurence's  version)  of 
Boccaccio's  Fall  of  Princes,  was  begun  while 
Henry  VI.  was  in  France,  where  that  king  never 
was,  but  when  he  went  to  be  crowned  at  Paris, 
in  1432.  Lydgate  was  then  above  threescore. 
He  was  a  monk  of  the  Benedictine  order,  at  St. 
Edmund's  Bury,  and  in  1423  was  elected  prior  of 
Hatfield  Brodhook,  but  the  following  year  had 
license  to  return  to  his  convent  again.  His  con- 
dition, one  would  imagine,  should  have  supplied 
him  with  the  necessaries  of  life,  yet  he  more  than 
once  complains  to  his  patron,  Humphry,  Duke  of 
Gloucester,  of  his  wants ;  and  he  shows  distinctly 
in  one  passage,  that  he  did  not  dislike  a  little 
more  wine  than  his  convent  allowed  him.  He 
was  full  thirty  years  of  age  when  Chaucer  died, 
whom  he  calls  his  master,  and  who  probably  was 


so  in  a  literal  sense.  His  Fall  of  Princes  is  rather 
a  paraphrase  than  a  translation  of  his  original. 
He  disclaims  the  idea  of  writing  "  a  stile  briefe 
and  compendious."  A  great  story  he  compares 
to  a  great  oak,  which  is  not  to  be  attacked  with 
a  single  stroke,  but  by  "  a  long  proresse." 

Gray  has  pointed  out  beauties  in  this  writer 
which  had  eluded  the  research,  or  the  taste,  of 
former  critics.  "  I  pretend  not,"  says  Gray,  "  to 
set  him  on  a  level  with  Chaucer,  but  be  cer- 
tainly comes  the  nearest  to  him  of  any  contem- 
porary writer  I  am  acquainted  with.  His  choice 
of  expression  and  the  smoothness  of  his  verse  far 
surpass  both  Gower  and  Occleve.  He  wanted 
not  art  in  raising  the  more  tender  emotions  of 
the  mind."  Of  these  he  gives  several  examples. 
The  finest  of  these,  perhaps,  is  the  following  pas- 
sage, descriptive  of  maternal  agony  and  tender- 
ness. 


CANACE,  CONDEMNED  TO  DEATH  BY  HER  FATHER  iEOLUS,  SENDS  TO  HER  GUILTY  BROTHER 
MACAREUS  THE  LAST  TESTIMONY  OF  HER  UNHAPPY  PASSION. 

BOOK   I.      FOUO   39. 


Out  of  her  swoone  when  she  did  abbraide. 
Knowing  no  mean  but  death  in  her  distresse, 
To  her  brother  full  piteouslie  she  said, 
"  Cause  of  my  sorowe,  roote  of  my  heavinesse, 
That  whilom  were  the  sourse  of  my  gladnesse, 
M'^hen  both  our  joyes  by  wille  were  so  disposed. 

Under  one  key  our  hearts  to  be  enclosed 

This  is  mine  end,  I  may  it  not  astarte ; 

0  brother  mine,  there  is  no  more  to  saye ; 
Lowly  beseeching  with  mine  whole  heart 
For  to  remember  specially,  I  praye, 

If  it  befall  my  littel  sonne  to  dye. 

That  thou  mayst  after  some  mind  on  us  have. 

Suffer  us  both  be  buried  in  one  grave. 

1  hold  him  strictly  twene  my  armes  twein, 
Thou  and  Natiire  laide  on  me  this  charge ; 
He,  guiltlesse,  muste  with  me  suffer  paine, 
And,  sith  thou  art  at  freedom  and  at  large, 
Let  kindnesse  oure  love  not  so  discharge, 
But  have  a  minde,  wherever  that  thou  be, 
Once  on  a  day  upon  my  child  and  me. 
f)n  thee  and  me  dependelh  the  trespace 
Touching  our  guilt  and  our  great  oflence, 
But,  welaway  !  most  angelik  of  face 

•"»ur  childe,  young  in  his  pure  innocence, 


Shall  agayn  right  suffer  death's  violence, 
Tender  of  limbes,  God  wote,  full  guiltelesse 
The  goodly  faire,  that  lieth  here  speechless. 

A  mouth  he  has,  but  wordis  hath  he  none  ; 
Cannot  complaine  alas  !  for  none  outrage  : 
Nor  grutcheth  not,  but  lies  here  all  alone 
Still  as  a  lambe,  most  meke  of  his  visage. 
What  heart  of  stele  could  do  to  him  damage, 
Or  suffer  him  dye,  beholding  the  manere 
And  looke  benigne  of  his  twein  eyen  clere.  ... 
Writing  her  letter,  awhapped  all  in  drede. 
In  her  right  hand  her  pen  ygan  to  quake. 
And  a  sharp  sword  to  make  her  hearte  blade, 
In  her  left  hand  her  father  hath  her  take, 
And  most  her  sorrowe  was  for  her  childes  sake. 
Upon  whose  face  in  her  barme  sleepjnge 
Full  many  a  tere  she  wept  in  complaynlng. 
After  all  this  so  as  she  stoode  and  quoke. 
Her  child  beholding  mid  of  her  peines  smart, 
Without  abode  the  sharpe  sword  she  tooke 
And  rove  herselfe  even  to  the  hearte ; 
Her  childe  fell  down,  which  mighte  not  astcrt. 
Having  no  help  to  succour  him  nor  save, 
But  in  her  blood  theselfe  began  to  bathe. 


SCOTTISH  POETRY. 


Thb  origin  of  the  Lowland  Scottish  language 
hasi  been  a  fruitful  subject  of  controversy.  Like 
the  English,  it  is  of  Gothic  materials ;  and,  at  a 
certain  distance  of  time  from  the  Norman  con- 
quest, is  found  to  contain,  as  well  as  its  sister 
dialect  of  the  South,  a  considerable  mixture  of 
French.  According  to  one  theory,  those  Gothic 
elements  of  Scotch  existed  in  the  Lowlands,  an- 
terior to  the  Anglo-Saxon  settlements  in  England, 
among  the  Picts,  a  Scandinavian  race :  the  sub- 
sequent mixture  of  French  words  arose  from  the 
French  connections  of  Scotland,  and  the  settle- 
ment of  Normans  among  her  people ;  and  thus, 
by  the  Pictish  and  Saxon  dialects  meeting,  and 
an  infusion  of  French  being  afterwards  super- 
added, the  Scottish  language  arose,  independent 
of  modern  English,  though  necessarily  similar, 
from  the  similarity  of  its  materials.  According 
to  another  theory,  the  Picts  were  not  Goths,  but 
Cambro-British,  a  Celtic  race,  like  the  Western 
Scots  who  subdued  and  blended  with  the  Picts, 
under  Kenneth  Mac  Alpine.  Of  the  same  Celtic 
race  were  also  the  Britons  of  Strathclyde,  and 
the  ancient  people  of  Galloway.  In  Galloway, 
though  the  Saxons  overran  that  peninsula,  they 
are  affirmed  to  have  left  but  little  of  their  blood, 
and  little  of  their  language.  In  the  ninth  century, 
Galloway  was  new-peopled  by  the  Irish  Cruithne, 
and  at  the  end  of  the  eleventh  century  was  uni- 
versally inhabited  by  a  Gaelic  people.  At  this 
latter  period,  the  common  language  of  all  Scot- 
land, with  the  exception  of  Lothian,  and  a  comer 
of  Caithness,  was  the  Gaelic;  and  in  the  twelfth 
century  commenced  the  progress  of  the  English 
language  into  Scotland  Proper  :•  so  that  Scotch 
is  only  migrated  English. 

In  support  of  the  opposite  system,  an  assertor, 
better  known  than  trusted,  namely  Pinkerton,  has 
maintained,  that  "  there  is  not  a  shadow  of  proof 
that  the  Gaelic  language  was  ever  at  all  spoken 
in  the  Lowlands  of  Scotland."  Yet  the  author 
of  Caledonia  has  given  not  mere  shadows  of  proof, 
but  very  strong  grounds,  for  concluding  that,  in 
the  first  place,  to  the  north  of  the  Forth  and 
Clyde,  with  the  exception  of  Scandinav-ian  settle- 
ments admitted  to  have  been  made  in  Orkney, 
Caithness,  a  strip  of  Sutherland,  and  partially  in 
the  Hebrides,  a  Gothic  dialect  was  unknown  in 
ancient  Scotland.  Amidst  the  arguments  to  this 
effect  deduced  from  the  topography  of  (the  sup- 
posed Gothic)  Pictland,  in  which,  Mr.  Chalmers 
affirms,  that  not  a  Saxon  name  is  to  be  found 
older  than  the  twelfth  century ;  and  amidst  the 
evidences  accumulated  from  the  laws,  religion, 

♦  Lothian,  now  containing  the  Scottish  metropolis),  was, 
after  pcveral  fluctuations  of  possession,  annexed  to  the 
territory  of  ScoUand  in  1020 ;  but  eTen  in  the  time  of 


antiquities,  and  manners  of  North  Britain,  one 
recorded  fact  appears  sufficiently  striking.  When 
the  assembled  clergy  of  Scotland  met  Malcolm 
Caenmore  and  Queen  Margaret,  the  Saxon  prin- 
cess was  unable  to  understand  their  language. 
Her  husband,  who  had  learnt  English,  was  obliged 
to  be  their  interpreter.  All  the  clergy  of  Pictland, 
we  are  told,  were  at  that  time  Irish ;  but  among 
a  people  with  a  Gaelic  king,  and  a  Gaelic  clergy, 
is  it  conceivable  that  the  Gaelic  language  should 
not  have  been  commonly  spoken  1 

With  regard  to  Galloway,  or  south-western 
Scotland,  the  paucity  of  Saxon  names  in  that 
peninsula  (keeping  apart  pure  or  modern  Eng- 
lish ones)  are  pronounced,  by  Mr.  G.  Chalmers,  to 
show  the  establishments  of  the  Saxons  to  have 
been  few  and  temporary,  and  their  language  to 
have  been  thinly  scattered,  in  comparison  with 
the  Celtic.  As  we  turn  to  the  south-east  of  Scot- 
land, it  is  inferred  from  topography,  that  the  Ssix- 
ons  of  Lothian  never  permanently  settled  to  the 
westward  of  the  Avon ;  while  the  numerous  Cel- 
tic names  which  reach  as  far  as  the  Tweed,  evince 
that  the  Gaelic  language  not  only  prevailed  in 
proper  Scotland,  but  overflowed  her  boundaries, 
and,  like  her  arms,  made  inroads  on  the  Saxon 
soil. 

Mr.  Ellis,  in  discussing  this  subject,  seems  to 
have  been  startled  by  the  difficulty  of  supposing 
the  language  of  England  to  have  superseded  the 
native  Gaelic  in  Scotland,  solely  in  consequence 
of  Saxon  migrations  to  the  north,  in  the  reign  of 
Malcolm  Caenmore.  Malcolm  undoubtedly  mar- 
ried a  Saxon  princess,  who  brought  to  Scotland 
her  relations  and  domestics.  Many  Saxons  also 
fled  into  Scotland  from  the  violences  of  the  Nor- 
man conquest.  Malcolm  gave  them  an  asylum, 
and  during  his  incursions  into  Cumberland  and 
Northumberland,  carried  off"  so  many  young  cap- 
tives, that  English  persons  were  to  be  seen  in 
every  house  and  village  of  his  dominions,  in  the 
reign  of  David  I.  But,  on  the  death  of  Malcolm, 
the  Saxon  followers,  both  of  Edgar  Atheling  and 
Margaret,  were  driven  away  by  the  enmity  of  the 
Gaelic  people.  Those  expelled  Saxons  must  have 
been  the  gentry,  while  the  captives,  since  they 
were  seen  in  a  subsequent  age,  must  have  been 
retained,  as  being  servile,  or  vileyns.  The  fact  of 
the  expulsion  of  Margaret  and  Edgar  Atheling's 
followers,  is  recorded  in  the  Saxon  Chronicle.  It 
speaks  pretty  clearly  for  the  general  Gaelicism  of 
the  Scotch  at  that  period ;  and  it  also  prepares  us 
for  what  is  afterwards  so  fully  illustrated  by  the 
author  of  Caledonia,  viz.  that  it  was  the  new 


David  I.  ifi  spoiien  of  as  not  a  part  of  Scotland.  David 
addresses  his  "  faithful  sutgects  of  all  Scotland  and  ol 
Lothian." 


80 


SCOTTISH   POETRY. 


dynasty  of  Scottish  kings,  after  Malcolm  Caen- 
more,  that  gave  a  more  diffusive  course  to  the 
peopling  of  proper  Scotland,  by  Saxon,  by  Anglo- 
Norman,  and  by  Flemish  colonists.  In  the  suc- 
cessive charters  of  Edgar,  Alexander,  and  David  I. 
we  scarcely  see  any  other  witnesses  than  Saxons, 
who  enjoyed  under  those  monarchs  all  power,  and 
acquired  vast  possessions  in  every  district  of  Scot- 
land, settling  with  their  followers  in  entire  hamlets. 

If  this  English  origin  of  Scotch  be  correct,  it 
sufficiently  accounts  for  the  Scottish  poets,  in  the 
fifteenth  century,  speaking  of  Chaucer,  Gower, 
and  Lydgate,  as  their  masters  and  models  of  style, 
and  extolling  them  as  the  improvers  of  a  language 
to  which  they  prefix  the  word  "  our,"  as  if  it  be- 
longed in  common  to  Scots  and  English,  and  even 
sometimes  denominating  their  own  language  Eng- 
lish. 

Yet,  in  whatever  light  we  are  to  regard  Low- 
land Scotch,  whether  merely  as  northern  English, 
or  as  having  a  mingled  Gothic  origin  from  the 
Pictish  and  Anglo-Saxon,  its  claims  to  poetical 
antiquity  are  respectable.  The  extreme  antiquity 
of  the  elegy  on  Alexander  III.  on  which  Mr.  Ellis 
rests  so  much  importance,  is  indeed  disputed  ;  but 
Sir  Tristrem  exhibits  an  original  romance,  com- 
posed on  the  north  of  the  Tweed,  at  a  time  when 
there  is  no  proof  that  southern  English  contained 
any  work  of  that  species  of  fiction,  that  was  not 
translated  fi-om  the  French.  In  the  fourteenth 
century,  Barbour  celebrated  the  greatest  royal 
hero  of  his  country,  (Bruce),  in  a  versified  ro- 
mance that  is  not  uninteresting.  The  next  age 
is  prolific  in  the  names  of  distinguished  Scottish 
"  Makers"  Henry  the  Minstrel,  said  to  have 
been  blind  from  his  birth,  rehearsed  the  exploits 
of  Wallace  in  strains  of  fierce  though  vulgar 
fire.  J  ames  I.  of  Scotland  ;  Henrysone,  the  au- 
thor of  Robene  and  Makyne,  the  first  known  pas- 
toral, and  one  of  the  best,  in  a  dialect  rich  with 
the  favours  of  the  pastoral  muse ;  Douglas,  the 
translator  of  Virgil ;  Dunbar,  Mersar,  and  others, 
gave  a  poetical  lustre  to  Scotland,  in  the  fifteenth 
century,  and  fill  up  a  space  in  the  annals  of 
British  poetry,  after  the  date  of  Chaucer  and  Lyd- 
gate, that  is  otherwise  nearly  barren.  James  I. 
had  an  elegant  and  tender  vein,  and  the  ludicrous 
pieces  Euscribed  to  him  possess  considerable  comic 
humour.  Douglas's  descriptions  of  natural  scenery 
are  extolled  by  T.  Warton,  who  has  given  ample 
and  interpreted  specimens  of  them^in  his  History 
of  English  Poetry.  He  was  certainly  a  fond 
painter  of  nature :  but  his  imagery  is  redundant 
and  tediously  profuse.  His  chief  original  work 
is  the  elaborate  and  quaint  allegory  of  King 
Hart.*  It  is  full  of  alliteration,  a  trick  which 
the  Scottish  poets  might  have  learnt  to  avoid  firom 
•  he' "  rose  of  rhetours"  (as  they  call  him)  Chau- 
cer; but  in  which  they  rival  the  anapsestics  of 
Langland. 

Dunbar  is  a  poet  of  a  higher  order.     His  tale 

*  In  w^iich  the  human  heart  i^  personified  as  a  Sove- 
ceign  in  his  castle,  guarded  by  the  five  Senses,  made  captive 
by  Dame  I'leasaunce.  a  neighbouring  potentate,  hut  finally 
brought  back  Irom  thraldom  by  Age  and  Kxperience. 


of  the  Friars  of  Berwick  is  quite  in  the  spirit  of 
Chaucer.  His  Dance  of  the  Seven  Deadly  Sins 
through  Hell,  though  it  would  be  absurd  to  com- 
pare it  with  the  beauty  and  refinement  of  the  cele- 
brated Ode  on  the  Passions,  has  yet  an  animated 
picturesqueness  not  unlike  that  of  Collins.  The 
effect  of  both  pieces  shows  how  much  more 
potent  allegorical  figures  become  by  being  made 
to  fleet  suddenly  before  the  imagination,  than  by 
being  detained  in  its  view  by  prolonged  descrip- 
tion. Dunbar  conjures  up  the  personified  Sins, 
as  Collins  does  the  Passions,  to  rise,  to  strike,  and 
disappear.  They  "  come  like  shadows,  so  de- 
part." 

In  the  works  of  those  northern  makers  of  the 
fifteenth  century ,t  there  is  a  gay  spirit,  and  an  in- 
dication of  jovial  manners,  which  forms  a  contrast 
to  the  covenanting  national  character  of  subse- 
quent times.  The  fi^equent  coarseness  of  this 
poetical  gayety,  it  would  indeed  be  more  easy  than 
agreeable  to  prove  by  quotations ;  and  if  we  could 
forget  how  very  gross  the  humour  of  Chaucer 
sometimes  is,  we  might,  on  a  general  comparison 
of  the  Scotch  with  the  English  poets,  extol  the 
comparative  delicacy  of  English  taste ;  for  Skel- 
ton  himself,  though  more  burlesque  than  Sir  David 
Lyndsay  in  style,  is  less  outrageously  indecorous 
in  matter.  At  a  period  when  James  IV.  was 
breaking  lances  in  the  lists  of  chivalry,  and  when 
the  court  and  court  poets  of  Scotland  might  be 
supposed  to  have  possessed  ideas  of  decency,  if 
not  of  refinement,  Dunbar  at  that  period  addresses 
the  queen,  on  the  occasion  of  having  danced  in 
her  majesty's  chamber,  with  jokes  which  a  beggar^ 
wench  of  the  present  day  would  probably  con- 
sider as  an  offence  to  her  delicacy. 

Sir  David  Lyndsay  was  a  courtier,  a  foreign  am- 
bassador, and  the  intimate  companion  of  a  prince  ; 
for  he  attended  James  V.  from  the  first  to  the  last 
day  of  that  monarch's  life.  From  his  rank  in 
society,  we  might  suppose,  that  he  had  purposely 
laid  aside  the  style  of  a  gentleman,  and  clothed 
the  satirical  moralties,  which  he  levelled  against 
popery,  in  language  suited  to  the  taste  of  the  vul- 
gar ;  if  it  were  easy  to  conceive  the  taste  of  the 
vulgar  to  have  been,  at  that  period,  grosser  than 
that  of  their  superiors.  Yet  while  Lyndsay 's  sa- 
tire, in  tearing  up  the  depravities  of  a  corrupted 
church,  seems  to  be  polluted  with  the  scandal  on 
which  it  preys,  it  is  impossible  to  peruse  his  writ- 
ings without  confessing  the  importance  of  his 
character  to  the  country  in  which  he  lived,  and 
to  the  cause  which  he  was  born  to  serve.  In  his 
tale  of  Squyre  Mcldrum  we  lose  sight  of  the  re- 
former. It  is  a  little  romance,  very  amusing  as  a 
draught  of  Scottish  chivalrous  manners,  appa- 
rently drawn  from  the  life,  and  blending  a  spor- 
tive and  fiimiliar  with  an  heroic  and  amatory  in- 
terest. Nor  is  its  broad,  careless  diction,  perhaps, 
an  unfavourable  relief  to  the  romantic  spirit  of 
the  adventures  which  it  portrays. 

t  The  writings  of  some  of  those  Scottish  poets  belong  to 
the  sixteenth  century :  but  from  the  date  of  their  birth* 
they  are  placed  under  the  fifteenth. 


JAMES  I.  OF   SCOTLAND. 


[Born,  1394.    Died,  Feb.  1436-7.] 


James  T.  of  Scotland  was  bom  in  the  year 
1394,  and  became  heir-apparent  to  the  Scottish 
crown  by  the  death  of  his  brother,  Prince  David. 
Taken  prisoner  at  sea  by  the  English,  at  ten  years 
of  age,  he  received  some  compensation  for  his  cruel 
detention  by  an  excellent  education.  It  appears 
that  he  accompanied  Henry  V.  into  France,  and 
there  distinguished  himself  by  his  skill  and  bravery. 
On  his  return  to  his  native  country  he  endeavoured, 
during  too  short  a  reign,  to  strengthen  the  rights 
of  the  crown  and  people  against  a  tyrannical  aris- 
tocracy. He  was  the  first  who  convoked  commis- 
sioners from  the  shires,  in  place  of  the  numerous 
lesser  barons,  and  he  endeavoured  to  create  a  house 
of  commons  in  Scotland,  by  separating  the  repre- 
sentatives of  the  people  from  the  peers;  but  his 
nobility  foresaw  the  effects  of  his  scheme,  and  too 
successfully  resisted  it.  After  clearing  the  low- 
lands of  Scotland  from  feudal  oppression,  he  visited 
tiiC  highlands,  and  crushed  several  refractory  chief- 
tains. Some  instances  of  his  justice  are  recorded, 
which  rather  resemble  the  cruelty  of  the  times  in 
which  he  lived,  than  his  own  personal  character ; 
but  in  such  times  justice  herself  wears  a  horrible 
aspect.     One  Macdonald,  a  petty  chieftain  of  the 


north,  displeased  with  a  widow  on  his  estate  for 
threatening  to  appeal  to  the  king,  had  ordered  her 
feet  to  be  shod  with  iron  plates  nailed  to  the  soles ; 
and  then  insultingly  told  her  that  she  was  thus 
armed  against  the  rough  roads.  The  widow, 
however,  found  means  to  send  her  story  to  James, 
who  seized  the  savage,  with  twelve  of  his  asso- 
ciates, whom  he  shod  with  iron,  in  a  similar  man- 
ner, and  having  exposed  them  for  several  days  in 
Edinburgh,  gave  them  over  to  the  executioner. 

While  a  prisoner  in  Windsor  Castle,  James 
had  seen  and  admired  the  beautiful  Lady  Jane 
Beaufort,  daughter  of  the  Duke  of  Somerset. 
Few  royal  attachments  have  been  so  romantic 
and  so  happy.  His  poem  entitled  the  Quair,* 
in  which  he  pathetically  laments  his  captivity,  was 
devoted  to  the  celebration  of  this  lady ;  whom  he  ob- 
tained at  last  in  marriage,  together  with  his  liberty, 
as  Henry  conceived  that  his  union  with  the  grand- 
daughter of  the  Duke  of  Lancaster  might  bind 
the  Scottish  monarch  to  the  interests  of  England. 

James  perished  by  assassination,  in  the  forty- 
second  year  of  his  age,  leaving  behind  him  the 
example  of  a  patriot  king,  and  of  a  man  of  genius 
universally  accomplished. 


THE  KINa  THUS  DESCRIBES  THE  APPEARANCE  OF  HIS  MISTRESS,   WHEN   HE   FIRST  SAW  HaH 
FROM  A   WINDOW   OF  HIS  PRISON   AT   WINDSOR. 

rROK  CAXTO  n.  of  THB  QUAIR.f 


Ths  longe  dayes  and  the  nightes  eke, 
I  would  bewaU  my  fortune  in  this  wise, 
For  which,  again"  distress  comfort  to  seek, 
My  custom  was,  on  momes,  for  to  rise 
Early  as  day  :  O  happy  exercise ! 
By  thee  came  I  to  joy  out  of  torment ; 
But  now  to  purpose  of  my  first  intent. 

XI. 

Bewailing  in  my  chamber,  thus  alone, 
Despaired  of  all  joy  and  remedy, 
For-tired  of  my  thought,  and  woe  begone ; 
And  to  the  window  gan  I  walk  in  hye,* 
To  see  the  world  and  folk  that  went  forby ; 
As  for  the  time  (though  I  of  mirthis  food 
Might  have  no  more)  to  look  it  did  me  good. 

XII. 

Now  was  there  made  fast  by  the  touris  wall 

A  garden  fair ;  and  in  the  comers  set 

Ane  herbere"  green  ;  with  wandis  long  and  small 

Railed  about  and  so  with  trecis  set 

Was  all  the  place,  and  hawthorn  hedges  knet, 

That  life  was  none  [a]  walking  there  forby 

That  might  within  scarce  any  wight  espy.  .  .  . 

•  Quair  is  the  old  Scotch  word  for  a  book. 

i  In  QeorR.'  Chalmcrg'  roprint  of  the  Quair  (8to,  1824), 
there  is  no  divisiion  into  cantos. — C. 

•  Against.— i  HasU;. — «  llerbary,  or  garden  of  dimples. 

11 


And  on  the  smalle  greene  twistis  sat 
The  little  sweete  nightingale,  and  sung, 
So  loud  and  clear  the  hymnis  consecrate 
Of  lovis  use,  now  soft,  now  loud  among,'' 
That  all  the  gardens  and  the  wallis  rung 
Right  of  their  song ;  and  on  the  couple  next 
Of  their  sweet  harmony,  and  lo  the  text. 

XV. 

Worshippe,  O  ye  that  lovers  bene,  this  May ! 
For  of  your  bliss  the  calends  are  begun ; 
And  sing  with  us,  "  Away  !  winter  away ! 
Come  summer  come,  the  sweet  season  and  sun ; 
Awake  for  shame  that  have  your  heavens  won ; 
And  amorously  lift  up  your  heades  all 
Thank  love  that  list  you  to  his  mercy  cjdl."  .  . 

XXI. 

And  therewith  cast  I  down  mine  eye  again, 

Where  as  I  saw  walking  under  the  tower, 

Ful  secretly  new  comyn  to  her  pleyne,' 

The  fairest  and  the  frest  younge  flower 

That  ever  I  saw  (methought)  before  that  hour  • 

For  which  sudden  abate/  anon  astertf 

The  blood  of  all  my  body  to  my  heart.  .  .  . 

<*  Promiscuously. — •  Sport.  In  Chalmers  it  is: — new 
cumjm  her  to  pleyne,  which  he  explains  "comini?  forth  to 
petition."  {€.)—/  An  unexpected  accident.  Chalmers  sayi 
"depression  of  mind."  (C.) — t  Started  back. 


82 


ROBERT   HENRYSONE. 


XXVIl. 

Of  ber  array  the  form  gif*  I  shall  write, 

Toward  her  golden  hair,  and  rich  attire, 

In  fret  wise  couched  with  pearlis  white, 

And  greate  balas'  lemyng*  as  the  fire ; 

With  many  an  emeraut  and  faire  sapphire. 

And  on  her  head  a  chaplet  fresh  of  hue. 

Of  plumys  parted  red,  and  white,  and  blue.  .  .  . 

XXIX. 

About  her  neck,  white  as  the  fyre  amaille,' 
A  goodly  chain  of  small  orfevyrie,"* 
Whereby  there  hang  a  ruby  without  fail 
Like  to  ane  heart  yshapen  verily. 
That  as  a  spark  of  lowe"  so  wantonly 
Seemed  burnyng  upon  her  white  throat ; 
Now  gif  there  was  good  perde  God  it  wrote. 

*  If. — «  Rubies.—*  BurniDg. — '  Mr.   Ellis  conjectures 
that  this  is  an  error  tor /air  email,  i.  e.  enamel. 


And  for  to  walk  that  freshe  Maye's  morrow. 
An  hook  she  had  upon  her  tissue  white, 
That  goodlier  had  not  been  seen  toforrow," 
As  I  suppose,  and  girt  she  was  a  lyte? 
Thus  halfling?  loose  for  haste ;  to  such  delight 
It  was  to  see  her  youth  in  goodlihead. 
That  for  rudeness  to  speak  thereof  I  dread. 

XXXI. 

Ill  her  was  youth,  beauty  with  humble  port. 
Bounty,  richess,  and  womanly  feature : 
(God  better  wote  than  my  pen  can  report) 
Wisdom,  largess  estate  and  cunning  sure,  .  . 
In  word,  in  deed,  in  shape  and  countenance. 
That  nature  might  no  more  her  childe  avance. 


m  Ooldsmith's  work. — n  Fire.- 
-9  Half. 


'  Heretofore.— f>  A  little. 


ROBERT   HENRYSONE. 


[BOTD,  1423.    Died,  1495.] 


Nothing  is  known  of  the  life  of  Henrysone, 
bat  that  he  was  a  schoolmaster  at  Dunfermline. 
Lord  Hailes  supposes  his  office  to  have  been  pre- 
cept/jr  of  youth  in  the  Benedictine  convent  of 


that  place.  Besides  a  continuation  of  Chaucer's 
Troilus  and  Cresseide,  he  wrote  a  number  of 
fables,  of  which  MS.  copies  are  preserved  in  the 
Scotch  Advocates'  Library. 


ROBENE  AND  MAKYNE. 

A  BALLAD. 


RoBENE  sat  on  gud  grene  hill,'" 
Keipand  a  flock  of  fie :» 
Mirry  Makyne  said  him  till,' 
Robene  thou  rew  on  me  :" 
I  haif  the  luvit,  lowd  and  still" 
This  yieris  two  or  thre  ;"> 
My  dule  in  dern  hot  gif  thou  dill,* 
Doubtless  hot  dreid  I  die.' 

"•  ' 

He.  Robene  answerit,  be  the  rude,» 
Nathing  of  lufe  I  knaw  ;<« 
Bot  keipis  my  scheip  undir  yone  wud,' 
Lo  quhair  they  raik  on  raw." 
Quhat  has  marrit  the  in  thy  mude,' 
Makyne  to  me  thow  schaw  1* 
Or  what  is  luve,  or  to  be  lu'ed/ 
Fain  wald  I  leir  that  law.f 

III. 
Stie.  At  luvis  leir  gif  thow  will  leir,* 
Take  thair  an  A,  B,  C,'' 
Be  kind,  courtas,  and  fair  of  feir/ 
Wyse,  hardy,  and  fre.* 

I.  '  Robene  sat  on  a  good  green  hill. — •  Keeping  a  flock 
of  cattle. — •  Merry  Makyne  said  to  him. — •«  Robene,  take 
pity  on  me. — »  I  have  loved  thee  openly  and  secretly. — 
•0  These  years  two  or  three. — «  My  sorrow,  in  secret,  un- 
less thou  share. — »  Undoubtedly  I  shall  die. 

II.  *  Robene  answered,  by  the  rood. — »  Nothing  of  love 
I  know. — I'  But  keep  my  sheep  under  yon  wood. — '  Lo 
where  they  range  in  a  row. — "f  What  has  marred  thee  in 
thy  mood. — «  Makyne,  show  thou  to  me.—/  Or  what  is  love 
or  to  be  loved. — S  Fain  would  I  learn  that  law  (of  love). 

III.  *  At  the  lore  of  love  if  thou  wilt  learn. — «  Take 
there  an  A.  B.  C.—J  Be  kind,  courteous,  and  fair  of  aspect 


Se  that  no  danger  do  the  deir,' 
Quhat  dule  in  dern  thow  drie," 
Preiss  the  with  pane  at  all  poweir," 
Be  patient,  and  previe." 

IV. 

He.  Robene  answerit  her  agane,' 
I  wait  not  quhat  is  luve,? 
But  I  half  marvell,  in  certaine,' 
Quhat  makis  the  this  wanrufe.* 
The  weddir  is  fair,  and  I  am  fane,' 
My  scheip  gois  haill  aboif," 
An  we  wald  play  us  in  this  plane" 
They  wald  us  baith  reproif." 

V. 

She.  Robene  take  tent  unto  my  tale,* 
And  wirk  all  as  I  reid,y 
And  thow  sail  haif  my  hart  all  hail* 
Eik  and  my  maidenheid. 
Sen  God  sendis  bute  for  baill," 
And  for  murning  remeid,* 
I  dem  with  the,  but  gif  I  daill. 
Doubtless  I  am  bot  dead.** 

or  feature. — *  Wise,  hardy,  and  free.— '  See  thai  no  dM.^M 
daunt  thee. — "»  Whatever  sorrow  iu  st-crt t  thou  suffercst, 
— n  Exert  thyself  with  pains  to  thy  utmost  power. — •  Be 
patient  and  privy. 

IV.  p  Robene  answered  her  again. — ?  I  wot  not  what  is 
love. — r  But  I  (have)  wonder,  certainly. — •  What  makes 
thee  thus  melancholy. — »  The  weather  is  fair,  and  I  am 
glad. — u  My  sheep  go  healthful  above  (or  in  the  uplands). 
— o  If  we  should  play  in  this  plain. — w  They  would  re- 
prove us  both. 

V.  X  Robene,  take  heed  unto  my  tale. — »  And  do  all  as 
I  advise. — *  And  thou  sbalt  have  my  heart  entirely.— 


ROBERT  HENRYSONE. 


He.  Makyne,  to  morne  this  ilka  tyde,' 
And  ye  will  meit  me  heir  / 
Peradventure  my  scheip  may  gang  besyde,«' 
Quhill  we  half  liggit  full  neir,* 
Both  maugre  haif  I,  an  I  byde, 
Fra  they  begin  to  steir, 
Quhat  lyis  on  hairt  I  will  nocht  hyd, 
Makyne  then  mak  gud  cheir. 

VII. 

She.  Robene  thou  reivis  me  roif*  and  rest,*" 

I  luve  but  the  alone^ 
He.  Makyne  adew  !  the  sone  gois  west,* 

The  day  is  neirhand  gone.' 
She.  Robene,  in  dule  I  am  so  drest,*" 

That  luve  will  be  my  bone." 
He.  Ga  luve,  Makyne,  quhair  evir  thou  list," 

For  leman  I  lue  none.^ 

vin. 
She.  Robene,  I  stand  in  sic  a  style,' 

I  sicht,  and  that  full  sair.*" 
He.  Makyne,  I  haif  bene  heir  this  quhile,* 

At  hame  God  gif  I  wair.' 
She.  My  hinny  Robene,  talk  ane  quhyle  :•» 

Gif  thou  wilt  do  na  mair." 
He.  Makyne,  sum  other  man  begyle ;'» 
or  hamewart  I  will  fair.* 

IX. 

Robene  on  his  wa3ris  went,v 
As  licht  as  leif  of  tre  :* 
Makyne  mnmit  in  her  intent," 
And  trow'd  him  nevir  to  se,' 
Robene  brayd  attour  the  bent,« 
Than  Makyne  cryit  on  hie,** 
Now  ma  thow  sing,  for  I  am  schent,* 
Quhat  aUs  lufe  with  me/ 

X. 

Makyne  went  hame  withouttin  faill,!' 
Full  werry  after  couth  weip,* 


•  Since  God  sends  good  for  evil. — 1>  And  for  mourning  con- 
eolation. — e  I  am  now  in  secret  with  thee,  but  if  I  sepa- 
rate.— <*  Doubtless  I  shall  die  (broken-hearted). 

VI.  «  Makyne.  to-morrow  this  very  time.—/  If  ye  will 
meet  here. — K  Perhaps  my  sheep  may  go  aside. — *  Until 
we  have  lain  near. 

VII.  «■  Robene,  thou  robbest  my  quiet  and  rest. — i  I  but 
thee  alone.—*  Makyne,  adieu,  the  sun  goes  west. — '  The 
day  is  nearly  gone. — m  Robene,  in  sorrow  I  am  so  beset. — 
»  That  love  will  be  my  bane. — »  Go  love,  Makyne,  where 
thou  wilt. — P  For  sweetheart  I  love  none. 

VIII.  «  Robene,  I  am  in  such  a  state. — »■  I  sigh,  and 
that  full  sore. — •  Makyne,  I  have  been  here  some  time. — 

*  At  home  God  grant  I  were. — •«  My  sweet  Robene,  talk  a 
while. — ^  If  thou  wilt  do  no  more. — w  Makyne,  some  other 
man  beguile. — x  For  homeward  I  will  fare. 

IX.  y  Robene  on  his  way  went. — »  As  light  $is  leaf  of 
tree. — »  Makyne  mnurneil  in  her  thouifhts.— *  And  thought 
him  never  to  se<*.— e  Robene  went  over  the  hill. — <t  Then 
Makyne  cried  on  high. — «  Now  you  may  sing,  1  am  de- 
stroyed.— •/  What  ails,  love,  with  me? 

X.  f  Makyne  went  home  without  fail.—*  FullJ  after 

•  Pinkerton  absurdly  makes  this  word  roiss;  it  is  roif 
in  the  Bannatyne  MS. 

t  The  line  -'Than  Robene  tn  a  full  fairdaill."  may  either 
mean  that  he  assembled  his  sheep  in  a  fair  full  number, 
or  in  a  fair  piece  of  low  ground ;  the  former  is  the  more 
probable  meaning. 

X  Spend,  if  it  be  not  a  corruption  of  the  text,  is  ap- 
parently the  imperfect  of  a  verb;  but  I  cannot  find  in  any 


Than  Robene  in  a  full  fair  daill,^ 
Assemhllt  all  his  scheip. 
Be  that  sum  parte  of  Mak3me'8  ail,* 
Ourthrow  his  hairt  cowd  creip/ 
He  foUowit  hir  fast  thair  till  assaill,* 
And  till  hir  tuke  gude  keep.' 

XI. 

He.  Abyd,  abyd,  thou  fair  Makyne,"* 
A  word  for  any  thing ;" 
For  all  my  luve  it  shall  be  thine,« 
Withouttin  departing.P 
All  thy  hairt  for  till  have  myne,» 
Is  all  my  cuvating,"" 

My  scheip,  to  morne,  quhyle  houris  njme* 
WUl  need  of  no  kepin'g.' 

XII. 
For  of  my  pane  thow  made  it  play," 
And  all  in  vain  I  spend,^ 
As  thow  hes  done,  sa  sail  I  say,' 
Mume  on,  I  think  to  mend." 


He.  Makyne  the  howp  of  all  my  heill,* 
My  hairt  on  the  is  sett ;» 
And  evir  mair  to  the  be  leill,* 
Quhile  I  may  leif,  but  lett.» 
Never  to  faill,  as  utheris  faill,* 
Quhat  grace  that  evir  I  get.* 

She.  Robene,  with  the  I  will  not  deill,' 
Adew !  for  thus  we  mett.* 


Makyne  went  hame  blythe  aneuche/ 

Attoure  the  holtis  hair  ;f 

Robene  murnit,  and  Makyne  leuch,* 

Scho  sang,  he  sichit  sair.» 

And  so  left  him  baith  wo  and  wreuch,i 

In  dolour  and  in  cair,* 

Kepand  his  hird  under  a  heuch,' 

Amang  the  holtis  hair.*" 


she  would  weep. — t  By  that  (time)  some  of  Makyne's 
sorrow. — j  Crept  through  his  heart. — *  He  followed  fast  ta 
lay  hold  of  her. — '  And  held  good  watch  of  her. 

XI.  m  Abide,  abide,  thou  fair  Makyne. — »  A  word  for 
any  thing's  (sake). — «  For  all  my  love  shall  be  thine. — 
p  Without  departing. — 9  To  have  thy  heart  all  mine. — »■  Is 
all  that  I  covet. — •  My  sheep  to-morrow,  till  nine. — t  Will 
need  no  keeping. 

XII.  »  For  you  made  game  of  my  pain. — «  I  shall  say 
like  you. — •>  Mourn  on,  I  think  to  do  better  (than  be  in 
love). 

XV.  «  Makyne,  the  hope  of  all  my  health. — *  My  heart 
is  on  thee  set. — »  And  (I)  shall  ever  more  be  true  to  thee 
— •  While  I  may  live,  without  ceasing.—*  Never  to  fail  as 
others  fail. — «  Whatever  favour  I  obtain. — ^  Robene,  with 
thee  I  will  not  deal. — «  Adieu!  for  thus  we  met. 

XVI.  /  Makyne  went  home  blythe  enough. — S  Over  the 
hoary  woodlands.!)— *  Roliene  mourn'd,  and  Makyue 
laughed. — •'  She  sang,  he  sighed  sore. — }  And  so  left  him 
woful  and  overcomi-. — »  In  dolour  and  care.—'  Keeping 
his  herd  under  a  cliff. — "•  Among  the  hoary  Mllocks.^ 


glossary,  or  even  in  Dr.  Jamieson's  Scottish  Dictionary, 
the  verl)  to  which  it  may  he  trao-d  so  as  to  make  sen.se. 
I  suppose  the  meaning  is  "  there  was  a  time  when  I  vainly 
madn  love  to  thee." 

2  The  word  werry  I  am  unable  to  explain. 

f  Vide  Jamieson's  Dictionary,  voc.  hair. 

^  The  words  hoUU  hair  have  been  differently  explained 


WILLIAM   DUNBAR. 


[Born  1460?    Died  1520?] 


The  little  ihat  is  known  of  Dunbar  has  been 
gleaned  from  the  complaints  in  his  own  poetry, 
and  from  the  abuse  of  his  contemporary  Kennedy, 
which  is  chiefly  directed  against  his  poverty. 
From  the  colophon  of  one  of  his  poems,  dated  at 
Oxford,  it  has  been  suggested,  as  a  conjecture, 
that  he  studied  at  that  university.*  By  his  own 
account,  he  travelled  through  France  and  Eng- 
land as  a  novice  of  the  Franciscan  order;  and, 
in  that  capacity,  confesses  that  he  was  guilty  of 
sins,  probably  professional  frauds,  from  the  stain 


of  which  the  holy  water  could  not  cleanse  him. 
On  his  return  to  Scotland  he  commemorated  the 
nuptials  of  James  IV.  with  Margaret  Tudor,  in 
his  poem  of  the  Thistle  and  Rose ;  but  we  find 
that  James  turned  a  deaf  ear  to  his  remonstrances 
for  a  benefice,  and  that  the  queen  exerted  her  in- 
fluence in  his  behalf  ineffectually .f  Yet,  from 
the  verses  on  his  dancing  in  the  queen's  chamber, 
it  appears  that  he  was  received  at  court  on  fa- 
miliar terms. 


THE  DAUNCE  OF  THE  SEVEN  DEADLY  SINS  THROUGH  HELL. 


Of  Februar  the  fiftene  nycht," 
Full  lang  befoir  the  dayis  licht,* 

I  lay  intill«  a  trance ; 
And  then  I  saw  baith''  Kevin  and  Hell ; 
Methocht  amang  the  fiendis"  fell, 

Mahoun  gart  cry  ane  Dance,/ 
Of  shrewis  that  were  never  shrevin,' 
Against  the  feast  of  Fasternis  evin,* 

To  mak  their  observance  :• 
He  bad  gallands  ga  graith  a  gyis/ 
And  cast  up  gamountis  in  the  skies,* 

As  varlotis  dois  in  France.  .  .  . 
II. 
Heillie  harlottis  on  hawtane  wyis,' 
Come  in  with  mony  sindrie  gyis,"* 

Bot  yet  leuch  never  Mahoun," 
Quhill  priestis  come  in  with  bair  schevin  nekks," 
Then  all  the  feynds  lewche  and  made  gekks,*" 

Black-Belly  and  Bawsy-Broun.9  .  .  . 
III. 
Let's  see,  quoth  he,  now  quha  begins  :*■ 
With  that  the  fowU  Se^'in  Deidly  Sins,» 

Begowth  to  leip  at  anis.' 
And  first  of  all  in  dance  was  Pryd, 

I.  a  The  fifteenth  night. — >>  Before  the  day-light. — e  I  lay 
in  a  trance. — rf  And  then  I  .saw  both  heaven  and  hell. — 

•  Methought  among  the  fell  fiends. — /The  devil  made  pro- 
claim a  dance. — S  Of  sinners  that  were  never  shriven. — 

*  The  evening  preceding  Lent.  •  To  make  their  ob- 
servance.— i  He  bade  (his)  gallants  to  prepare  a  masque. — 

*  And  cast  up  dances  in  th»  skies. 

II.  '  Holy  harlots  in  haughty  guise. — ">  Came  in  with 
many  sundry  masks. — n  But  yet  Satan  never  laughed. — 

•  While  priests  came  with  their  bare  shaven  necks. — 
P  Then  all  the  fiends  laughed  and  made  signs  of  derision. 
— V  Names  of  spirits. 

III.  r  Let's  see,  quoth  he,  now  who  begins. — »  With  that 
the  foul  seven  deadly  sins. — t  Began  to  leap  at  once. — 
"  With  hair  combed   back   (and)  bonnet  to  one  side. — 

*  Dunbar  in  1477  was  entered  among  tlie  Determinantes, 
or  Bachelors  of  Arts,  at  Salvator's  College,  St.  Andrew's, 
and  in  1479  he  took  his  degree  there  of  Master  of  Arts. 
(See  l.aing's  Dunbar,  vol.  i.  p.  9.  That  he  studied  at  Ox- 
ford at  any  time  is  highly  improbable. — C. 

h  In  1500  he  r«ceived  a  yearly  pension  of  ten  pounds 
84 


With  hair  wyld  bak,  and  bonet  on  side," 
Like  to  mak  vaistie  wainis ;' 
And  round  about  him,  as  a  quheill," 
Hang  all  in  rumpilis  to  the  heill,== 

His  kethat  for  the  nanis.v 
Mony  proud  trompour  with  him  trippit,* 
Throw  skaldan  fyre  ay  as  they  skippit,* 

They  girnd  with  hyddous  granis.* 

IV. 

Then  Ire  cam  in  with  sturt  and  strife,* 
His  hand  was  ay  upon  his  knyfe, 

He  brandeist  lyk  a  heir ; 
Bostaris,  braggaris,  and  barganeris,^ 
After  him  passit  into  pairis,' 

All  bodin  in  feir  of  weir./ 
In  jakkis  scryppis  and  bonnettis  of  steil,' 
Thair  legges  were  chenyiet  to  the  heill,* 

Frawart  was  thair  affeir,' 
Sum  upon  uder  with  brands  befl,/ 
Some  jagg^t  uthers  to  the  heft* 

With  knyves  that  scherp  coud  scheir.' 

V. 

Next  in  the  dance  followit  Invy,"» 
Fild  full  of  feid  and  fellony," 
Hid  malice  and  dispyte, 


0  Likely  to  make  wasteful  wants. — w  Like  a  wheel.— 
X  Hung  all  the  rumples  to  the  heel. — y  His  cassock  for 
the  nonce. — *  .Many  a  proud  impostor  with  him  tripped. — 
o  Through  scalding  fire  as  they  skipt.^-i  They  grinned 
with  hideous  groans. 

IV.  c  Then  Ire  came  with  trouble  and  strife. — <*  Boasters, 
braggarts,  and  bullies. — «  After  him  passed  in  pairs. — /All 
arrayed  in  feature  of  war. — g  In  coats  of  armour  and 
bonnets  of  steel. — *  Their  lejrs  were  chained  to  the  heel. 
{Probably  it  means  covered  with  iron  net-work). — «  Froward 
was  their  aspect. — j  Some  struck  upon  others  with  brands. 
— *  Some  stuck  others  to  the  hilt. — I  With  knives  that 
sharply  could  mangle. 

V.  "»  Followed  Envy. — n  Filled  full  of  quarrel  and 
felony. 

from  king  James,  "  to  be  pait  to  him  for  al  the  dais  of  his 
life,  or  quhil  he  be  promovit  be  our  Souerane  Lord  to  a 
bentfice  of  xl  li.  or  aboue."  The  pension  was  rai.sed  to 
XX  li.  in  1607,  and  to  Ixxx  li.  in  1510,  the  latter  to  be  paid 
till  such  time  as  he  .should  receive  a  benefice  of  one  hun- 
dred pounds  or  upwards. — 0. 


WILLIAM   DUNBAR. 


86 


For  privy  hatrent  that  tratour  trymlit ;" 
Him  foUowit  niony  freik  (lissymlit,'' 

With  fenyiet  wordis  quhyteW 
And  flattereris  into  menis  faces,*" 
And  backbyteris  in  secreit  placis* 

To  ley  that  had  delyte,' 
And  rownarifi  of  false  lesingis ;" 
Altace,  that  courtis  of  noble  kingis' 

Of  thame  can  nevir  be  quyte." 


Next  him  in  Dance  cam  Cuvatyce,' 
Bute  of  all  evili  and  grund  of  vyce,v 

That  nevir  cowd  be  content, 
Catyvis,  wrechis,  and  ockeraris,* 
Hiid-pykis,  hurdars,  and  gadderaris," 

Ail  with  that  warlo  went.* 
Out  of  thair  throttis  they  shot  on  udder* 
Het  moltin  gold,  methocht,  a  fudder,"* 

As  fyre  ilaucht  maist  fervent  ;* 
Ay  as  they  tumit  thame  of  schot,/ 
Feynds  fild  them  new  up  to  the  thrott 

With  gold  of  ailkin  prent^ 


Syne  Sweimess  at  the  second  bidding* 
Com  lyk  a  sow  out  of  a  midding,* 

Full  slepy  wes  his  grunyie.-' 
Mony  sweir  bumbard  belly-huddroun,* 
Mony  slute  daw  and  slepy  duddroun,' 

Him  servit  ay  with  sounyie.™ 
He  drew  thame  fiirth  intill  a  chenyie," 
And  Belial  with  a  brydill  rennyie." 

Ever  lascht  thame  on  the  lunyie.^ 
In  Dance  they  war  so  slaw  of  feit,' 
They  gaif  them  in  the  fyre  a  heit,*" 

Aiid  maid  theme  quicker  of  counyie.* 


Than  Lichery,  that  lathly  corss,* 

Came  berand  lyk  a  bagit  horse," 

And  Idleness  did  him  leid  •," 


•  For  privy  hatred  that  traitor  trembled.— j"  Him 
followed  many  a  dissembling  renegade. — ?  With  feigned 
words  fair,  or  white. — r  And  flatterers  to  men's  faces. — 

•  And  backbiters  in  secret  places. — '  To  lie  that  had  de- 
light.— «  And  sprea'lers  of  false  lies. — »  Alas  that  courts 
of  noble  king.a. — w  Of  tht-m  can  never  be  rid. 

VI.  «  Covetousness. — y  Root  of  all  evil  and  ground  of 
vice. — *  Caitiffs,  wretches,  and  usurers. — »  Misers,  hoard- 
ers, and  gatherers. — b  All  with  that  barltxh  or  male  flend 
went. — c  Out  of  iheir  throats  they  shot  on  (each)  other. — 
<*  Hot  molten  gold,  melhouijht,  a  vast  quantity. — «  Like 
fire  flakes  most  f-rvid. — /■  Aye  as  they  emptied  themselves 
of  shot. — f  With  goM  of  all  kind  of  coin. 

VII.  *  Then  Sloth  at  a  second  bidding. — «  Came  like  a 
sow  froma<1unghiIl. — i  Full  sleepy  was  his  grunt. — ^  Many 
a  lazy  glutton. — '  Many  a  drowsy  sleepy  sluggard. — "»  Him 
served   with  care. — n   He  drew  them  forth  in  a  chain. — 

•  And  Belial  with  a  bridle-rein. — V  Ever  lashed  thi-m  on  the 
back. — ?  In  dance  they  were  so  slow  of  feet. — '  They  gave 
them  in  the  fire  a  beat. — '  And  made  them  quicker  of  ap- 
prehension. 

VIII.  (  Then  Lechery,  that  loathsome  body. — u  Rearing 


Thair  wcs  with  him  ane  ugly  sort"" 
And  mony  stinkand  fowl!  tram5rt 

That  had  in  sin  bene  deid.* 
Quhen  they  wer  enterit  in  the  Daunceiy 
They  wer  full  strange  of  countenance, 

Lyk  tortchis  bymand  reid.'  .... 


Than  the  fowl!  monstir  Glutteny, 
Of  wame  unsasiable  and  gredy," 

To  Dance  he  did  him  dress  ;* 
Him  followit  mony  fowU  drunckhart^ 
With  can  and  collep,  cop  and  quart,' 

In  surfeit  and  excess. 
Full  mony  a  waistless  wally  drag,' 
With  waimis  unwieldable  did  furth  drag,/ 

In  creisch  that  did  incress ;? 
Drynk,  ay  they  cryit,  with  mony  a  gaip, 
The  Feynds  gaif  thame  het  leid  to  laip,* 

Their  leveray  wes  na  less.* .... 


Na  menstrals  playit  to  thame  but  dowt,/ 
For  gi^men  thair  wer  haldin  out,* 

By  day  and  eke  by  nicht,' 
Except  a  menstrail  that  slew  a  man  ;•■ 
Swa  till  his  heretage  he  wan" 

And  enterit  be  brief  of  richt."  .... 


Than  cryd  Mahoun  for  a  Heleand  Padyane,' 
Syn  ran  a  Feynd  to  fetch  Mac  Fadyane,? 

Far  north  wart  in  a  nuke,"" 
Be  he  the  Correnoch  had  done  schout,' 
Ersche-men  so  gadderit  him  about* 

In  hell  grit  rume  they  tuke : 
Thae  termegantis,  with  tag  and  tatter, 
Full  lowd  in  Ersche  begowd  to  clatter. 

And  rowp  like  revin  and  ruke." 
The  devil  sa  devit  was  with  thair  yell,' 
That  in  the  depest  pot  of  hell 

He  smurit  thame  with  smuke." 


like  a  stallion. — «  And  Idleness  did  him  lead. — w  There 
was  with  him  an  ugly  sort. — z  That  had  been  dead  in  sin. 
— If  When  they  were  entered  in  the  dance. — *  Like  torches 
burning  red. 

IX.  •  Of  womb  insatiable  and  greedy.—*  To  dance  then 
addressed  himself. — c  Him  followed  many  a  foul  drunkard. 
— i  Different  names  of  drinking  vessels. — «  Pull  many  a 
waistless  sot  — /  With  bellies  unwieldable  did  drag  forth. — 
C  In  grease  that  did  increase. — h  The  fiends  gave  them  hot 
lead  to  lap. — •'  Their  love  of  drinkikg  was  not  the  less. 

X.  i  No  minstrels  without  doubt. — ^  For  gleemen  there 
were  kept  out.^  By  day  and  by  night. — "»  E.xcept  a  min- 
strel that  slew  a  man. — n  So  till  he  won  bis  inheritance. — 
o  And  entered  by  letter  of  right 

XI.  P  Then  cried  Satan  for  a  highland  pageant. — v  The 
name  of  some  highland  laird.  "I  8uppo.se,"  says  f/ord 
Hailes,  '■this  name  was  chosen  by  the  poet  as  one  of  the 
harshest  that  occurred  to  him." — '  Far  northward  in  a 
nook. — •  By  the  time  that  he  had  raised  the  Correnoch  or 
cry  of  help. — t  Highlanders  so  gathered  about  him. — «  And 
croaked  like  ravens  and  rooks. — •  The  devil  was  so  deaf- 
ened with  their  yell. — ••  Ue  smothered  them  with  smoke 


SIR  DAVID   LYNDSAY. 


[Born,  1490  ?    Died,  1557.] 


David  Ltndsat,  according  to  the  conjecture 
of  his  latest  editor,*  was  bom  in  1490.  He  was 
educated  at  St.  Andrews,  and  leaving  that  uni- 
versity, probably  about  the  age  of  nineteen,  be- 
came the  page  and  companion  of  James  V.  during 
the  prince's  childhood :  not  his  tutor,  as  has  been 
sometimes  inaccurately  stated.  When  the  young 
king  burst  from  the  faction  which  had  oppressed 
himself  and  his  people,  Lyndsay  published  his 
Dream,  a  poem  on  the  miseries  which  Scotland 
had  suffered  during  the  minority.  In  1530,  the 
king  appointed  him  Lyon  King-at-Arms,  and  a 
grant  of  knighthood,  as  usual,  accompanied  the 
office.  In  that  capacity  he  went  several  times 
abroad,  and  was  one  of  those  who  were  sent  to 
demand  a  princess  of  the  Imperial  line  for  the 
Scottish  sovereign.  James  having,  however, 
changed  his  mind  to  a  connection  with  France, 
and  having  at  length  fixed  his  choice  on  the  Prin- 
cess Magdalene,  Lyndsay  was  sent  to  attend  upon 
her  to  Scotland;  but  her  death  happening  six 
weeks  after  her  arrival,  occasioned  another  poem 
from  our  author,  entitled  the  "  Deploracion."  On 
the  arrival  of  Mary  of  Guise,  to  supply  her  place, 
he  superintended  the  ceremony  of  her  triumphant 
entry  into  Edinburgh;  and,  blending  the  fancy 
of  a  poet  with  the  godliness  of  a  reformer,  he  so 
constructed  the  pageant,  that  a  lady  like  an  angel, 
who  came  out  of  an  artificial  cloud,  exhorted  her 
majesty  to  serve  God,  obey  her  husband,  and  keep 
her  body  pure,  according  to  God's  command- 
ments. 

On  the  I4th  of  December,  1542,  Lyndsay  wit- 
nessed the  decease  of  James  V.,  at  his  palace  of 
Falkland,  aft;er  a  connection  between  them  which 
had  subsisted  since  the  earliest  days  of  the  prince. 
If  the  death  of  James  (as  some  of  his  biographers 


have  asserted)  occasioned  our  poet's  banishment 
from  court,  it  is  certain  that  his  retirement  was 
not  of  long  continuance ;  since  he  was  sent,  in 
1543,  by  the  Regent  of  Scotland,  as  Lyon  King, 
to  the  Emperor  of  Germany.  Before  this  period 
the  principles  of  the  Reformed  religion  had  begun 
to  take  a  general  root  in  the  minds  of  his  coun- 
trymen ;  and  Lyndsay,  who  had  already  written 
a  drama  in  the  style  of  the  old  moralities,  with  a 
view  to  ridicule  the  corruptions  of  the  popish 
clergy,  returned  from  the  Continent  to  devote  his 
pen  and  his  personal  influence  to  the  cause  of  the 
new  faith.  In  the  parliaments  which  met  at 
Edinburgh  and  Linlithgow,  in  1544—45  and  46, 
he  represented  the  county  of  Cupar  in  Fife ;  and 
in  1547,  he  is  recorded  among  the  champions  of 
the  Reformation,  who  counselled  the  ordination 
of  John  Knox. 

The  death  of  Cardinal  Beaton  drew  from  him 
a  poem  on  the  subject,  entitled,  a  Tragedy,  (the 
term  tragedy  was  not  then  confined  to  the  drama,) 
in  which  he  has  been  charged  with  drawing  toge- 
ther all  the  worst  things  that  could  be  said  of  the 
murdered  prelate.  It  is  incumbent,  however,  on 
those  who  blame  him  for  so  doing,  to  prove  that 
those  worst  things  were  not  atrocious.  Beaton's 
principal  failing  was  a  disposition  to  burn  with 
fire  those  who  opposed  his  ambition,  or  who  dif- 
fered from  his  creed ;  and  if  Lyndsay  was  malig- 
nant in  exposing  one  tyrant,  what  a  libeller  must 
Tacitus  be  accounted ! 

His  last  embassy  was  to  Denmark,  in  order  to 
negotiate  for  a  free  trade  with  Scotland,  and  *o 
solicit  ships  to  protect  the  Scottish  coasts  against 
the  English.  It  was  not  till  after  retiirning  from 
this  business  that  he  published  Squyre  Meldrum, 
the  last,  and  the  liveliest  of  his  works. 


DESCRIPTION  OP  SQUYRE  MELDRUM. 


He  was  hot"  twintie  yeiris''  of  age, 
Quehen'^  he  began  his  vassalage : 
Proportionat  weill,  of  mid  stature : 
Feirie''  and  wicht'  and  micht  endure 
Ovirset/  with  travell  both  nicht  and  day, 
Richt  hardie  baith  in  ernist  and  play : 
Blyith  in  countenance,  richt  fair  of  face, 
And  stude*'  weill  ay  in  his  ladies  grace : 
For  he  was  wondir  amiabill, 
And  in  all  deides  honourabill ; 
And  ay  his  honour  did  advance, 
In  Ingland  first  and  syne*  in  France ; 


•  Mr.  G.  Chalmers. 

o  But. — '  Yt^ars. — c  When. — <*  CourageouB.— «  Active. — 
/  Could  endure  excessive  fatigue. — t  Stood. — *  Then. 


And  thare  his  manheid  did  assail 
Under  the  kingis  great  admirall,    ' 
Quhen  the  greit  navy  of  Scotland 
Passit  to  the  sea  againis  Ingland. 

mS   GALLANTRY   TO  A5   IRISH  DAM8E1. 

And  as  they  passit  be  Ireland  coist* 
The  admirall  gart  land  his  oist;/ 
And  set  Craigfergvjs  into  fyre. 
And  saifit  nouther  barne  nor  byre  :* 
It  was  greit  pitie  for  to  heir,' 
Of  the  pepill*"  the  bail-full  cheir; 


i  Coast.— i  Host,  army.- 
ple. 


Cowhouse. — '  Hear.- 


Peo 


SIR  DAVID   LYNDSAY. 


87 


And  how  the  landfolk  were  spuilyeit," 
Fair  women  under  fute  were  fuilyeit." 

But  this  young  Squyer  bauld  and  wicht 
Savit  all  women  quhairP  he  micht ; 
All  priestis  and  freyeris  he  did  save ; 
Till  at  the  last  he  did  persave' 
Behind  ane  gardin  amiabill,'' 
Ane  woman's  voce*  richt  lamentabill ; 
And  on  that  voce  he  foUowit  fast, 
Till  he  did  see  her  at  the  last, 
Spuilyeit,'  nakit"  as  scho"  was  bom ; 
Twa  men  of  weir"  were  hir  beforne,' 
Quhilkv  were  richt  cruel  men  and  kene, 
Partand*  the  spuilyie  thame  between. 
Ane  fairer  woman  nor  sho  wes*    . 
He  had  not  sene  in  onie'  place. 
Befoir*  him  on  her  kneis  scho  fell, 
Sayand,  "  for  him  that  heryeif  hell. 
Help  me  sweit  sir,  I  am  ane  maid ;" 
Than  softlie  to  the  men  he  said, 
I  pray  yow  give  againe  hir  sark,* 
And  tak  to  yow  all  uther  wark. 
Hir  kirtill  was  of  scarlot  reid,/ 
Of  gold  ane  garland  of  hir  held, 
Decoritff  with  enamelyne : 
Belt  and  brochis  of  silver  fyne. 
Of  yellow  taftais*  wes  hir  sark, 
Begaryit  all  with  browderit  wark, 
Richt  craflilie  with  gold  and  silk. 
Than,  said  the  ladie,  quhyte'  as  milk, 
Except  my  sark  nothing  I  crave. 
Let  thame  go  hence  with  all  the  lave. 
Quod  they  to  hir  be  Sanct  Fiilane 
Of  this  ye  get  nathing  agane. 
Than,  said  the  squyer  courteslie, 
Gude  friendis  I  pray  you  hartfullie, 
Gif  ye  be  worthie  men  of  weir, 
RestoirJ  to  hir  agane  hir  geir ; 
Or  be  greit  God  that  all  has  wrocht,* 
That  spuilyie  sail  be  full  dere  bocht.' 
Quod"»  they  to  him  we  th^  defy. 
And  drew  their  swordis  hastily, 
And  straik  at  him  with  sa  greit  ire. 
That  from  his  harness  flew  the  fyre : 
With  duntis"  sa  derfly®  on  him  dang,P 
That  he  was  never  in  sic  ane  thrang :« 
Bot  he  him  manfullie  defendit, 
Ane  with  ane  bolt  on  thame  he  bendit. .... 

And  when  he  saw  thay  wer  baith  slane. 
He  to  that  ladie  past  agane : 
Quhare  scho  stude  nakit  on  the  bent,'' 
And  said,  tak  your  abuzlement' 
And  scho  him  thankit  full  humillie, 
And  put  hir  claithis  on  speedilie. 
Than  kissit  he  that  ladie  fair. 
And  tuik'  his  leif  of  hir  but  mair." 
Be  that  the  taburne  and  trumpet  blew, 
And  every  man  to  shipburd  drew 

»  Spoilt. — 0  Abused. — P  Where. — q  Perceive. — '  Beauti- 
ful.—i  Voice.—*  Spoiled.— «  Naked.—*  She.— w  War. — 
«  Defore. — »  Who. — »  Parting. — «  Than  she  was. — 1>  Any. 
— *  Before. — i  Means  for  him,  viz.  Christ,  who  conquered 
or  plundered  hell.—*  Shift-/  Red.— f  Adorned. — *  Mr. 
Chalmers  omits  explaining  this  word  in  his  glossary  to 
Lyndsay.  [The  meaning  is  plain  enough:  her  sark  or 
shirt  was  of  yellow  taffeta. — C.]— «  White.—;'  Itestore. — 
»  Wrought — I  ik)ught — m  Quoth. — »  Strokes. 


xeldrum's  duel  with  thi  svolibh  champioii 

TALBA&T 

Then  clariouns  and  trumpets  blew. 

And  weiriours"  many  hither  drew ; 

On  eviry  side  come""  mony  man 

To  behald  wha  the  battel  wan. 

The  field  was  in  the  meadow  green, 

Quhare  everie  man  micht  weil  be  seen ; 

The  heraldis  put  tham  sa  in  order 

That  na  man  past  within  the  border. 

Nor  preissit*  to  com  within  the  green, 

Bot  heraldis  and  the  campiouns  keen ; 

The  order  and  the  circumstance 

Wer  lang  to  put  in  remembrance. 

Quhen  thir  twa  nobill  men  of  weir 

Wer  Weill  accouterit  in  their  geir. 

And  in  thair  handis  strong  burdounis,t 

Than  trumpettis  blew  and  clariounis, 

And  heraldis  ciyit  hie  on  hicht. 

Now  let  thame  go — Gtod  shaw*  the  richt.         '• 

Than  trumpettis  blew  triumphantly. 

And  thay  twa  campiouns  eagerlie. 

They  spurrit  their  hors  with  speir  on  breist 

Pertly  to  prie^  their  pith  they  preLst* 

That  round  rink-room*  was  at  utterance, 

Bot  TaJbart's  hors  with  ane  mischance 

He  outterit,**  and  to  run  was  laith  ;* 

Quharof  Talbart  was  wonder  wraith./ 

The  Squyer  furth  his  rinkf  he  ran, 

Commendit  wcill  with  every  man. 

And  him  discharget  of  his  speir 

Honestile,  like  ane  man  of  weir 

The  trenchour*  of  the  Squyreis  speir 

Stak  still  into  Sir  Talb^'s  geir ; 

Than  everie  man  into  that  steid' 

Did  all  beleve  that  he  was  dede. 

The  Squyer  lap  richt  haistillie 

From  his  coursourJ  deliverlie. 

And  to  Sir  Talbart  made  support. 

And  humillie*  did  him  comfort. 

When  Talbart  saw  into  his  schield 

Ane  otter  in  ane  silver  field. 

This  race,  said  he,  I  sair  may  rew. 

For  I  see  weill  my  dreame  was  true ; 

Methocht  yon  otter  gart'  me  bleid. 

And  buir"  me  backwart  from  my  sted ; 

But  heir  I  vow  to  God  soverane, 

That  I  sail  never  just"  agane. 

And  sweitlie  to  the  Squiyre  said. 

Thou  knawis"  the  cunning''  that  we  made, 

Quhilkf  of  us  twa  suld  tyne'  the  field. 

He  suld  baith  hora  and  armour  yield 

Till  him'  that  wan,  quhairfore  I  will 

My  hors  and  harness  geve  th^  till. 

Then  said  the  Squyer,  courteouslie. 

Brother,  I  thank  you  hartfullie ; 

Of  you,  forsooth,  nothing  I  crave. 

For  I  have  gotten  that  I  would  have. 

0  strongly.— P  Drove. — q  Throng,  trouble. — '  Grass,  or 
field. — •  Dress,  clothing. — t  Took  his  leave. — ••  Without 
more  ailo. — »  Warriori*. — "  Came. — «  Pressed. — y  Spears. 
— «  Show. — tt  Prove. — 1>  Tried. — '  Course-room. — ^  Swerved, 
from  the  cour.«e.— *  Loth.—/  Wroth. — K  Course. — *  Head 
of  the  spear. — i  In  that  situation. — j  Courser. — *  Hum- 
bly.— '  Made. — m  Bore. — »  Joust. — «  Thou  knowest — 
P  Agreement  or  understanding. — «  Which. — r  liOse. — »  To 
him. 


1 

88                                                      SIR  DAVID 

LYNDSAT. 

SQDTRE  MELDRUM,  AFTEB  MANY  FOREIGN  EXPLOITS,  COMES 

Did  piers  him  sa  throwout  the  hart, 

HOME  AND   HAS   THE   FOIXOWINO  LOVE-ADVENTUEE. 

Sa  all  that  nicht  he  did  but  murnit — 

Out  throw  the  land  then  sprang  the  fame, 

Sum  tyme  sat  up,  and  sum  tyme  turnil — 

That  Squyer  Meldrum  was  come  hame. 

Sichand,*  with  mony  gant  and  grane, 

Quhen  they  heard  tell  how  he  debaitit,* 

To  fair  Venus  makand  his  mane, 

With  every  man  he  was  sa  treitet," 

Sayand,'  fair  ladie,  what  may  this  mene. 

That  quhen  he  travellit  throw  the  land, 

I  was  ane  free  man  lait"»  yestreen. 

They  bankettit"  him  fra  hand  to  hand 

And  now  ane  cative  bound  and  thrall, 

With  greit  solace,  till,  at  the  last. 

For  ane  that  I  think  flowr  of  all. 

Dut  throw  Stratherne  the  Squyer  past. 

I  pray  to  God  sen  scho  knew  my  mynd. 

And  as  it  did  approach  the  nicht. 

How  for  hir  saik  I  am  sa  pynd : 

Of  ane  castell  he  gat  ane  sicht, 

Wald  God  I  had  been  yit  in  France, 

Beside  ane  montane  in  ane  vale, 

Or  I  had  hapnit  sic  mischance ; 

And  then  eftir  his  greit  travaill" 

To  be  subject  or  serviture 

He  purposit  him  to  repoise* 

Till  ane  quhilk  takes  of  me  na  cure. 

Quhare  ilk  man  did  of  him  rejois. 

This  ladie  ludgit"  nearhand  by. 

Of  this  triumphant  pleasand  place 

And  hard  the  Squyer  prively, 

Ane  lustie  lady*  was  maistr^s, 

With  dreidful  hart  makand  his  mane, 

Quhais^  lord  was  dead  schort  time  befoir, 

With  monie  careful  gant  and  grane  ;• 

Quhairthrow  her  dolour  wes  the  moir; 

Hir  hart  fulfiUit  with  pitie, 

Bot  yit  scho  tuik  some  comforting. 

Thocht  scho  wald  haif  of  him  mercie, 

To  heir  the  plesant  dulce  talking 

And  said,  howbeit  I  suld  be  slane. 

Of  this  young  Squiyer,  of  his  chance. 

He  sail  have  lufe  for  lufe  agayne : 

And  how  it  fortunit  him  in  France. 

Wald  God  I  micht,  with  my  honour, 

This  Squyer  and  the  ladie  gent" 

Have  him  to  be  my  paramour. 

Did  wesche,  and  then  to  supper  went : 

This  was  the  merrie  tyme  of  May, 

During  that  nicht  there  was  nocht  ellis^ 

Quhen  this  fair  ladie,  freshe  and  gay, 

But  for  to  heir  of  his  novellis.* 

Start  up  to  take  the  hailsumP  air, 

En^as,  quhen  he  fled  from  Troy, 

With  pantouns'  on  her  feit  ane  pair. 

Did  not  Quene  Dido  greiter  joy :  . .  .  . 

Airlie  into  ane  cleir  morning. 

The  wonderis  that  he  did  rehers. 

Befoir  fair  Phoebus'  uprysing : 

Were  langsum  for  to  put  in  vers. 

Kirtill  alone,  withouten  clok. 

Of  quhilk  this  lady  did  rejois : 

And  saw  the  Squyers  door  unlok. 

They  drank  and  synC  went  to  repois. 

She  slippit  in  or  evir  he  wist, 

He  found  his  chalmer*  well  arrayit 

And  feynitlie""  past  till  ane  kist, 

With  dornik/work  on  bord  displayit: 

And  with  hir  keys  oppenit  the  lokkis. 

Of  venison  he  had  his  waill,s 

And  made'  hir  to  take  furth  ane  boxe. 

Gude  aquavitae,  wyne,  and  aill, 

Bot  that  was  not  hir  errand  thare : 

With  nobill  confeittis,  bran,  and  geill* 

With  that  this  lustie  young  Squyar 

And  swa  the  Squyer  fuir'  richt  weill. 

Saw  this  ladie  so  pleasantile 

Sa  to  heir  mair  of  his  narration, 

Com  to  his  chalmer  quyetlie, 

The  ladie  cam  to  his  collation. 

In  kirtill  of  fyne  damais  brown. 

Sayand  he  was  richt  welcum  hame. 

Hir  golden  tresses  hingand'  doun ; 

Grand-mercie,  then,  quod  he,  Madame ! 

Hir  pappis  were  hard,  round,  and  quhyte. 

They  past  the  time  with  ches  and  tabill. 

Quhome  to  behold  was  greit  deleit ; 

For  he  to  everie  game  was  abill. 

Lyke  the  quhyte  liUie  was  her  lyre ;" 

Than  unto  bed  drew  everie  wicht ; 

Hir  hair  wes  like  the  reid  gold  weir ; 

To  chalmer  went  this  ladie  bricht ; 

Her  schankis  quhyte,  withouten  hois," 

The  quilk  this  Squyer  did  convoy. 

Quhareat  the  Squyar  did  rejois, 

Syne  till  his  bed  he  went  with  joy. 

And  said,  then,  now  vailye  quod  vailye,*" 

That  nicht  he  sleepit/  never  ane  wink. 

Upon  the  ladie  thow  mak  ane  sailye. 

But  still  did  on  the  ladie  think. 

Hir  courtlyke  kirtill  was  unlaist. 

Cupido,  with  his  fyrie  dart. 

And  sone  into  his  armis  hir  braist. .... 

t  Fought.—"  Entertained.— »  Feasted.— w  Toil.— »  Re- 

»  Sighing. — »  Saying. — m  Late.—"  Lodged.— o  Groan.— 

pose.- y  Handsome,  pleasant.— »  Whose.— »  Neat,  pretty. 

p  Wholesome. — »  Slippers.— r  Feigningly. — »  Pretended. 

— 1>  Klse. — c  News. — d  Then. — e  Chamber.—/  Naperv. — 

— «  Hanging. — «  Throat. — »  Hoee,  stockings. — *>  Happen 

1  Choice.—*  Jelly.— •  Fared.— j  Slept 

what  mi^. 

X 

- 

SIR  THOMAS  WYAT, 


[Born,  1509.    Died,  Oct.  1542.] 


CAiiLED  the  Elder,  to  distinguish  him  from  his 
son,  who  suffered  in  the  reign  of  Queen  Mary, 
was  bom  at  AUiiigton  Castle,  in  Kent,  in  1503, 
and  was  educated  at  Cambridge.  He  married 
early  in  life,  and  was  still  earlier  distinguished  at 
the  court  of  Henry  VIII.  with  whom  his  interest 
and  favour  were  so  great  as  to  be  proverbial.  His 
person  was  majestic  and  beautifiil,  his  visage  (ac- 
cording to  Surrey's  interesting  description)  was 
"  stern  and  mild :"  he  sung  and  played  the  lute 
with  remarkable  sweetness,  spoke  foreign  lan- 
guages with  grace  and  fluency,  and  possessed  an 
inexhaustible  fund  of  wit.  At  the  death  of  Wol- 
sey  he  could  not  be  more  than  nineteen ;  yet  he 
is  said  to  have  contributed  to  that  minister's  down- 
fall by  a  humorous  story,  and  to  have  promoted 
the  reformation  by  a  seasonable  jest  At  the 
coronation  of  Anne  Boleyn  he  officiated  for  his 
father  as  ewerer,  and  possibly  witnessed  the  cere- 
mony not  with  the  most  festive  emotions,  as  there 
is  reason  to  suspect  that  he  was  secretly  attached 
to  the  royal  bride.  When  the  tragic  end  of  that 
princess  was  approaching,  one  of  the  calumnies 
circulated  against  her  was  that  Sir  Thomas  Wyat 
had  confessed  having  had  an  illicit  intimacy  with 
her.  The  scandal  was  certainly  false ;  but  that 
it  arose  from  a  tender  partiality  really  believed  to 
exist  between  them  seems  to  be  no  overstrained 
conjecture.  His  poetical  mistress's  name  is  Anna : 
and  in  one  of  his  sonnets  he  complains  of  being 
obliged  to  desist  from  the  pursuit  of  a  beloved  ob- 
ject, on  account  of  its  being  the  king's.  The  pe- 
rusal of  his  poetry  was  one  of  the  unfortunate 
queen's  last  consolations  in  prison.  A  tradition 
of  Wyat's  attachment  to  her  was  long  preserved 
in  his  family.  She  retained  his  sister  to  the  last 
about  her  person ;  and  as  she  was  about  to  lay  her 
head  on  the  block,  gave  her  weeping  attendant  a 
small  prayer-book,  as  a  token  of  remembrance, 
with  a  smile  of  which  the  sweetness  was  not 
effaced  by  the  horrors  of  approaching  death. 
Wyat's  favour  at  court,  however,  continued  un- 
diminished ;  and  notwithstanding  a  quarrel  with 
tlie  Duke  of  Suffolk,  which  occasioned  his  being 
committed  to  the  'I'ower,  he  was,  immediately  on 
his  liberation,  appointed  to  a  command  under  the 
Duke  of  Norfolk,  in  the  army  that  was  to  act 
against  the  rebels.  He  was  also  knighted,  and, 
in  the  following  year,  made  high-sheriff  of  Kent. 

When  the  Emperor  Charles  the  Fifth,  after 
the  death  of  Anne  Boleyn,  apparently  forgetting 
the  disgrace  of  his  aunt  in  the  sacrifice  of  her 
successor,  showed  a  more  conciliatory  disposition 
towards  England,  Wyat  was,  in  1537,  selected 
to  go  as  ambassador  to  the  Spanish  court.  His 
situation  there  was  rendered  exceedingly  diffi- 
cult, by  the  mutual  insincerity  of  the  negotiat- 
ing powfs,  and  by  his  religion,  which  exposed 
12 


him  to  prejudice,  and  even  at  one  time  to  dang  }■. 
from  the  Inquisition.  He  had  to  invest  Henry's 
bullying  remonstrances  with  the  graces  of  mo- 
derate diplomacy,  and  to  keep  terms  with  a  bigoted 
court  while  he  questioned  the  Pope's  supremacy. 
In  spite  of  those  obstacles,  the  dignity  and  dis- 
cernment of  Wyat  gave  him  such  weight  in  ne- 
gotiation, that  he  succeeded  in  expelling  from 
Spain  his  master's  most  dreaded  enemy.  Cardinal 
Pole,  who  W£is  so  ill  received  at  Madrid  that  the 
haughty  legate  quitted  it  with  indignation.  The 
records  of  his  dilierent  embassies  exhibit  not  only 
personal  activity  in  following  the  Emperor  Charles 
to  his  most  important  interviews  with  Francis,  but 
sagacity  in  foreseeing  consequences,  and  in  giving 
advice  to  his  own  sovereign.  Neither  the  dark 
policy,  nor  the  immovable  countenance  of  Charles, 
eluded  his  penetration.  When  the  Emperor,  on 
the  death  of  Lady  Jane  Seymour,  offered  the 
King  of  England  the  Duchess  of  Milan  in  mar- 
riage, Henry's  avidity  caught  at  the  offer  of  her 
duchy,  and  Heynes  and  Bonner  were  sent  out  to 
Spain  as  special  commissioners  on  the  business ; 
but  it  fell  off,  as  Wyat  had  predicted,  from  the 
Spanish  monarch's  insincerity. 

Bonner,  who  had  done  no  good  to  the  English 
mission,  and  who  had  felt  himself  lowered  at  the 
Spanish  court  by  the  superior  ascendancy  of 
Wyat,  on  his  return  home  sought  to  indemnify 
himself  for  the  mortification,  by  calumniating  his 
late  colleague.  In  order  to  answer  those  calum- 
nies, Wyat  was  obUged  to  obtain  his  recall  from 
Spain ;  and  Bonner's  charges,  on  being  investi- 
gated, fell  to  the  ground.  But  the  Emperor's 
journey  through  France  having  raised  another 
crisis  of  expectation,  Wyat  was  sent  out  once 
more  to  watch  the  motions  of  Charles,  and  to 
fathom  his  designs.  At  Blois  he  had  an  inter- 
view with  Francis,  and  another  with  the  Empe- 
ror, whose  friendship  for  the  kmg  of  France  he 
pronounced,  from  all  that  he  observed,  to  be  insin- 
cere. "  He  is  constrained  (said  the  English  am- 
bassador) to  come  to  a  show  of  friendship,  mean- 
ing to  make  him  a  mockery  when  he  has  done." 
When  events  are  made  familiar  to  us  by  history, 
we  are  perhaps  disposed  to  undervalue  the  wis- 
dom that  foretold  them ;  but  this  much  is  clear, 
that  if  Charles's  rival  had  been  as  wise  as  Sir 
Thomas  Wyat,  the  Emperor  would  not  have 
made  a  mockery  of  Francis.  Wyat's  advice  to 
his  own  sovereign  at  this  period  was  to  support 
the  Duke  of  Cleves,  and  to  ingratiate  himself 
with  the  German  protestant  princes.  His  zeal 
was  praised:  but  the  advice,  though  sanctioned 
by  Cromwell,  was  not  followed  by  Henry.  Warned 
probably,  at  last,  of  the  approaciiaig  downfall  of 
Cromwell,  he  obtained  his  final  rec.iU  from  Spain. 
On  his  return,  Bonner  had  sufficient  interest  to 
h2  89 


90 


SIR   THOMAS   WYAT. 


get  him  committed  to  the  Tower,  where  he  was 
harshly  treated  and  unfairly  tried,  but  was  never- 
theless most  honourably  acquitted;  and  Henry, 
satisfied  of  his  innocence,  made  him  considerable 
donations  of  land.  Leland  informs  us,  that  about 
this  time  he  had  the  command  of  a  ship  of  war. 
The  sea  service  was  not  then,  as  it  is  now,  a  dis- 
tinct profession. 

Much  of  his  time,  however,  after  his  return  to 
England,  must  be  supposed,  from  his  writings,  to 


have  been  spent  at  }iis  paternal  seal  of  Allington, 
in  study  and  rural  amusements.  From  that  plea- 
sant retreat  he  was  summoned,  in  the  autumn  of 
1542,  by  order  of  the  king,  to  meet  the  Spanish 
ambassador,  who  had  landed  at  Falmouth,  and  to 
conduct  him  from  thence  to  London.  In  his  zeal 
to  perform  this  duty  he  accidentally  overheated 
himself  with  riding,  and  was  seized,  at  Sherborne 
with  a  malignant  fever,  which  carried  him  off, 
after  a  few  days'  illness,  in  his  thirty-ninth  year. 


ODE. 
THE  LOVER  COMPLAINETH  THE  UNKINDNESS  OF  HIS  LOVE. 


Mt  lute,  awake !  perform  the  last 
Labour  that  thou  and  I  shall  waste, 
And  end  that  I  have  now  begun ; 
For  when  this  song  is  sung  and  past, 
My  lute  be  still,  for  I  have  done. 

As  to  be  heard  where  ear  is  none, 
As  lead  to  grave  in  marble  stone. 
My  song  may  pierce  her  heart  as  soon : 
Should  we  then  sing,  or  sigh,  or  moan  1 
No,  no,  my  lute !  for  I  have  done. 

The  rocks  do  not  so  cruelly 
Repulse  the  waves  continually, 
As  she  my  suit  and  affection ; 
So  that  I  am  past  remedy ; 
Whereby  my  lute  and  I  have  done. 

Proud  of  the  spbil  that  thou  hast  got 
Of  simple  hearts,  thorough  Love's  shot. 
By  whom,  unkind !  thou  hast  them  won ; 
Think  not  he  hath  his  bow  forgot. 
Although  my  lute  and  I  have  done. 

• 
Vengeance  shall  fall  on  thy  disdain, 
That  mak'st  but  game  of  earnest  payne. 
Think  not  alone  under  the  sun, 
Unquit  the  cause  thy  lovers  plaine. 
Although  my  lute  and  I  have  done. 

May  chance  thee  lye  withred  and  old, 
In  winter  nights  that  are  so  cold, 
Playning  in  vain  unto  the  moon ; 
Thy  wishes  then  dare  not  be  told : 
Care  then  who  list !  for  I  have  done. 

And  then  may  chaunce  thee  to  repent 
The  time  that  thou  hast  lost  and  spent, 
To  cause  thy  lovers  sigh  and  swoon ; 
Then  shalt  thou  know  beauty  but  lent. 
And  wish  and  want,  as  I  have  done. 

Now  cease,  my  lute !  this  is  the  last 
Labour  that  thou  and  I  shall  waste, 
And  ended  is  that  I  begun ; 
Now  is  this  song  both  sung  and  past ; 
My  lute !  be  still,  for  I  have  done. 


FROM  HIS   SONGS  AND  EPIGRAMS. 

A   DESCRIPTION   OF  SUCH   A  ONE  AS   HE   WOULD   LOVg. 

A  FACE  that  should  content  me  wondrous  well, 
Should  not  be  fair,  but  lovely  to  behold 
With  gladsome  cheer,  all  grief  for  to  expell ; 
With  sober  looks  so  would  I  that  it  should 
Speak  without  words,  such  words  as  none  can  tell ; 
The  tress  also  should  be  of  crisped  gold. 
With  wit  and  these,  might  chance  I  might  be  tied, 
And  knit  again  with  knot  that  should  not  slide. 


FROM  THE  SAME. 

OP   HIS   RETURN  PROM   SPAIN. 

Tagus,  farewell !  that  westward  with  thy  streams 
Turns  up  the  grains  of  gold  already  tried  ; 
For  I,  with  spur  and  sail,  go  seek  the  Thames, 
Gainward  the  sun  that  showeth  her  wealthy  pride; 
And  to  the  town  which  Brutus  sought  by  dreams, 
Like  bended  moon,  doth  lend  her  lusty  side. 
My  king,  my  country,  I  seek  for  whom  I  live, 
Of  mighty  Jove  the  winds  for  this  me  give. 


FROM   HIS  ODES. 

AN  EARNEST  SUIT   TO   HIS   UNKIND   MISTRESS  NOT   TO 
FORSAKE   HIM. 

And  wilt  thou  leave  me  thus  ? 
Say  nay !  say  nay  !  for  shame ! 
To  save  thee  from  the  blame 
Of  all  my  grief  and  grame. 
And  wilt  thou  leave  me  thus  1 
Say  nay !  say  nay ! 

And  wilt  thou  leave  me  thus  \ 
That  hath  loved  thee  so  long  1 
In  wealth  and  woe  among : 
And  is  thy  heart  so  strong 
As  for  to  leave  me  thus  1 
Say  nay  !  say  nay ! 

And  wilt  thou  leave  me  thus  1 
That  hath  given  thee  my  heart, 
Never  for  to  depart. 
Neither  for  pain  nor  smart. 
And  wilt  thou  leave  me  thus  1 
Say  nay  !  say  nay ! 


HENRY   HOWARD,  EARL   OF   SURREY. 


91 


And  wilt  thou  leave  me  tlms  ] 
And  have  no  more  pity 
Of  him  that  loveth  thee ; 
Alas  !  thy  cruelty  ! 
And  vtrilt  thou  leave  me  thus  1 
Say  nay !  say  nay  ! 


UB  LAMENTETH  THAT  HE  HAD  EVER  CAUSS 
TO  DOUBT  HIS  LADY'S   FAITH. 

Deem  as  ye  list  upon  good  cause, 
I  may  or  think  of  this  or  that ; 
But  what  or  why  myself  best  knows. 
Whereby  I  think  and  fear  not. 
But  thereunto  I  may  well  think 
The  doubtful  sentence  of  this  clause ; 
I  would  it  were  not  as  I  think ; 
I  would  I  thought  it  were  not. 

For  if  I  thought  it  were  not  so. 
Though  it  were  so,  it  grieved  me  not ; 
Unto  my  thought  it  were  as  tho 
I  hearkened  though  I  hear  not. 
At  that  I  see  I  cannot  wink, 
Nor  from  my  thought  so  let  it  go  : 
I  would  it  were  not  as  I  think ; 
I  would  I  thought  it  were  not. 

Lo  !  how  my  thought  might  make  me  free. 
Of  that  perchance  it  needs  not : 
Perchance  none  doubt  the  dread  I  see ; 
I  shrink  at  that  I  bear  not. 
But  in  my  heart  this  word  shall  sink. 
Until  the  proof  may  better  be : 
^    I  would  it  were  not  as  I  think ; 
I  would  I  thought  it  were  not 


If  it  be  not,  show  no  cause  why 
I  should  so  think,  then  care  I  not ; 
For  I  shall  so  myself  apply 
To  be  that  I  appear  not. 
That  is,  as  one  that  shall  not  shrink 
To  be  your  own  until  I  die ; 
And  if  that  be  not  as  I  think, 
Likewise  to  think  it  is  not. 


TO  HIS  UISTRESS. 

Forget  not  yet  the  tried  intent 
Of  such  a  truth  as  I  have  meant; 
My  great  travail  so  gladly  spent, 
Forget  not  yet ! 

Forget  not  yet  when  first  began 
The  weary  life,  ye  know  since  whan, 
The  suit,  the  service,  none  tell  can ; 
Forget  not  yet ! 

Forget  not  yet  the  great  assays. 
The  cruel  wrong,  the  scornful  ways. 
The  painful  patience  in  delays, 
Forget  not  yet ! 

Forget  not ! — Oh !  forget  not  this, 
How  long  ago  hath  been,  and  is 
The  mind  that  never  meant  amiss. 
Forget  not  yet ! 

Forget  not  then  thine  own  approved. 
The  which  so  long  hath  thee  so  loved. 
Whose  steadfast  faith  yet  never  moved. 
Forget  not  this ! 


HENRY  HOWARD,  EARL   OF  SURREY. 


[Born,  1516.    DiM,  1547.] 


Walpolb,  Ellis,  and  Warton,  gravely  inform 
us  that  Lord  Surrey  contributed  to  the  victory  of 
Flodden,  a  victory  which  was  gained  before  Lord 
Surrey  was  born.  The  mistakes  of  such  writers 
may  teach  charity  to  criticism.  Dr.  Nott,  who 
has  cleared  away  much  fable  and  anachronism 
from  the  noble  poet's  biography,  supposes  that  he 
was  born  in  or  about  the  year  1516,  and  that  he 
was  educated  at  Cambridge,  of  which  university 
he  was  afterwards  elected  high  steward.  At  the 
early  age  of  sixteen  he  was  contracted  in  marriage 
to  the  Lady  Frances  Vere,  daughter  to  John  Earl 
of  Oxford.  The  Duke  of  Richmond  was  after- 
wards affianced  to  Surrey's  sister.  It  was  custo- 
mary, in  those  times,  to  delay,  frequently  for 
years,  the  consur.imations  of  such  juvenile  matches ; 
and  the  writer  of  Lord  Surrey's  life,  already  men- 
tioned, gives  reasons  for  supfiosing  that  the  poet's 
residence  at  Windsor,  and  his  intimate  friendship 
with  Richmond,  so  tenderly  recorded  in  his  verses, 
took  place»not  in  their  absolute  childhood,  as  has 
been  generally  imagined,  but  immediately  after 


their  being  contracted  to  their  respective  brides. 
If  this  was  the  case,  the  poet's  allusion  to 

The  dpcivt  groves  which  oft  we  made  resound 
Of  pleasant  plaint,  and  of  our  ladies'  praise. 

may  be  charitably  understood  as  only  recording 
the  aspirations  of  their  conjugal  impatience. 

Surrey's  marriage  was  consummated  in  1535. 
In  the  subsequent  year  he  sat  with  his  father,  as 
Earl  Marshal,  on  the  trial  of  his  kinswoman  Anne 
Boleyn.  Of  the  impression  which  that  event 
made  upon  his  mind,  there  is  no  trace  to  be  found 
either  in  his  poetry,  or  in  tradition.  His  grief  for 
the  amiable  Richmond,  whom  he  lost  soon  after, 
is  more  satisfactorily  testified.  It  is  about  this 
period  that  the  fiction  of  Nash,  unfaithfully  mis- 
applied as  reality  by  Anthony  Wood,*  and  from 
him  copied,  by  mistake,  by  Walpole  and  Warton, 
sends  the  poet  on  his  romantic  tour  lo  Italy,  as 
the  knight-errant  of  the  fair  Geraldine.  There 
is  no  proof,  however,  that  Surrey  was  ever  in 

*  Nash's  History  of  Jack  Wilton. 


92 


HENRY   HOWARD,  EARL   OF   SURREY. 


Italy.  At  the  period  of  his  imagined  errantry, 
his  lepeated  appearance  at  the  court  of  England 
can  be  ascertained;  and  Geraldine,  if  she  was  a 
daughter  of  the  Earl  of  Kildare,  was  then  only  a 
child  of  seven  years  old.* 

That  Surrey  entertained  romantic  sentiments 
for  the  fair  Geraldine,  seems,  however,  to  admit  of 
little  doubt ;  and  that  too  at  a  period  of  her  youtli 
which  makes  his  homage  rather  surprising.  The 
fashion  of  the  age  sanctioned  such  courtships, 
under  the  liberal  interpretation  of  their  being 
platonic.  Both  Sir  P.  Sydney  and  the  Chevalier 
Bayard  avowed  attachments  of  this  exalted  nature 
to  married  ladies,  whose  reputations  were  never 
sullied,  even  when  the  mistress  wept  openly  at 
parting  from  her  admirer.  Of  the  nature  of  Sur- 
rey's attachment  we  may  conjecture  what  we 
please,  but  can  have  no  certain  test  even  in  his 
verses,  which  might  convey  either  much  more  or 
much  less  than  he  felt ;  and  how  shall  we  search 
in  the  graves  of  men  for  the  shades  and  limits  of 
passions  that  elude  our  living  observation  1 

Towards  the  close  of  1.540,  Surrey  embarked 
in  public  business.  A  rupture  with  France  being 
anticipated,  he  was  sent  over  to  that  kingdom,  with 
Lord  Russell  and  the  Earl  of  Southampton,  to 
see  that  every  thing  wsis  in  a  proper  state  of  de- 
fence within  the  English  pale.  He  had  previ- 
ously been  knighted;  and  had  jousted  in  honour  of 
Anne  of  Cleves,  upon  her  marriage  with  Henry. 
The  commission  did  not  detain  him  long  in  France. 
He  returned  to  England  before  Christmas,  having 
acquitted  himself  entirely  to  the  king's  satisfaction. 
Li  the  next  year,  1541,  we  may  suppose  him  to 
have  been  occupied  in  his  literary  pursuits — per- 
haps in  his  translation  of  Virgil.  England  was 
then  at  peace  both  at  home  and  abroad,  and  in  no 
other  subsequent  year  of  Surrey's  life  could  his 
active  service  have  allowed  him  leisure.  In  1542 
he  received  the  order  of  the  Garter,  and  followed 
his  father  in  the  expedition  of  that  year  into  Scot- 
land, where  he  acquired  his  first  military  experi- 
ence. Amidst  these  early  distinctions  it  is  some- 
what mortifying  to  find  him,  about  this  period,  twice 
committed  to  the  Fleet  prison ;  on  one  occasion  on 
account  of  a  private  quarrel,  on  another  for  eating 
meat  on  Lent,  and  for  breaking  the  windows  of 
the  citizens  of  London  with  stones  from  hus  cross- 
bow. This  was  a  strange  misdemeanour  indeed, 
for  a  hero  and  a  man  of  letters.  His  apology, 
perhaps  as  curious  as  the  fact  itself,  turns  the  ac- 
tion only  into  quixotic  absurdity.  His  motive,  he 
said,  wa^  religious.  He  saw  the  citizens  sunk  in 
papal  corruption  of  manners,  and  he  wished  to 
break  in  upon  their  guilty  secrecy  by  a  sudden 
chastisement,  that  should  remind  them  of  Divine 
retribution ! 

The  war  with  France  called  him  into  more 
honourable  activity.     In  the  first  campaign  he 

*  If  concurring  proofs  did  not  80  strongly  point  out  his 
po«(ical  mistress  Geraldin«  to  be  the  daughter  of  the  Earl 
of  Kildare,  we  might  well  suspect,  from  the  date  of  Surrey's 
attnchment,  that  the  object  of  his  praises  must  have  been 
some  other  person.  Geraldine,  when  he  declared  his  de. 
votion  to  her,  was  only  thirteen  years  of  age.  She  wai 
taKen  ia  her  childhood  under  the  protection  of  the  court, 


joined  the  army  under  Sir  John  Wallop,  at  the 
siege  of  Landrecy ;  and  in  the  second  and  larger 
expedition  he  went  as  marshal  of  the  army  of 
which  his  father  commanded  the  vanguard.  The 
siege  of  MontreuU  was  allotted  to  the  Duke  of 
Norfolk  and  his  gallant  son  ;  but  their  operations 
were  impeded  by  the  want  of  money,  ammunition, 
and  artillery,  supplies  most  probably  detained  from 
reaching  them  by  the  influence  of  the  Earl  of 
Hertford,  who  had  long  regarded  both  Surrey  and 
his  father  with  a  jealous  eye.  In  these  disastrous 
circumstances  Surrey  seconded  the  duke's  efforts 
with  zeal  and  ability.  On  one  expedition  he  was 
out  two  days  and  two  nights,  spread  destruction 
among  the  resources  of  the  enemy,  and  returned 
to  the  camp  with  a  load  of  supplies,  and  without 
the  loss  of  a  single  man.  In  a  bold  attempt  to 
storm  the  town  he  succeeded  so  far  as  to  make  a 
lodgment  in  one  of  the  gates;  but  was  danger- 
ously wounded,  and  owed  his  life  to  the  devoted 
bravery  of  his  attendant  Clere,  who  received  a 
hurt  in  rescuing  him,  of  which  he  died  a  month 
after.  On  the  report  of  the  Dauphin  of  France's 
approach  with  60,000  men,  the  English  made  an 
able  retreat,  of  which  Surrey  conducted  the  move- 
ments as  marshal  of  the  camp. 

He  returned  with  his  father  to  England,  but 
must  have  made  only  a  short  stay  at  home,  as  we 
find  him  soon  after  fighting  a  spirited  action  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  Boulogne,  in  which  he  chased 
back  the  French  as  far  as  Montreuil.  The  follow- 
ing year  he  commanded  the  vanguard  of  the  army 
of  Boulogne,  and  finally  solicited  and  obtained  the 
government  of  that  place.  It  was  then  nearly  de- 
fenceless ;  the  breaches  unrepaired,  the  fortifica- 
tions in  decay,  and  the  enemy,  with  superior  num- 
bers, establi-shed  so  near  as  to  be  able  to  command 
the  harbour,  and  to  fire  upon  the  lower  town. 
Under  such  disadvantages,  Surrey  entered  on  his 
command,  and  drew  up  and  sent  home  a  plan  of 
alterations  in  the  works,  which  was  approved  of 
by  the  king,  and  ordered  to  be  acted  upon.  Nor 
were  his  eflbrts  merely  defensive.  On  one  occa- 
sion he  led  his  men  into  the  enemy's  country  as 
far  as  Samerau-Bois,  which  he  destroyed,  and  re- 
turned in  safety  with  considerable  booty.  After- 
wards, hearing  that  the  French  intended  to  revic- 
tual  their  camp  at  Outreau,  he  compelled  them 
to  abandon  their  object,  pursued  them  as  far  as 
Hardilot,  and  was  only  prevented  from  gaining  a 
complete  victory  through  the  want  of  cavalry. 
But  his  plan  for  the  defence  of  Boulogne,  which, 
by  his  own  extant  memorial,  is  said  to  evince  great 
military  skill,  was  marred  by  the  issue  of  one  unfor- 
tunate sally.  In  order  to  prevent  the  French  from 
revictualling  a  fortress  that  menaced  the  safety  of 
Boulogne,  he  found  it  necessary,  with  his  slender 
forces,  to  risk  another  attack  at  St.  Etienne. 
His  cavalry  first  charged  and  routed  those  of  the 

and  attended  the  Princess  Mary.  At  the  age  of  fifteen 
she  married  Sir  Anthony  Wood,  a  man  of  sixty,  and  after 
his  death  accepted  the  Earl  of  Lincoln.  From  Surrey's 
verses  we  find  that  she  sli.^hted  his  adJresse.s,  after  having 
for  some  time  encouraged  ihem:  and  from  his  conduct  it 
ap(>ear8  that  he  hurried  into  war  and  public  business  in 
order  to  forget  her  indifference. 


94 


LORD   VAUX. 


O  place  of  bliss !  renewer  of  my  woes ! 
Give  me  account,  where  is  my  noble  fere  I** 
Whom  in  thy  walls  thou  didst  each  night  enclose; 
To  other  lief:'  but  unto  me  most  dear. 
Echo,  alas !  that  doth  my  sorrow  rue, 
Returns  thereto  a  hollow  sound  of  plaint. 
Thus  I  alone,  where  all  my  freedom  grew. 
In  prison  pine,  with  bondage  and  restraint : 
And  with  remembrance  of  the  greater  grief, 
To  banish  the  less,  I  find  my  chief  rehef. 


DESCRIPTION    OF   SPRING. 
The   soote/  season,  that  bud  and  bloom   forth 

brings. 
With  green  hath  clad  the  hill,  and  eke  the  vale. 
The  nightingale  with  feathers  new  she  sings ; 
The  turtle  to  her  make^  hath  told  her  tale. 
Summer  is  come,  for  every  spray  now  springs. 
The  hart  hath  hung  his  old  head  on  the  pale ; 
The  buck  in  brake  his  winter  coat  he  flings ; 
The  fishes  fleet  with  new  repaired  scale ; 
The  adder  all  her  slough  away  she  flings ; 

rf  Companion.^  Beloved. — /Sweet. — r  Mate. 


The  swift  swallow  pursueth  the  flies  small ; 
The  busy  bee  her  honey  now  she  mings  ;* 
Winter  is  worn  that  was  the  flower's  bale.* 
And  thus  I  see  among  these  pleasant  things 
Each  care  decays,  and  yet  my  sorrow  springs. 


HOW  EACH  THING,  SAVE  THE   LOVER  IN 
SPRING,   REVIVETH  TO  PLEASURE. 

When  Windsor  walls  sustain'd  my  wearied  arm 
My  hand  my  chin,  to  ease  my  restless  head ; 
The  pleasant  plot  revested  green  with  warm ; 
The  blossom'd  boughs  with  lusty  ver  yspread ; 
The  flower'd  meads,  the  wedded  birds  so  late 
Mine  eyes  discover ;  and  to  my  mind  resort 
The  jolly  woes,  the  hateless  short  debate. 
The  rakehell*  life  that  longs  to  love's  disport. 
Wherewith,  alas  !  the  heavy  charge  of  care 
Heap'd  in  my  breast,  breaks  forth  against  my  will 
In  smoky  sighs  that  overcast  the  air. 
My  vapour'd  eye  such  dreary  tears  distil. 
The  tender  green  they  quicken  where  they  fall ; 
And  I  half  bend  to  throw  me  down  withal. 

*  Mingles. — •  Destruction.^  Careless. — ^Rakil,  or  rakle, 
seems  synonymous  with  reckless. 


LORD   YAUX. 


[Died,  1560?] 


It  is  now  universally  admitted  that  Lord  Vaux, 
the  poet,  was  not  Nicholas  the  first  peer,  but 
Thomas,  the  second  baron  of  that  name.  He 
was  one  of  those  who  attended  Cardinal  Wolsey 
on  his  embassy  to  Francis  the  First.  He  received 
the  order  of  the  Bath  at  the  coronation  of  Anne 
Boleyn,  and  was  for  some  time  Captain  of  the 
island  of  Jersey.     A  considerable  number  of  his 


pieces  are  found  in  the  Paradise  of  Dainty  De- 
vices. Mr.  Park*  has  noticed  a  passage  in  the 
prose  prologue  to  Sackville's  Introduction  to  the 
Mirror  for  Magistrates,  that  Lord  Vaux  had  un- 
dertaken to  complete  the  history  of  king  Edward's 
two  sons  who  were  murdered  in  the  Tower,  but 
that  it  does  not  appear  he  ever  executed  his  in- 
tention. 


UPON   HIS   WHITE   HAIRS. 
FROM  THE  AGED  LOVER'S   RENUNCIATION  OF  LOVE. 


These  hairs  of  age  are  messengers 
Which  bid  me  fast  repent  and  pray; 
They  be  of  death  the  harbingers. 
That  doth  prepare  and  dress  the  way : 
Wherefore  I  joy  that  you  may  see 
Upon  my  head  such  hairs  to  be. 

They  be  the  lines  that  lead  the  length 
How  far  my  race  was  for  to  run ; 
They  say  my  youth  is  fled  with  strength, 
And  how  old  age  is  well  begun ; 
The  which  I  feel,  and  you  may  see 
Such  lines  upon  my  head  to  be. 


They  be  the  strings  of  sober  sound, 
Whose  music  is  harmonical ; 
Their  tunes  declare  a  time  from  ground 
I  came,  and  how  thereto  I  shall : 
Wherefore  I  love  that  you  may  see 
Upon  my  head  such  hairs  to  be. 

God  grant  to  those  that  white  hairs  have, 
No  worse  them  take  than  I  have  meant ; 
That  after  they  be  laid  in  grave, 
Their  souls  may  joy  their  lives  well  spent. 
God  grant,  likewise,  that  you  may  see 
Upon  my  head  such  hairs  to  be. 


*  In  his  edition  of  Walpole's  Royal  and  Noble  Authors. 


RICHARD  EDWARDS 


[Bom,  1523.    Died,  1566.] 


'^AS  a  principal  contributor  to  the  Paradise  of 
Dainty  devices,  and  one  of  our  earliest  dramatic 
authors  He  wrote  two  comedies,  one  entitled 
Damon  and  Pythias,  the  other  Palamon  and 
Arcite,  ooth  of  which  were  acted  before  Queen 
Elizabeth.  Besides  his  regular  dramias,  he  appears 
to  have  contrived  masques,  and  to  have  written 
verses  for  pageants;  and  is  described  as  having 


been  the  first  fiddle,  the  most  fashionable  sonneteer, 
and  the  most  facetious  mimic  of  the  court.  In  the 
beginning  of  Elizabeth's  reign  he  was  one  of  the 
gentlemen  of  her  chapel,  and  master  of  the  children 
there,  having  the  character  of  an  excellent  musician. 
His  pleasing  little  poem.the  Amantium  Irce,  has  been 
so  often  reprinted,  that,  for  the  sake  of  variety,  I 
have  selected  another  specimen  of  his  simplicity. 


HE  REQUESTBTH  SOME  FRIENDLY  COMFORT,  AFFIRMING  ms  CONSTANCY. 


The  mountains  high,  whose  lofty  tops  do  meet 

the  haughty  sky ; 
The  craggy  rock,  that  to  the  sea  free  passage  doth 

deny; 
The  aged  oak,  that  doth  resist  the  force  of  blus- 

tring  blast ; 
The  pleasant  herb,  that  evexjrwhere  a  pleasant 

smell  doth  cast ; 
The  lion's  force,  whose  courage  stout  declares  a 

prince-like  might ; 
The  eagle,  that  for  worthiness  is  bom  of  kings  in 

fight 

Then  these,  I  say,  and  thousands  more,  by  tract 

of  time  decay, 
And,  like  to  time,  do  quite  consume,  and  fade 

trom  form  to  clay  ; 
But  my  true  heart  and  service  vow'd  shall  last 

time  out  of  mind, 
And  still  remain  as  thine  by  doom,  as  Cupid  hath 

assigned ; 


My  faith,  lo  here  !  I  vow  to  thee,  my  troth  thou 

know'st  too  well; 
My  goods,  my  friends,  my  life,  is  thine;  what 

need  I  more  to  tell  1 
I  am  not  mine,  but  thine ;  I  vow  thy  bests  I  will 

obey. 
And  serve  thee  as  a  servant  ought,  in  pleasing  if 

I  may ; 
And  sith  I  have  no  flying  wings,  to  serve  thee  as 

I  wish, 
Ne  fins  to  cut  the  silver  streams,  as  doth  the 

gliding  fish ; 
Wherefore   leave   now   forgetfulness,  and   send 

again  to  me, 
And  strain  thy  azure  veins  to  write,  that  I  may 

greeting  see. 
And  thus  farewell !  more  dear  to  me  than  chiefest 

friend  I  have, 
Whose  love  in  heart  I  mind  to  shrine,  till  Death 

his  fee  do  crave. 


WILLIAM  HUNNIS 


Was  a  gentleman  of  Edward  the  Sixth's 
Chapel,  and  afterwards  master  of  the  boys  of 
Queen  Elizabeth's  Chapel.  He  translated  the 
Psalms,  and  was  author  of  a  "Hive  of  Honey,"  a 


"Handful  of  Honeysuckle,"  and  other  godly 
works.  He  died  in  1568.  Hunnis  was  also  a 
writer  of  Interludes. — See  Collier's  jinnals  of 
the  Si  age,  vol.  i.  p.  235. 


THE  LOVE  THAT  IS  REQUITED   WITH  DISDAIN. 


In  search  of  things  that  secret  are  my  mated 

muse  began, 
What  it  might  be  molested  most  the  head  and 

mind  of  man; 
The  bending  brow  of  prince's  face,  to  wrath  that 

doth  attend. 
Or  want  of  parents,  wife,  or  child,  or  loss  of  faith- 
ful friend ; 
The  roaring  of  the  cannon  shot,  that  makes  the 

piece  to  shake. 
Or  terror,  such  as  mighty  Jove  from  heaven  above 

can  make: 
All  these,  in  fine,  may  not  compare,  experience  so 

doth  prove, 
Unto  the  torments,  sharp  and  strange,  of  such  as 

be  in  love. 


liove  looks  aloft,  and  laughs  to  scorn  all  such  as 

griefs  annoy, 
The  more  extreme  their  passions  be,  the  greater 

is  his  joy ; 
Thus  Love,  as  victor  of  the  field,  triumphs  above 

the  rest. 
And  joys  to  see  his  subjects  lie  with  living  death 

in  breast; 
But  dire  Disdain  lets  drive  a  shaft,  and  galls  this 

bragging  fool. 
He  plucks  his  plumes,  unbends  his  bow.  and  sets 

him  new  to  school ; 
Whereby  this  boy  that  bragged  late,  as  conqueroi 

over  all,  i^ 

Now  yields  himself  unto  Disdain,  his  vassal  and 

luB  thrall. 


THOMAS   SACKVILLE, 


BARON  BUCKHURST,  AND  EARL  OF  DORSET, 

[Born,  1538.    Died,  April  19,  I6()8.] 


Was  the  son  of  Sir  Richard  Sackville,  and  was 
born  at  Withyam,  in  Sussex,  in  1536.  He  was 
educated  at  both  universities,  and  enjoyed  an  early 
reputation  in  Latin  as  well  as  in  English  poetry. 
While  a  student  of  the  Inner  Temple,  he  wrote 
his  tragedy  of  Gorboduc,  which  was  played  by 
the  young  students,  as  a  part  of  a  Christmas  en- 
tertainment, and  afterwards  before  Queen  Eliza- 
beth at  Whitehall,  in  1561.  In  a  subsequent  edi- 
tion of  this  piece  it  was  entitled  the  tragedy  of 
Ferrex  and  Porrex.  He  is  said  to  have  been  as- 
sisted in  the  composition  of  it  by  Thomas  Norton  ; 
but  to  what  extent  does  not  appear.  T.  Warton 
disputes  the  fact  of  his  being  at  all  indebted  to 
Norton.  The  merit  of  the  piece  does  not  render 
the  question  of  much  importance.  This  tragedy 
and  his  contribution  of  the  Induction  and  Legend 
of  the  Duke  of  Buckingham  to  the  "  Mirror  for 
Magistrates,"*  compose  the  poetical  history  of 
Sackville's  life.  The  rest  of  it  was  political.  He 
had  been  elected  to  parliament  at  the  age  of  thirty. 
Six  years  afterwards,  in  the  same  year  that  his 
Induction  and  Legend  of  Buckingham  were  pub- 
lished, he  went  abroad  on  his  travels,  and  was,  for 
some  reason  that  is  not  mentioned,  confined,  for  a 
time,  as  a  prisoner  at  Rome  ;  but  he  returned  home, 
on  the  death  of  his  father,  in  1566,  and  was  soon 
after  promoted  to  the  title  of  Baron  Buckhurst. 
Having  entered  at  first  with  rather  too  much  pro- 
digality on  the  enjoyment  of  his  patrimony,  he  is 
said  to  have  been  reclaimed  by  the  indignity  of 
being  kept  in  waiting  by  an  alderman,  fi-om  whom 
he  was  bon"Owing  money,  and  to  have  made  a  re- 
solution of  economy,  firom  which  he  never  de- 
parted. The  queen  employed  him,  in  the  four- 
teenth year  of  her  reign,  in  an  embassy  to  Charles 
IX.  of  France.  In  1587  he  went  as  ambassador 
to  the  United  Provinces,  upon  their  complaint 
against  the  Earl  of  Leicester ;  but,  though  he  per- 


formed his  trust  with  integrity,  the  favourite  had 
sufficient  influence  to  get  him  recalled ;  and  on 
his  return,  he  was  ordered  to  confinement  in  his 
own  house,  for  nine  or  ten  months.  On  Leices- 
ter's death,  however,  he  was  immediately  rein- 
stated in  royal  favour,  and  was  made  knight  of 
the  garter,  and  chancellor  of  Oxford.  On  the 
death  of  Burleigh  he  became  lord  high-treasurer 
of  England.  At  Queen  Elizabeth's  demise  he 
was  one  of  the  privy  councillors  on  whom  the 
administration  of  the  kingdom  devolved,  and  he 
concurred  in  proclaiming  King  James.  The  new 
sovereign  confirmed  him  in  the  oflSce  of  high- 
treasurer  by  a  patent  for  life,  and  on  all  occasions 
consulted  him  with  confidence.  In  March,  1604, 
he  was  created  Earl  of  Dorset.  He  died  suddenly 
[1608]  at  the  council  table,  in  consequence  of  a 
dropsy  on  the  brain.  Few  ministers,  as  Lord 
Oxford  remarks,  have  left  behind  them  so  un- 
blemished a  character.  His  family  considered  his 
memory  so  invulnerable,  that  when  some  partial 
aspersions  were  thrown  upon  it,  after  his  death, 
they  disdained  to  answer  them.  He  carried  taste 
and  elegance  even  into  his  formal  political  func- 
tions, and  for  his  eloquence  was  styled  the  bell  of 
the  Star  Chamber.  As  a  poet,  his  attempt  to 
unite  allegory  with  heroic  narrative,  and  his  giv- 
ing our  language  its  earliest  regular  tragedy, 
evince  the  views  and  enterprise  of  no  ordinary 
mind;  but,  though  the  induction  to  the  Mirror 
for  Magistrates  displays  some  potent  sketches,  it 
bears  the  complexion  of  a  saturnine  genius,  and 
resembles  a  bold  and  gloomy  landscape  on  which 
the  sun  never  shines.  As  to  Gorboduc,  it  is  a 
piece  of  monotonous  recitals,  and  cold  and  heavy 
accumulation  of  incidents.  As  an  imitation  of 
classical  tragedy  it  is  peculiarly  unfortunate,  in 
being  without  even  the  unities  of  place  and  time, 
to  circumscribe  its  dulness. 


FROM  SACKVILLE'S  INDUCTION  TO  THE  COMPLAINT  OF   HENRY,  DUKE  OF  BUCKINGHAM. 


The  wrathful  Winter,  'proaching  on  apace, 
With  blust'ring  blasts  had  all  ybared  the  treen. 
And  old  Saturnus,  with  his  frosty  face. 
With  chilling  cold  had  pierced  the  tender  green ; 
The  mantles  rent  wherein  enwrapped  been 
I'he  gladsome  groves  that  now  lay  overthrown, 
The  tapets  torn,  and  every  tree  down  blown. 

*  The  "  Mirror  for  Magistrates"  was  intended  to  cele- 
brate the  chief  unfortunate  personages  in  English  history, 
in  a  series  of  pottical  legends  ppoken  by  the  characters 
themselves,  with  epilogues  interspersed  to  connect  the 
stories,  in  imitation  of  iioocaccio's  Fall  of  Princes,  which 
had  been  translated  by  I-ydgate.  The  historian  of  Eng- 
#  lish  poetry  ascribes  the  plan  of  this  work  to  Sackville,  and 
Feems  to  have  supposed  that  his  Induction  and  legend  of 
Henry  Duke  of  Buckingham  appeared  in  the  first  edition  : 
but  Sir  E.  Brydges  has  sbowu  that  it  was  uot  until  the 
9S 


The  soil  that  erst  so  seemly  was  to  seen, 
Was  all  despoiled  of  her  beauty's  hue ;  [Queen 
And  soote"  fresh  flowers,  therewith  the  Summer's 
Had  clad  the  earth,  now  Boreas  blasts  down  blew ; 
And  small  fowls,  flocking,  in  their  song  did  rue 
The  Winter's  wrath,wherewith  each  thing  defaced 
In  woeful  wise  bewail'd  the  Summer  past. 

second  edition  of  the  Mirror  for  Magistrates  that  Sackville's 
contribution  was  published,  viz.  in  1563.  Baldwin  and 
FerriTs  were  the  authors  of  the  first  edition,  in  1659.  Hid- 
gins,  Phayer,  Churchyard,  and  a  crowd  of  inferior  versi- 
fiers, contributed  successive  legends,  not  confining  them- 
selves to  English  history,  but  treating  the  reader  with  the 
liimentations  of  Geta  and  Caracalla.  Brennus.  &c.  *c.  till 
the  improvement  of  the  drama  superseded  those  dreary 
monologues,  by  giving  heroic  history  a  more  engaging  air. 
•  Sweet. 


THOMAS  SACKVILLE. 


97 


Hawthorn  had  lost  his  motley  livery, 

The  naked  twigs  were  shivering  all  for  cold, 

And  dropping  down  the  tears  abundantly ; 

Each  thing,  methought,  with  weeping  eye  me  told 

The  cruel  season,  bidding  me  withhold 

Myself  within ;  for  I  was  gotten  out 

Into  the  fields,  whereas  I  walk'd  about. 

When  lo,  the  Night  with  misty  mantles  spread, 
Gan  dark  the  day,  and  dim  the  azure  skies ; 
And  Venus  in  her  message  Hermes  sped 
To  bloody  Mars,  to  wile  him  not  to  rise, 
While  she  herself  approach'd  in  speedy  wise : 
And  Virgo  hiding  her  disdainful  breast, 
With  Thetis  now  .had  laid  her  down  to  rest. . . . 

And  pale  Cynthea,  with  her  borrow'd  light, 
Beginning  to  supply  her  brother's  place, 
Was  past  the  noon  steed  six  degrees  in  sight. 
When  sparkling  stars  amid  the  Heaven's  face, 
With  twinkling  light  shone  on  the  Earth  apace. 
That  while  they  brought  about  the  Nightes  chair, 
The  dark  had  dimm'd  the  day  ere  I  was  ware. 

And  sorrowing  I  to  see  the  Summer  flowers. 
The  lively  green,  the  lusty  leas  forlorn ; 
The  sturdy  trees  so  shatter'd  with  the  showers. 
The  fields  so  fade  that  flourish'd  so  befome ; 
It  taught  me  well  all  earthly  things  be  borne 
To  die  the  death,  for  nought  long  time  may  last; 
The  Summer's  beauty  yields  to  Winter's  blast. 

Then  looking  upward  to  the  Heaven's  learns. 
With  Nighte's  stars  thick  powder'd  everywhere, 
Which  erst  so  glisten'd  with  the  golden  streams, 
That  cheerful  Phoebus  spread  down  from   his 

sphere. 
Beholding  dark  oppressing  day  so  near; 
The  sudden  sight  reduced  to  my  mind 
The  sundry  changes  that  in  earth  we  find. 

That  musing  on  this  worldly  wealth  in  thought. 
Which  comes  and  goes  more  faster  than  we  see 
The  fleckering  flame  that  with  the  fire  is  wrought, 
My  busy  mind  presented  unto  me 
Such  fall  of  Peers  as  in  this  realm  had  be,* 
That  oft  I  wish'd  some  would  their  woes  descrive. 
To  warn  the  rest  whom  fortune  left  alive. 

And  strait  forth-stalking  with  redoubled  pace, 

For  that  I  saw  the  Night  draw  on  so  fast, 

In  black  all  clad,  there  fell  before  my  face 

A  piteous  wight,  whom  Woe  had  all  forewaste. 

Forth  firom  her  eyen  the  chrystal  tears  out  brast. 

And  sighing  sore,  her  hands  she  wrung  and  fold, 

Tare  all  her  hair,  that  ruth  was  to  behold. 

Her  body  small,  forewither'd  and  forespent, 
As  is  the  stalk  that  Summer's  drought  oppress'd; 
Her  wealked  face  with  woeful  tears  besprent, 
Her  colour  pale,  and  as  it  seem'd  her  best ; 
In  woe  and  plaint  reposed  was  her  rest ; 
And  as  the  Mtone  that  dropa  of  water  wears, 
So  dented  was  her  cheek  with  fall  of  tears 

SackviUe'g  contribution  to  "The  Mirror  for  Magistrates," 
is  the  only  part  of  it  that  is  tolerable.  1 1  is  observable  that 
liis  plan  differs  materially  from  that  of  the  other  contri- 
hutors.  He  lays  the  scene,  like  Dautc,  in  Hell,  and  makes 
his  characters  relate  their  history  at  Uie  gates  of  Elysium, 
13 


80BK0W  THEN  ADDRESSES  THE  POET. 

For  forth  she  paced  in  her  fearful  tale : 

"  Come,  come,"  quoth  she,  «  and  see  what  I  shall 

show; 
Come,  hear  the  plaining  and  the  bitter  bale 
Of  worthy  men  by  Fortune  overthrow : 
Come  thou,  and  see  them  rewing  all  in  row, 
They  were  but  shades  that  erst  in  mind  thou  roU'd, 
Come,  come  with  me,  thine  eyes  shall  them  behold." 

And  with  these  words,  as  I  upraised  stood. 

And  'gaa  to  follow  her  that  strait  forth  paced. 

Ere  I  was  ware,  into  a  desart  wood 

We  now  were  come,  where,hand  in  hand  embraced, 

She  led  the  way,  and  through  the  thick  so  traced, 

As,  but  I  had  been  guided  by  her  might. 

It  was  no  way  for  any  mortal  wight.  .  .  . 

ALLEOOKICAl   PERSONAGES   DESCRIBED   IN   HEIl. 

And  first  writhin  the  porch  and  jaws  of  Hell 
Sat  deep  Remorse  of  Conscience,  all  besprent 
With  tears ;  and  to  herself  oft  would  she  tell 
Her  wretchedness,  and  cursing  never  stent* 
To  sob  and  sigh ;  but  ever  thus  lament 
With  thoughtful  care,  as  she  that  all  in  vain 
Would  wear  and  waste  continually  in  pain. 

Her  eyes  unstedfast,  rolling  here  and  there, 
Whirl'd  on  each  place,  as  place  that  vengeance 

brought. 
So  was  her  mind  continually  in  fear, 
Toss'd  and  tormented  by  the  tedious  thought 
Of  those  detested  crimes  which  she  had  wrought : 
With  dreadful  cheer  and  looks  thrown  to  the  sky, 
Wishing  for  death,  and  yet  she  could  not  die. 

Next  saw  we  Dread,  all  trembling  how  he  shook. 
With  foot  uncertain  profTer'd  here  and  there ; 
Benumm'd  of  speech,  and  with  a  ghastly  look, 
Search'd  every  place,  all  pale  and  dead  for  fear, 
His  cap  upborn  with  staring  of  his  hair, 
Stoyn'd"*  and  amazed  at  his  shade  for  dread, 
And  fearing  greater  dangers  than  was  need. 

And  next  within  the  entry  of  this  lake 

Sat  fell  Revenge,  gnashing  her  teeth  for  ire. 

Devising  means  how  she  may  vengeance  take, 

Never  in  rest  till  she  have  her  desire ; 

But  fi-ets  within  so  far  forth  with  the  fire 

Of  wreaking  flames,  that  now  determines  she 

To  die  by  death,  or  venged  by  death  to  be. 

When  fell  Revenge,  with  bloody  foul  pretence. 
Had  show'd  herself,  as  next  in  order  set. 
With  trembling  limbs  we  softly  parted  thence, 
Till  in  our  eyes  another  sight  we  met. 
When  from  my  heart  a  sigh  forthwith  I  fet,« 
Rewing,  alas !  upon  the  woeful  plight 
Of  Misery,  that  next  appear'd  in  sight 

His  face  was  lean  and  some-deal  pined  away, 
And  eke  his  handes  consumed  to  the  bone. 
But  what  his  body  was  I  cannot  say ; 
For  on  his  carcass  raiment  had  he  none, 

under  the  guidance  of  Sorrow ;  while  the  authors  of  th» 
other  legends  are  gi-nerally  contented  with  simply  dreaao- 
ing  of  the  unfortunate  persona^res,  and,  by  goin^  to  sletjp, 
offer  a  powerful  inducement  to  follow  their  exampla. 
t>  Been. — t  Stopped. — <<  Astonished.—*  Fetched. 
I 


98 


GEORGE  GASCOIGNE. 


Save  clouts  and  patches,  pieced  one  by  one ; 
With  staff  in  hand,  and  scrip  on  shoulders  cast, 
His  chief  defence  against  the  winter's  blast. 

His  food,  for  most,  was  wild  fruits  of  the  tree ; 
Unless  sometime  some  crumbs  fell  to  his  share, 
Which  in  his  wallet  long,  God  wot,  kept  he. 
As  on  the  which  full  daintily  would  he  fare. 
His  drink  the  running  stream,  his  cup  the  bare 
Of  his  palm  closed,  his  bed  the  hard  cold  ground ; 
To  this  poor  life  was  Misery  ybound. 

Whose  wretched  state,  when  he  had  well  beheld 

With  tender  ruth  on  him  and  on  his  feres/ 

In  thoughtful  cares  forth  then  our  pace  we  held, 

And,  by  and  by,  another  shape  appears. 

Of  greedy  Care,  still  brushing  up  the  breres,? 

His  knuckles  knob'd,  his  flesh  deep  dented  in, 

With  tawed  hands  and  hard  ytanned  skin. 

The  morrow  gray  no  sooner  had  begun 
To  spread  his  light,  even  peeping  in  our  eyes, 
When  he  is  up  and  to  his  work  yrun ; 
And  let  the  night's  black  misty  mantles  rise. 
And  with  foul  dark  never  so  much  disguise 
The  fair  bright  day,  yet  ceaseth  he  no  while. 
But  hath  his  candles  to  prolong  his  toil. 

By  him  lay  heavy  Sleep,  the  cousin  of  Death, 
Flat  on  the  ground,  and  still  as  any  stone, 

/  Companions.  g  Briars. 


A  very  corps,  save  yielding  forth  a  breath ; 
Small  keep  took  he  whom  Fortune  frowned  on, 
Or  whom  she  lifted  up  into  the  throne 
Of  high  renown :  but  as  a  living  death. 
So  dead,  aUve,  of  life  he  drew  the  breath. 

The  body's  rest,  the  quiet  of  the  heart. 

The  travail's  ease,  the  still  night's  fere  was  he ; 

And  of  our  life  in  earth  the  better  part, 

Reever  of  sight,  and  yet  in  whom  we  see 

Things  oft  that  tide,*  and  oft  that  never  be ; 

Without  respect  esteeming  equally 

King  Croesus'  pomp,  and  Irus'  poverty. 

And  next  in  order  sad  Old  Age  we  found, 
His  beard  all  hoar,  his  eyes  hollow  and  blind ; 
With  drooping  cheer  still  poring  on  the  ground. 
As  on  the  place  where  Nature  him  assign'd 
To  rest,  when  that  the  sisters  had  entwined 
His  vital  thread,  and  ended  with  their  knife 
The  fleeting  course  of  fast  declining  life. 

Crook'd-back'd  he  was,tooth-shaken  and  bleareyed. 
Went  on  three  feet,  and  sometime  crept  on  four ; 
With  old  lame  bones  that  rattled  by  his  side. 
His  scalp  all  pill'd,*  and  he  with  eld  forlore. 
His  wither'd  fist  still  knocking  at  Death's  door; 
Trembling  and  driv'ling  as  he  draws  his  breath, 
For  brief,  the  shape  and  messenger  of  Death. 


A  Happen. 


•  Bare. 


GEORGE  GASCOIGNE 


[Born,  IS38. 

• 

Was  bom  in  1536,*  of  an  ancient  family  in 
Essex,  was  bred  at  Cambridge,  and  entered  at 
Gray's-Inn ;  but  being  disinherited  by  his  father 
for  extravagance,  he  repaired  to  Holland,  and 
obtained  a  commission  under  the  Prince  of 
Orange.  A  quarrel  with  his  colonel  retarded 
his  promotion  in  that  service ;  and  a  circumstance 
occurred  which  had  nearly  cost  him  his  life.  A 
lady  at  the  Hague  (the  town  being  then  in  the 
enemy's  possession)  sent  him  a  letter,  which  was 
intercepted  in  the  camp,  and  a  report  against  his 
loyalty  was  made  by  those  who  had  seized  it. 
Gascoigne  immediately  laid  the  affair  before  the 
Prince,  who  saw  through  the  design  of  his  ac- 
cusers, and  gave  him  a  passport  for  visiting  his 
female  friend.  At  the  siege  of  Middleburgh  he 
displayed  so  much  bravery,  that  the  Prince  re- 
warded him  with  300  gilders  above  his  pay ;  but 
he  was  soon  after  made  prisoner  by  the  Spaniards, 
and  having  spent  four  months  in  captivity,  re- 


Died,  1577.] 

turned  to  England,  and  resided  generally  at 
Walthamstow.  In  1575  he  accompanied  Queen 
Elizabeth  in  one  of  her  stately  progresses,  and 
wrote  for  her  amusement  a  mask,  entitled  the 
Princely  Pleasures  of  Kenilworth  Castle.  He  is 
generally  said  to  have  died  at  Stamford,  in  1578  ; 
but  the  registers  of  that  place  have  been  searched 
in  vain  for  his  name,  by  the  writer  of  an  article 
in  the  Censura  Literaria,'}'  who  has  corrected 
some  mistakes  in  former  accounts  of  him.  It  is 
not  probable,  however,  that  he  lived  long  after 
1576,  as,  from  a  manuscript  in  the  British  Mu- 
seum, it  appears  that,  in  that  year,  he  complains 
of  his  infirmities,  and  nothing  afterwards  came 
fi-om  his  pen. 

Gascoigne  was  one  of  the  earliest  contribu- 
tors to  our  drama.  He  wrote  The  Supposes,  a 
comedy,  translated  from  Ariosto,  and  Jocasta, 
a  tragedy  from  Euripides,  with  some  other 
pieces.J 


DE   PROFUNDIS. 


From  depth  of  dole,  wherein  my  soul  doth  dwell. 
From  heavy  heart,  which  harbours  in  my  breast, 

*  Mr.  Ellis  conjectures  that  he  was  bom  much  earlier. 
.  t  Cens.  Lit  vol.  i.  p.  100.  Gascoigne  died  at  Stamford 
on  the  7th  of  October,  1577  —See  Collier's  AnnaU,  vol.  i. 
p.  192. 


From  troubled  sprite,  which  seldom  taketh  rest, 
From  hope  of  heaven,  from  dread  of  darksome  hell, 

[X  One  of  his  principal  works  is  The  Fruits  of  War:  it 
was  suggested  by  his  personal  adventures  and  ob.-ierva- 
tions.  His  verse  is  smooth,  flowing,  and  unaffected.  One 
of  his  best  pieces  is  De  Profundia,  which  I  have  added  tc 
Mr.  Campbell's  selections. — O.] 


GEORGE  GASCOIGNE. 


99 


O  gracious  God,  to  thee  I  cry  and  yell : 
My  God,  my  T.iord,  my  lovely  Lord,  alone 
To  thee  I  call,  to  thee  I  make  my  moan. 
And  thou,  good  God,  vouchsafe  in  grace  to  take 
This  woful  plaint 
Wherein  I  faint; 
Oh !  hear  me,  then,  for  thy  great  mercy's  sake. 

Oh !  bend  thine  ears  attentively  to  hear, 

Oh !  turn  thine  eyes,  behold  me  how  I  wail ! 
Oh !  hearken.  Lord,  give  ear  for  mine  avail, 

Oh !  mark  in  mind  the  burdens  that  I  bear ; 

See  how  I  sink  in  sorrows  everywhere. 
Behold  and  see  what  dolors  I  endure. 
Give  ear  and  mark  what  plaints  I  put  in  ure ;« 

Bend  willing  ears ;  and  pity  therewdthal 
My  willing  voice. 
Which  hath  no  choice 

But  evermore  upon  thy  name  to  call. 

If  thou,  good  Lord,  shouldst  take  thy  rod  in  hand, 
If  thou  regard  what  sins  are  daily  done, 
If  thou  take  hold  where  we  our  works  begun. 
If  thou  decree  in  judgment  for  to  stand, 
And  be  extreme  to  see  our  'scuses*"  scanned ; 
If  thou  take  note  of  every  thing  amiss, 
And  write  in  rolls  how  frail  our  nature  is, 

0  glorious  God,  0  King,  O  Prince  of  power ! 

What  mortal  wight 
May  thus  have  light 
To  feel  thy  power,  if  thou  have  list  to  lower  1 

But  thou  art  good,  and  hast  of  mercy  store, 
Thou  not  delight'st  to  see  a  sinner  fall. 
Thou  hearkenest  first,  before  we  come  to  call, 

Thine  ears  are  set  wide  open  evermore. 

Before  we  knock  thou  coraest  to  the  door ; 
Thou  art  more  prest  to  hear  a  sinner  cry 
Than  he  is  quick  to  climb  to  thee  on  high. 

Thy  mighty  name  be  praised  then  alway, 
Let  faith  and  fear 
True  witness  bear, 

How  fast  they  stand  which  on  thy  mercy  stay. 

1  look  for  thee,  my  lovely  Lord,  therefore 

For  thee  I  wait,  for  thee  I  tarry  still, 
Mine  eyes  do  long  to  gaze  on  thee  my  fill, 

For  thee  I  watch,  for  thee  I  pry  and  pore. 

My  soul  for  thee  attendeth  evermore. 

My  soul  doth  thirst  to  take  of  thee  a  taste. 
My  soul  desires  with  thee  for  to  be  placed. 

And  to  thy  words,  which  can  no  man  deceive, 
Mine  only  trust. 
My  love  and  lust. 

In  confidence  continually  shall  cleave. 

Before  the  break  or  dawning  of  the  day, 
Before  the  light  be  seen  in  lofty  skies. 
Before  the  sun  appear  in  pleasant  wise. 

Before  the  watch,  (before  the  watch,  I  say,) 

Before  the  ward  that  waits  therefore  alway. 
My  soul,  my  sense,  my  secret  thought,  my  sprite, 
My  will,  my  wish,  my  joy,  and  my  deUght, 

Unto  the  Lord,  that  sits  in  heaven  on  high, 

>  Use.  KxousM. 


With  hasty  wing 
From  me  doth  fling. 
And  striveth  still  unto  the  Lord  to  fly. 

O  Israel !  O  household  of  the  Lord ! 

O  Abraham's  sons !  O  brood  of  blessed  seed ! 

0  chosen  sheep,  that  love  the  Lord  indeed  ! 
0  hungry  hearts !  feed  still  upon  his  word. 
And  put  your  trust  in  Him  with  one  accord. 

For  He  hath  mercy  evermore  at  hand, 

His  fountains  flow,  his  springs  do  never  stand ; 
And  plenteously  He  loveth  to  redeem 
Such  sinners  all 
As  on  Him  call. 
And  faithfully  his  mercies  most  esteem. 

He  will  redeem  our  deadly,  drooping  state. 
He  will  bring  home  the  sheep  that  go  astray. 
He  will  help  them  that  hope  in  Him  alway, 

He  will  appease  our  discord  and  debate, 

He  will  soon  save,  though  we  repent  us  late. 
He  will  be  ours,  if  we  continue  his. 
He  will  bring  bale*  to  joy  and  perfect  bliss ; 

He  will  redeem  the  flock  of  his  elect 
From  all  that  is 
Or  was  amiss 

Since  Abraham's  heirs  did  first  his  laws  reject. 


ARRAIGNMENT  OF   A  LOVER. 
At  Beauty's  bar  as  I  did  stand, 
When  False  Suspect  accused  me, 
George,  quoth  the  Judge,  hold  up  thy  hand. 
Thou  art  arraign'd  of  Flattery ; 
Tell,  therefore,  how  wilt  thou  be  tried. 
Whose  judgment  thou  wilt  here  abide? 

My  lord,  quod  I,  this  lady  here. 

Whom  I  esteem  above  the  rest. 

Doth  know  my  guilt,  if  any  were ;  * 

Wherefore  her  doom  doth  please  me  best. 

Let  her  be  judge  and  juror  both, 

To  try  me  guiltless  by  mine  oath. 

Quoth  Beauty,  No,  it  fitteth  not* 
A  prince  herself  to  judge  the  cause ; 
Wtll  is  our  justice,  well  ye  wot, 
Appointed  to  discuss  our  laws ; 
If  you  will  guiltless  seem  to  go, 
God  and  your  country  quit  you  so. 

Then  Craft  the  crier  call'd  a  quest, 
Of  whom  was  Falsehood  foremost  fere ; 
A  pack  of  pickthanks  were  the  rest. 
Which  came  false  witness  for  to  bear; 
The  jury  such,  the  judge  unjust, 
Sentence  was  said,  "  I  should  be  truss'd." 

Jealous  the  gaoler  bound  me  fast, 

To  hear  the  verdict  of  the  bill ; 

George,  quoth  the  judge,  now  thou  art  cast, 

Thou  must  go  hence  to  Heavy  Htll, 

And  there  be  hang'd  all  but  the  head ; 

God  rest  thy  soul  when  thou  art  dead ! 

'  Misery. 


100 


JOHN   HARRINGTON. 


Down  fell  I  then  upon  my  knee, 
All  flat  before  dame  Beauty's  face, 
And  cried,  Good  Lady,  pardon  me ! 
Who  here  appeal  unto  your  grace ; 
You  know  if  I  have  been  untrue. 
It  was  in  too  much  praising  you. 

And  though  this  Judge  doth  make  such  haste 

To  shed  with  shame  my  guiltless  blood, 

Yet  let  your  pity  first  be  placed 

To  save  the  man  that  meant  you  good ; 

So  shall  you  show  yourself  a  Queen, 

And  I  may  be  your  servant  seen. 

Quoth  Beauty,  Well ;  because  I  guess 
What  thou  dost  mean  henceforth  to  be ; 
Although  thy  faults  deserve  no  less 
Than  Justice  here  hath  judged  thee ; 
Wilt  thou  be  bound  to  stint  all  strife. 
And  be  true  prisoner  all  thy  life  1 

Yea,  madam,  quoth  I,  that  I  shall ; 
Lo,  Faith  and  2'ruth  my  sureties: 
Why  then,  quoth  she,  come  when  I  call, 
I  ask  no  better  warrantise. 
Thus  am  I  lieauly\  bounden  thrall. 
At  her  command  when  she  doth  call. 


THE   VANITY  OF  THE  BEAUTIFUL. 
They  course  the  glass,  and  let  it  take  no  rest; 
They  pass  and  spy,  who  gazeth  on  their  face ; 
They  darkly  ask  whose  beauty  seemeth  best ; 
They  hark  and  mark  who  marketh  most  their 

grace ; 
They  stay  their  steps,  and  stalk  a  stately  pace ; 
They  jealous  are  of  every  sight  they  see  ; 
They  strive  to  seem,  but  never  care  to  be.  . .  . 


What  grudge  and  grief  our  joys  may  then  sup- 
press, 
To  see  our  hairs,  which  yellow  were  as  gold. 
Now  gray  as  glass ;  to  feel  and  find  them  less ; 
To  scrape  the  bald  skull  which  was  wont  to  h  old 
Our  lovely  locks  with  curling  sticks  controul'd ; 
To  look  in  glass,  and  spy  Sir  Wrinkle's  chair 
Set  fast  on  fronts  which  erst  were  sleek  and  fair. . . . 


VANITY  OF  YOUTH. 
Of  lusty  youth  then  lustily  to  treat. 
It  is  the  very  May-moon  of  delight ; 
When  boldest  bloods  are  full  of  wilful  heat. 
And  joy  to  think  how  long  they  have  to  fight 
In  fancy's  field,  before  their  life  take  flight ; 
Since  he  which  latest  did  the  game  begin, 
Doth  longest  hope  to  linger  still  therein.  . . . 


SWIFTNESS   OF  TIME. 
The  heavens  on  high  perpetually  do  move ; 
By  minutes  meal  the  hour  doth  steal  away. 
By  hours  the  days,  by  days  the  months  remove, 
And  thep  by  months  the  years  as  fast  decay ; 
Yea,  Virgil's  verse  and  Tully's  truth  do  say, 
That  Time  flieth,  and  never  claps  her  wings ; 
But  rides  on  clouds,  and  forward  still  she  flings. 


FROM  GASCOIGNE'S  GRIEF  OF  JOY, 
An  unpublished  Poem  in  the  British  Museum. 
There  is  a  grief  in  every  kind  of  joy, 
That  is  my  theme,  and  that  I  mean  to  prove ; 
And  who  were  he  which  would  not  drink  annoy, 
To  taste  thereby  the  lightest  dram  of  love  1  . .  .  . 


JOHN   HARRINGTON. 


[Bom,  1534.    Died,  1582.] 


John  Harrington,  the  father  of  the  translator 
of  Ariosto,  was  imprisoned  by  Queen  Mary  for 
his  suspected  attachment  to  Queen  Elizabeth,  by 
whom  he  was  afterwards  rewarded  with  a  grant 
of  lands.  Nothing  that  the  younger  Harrington 
has  written  seems  to  be  worth  preserving;  but 


the  few  specimens  of  his  father's  poetry  which 
are  found  in  the  Nugse  Antiquse  may  excite  a 
regret  that  he  did  not  write  more.  His  love 
verses  have  an  elegance  and  terseness,  more  mo- 
dern, by  an  hundred  years,  than  those  of  his  con- 
temporaries. 


VERSES  ON  A  MOST  STONY-HEARTED  MAIDEN  WHO  DID  SORELY  BEGinLE  THE  NOBLB  KNIGHT, 

MY  TRUE  FRIEND. 
J.  H.  MSS.  1564.— From  the  Nugae  Antiquse. 

Their  lips  can  gloze  and  gain  such  root, 
That  gentle  youth  hath  hope  of  finiit. 


Why  didst  thou  raise  such  woeful  wail, 

And  waste  in  briny  tears  thy  days? 

'Cause  she  that  wont  to  flout  and  rail. 

At  last  gave  proof  of  woman's  ways ; 

She  did,  in  sooth,  display  the  heart 

That  might  have  wrought  thee  greater  smart, 

II. 
Why,  thank  her  then,  not  weep  or  moan ; 
Let  others  guard  their  careless  heart, 
And  praise  the  day  that  thus  made  known 
The  faithless  hold  on  woman's  art ; 


But,  ere  the  blossom  fair  doth  rise. 
To  shoot  its  sweetness  o'er  the  taste, 
Creepeth  disdain  in  canker-wise, 
And  chilling  scorn  the  firuit  doth  blast 
There  is  no  hope  of  all  our  toil ; 
There  is  no  fi-uit  fi-om  such  a  soil. 

IV. 

Give  o'er  thy  plaint,  the  danger's  o'er ; 
She  might  have  poison'd  all  thy  life; 


SIR   PHILIP   SYDNEY. 


101 


Such  wayward  mind  had  bred  thee  more 
Of  sorrow  had  she  proved  thy  wife : 
Leave  her  to  meet  all  hopeless  meed. 
And  bless  thyself  that  so  art  freed. 

V. 

No  youth  shall  sue  such  one  to  win, 
Unmark'd  by  all  the  shining  fair, 
Save  for  her  pride  and  scorn,  such  sin 
As  heart  of  love  can  never  bear ; 
Like  leafless  plant  in  blasted  shade, 
So  liveth  she — a  barren  maid. 


SONNET  MADE  ON  ISABELLA  MARKHAM, 

VBEK  I  rmsT  IHOUOHT  HER  PAIR,  AS  SHE  STOOD  AT  THE  PRIN- 
CESS'S WINDOW,  IN  GOODLT  ATTIRE,  AND  TALKED  TO  DIVERS 
IN  THE  COURT-YARD. 

Whence  comes  my  love  1    0  heart,  disclose ; 
It  was  from  cheeks  that  shamed  the  rose, 


From  lips  that  spoil  the  ruby's  praise, 
From  eyes  that  mock  the  diamond's  blaze : 
Whence  comes  my  woe  1  as  freely  own ; 
Ah  me !  'twas  from  a  heart  like  stone. 

The  blushing  cheek  speaks  modest  mind. 
The  lips  befitting  words  most  kind. 
The  eye  does  tempt  to  love's  desire, 
And  seems  to  say  "  'tis  Cupid's  fire ;" 
Yet  all  80  fair  but  speak  my  moan, 
Sith  nought  doth  say  the  heart  of  stone. 

Why  thus,  my  love,  so  kind,  bespeak 
Sweet  eye,  sweet  lip,  sweet  blushing  cheek- 
Yet  not  a  heart  to  save  my  pain ; 
O  Venus,  take  thy  gifts  again ; 
Make  not  so  fair  to  cause  our  moan. 
Or  make  a  heart  that's  like  our  own. 

From  the  Nugae  Antiquse,  where  the  original 
Maaoscript  is  said  to  be  dated  1564. 


SIR   PHILIP   SYDNEY. 


CBom,  1554.    Died,  1686.] 


WiTHorr  enduring  Lord  Orford's  cold-blooded 
depreciation  of  this  hero,  it  must  be  owned  that 
his  vnitings  fall  short  of  his  traditional  glory; 
nor  were  his  actions  of  the  very  highest  importance 
to  his  country.  Still  there  is  no  necessity  for  sup- 
posing the  impression  which  he  made  upon  his 
contemporaries  to  have  been  either  illusive  or  exag- 
gerated. Traits  of  character  will  distinguish  great 
men,  independently  of  their  pens  or  their  swords. 
The  contemporaries  of  Sydney  knew  the  man :  and 
foreigners,  no  less  than  his  own  countrymen,  seem 
to  have  felt,  from  his  personal  influence  and  con- 
versation, an  homage  for  him,  that  could  only  be 
paid  to  a  commanding  intellect  guiding  the  prin- 
ciples of  a  noble  heart.  The  variety  of  his  ambi- 
tion, perhaps,  unfavourably  divided  the  force  of 
his  genius ;  feeling  that  he  could  take  diffierent 
paths  to  reputation,  he  did  not  confine  himself  to 
one,  but  was  successively  occupied  in  the  punc- 
tilious duties  of  a  courtier,  the  studies  and  pur- 


suits of  a  scholar  and  traveller,  and  in  the  life  of 
a  soldier,  of  which  the  chivalrous  accomplish- 
ments could  not  be  learnt  without  diligence  and 
fatigue.  All  his  excellence  in  those  pursuits,  and 
all  the  celebrity  that  would  have  placed  him  among 
'  the  competitors  for  a  crown,  was  gained  in  a  life 
of  thirty-two  years.  His  sagacity  and  independ- 
ence are  recorded  in  the  advice  which  he  gave  to 
his  own  sovereigfu.  In  the  quarrel  with  Lord 
Oxford,*  he  opposed  the  rights  of  an  English  com- 
moner to  the  prejudices  of  aristocracy  and  of  roy- 
alty itself.  At  home  he  was  the  patron  of  litera- 
ture. All  England  wore  mourning  for  his  death. 
Perhaps  the  well-known  anecdote  of  his  generosity 
to  the  dying  soldier  speaks  more  powerfully  to  the 
heart  than  the  whole  volumes  of  elegies,  in  He- 
brew, Greek,  and  Latin,  that  were  published  at 
his  death  by  the  universities. 

Mr.  Ellis  has  exhausted  the  best  specimens  of 
his  poetry.     I  have  only  offered  a  few  short  ones. 


SONNETS. 


Comb  sleep,  O  sleep,  the  certain  knot  of  peace, 
The  baiting-place  of  wit,  the  balm  of  woe ; 
The  poor  man's  wealth,  the  prisoner's  release, 
Th'  indifferent  judge  between  the  high  and  low. 
With  shield  of  proof  shield    me  from  out  the 

prease" 
Of  those  fierce  darts  despair  doth  at  me  throw : 

0  make  in  me  those  civil  wars  to  cease, 

1  will  good  tribute  pay  if  thou  do  so. 

Take  thou  of  me  smooth  pillows,  sweetest  bed, 
A  chamber  deaf  to  noise  and  blind  to  light, 
A  rosy  garland  and  a  weary  head  ; 
And  if  these  things,  as  being  thine  by  right. 
Move  not  thy  heavy  grace,  thou  shalt  in  me 
Livelier  than  elsewhere  Stella's  image  see. 

'  I'ress,  or  crowd. 


In  martial  spirts  I  had  my  cunning  tried, 
And  yet  to  break  more  staves  did  me  address, 
While  with  the  people's  shouts,  I  must  confess. 
Youth,  luck,  and  praise,  e'en  fiU'd  my  veins  .with 

pride ; 
When  Cupid  having  me  his  slave  descried 
In  Mars's  livery,  prancing  in  the  press, 
"  What  now.  Sir  Fool  1"  said  he, "  I  would  no  less ; 
Look  here,  I  say." — I  look'd,  and  Stella  spied. 
Who  hard  by  made  a  window  send  forth  light ; 
My  heart  then  quaked,then  dazzled  were  mine  eyes ; 
One  hand  forgot  to  rule,  the  other  to  fight ; 
Nor  trumpet's  sound  I  heard,  nor  friendly  cries. 
My  foe  came  on  and  beat  the  air  for  me, 
Till  that  her  blush  taught  me  my  shame  to  see. 

*  Vid«  the  biographical  nolioe  of  Lord  Oxford. 


102 


ROBERT   GREENE. 


0  HAPPT  Thames,  that  didst  my  Stella  bear, 

1  saw  myself,  with  many  a  smiling  line 
Upon  thy  cheerful  face,  joy's  livery  wear, 
While  those  fair  planets  on  thy  streams  did  shine ; 
The  boat  for  joy  could  not  to  dance  forbear ; 
While  wanton  winds,  with  beauties  so  divine 
Ra\'ish'd,  staid  not  till  in  her  golden  hair 

They  did  themselves,  oh  sweetest  prison  !  twine  ; 
And  fain  those  Eol's  youth  there  would  their  stay 
Have  made,  but  forced  by  Nature  still  to  fly. 
First  did  with  puffing  kiss  those  locks  display : 
She,  so  dishevell'd,  blush'd : — from  window  I, 
With  sight  thereof,  cried  out,  O  fair  disgrace. 
Let  Honour's  self  to  thee  grant  highest  place. 


With  howsad  steps,OMoon,thou  climb'st  the  skies 
How  silently,  and  with  how  wan  a  face ! 
What !  may  it  be,  that  even  in  heavenly  place 
That  busy  Archer  his  sharp  arrows  tries  1 
Sure,  if  that  long  with  love  acquainted  eyes 
Can  judge  of  love,  thou  feel'st  a  lover's  case ; 
I  read  it  in  thy  looks,  thy  languish'd  grace ; 
To  me  that  feel  the  like  thy  state  descries. 
Then,  even  of  fellowship,  O  Moon,  tell  me, 
Is  constant  love  deem'd  there  but  want  of  wit  1 
Are  beauties  there  as  proud  as  here  they  be  1 
Do  they  above  love  to  be  loved,  and  yet 
Those  lovers  scorn  whom  that  love  doth  possess  1 
Do  they  call  virtue  there  ungratefulness  1 


ROBERT   GREENE 

[Born,  1560.     Died,  I5M.] 


Was  bom  at  Norwich  about  1560,  was  educated 
at  Cambridge,  travelled  in  Spain  and  Italyf^d  on 
his  return  held,  for  about  a  year,  the  vicarage  of 
Tollesbury,  in  Essex.  The  rest  of  his  life  seems 
to  have  been  spent  in  London,  with  no  other  sup- 
port than  his  pen,  and  in  the  society  of  men  of 
more  wit  than  worldly  prudence.  He  is  said  to 
have  died  about  1592,*  from  a  surfeit  occasioned 
by  pickled  herrings  and  Rhenish  wine.  Greene 
has  acknowledged,  vnth  great  contrition,  some  of 
the  follies  of  his  life ;  but  the  charge  of  profligacy 
which  has  been  so  mercilessly  laid  on  his  memory ■■ 
must  be  taken  with  great  abatement,  as  it  was 
chiefly  dictated  by  his  bitterest  enemy,  Gabriel 
Harvey,  who  is  said  to  have  trampled  on  his  dead 
body  when  laid  in  the  grave.  The  story,  it  may 
be  hoped,  for  the  credit  of  human  nature,  is  un- 
true ;  but  it  shows  to  what  a  pitch  the  malignity 
of  Harvey  was  supposed  to  be  capable  of  being 
excited.  Greene  is  accused  of  having  deserted 
an  amiable  wife ;  but  his  traducers  rather  incon- 
sistently reproach  him  also  with  the  necessity  of 
writing  for  her  maintenance. 


A  list  of  his  writings,  amounting  to  forty-five 
separate  productions,  is  given  in  the  Censura 
Literaria,  incluchng  five  plays,  several  amatory 
romances,  and  other  pamphlets,  of  quaint  titles 
and  rambling  contents.  •  The  writer  of  that  article 
has  vindicated  the  personal  memory  of  Greene 
with  proper  feeling,  but  he  seems  to  overrate  the 
importance  that  could  have  ever  been  attached  to 
him  as  a  writer.  In  proof  of  the  once  great 
popularity  of  Greene's  writings,  a  passage  is 
quoted  from  Ben  Jonson's  Every  Man  out  of  his 
Humour,  where  it  is  said  that  Saviolina  uses  as 
choice  figures  as  any  in  the  Arcadia,  and  Carlo 
subjoins,  "  or  in  Greene's  works,  whence  she  may 
steal  with  more  security."  This  allusion  to  the 
facility  of  stealing  without  detection  from  an 
author  surely  argues  the  reverse  of  his  being 
popular  and  well  known.f  Greene's  style  is  in 
truth  most  whimsical  and  grotesque.  He  lived 
before  there  was  a  good  model  of  familiar  prose ; 
and  his  wit,  like  a  stream  that  is  too  weak  to  force 
a  channel  for  itself,  is  lost  in  rhapsody  and  dif- 
fuseness. 


DORASTUS 

Ah,  were  she  pitiful  as  she  is  fair. 
Or  but  as  mild  as  she  is. seeming  so. 
Then  were  my  hopes  greater  than  my  despair. 
Then  all  the  world  were  Heaven,  nothing  woe. 
Ah,  were  her  heart  relenting  as  her  hand, 
That  seems  to  melt  e'en  with  the  mildest  touch, 
Then  knew  I  where  to  seat  me  in  a  land, 
Under  the  wide  Heavens,  but  yet  not  such. 
So  as  she  shows,  she  seems  the  budding  rose, 
Yet  sweeter  far  than  is  an  earthly  flower ; 
Sovereign  of  beauty,  like  the  spray  she  grows ; 
Compass'dsheis  with  thorns  and  canker'd  flower  ^ 
Yet,  were  she  willing  to  be  pluck'd  and  worn. 
She  would  be  gather'd,  though  she  grew  on  thorn. 

Ah,  when  she  sings,  all  music  else  be  still. 
For  none  must  be  compared  to  her  note ; 
Ne'er  breathed  such  glee  from  Philomela's  bill. 
Nor  fi-om  the  raornmg  singer's  swelling  throat. 

I*  Raduced  to  utter  bfggary.and  abandonnd  bythe  friends 
of  his  fe.otive  hnuri>.Uri-Riie  died  in  London,  on  S^pt.  3, 1692. 
See  hi»  Dramatic  Works,  by  Dyce,  London,  1831.— G.] 


ON  FAWNIA. 
And  when  she  riseth  from  her  blissful  bed, 
She  comforts  all  the  world,  as  doth  the  sun. 


FROM   TULLT'S  LOVK. 

When  gods  had  framed  the  sweets  of  woman's 

face. 
And  lockt  men's  looks  within  her  golden  hair, 
That  Phoebus  blush'd  to  see  her  matchless  grace, 
And  heavenly  gods  on  earth  did  make  repair, 
To  quip  fair  Venus'  overweening  pride. 
Love's  happy  thoughts  to  jealousy  were  tied. 
Then  grew  a  wrinkle  on  fair  Venus'  brow, 
The  amber  sweet  of  love  is  turn'd  to  gall ! 
Gloomy  was  Heaven  ;  bright  Phcebus  did  avow 
He  would  be  coy,  and  would  not  love  at  all ; 
Swearing  no  greater  mischief  could  be  wroug  ht. 
Than  love  united  to  a  jealous  thought. 

St  See  Gifford's  Ben  Jonson,  vol.  ii.  p.  71. — C.] 
;  Qy.  jxMoer  or  stoure.    Dyoe,  vol.  ii.  p.  242.J 


CHRISTOPHER  MARLOWE. 


[Bom,IS63.    Died,  May  1693.1 


[Chhistopher  Marlowe,  the  son  of  a  shoema- 
ker, at  Canterbury,  was  bom  in  February,  1563-4,] 
took  a  bachelor's  degree  at  Cambridge,  [in  1683,] 
and  came  to  London,  where  he  was  a  contempo- 
rary player  and  dramatic  writer  with  Shakspeare. 
Had  he  lived  longer  to  profit  by  the  example  of 
Shakspeare,  it  is  not  straining  conjecture  to  suppose, 
that  the  strong  misguided  energy  of  Marlowe  would 
have  been  kindled  and  refined  to  excellence  by 
the  rivalship ;  but  his  death,  at  the  age  of  thirty, 
is  alike  to  be  lamented  for  its  disgracefulness  and 
prematurity,  his  own  sword  being  forced  upon 
him,  in  a  quarrel  at  a  brothel.*  Six  tragedies, 
however,  and  his  numerous  translations  from  the 
classics,  evince  that  if  his  life  was  profligate,  it 
was  not  idle.  The  bishops  ordered  his  transla- 
tions of  Ovid's  Love  Elegies  to  be  burnt  in  public 
for  their  licentiousness.  If  all  the  licentious 
poems  of  that  period  had  been  included  in  the 


martyrdom,    Shakspeare's    Venus    and   Adonis 
would  have  hardly  escaped  the  flames. 

In  Marlowe's  tragedy  of  "Lust's  Dominion" 
there  is  a  scene  of  singular  coincidence  with  an 
event  that  was  two  hundred  years  after  exhibited 
in  the  same  country,  namely  Spain.  A  Spanish 
queen,  instigated  by  an  usurper,  falsely  proclaims 
her  own  son  to  be  a  bastard. 

Prince  Philip  is  a  bastard  born ; 

0  give  me  leave  to  blush  at  mine  own  Hhame: 

But  I  for  love  to  you — love  to  fair  Spain, 

Chuse  rather  to  rip  up  a  queen's  disgrace. 

Than,  by  concealing  it,  to  set  the  crown 

Upon  a  bastard's  head. — IauV»  Dom.  Sc  iv.  Act  3. 

Compare  this  avowal  with  the  confession  which 
Bonaparte  either  obtained,  or  pretended  to  have 
obtained,  from  the  mother  of  Ferdinand  VII.,  in 
1808,  and  one  might  almost  imagine  that  he  had 
consulted  Marlowe's  tragedy. 


THE  PASSIONATE  SHEPHERD  TO  HIS  LOVE, 


Come  live  vrith  me  arid  be  my  love, 
And  we  will  all  the  pleasures  prove, 
That  valleys,  groves,  hills,  and  fields, 
Woods  or  steepy  mountain  yields. 

And  we  wrill  sit  upon  the  rocks, 
Seeing  the  shepherds  feed  their  flocks, 
By  shallow  rivers,  to  whose  falls 
Melodious  birds  sing  madrigals. 

And  I  will  make  thee  beds  of  roses, 
And  a  thousand  fragrant  posies : 
A  cap  of  flowers,  and  a  kirtle, 
Embroider'd  all  with  leaves  of  myrtle. 

[*  Marlowe  closed  bis  life  of  gross  impiety  and  careless 
jtet)aucbery,  at  Deptford,  where,  in  the  register  of  the 
hurch  of  St.  Nichola-s  may  still  be  read  the  entry,  "Chris- 
topher Marlow,  slaine  by  ffrancis  Archer,  the  1  of  June, 


A  gown  made  of  the  finest  wool, 
Which  from  our  pretty  lambs  we  pull ; 
Fair  lined  slippers  for  the  cold, 
With  buckles  of  the  purest  gold. 

A  belt  of  straw  and  ivy  buds. 
With  coral  clasps  and  amber  studs ; 
And  if  these  pleasures  may  thee  move, 
Come  live  with  me,  and  be  my  love. 

The  shepherd  swains  shall  dance  and  sing, 
For  they  delight  each  May  morning. 
If  these  delights  thy  mind  may  move, 
Come  live  with  me,  and  be  my  love. 

1593."  See  for  the  circumstances  of  his  death,  and  a  very 
interesting  biographical  and  critical  notio«  of  .Marlowe  and 
his  works,  Mr.  Dyoe's  edition,  3  vols.  8vo,  London,  Pick> 
ering,  I860.— G.] 


ROBERT   SOUTHWELL 


[Bora,  IS60. 

Is  said  to  have  been  descended  from  an  ancient 
and  respectable  family  in  Norfolk,  and  being  sent 
abroad  for  his  education,  became  a  Jesuit  at  Rome. 
He  was  appointed  prefect  of  studies  there  in  1585, 
and,  not  long  after,  was  sent  as  a  missionary  into 
England.  His  chief  residence  was  with  Anne, . 
Countess  of  Arundel,  who  died  in  the  Tower  of 
London.  Southwell  was  apprehended  in  July, 
1592,  and  carried  before  Queen  Elizabeth's  agents, 
who  endeavoured  to  extort  from  him  some  dis- 
closure of  secret  conspiracies  against  the  govern- 
ment ;  but  he  was  cautious  at  his  examination, 
and  declined  answering  a  number  of  ensnaring 
questions.     Upon  which,  being  sent  to  prison,  he 


Diol,  1595.1 

remained  near  three  years  in  strict  confinement, 
was  repeatedly  put  to  the  rack,  and,  as  he  himself 
aflirmed,  underwent  very  severe  tortures  no  less 
than  ten  times.  He  owned  that  he  was  a  priest 
and  a  Jesuit,  that  he  came  into  England  to  preach 
the  Catholic  religion,  and  was  prepared  to  lay 
down  his  life  in  the  cause.  On  the  20th  of  Feb- 
ruary, 1595,  he  was  brought  to  his  trial  at  the 
King's  Bench,  was  condemned  to  die,  and  was  exe- 
cuted the  next  day,  at  Tyburn.  His  writings,  of 
which  a  numerous  list  is  given  in  the  sixty-seventh 
volume  of  the  Gentleman's  Magazine,  togethci 
with  the  preceding  sketch  of  his  life,  were  pro- 
bably at  one  time  popular  among  the  Catholics. 

103 


104 


THOMAS   WATSON. 


In  a  small  collection  of  his  pieces  there  are  two 
specimens  of  his  prose  compositions,  entitled 
"  Mary  Magdalene's  Tears,"  and  the  "  Triumph 
over  Death,"  which  contain  some  eloquent  sen- 


tences. Nor  is  it  possible  to  read  the  volume 
without  lamenting  that  its  author  should  have 
been  either  the  instrument  of  bigotry,  or  the  ob- 
ject of  persecution. 


LOVE'S  SERVILE  LOT. 
Love  mistress  is  of  many  minds, 
Yet  few  know  whom  they  serve ; 
They  reckon  least  how  little  hope 
Their  service  doth  deserve. 
The  will  she  robbeth  from  the  wit, 
The  sense  from  reason's  lore ; 
She  is  delightful  in  the  rind. 
Corrupted  in  the  core.  . .    . 
May  never  was  the  month  of  love ; 
For  May  is  full  of  flowers ; 
But  rather  April,  wet  by  kind ; 
For  love  is  ftiU  of  showers. 
With  soothing  words  inthralled  souls 
She  chains  in  servile  bands ! 
Her  eye  in  silence  hath  a  speech 
Whicli  eye  best  understands. 
Her  httle  sweet  hath  many  sours, 
Short  hap,  immortal  harms : 
Her  loving  looks  are  murdering  darts, 
Her  songs  bewitching  charms. 
Like  winter  rose,  and  summer  ice. 
Her  joys  are  still  untimely ; 
Before  her  hope,  behind  remorse. 
Fair  first,  in  fine  unseemly. 
Plough  not  the  seas,  sow  not  the  sands. 
Leave  off  your  idle  pain ; 
Seek  other  mistress  for  your  minds, 
Love's  service  is  in  vain. 


LOOK   HOME. 
Retired  thoughts  enjoy  their  own  delights, 
As  beauty  doth  in  self-beholding  eye : 
Man's  mind  a  mirror  is  of  heavenly  sights, 
A  brief  wherein  all  miracles  summed  lie ; 
Of  fairest  forms,  and  sweetest  shapes  the  store. 
Most  graceful  all,  yet  thought  may  grace  them 
more. 

The  mind  a  creature  is,  yet  can  create, 
To  nature's  patterns  adding  higher  skill 
Of  finest  works;  wit  better  could  the  state, 
If  force  of  wit  had  equal  power  of  will. 
Devise  of  man  working  hath  no  end ; 
What  thought  can  think,  another  thought  can 
mend. 

Man's  soul  of  endless  beauties  image  is. 
Drawn  by  the  work  of  endless  skill  and  might: 
This  skilful  might  gave  many  sparks  of  bliss, 
And,  to  discern  this  bliss,  a  native  light. 
To  frame  God's  image  as  his  worth  required , 
His   might,  his  skill,  his   word   and   virill   con- 
spired. 

All  that  he  had,  his  image  should  present ; 
All  that  it  should  present,  he  could  afford ; 
To  that  he  could  afford  his  vnll  was  bent ; 
His  will  was  followed  with  performing  word. 
Let  this  suffice,  by  this  conceive  the  rest, 
He    should,   he   could,   he   would,   he    did   the 
best. 


Was  a  native  of  London,  and  studied  the  com- 
mon law,  but  from  the  variety  of  his  productions 
(Vide  Theatrum  Poetarum,  p.  213)  would  seem 


THOMAS  WATSON 

[Born,  l&ea    Died  about  1592.] 


to  have  devoted  himself  to  lighter  studies.  Mr. 
Steevens  has  certainly  overrated  his  sonnets  in 
preferring  them  to  Shakspeare's.* 


THE  NYMPHS  TO  THEIR  MAY  QUEEN. 
From  England's  Helicon. 
With  fragfrant  flowers  we  strew  the  way. 
And  make  this  our  chief  holiday : 
For  though  this  clime  was  blest  of  yore. 
Yet  was  it  never  proud  before. 
0  beauteous  queen  of  second  Troy, 
Accept  of  our  unfeigned  joy. 

Now  the  air  is  sweeter  than  sweet  balm, 
And  satyrs  dance  about  the  palm ; 
Now  earth  writh  verdure  newly  dight. 
Gives  perfect  signs  of  her  delight : 
O  beauteous  queen ! 

Now  birds  record  new  harmony, 
And  trees  do  whistle  melody : 
And  every  thing  that  nature  breeds 
Doth  clad  itself  in  pleasant  weeds. 

•  The  word  Sonnet,  in  itn  laxest  sense,  means  a  small 
enpj  of  verses;  in  its  true  and  accepted  sense,  a  poem  of 


SONNET. 
Action  lost,  in  middle  of  his  sport. 
Both  shape  and  life  for  looking  but  awry : 
Diana  was  afraid  he  would  report 
What  secrets  he  had  seen  in  passing  by. 
To  tell  the  truth,  the  self-same  hurt  have  I, 
By  viewing  her  for  whom  I  daily  die ; 
I  leese  my  wonted  shape,  in  that  my  mind 
Doth  suffer  wreck  upon  the  stony  rock 
Of  her  disdain,  who,  contrary  to  kind, 
Does  bear  a  breast  more  hard  than  any  stock ; 
And  former  form  of  limbs  is  changed  quite 
By  cares  in  love,  and  want  of  due  delight. 
I  leave  my  life,  in  that  each  secret  thought 
Which  I  conceive  through  wanton  fond  regard. 
Doth  make  me  say  that  life  availeth  nought, 
Where  service  cannot  have  a  due  reward. 
I  dare  not  name  the  nymph  that  works  my  smart, 
Though  love  hath  graven  her  name  within  myheart. 

fourteen  lines,  written  in  heroic  verse,  with  alternate  and 
oouplet  rhymes.  Watson's  sonnets  are  all  of  eighteen  lines. 


EDMUND   SPENSER, 

[Borm,  1563.    Died,  Ifi98-S.] 


Descended  from  the  ancient  and  honourable 
family  of  Spenser,  was  born  in  London,  in  East 
Smithfield,  by  the  Tower,  probably  about  the 
year  1553.  He  studied  at  the  university  of  Cam- 
bridge, where  it  appears,  from  his  correspondence, 
that  he  formed  an  intimate  friendship  with  the 
learned,  but  pedantic,  Gabriel  Harvey.*  Spen- 
ser, with  Sir  P.  Sydney,  was,  for  a  time,  a  con- 
vert to  Harvey's  Utopian  scheme  for  changing 
the  measures  of  English  poetry  into  those  of  the 
Greeks  and  Romans. 

Spenser  even  wrote  trimeter  iambicsf  suffi- 
ciently bad  to  countenance  the  English  hexame- 
ters of  his  friend ;  but  the  Muse  would  not  suifer 
such  a  votary  to  be  lost  in  the  pursuit  after  chi- 
meras, and  recalled  him  to  her  natural  strains. 
From  Cambridge  Spenser  went  to  reside  with 
some  relations  in  the  north  of  England,  and,  in 
this  retirement,  conceived  a  passion  for  a  mistress, 
whom  he  has  celebrated  under  the  name  of  Rosa- 
lind. It  appears,  however,  that  she  trifled  with 
his  affection,  and  preferred  a  rival. 

Harvey,  or  Hobinol  (by  so  uncouth  a  name  did 
the  shepherd  of  hexameter  memory,  the  learned 
Harvey,  deign  to  be  called  in  Spenser's  eclogues), 
with  better  judgment  than  he  had  shown  in  poeti- 
cal matters,  advised  Spenser  to  leave  his  rustic 
obscurity,  and  introduced  him  to  Sir  Philip  Syd- 
ney, who  recommended  him  to  his  uncle,  the  Earl 
of  Leicester.  The  poet  was  invited  to  the  family 
seat  of  Sydney  at  Penshurst,  in  Kent,  where  he 
b  supposed  to  have  assisted  the  Platonic  studies 
of  his  gallant  and  congenial  friend.  To  him  he  de- 
dicated his  "  Shepheard's  Calendar."  Sydney  did 
not  bestow  unqualified  praise  on  those  eclogues ; 
he  allowed  that  they  contained  much  poetry,  but 
condemned  the  antique  rusticity  of  the  language. 
It  was  of  these  eclogues,  and  not  of  the  Fairy 
Queen  (as  has  been  frequently  misstated),  that 
Ben  Jonson  said,  that  the  author  in  affecting  the 
ancients  had  written  no  language  at  all.J  They 
gained,  however,  so  many  admirers,  as  to  pass 
through  five  editions  in  Spenser's  lifetime ;  and 
though  Dove,  a  contemporary  scholar,  who  trans- 
lated them  into  Latin,  speaks  of  the  author  being 
unknown,  yet  when  Abraham  Fraunce,  in  1583, 
published  his  "  Lawyer's  Logicke,"  he  illustrated 
his  rules  by  quotations  from  the  Shepheard's  Ca- 
lendar. 

Pope,  Dryden  and  Warton  have  extolled  those 
eclogues,  and  Sir  William  Jones  has  placed  Spen- 
ser and  Gay  as  the  only  genuine  descendants  of 

•  Fur  an  account  of  Harvey,  the  readKF  may  consult 
Wood's  Athin.  Oxon.  vol.  1.     Fiisti  rol.  128. 

t  A  pliort  example  of  Spens«r° a  lambicum  Trimetrum 
will  8uffice,  from  a  copy  of  vursea  in  one  of  his  own  lotteri 
to  llarvey. 

Unhappy  vuri>e  t  the  witness  of  my  unhappy  state, 
14 


Theocritus  and  Virgil  in  pastoral  poetry.  Thia 
decision  may  be  questioned.  Favourable  us  the 
circumstances  of  England  have  been  to  the  de- 
velopment of  her  genius  in  all  the  higher  walks 
of  poetry,  they  have  not  been  propitious  to  the 
humbler  pastoral  muse.  Her  trades  and  manu- 
factures, the  very  blessings  of  her  wealth  and  in- 
dustry, threw  the  indolent  shepherd's  life  to  a  dis- 
tance from  her  cities  and  capital,  where  poets, 
with  all  their  love  of  the  country,  are  generally 
found ;  and  impressed  on  the  face  of  the  country, 
and  on  its  rustic  manners,  a  gladsome,  but  not 
romantic  appearance. 

In  Scotland,  on  the  contrary,  the  scenery,  rural 
economy  of  the  country,  and  the  songs  of  the 
peasantry,  sung,  "  at  the  watching  of  the  fold," 
presented  Ramsay  with  a  much  nearer  image  of 
pastoral  life,  and  he  accordingly  painted  it  with 
the  fresh  feeling  and  enjoyment  of  nature.  Had 
Sir  William  Jones  understood  the  dialect  of  that 
poet,  I  am  convinced  that  he  would  not  have 
awarded  the  pastoral  crown  to  any  other  author. 
Ramsay's  shepherds  are  distinct,  intelligible  beings, 
neither  vulgar,  like  the  caricatures  of  Gay,  nor 
fantastic,  like  those  of  Fletcher.  They  afford  such 
a  view  of  national  peasantry  as  we  should  wish  to 
acquire  by  travelling  among  them ;  and  form  a 
draft  entirely  devoted  to  rural  manners,  which  for 
truth,  and  beauty,  and  extent,  has  no  parallel  in 
the  richer  language  of  England.  Shakspeare's 
pastoral  scenes  are  only  subsidiary  to  the  main 
interest  of  the  plays  where  they  are  introduced. 
Milton's  are  rather  pageants  of  fancy  than  pic- 
tures of  real  life.  The  shepherds  of  Spenser's 
Calendar  are  parsons  in  disguise,  who  converse 
about  heathen  divinities  and  points  of  Christian 
theology.  Palinode  defends  the  luxuries  of  the 
Catholic  clergy,  and  Piers  extols  the  purity  of 
Archbishop  Grindal;  concluding  with  the  story 
of  a  fox,  who  came  to  the  house  of  a  goat,  in  the 
character  of  a  pedlar,  and  obtained  admittance 
by  pretending  to  be  a  sheep.  This  may  be  bur- 
lesquing .^sop,  but  certainly  is  not  imitating 
Theocritus.  There  are  fine  thoughts  and  images 
in  the  Calendar,  but,  on  the  whole,  the  obscurity 
of  those  pastorals  is  rather  their  covering  than 
their  principal  defect. 

In  1580,  Arthur  Lord  Grey,  of  Wilton,  went  as 
lord-lieutenant  to  Ireland,  and  Spenser  accompa- 
nied him  as  his  secretary ;  we  may  suppose  by 
the  recommendation  of  the  Earl  of  Leicester. 
Lord  Grey  was  recalled  from  his  Irish  govern- 

Make  thyself  flutt<*ring  wings  of  thy  fast  Sying 
Thought,  and  fly  forth  unto  my  love,  whcresoeTer  she  be 
Whether  lyiu^  n'8tleft»  in  heavy  bed,  or  eliw 
Sitting  so  chevrletis  at  the  cheerful  board,  or  else 
Playing  alone,  careless  on  her  heavenly  virginals. 
[J  Ben  Jouson'B  Works,  by  OiHord,  vol.  ix.  p.  216. — C.J 

105 


106 


EDMUND   SPENSER. 


ment  in  1582,  and  Spenser  returned  with  him  to 
England,  where,  by  the  interest  of  Grey,  Leices- 
ter, and  Sydney,  he  obtained  a  grant  from  Queen 
Elizabeth  of  3028  acres  in  the  county  of  Cork,  out 
of  the  forfeited  estates  of  the  Earl  of  Desmond. 
This  was  the  last  act  of  kindness  which  Sydney 
had  a  share  in  conferring  on  him :  he  died  in  the 
same  year,  furnishing  an  almost  solitary  instance 
of  virtue  passing  through  hfe  uncalumniated. 

Whether  Sydney  was  meant  or  not,  under  the 
character  of  Prince  Arthur  in  the  Fairy  Queen, 
we  cannot  conceive  the  poet,  in  describing  heroic 
excellence,  to  have  had  the  image  of  Sir  PhiUp 
Sydney  long  absent  from  his  mind. 

By  the  terms  of  the  royal  grant,  Spenser  was 
obliged  to  return  to  Ireland,  in  order  to  cultivate 
the  lands  assigned  to  him.  His  residence  at  Kil- 
colman,  an  ancient  castle  of  the  Earls  of  Des- 
mond, is  described  by  one*  who  had  seen  its  ruins, 
as  situated  on  the  north  side  of  a  fine  lake,  in  the 
midst  of  a  vast  plain,  which  was  terminated  to 
the  east  by  the  Waterford  mountains,  on  the  north 
by  the  Ballyhowra  hills,  and  by  the  Nagle  and 
Kerry  mountains  on  the  south  and  east.  It  com- 
manded a  view  of  above  half  the  breadth  of  Ireland, 
and  must  have  been,  when  the  adjacent  uplands 
were  wooded,  a  most  romantic  and  pleasant  situa- 
tion. The  river  Mulla,  which  Spenser  has  so 
often  celebrated,  ran  through  his  grounds.  In 
this  retreat  he  was  visited  by  Sir  Walter  Raleigh, 
at  that  time  a  captain  in  the  queen's  army.  His 
visit  occasioned  the  first  resolution  of  Spenser  to 
prepare  the  first  books  of  the  Fairy  Queen  for 
immediate  publication.  Spenser  has  commemo- 
rated this  interview,  and  the  inspiring  influence 
of  Raleigh's  praise,  under  the  figurative  descrip- 
tion of  two  shepherds  tuning  their  pipes,  beneath 
the  alders  of  the  Mulla ; — a  fiction  with  which 
the  mind,  perhaps,  will  be  much  less  satisfied, 
than  by  recalling  the  scene  as  it  really  existed. 
When  we  conceive  Spenser  reciting  his  composi- 
tions to  Raleigh,  in  a  scene  so  beautifully  appro- 
priate, the  mind  casts  a  pleasing  retrospect  over 
that  influence  which  the  enterprise  of  the  disco- 
verer of  Virginia,  and  the  genius  of  the  author 
of  the  Fairy  Queen,  have  respectively  produced 
on  the  fortune  and  language  of  England.  The 
fancy  might  even  be  pardoned  for  a  momentary 
superstition,  that  the  Genius  of  their  country  ho- 
vered, unseen,  over  their  meeting,  casting  her  first 
look  of  regard  on  the  poet  that  was  destined  to 
inspire  her  future  Milton,  and  the  other  on  the 
maritime  hero,  who  paved  the  way  for  colonizing 
distant  regions  of  the  earth,  where  the  language 
of  England  was  to  be  spoken,  and  the  poetry  of 
Spenser  to  be  admired.  Raleigh,  whom  the  poet 
accompanied  to  England,  introduced  him  to  Queen 
Elizabeth.  Her  majesty,  in  1590-1,  conferred  on 
him  a  pension  of  50/.  a  year.  In  the  patent  for 
his  pension  he  is  not  styled  the  laureat,  but  his 
contemporaries  have  frequently  addressed  him  by 


4 


•  Smith's  History  of  Cork,  quoted  by  Todd, 
f  Viz.  1.  The  Ruins  of  Time.— 2.  The  Tears  of  the  Muses. 
Virgil's  Gnat.— 1.  Prosopopola,  or  Mother  Hubbard's 


that  title.  Mr.  Malone's  discovery  of  the  patent 
for  this  pension  refutes  the  idle  story  of  Burleigh's 
preventing  the  royal  bounty  being  l)estowed  upon 
the  poet,  by  asking  if  so  much  money  was  to  be 
given  for  a  song ;  as  well  as  that  of  Spenser's  pro- 
curing it  at  last  by  the  doggrel  verses, 

I  was  promised,  on  a  time, 

To  have  reason  for  my  rhyme,  &c. 

Yet  there  are  passages  in  the  Fairy  Queen  which 
unequivocally  refer  to  Burleigh  with  severity. 
The  coldness  of  that  statesman  to  Spenser  most 
probably  arose  from  the  poet's  attachment  to  Lord 
Leicester  and  Lord  Essex,  who  were  each  suc- 
cessively at  the  head  of  a  party — opposed  to  the 
Lord  Chancellor.  After  the  publication  of  the 
Fairy  Queen,  he  returned  to  Ireland,  and,  during 
his  absence,  the  fame  which  he  had  acquired  by 
that  poem  (of  which  the  first  edition,  however, 
contained  only  the  first  three  books)  induced  his 
publisher  to  compile  and  reprint  his  smaller 
pieces.f  He  appears  to  have  again  visited  Lon- 
don about  the  end  of  1591,  as  his  next  publica- 
tion, the  Elegy  on  Douglas  Howard,  daughter  of 
Henry  Lord  Howard,  is  dated  January  1591-2. 
From  this  period  there  is  a  long  interval  in  the 
history  of  Spenser,  which  was  probably  passed 
in  Ireland,  but  of  which  we  have  no  account. 
He  married,  it  is  conjectured,  in  the  year  1594, 
when  he  w£is  past  forty ;  and  it  appears  from  his 
Epithalamium,  that  the  nuptials  were  celebrated 
at  Cork.  In  1596,  the  second  part  of  the  Fairy 
Queen  appeared,  accompanied  by  a  new  edition 
of  the  first.  Of  the  remaining  six  books,  which 
would  have  completed  the  poet's  design,  only  frag- 
ments have  been  brought  to  light ;  and  there  is 
little  reason  to  presume  that  they  were  regularly 
furnished.  Yet  Mr.  Todd  has  proved  that  the 
contemporaries  of  Spenser  believed  much  of  his 
valuable  poetry  to  have  been  lost,  in  the  destruc- 
tion of  his  house  in  Ireland. 

In  the  same  year,  1596,  he  presented  to  the 
queen  his  "  View  of  the  State  of  Ireland,"  which 
remained  in  manuscript,  till  it  was  published  by 
Sir  James  Ware,  in  1 633.  Curiosity  turns  natu- 
rally to  the  prose  work  of  so  old  and  eminent  a 
poet,  which  exhibits  him  in  the  three-fold  charac- 
ter of  a  writer  delineating  an  interesting  country 
from  his  own  observation,  of  a  scholar  tracing  back 
its  remotest  history,  and  of  a  politician  investigat- 
ing the  causes  of  its  calamities.  The  antiquities 
of  Ireland  have  been  since  more  successfully  ex- 
plored ;  though  on  that  subject  Spenser  is  still  a 
respectable  authority.  The  great  value  of  the 
book  is  the  authentic  and  curious  picture  of  na- 
tional manners  and  circumstances  which  it  exhi- 
bits ;  and  its  style  is  as  nervous  as  the  matter  is 
copious  and  amusing.  A  remarkable  proposal,  in 
his  plan  for  the  management  of  Ireland,  is  the 
establishment  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  system  of 
Borseholders.  His  political  views  are  strongly 
coercive,  and  consist  of  little  more  than  station- 


Tale. — 5.  The  Ruins  of  Rome,  by  Bellay. — 6.  Muiopotmos, 
or  the  Tale  of  tlie  Butterfly. — 7.  Visions  of  the  World's 
Vanitie. — 8.  Bellay's  Visions. — 9.  Petrarch's  Visions 


EDMUND   SPENSER. 


107 


iiig  proper  garrisons,  and  abolishing  ancient  cus- 
toms :  and  we  find  him  declaiming  bitterly  against 
the  Irish  minstrels,  and  seriously  dwelling  on.  the 
loose  mantles,  and  glibs,  or  long  hair,  of  the  va- 
grant poor,  as  important  causes  of  moral  depra- 
vity. But  we  ought  not  try  the  plans  of  Spenser 
by  modern  circumstances,  nor  his  temper  by  the 
liberality  of  more  enlightened  times.  It  was  a 
great  point  to  commence  earnest  discussion  on 
such  a  subject.  From  a  note  in  one  of  the  oldest 
copies  of  this  treatise,  it  appears  that  Spenser  was 
at  that  time  clerk  to  the  council  of  the  province 
of  Ulster.  In  1597,  our  poet  returned  to  Ireland, 
and  in  the  following  year  was  destined  to  an  ho- 
nourable situation,  being  recommended  by  her 
majesty  to  be  chosen  sheriff  for  Cork.  But  in  the 
subsequent  month  of  that  year,  Tyrone's  rebel- 
lion broke  out,  and  occasioned  his  immediate  flight, 
with  his  family,  from  Kilcolman.  In  the  confu- 
sion attending  this  calamitous  departure,  one  of 
his  children  was  left  behind,  and  perished  in  the 


conflagration  of  his  house,  when  it  was  destroyed 
by  the  Irish  insurgents.  Spenser  returned  to  Eng- 
land with  a  heart  broken  by  distress,  and  died  at 
London  on  the  16th  of  January,  1598-9.  He 
was  buried,  according  to  his  own  desire,  near  the 
tomb  of  Chaucer;  and  the  most  celebrated  poets 
of  the  time  (Shakspeare  was  probably  of  the  num- 
ber), followed  his  hearse  and  threw  tributary  verses 
into  his  grave.    . 

Mr.  Todd,  the  learned  editor  of  his  works,  has 
proved  it  to  be  highly  improbable  that  he  could 
have  died,  as  has  been  sometimes  said,  in  absolute 
want.  For  he  had  still  his  pension  and  many 
friends,  among  whom  Essex  provided  nobly  for 
his  funeral.  Yet  that  he  died  broken-hearted  and 
comparatively  poor,  is  but  too  much  to  be  feared, 
from  the  testimony  of  his  contemporaries,  Cam- 
den and  Jonson.  A  reverse  of  fortune  might 
crush  his  spirit  without  his  being  reduced  to  abso- 
lute indigence,  especially  with  the  horrible  recollec- 
tion of  the  mtinner  in  which  his  child  had  perished. 


FAIRY  QUEEN,  BOOK  I.,  CANTO  HI. 


UNA   FOLLOWED   BY  THE    LION. 

Fonaken  Truth  long  aeek>  ber  loT«, 
And  makes  the  Li»n  mild ; 
>Iars  blind  Devotion's  mart,  and  CUls 
In  band  of  lecher  wild 

Nought  is  there  under  Heaven's  wide  hollowness, 
That  moves  more  dear  compassion  of  mind. 
Than  beauty  brought  t'unworthy  wretchedness, 
Through  envy's  snares,or  fortune's  freaks  unkind. 
I,  whether  lately  through  her  brightness  blind, 
Or  through  allegiance  and  fast  fealty. 
Which  I  do  owe  unto  all  womankind, 
Feel  my  heart  pierced  with  so  great  agony. 

When  such  I  see,  that  all  for  pity  I  could  die. 
And  now  it  is  impassioned  so  deep, 
For  fairest  Una's  sake,  of  whom  I  sing. 
That  my  frail  eyes  these  lines  with  tears  do  steep, 
To  think  how  she  through  guileful  handelling, 
Though  true  as  touch,  though  daughter  of  a  king. 
Though  fair  as  ever  living  wight  was  fair. 
Though  nor  in  word  nor  deed  ill  meriting, 
Is  from  her  knight  divorced  in  despair. 

And  her  due  love's  derived  to  that  vile  witch's  share. 
Yet  she,  most  faithful  lady,  all  this  while 
Forsaken,  woeful,  solitary  maid. 
Far  from  all  people's  preace,  as  in  exile. 
In  wilderness  and  wasteful  deserts  stray'd, 
To  seek  her  knight,  who,  subtily  betray'd 
Through  that  late  vision,  which  the  enchanter 

wrought. 
Had  her  abandon'd :  she,  of  nought  afraid, 
Through  woods  and  wasteness  wide  him  daily 
sought; 

Yet  wished  tidings  none  of  him  unto  her  brought. 
One  day,  nigh  weary  of  the  irksome  way. 
From  her  unhasty  beast  she  did  alight ; 
And  on  the  grass  her  dainty  limbs  did  lay 
In  secret  shadow,  far  from  all  men's  sight ; 
From  her  fair  head  her  fillet  she  undight, 
.\nd  laid  her  stole  aside :  her  angel's  face, 


As  the  great  eye  of  heaven,  shined  bright, 
And  made  a  sunshine  in  a  shady  place ; 

Did  never  mortal  eye  behold  such  heavenly  grace. 
It  fortuned,  out  of  the  thickest  wood, 
A  ramping  lion  rushed  suddenly. 
Hunting  full  greedy  after  savage  blood ; 
Soon  as  the  royal  virgin  he  did  spy. 
With  gaping  mouth  at  her  ran  greedily, 
To  have  at  once  devour'd  her  tender  corse ; 
But  to  the  prey  when  as  he  drew  more  nigh, 
His  bloody  rage  assuaged  with  remorse. 

And,  with  the  sight  amazed,  forgot  his  furious  force. 
Instead  thereof  he  kiss'd  her  weary  feet. 
And  lick'd  her  lily  hands  with  fawning  tongue, 
As  he  her  wronged  innocence  did  weet. 
0  how  can  beauty  master  the  most  strong, 
And  simple  truth  subdue  avenging  wrong ! 
Whose  yielded  pride  and  proud  submission. 
Still  dreading  death,  when  she  had  marked  long, 
Her  heart  'gan  melt  in  great  compassion. 

And  drizzling  tears  did  shed  for  pure  atfection. 
«  The  lion,  lord  of  every  beast  in  field," 
Quoth  she,  "  his  princely  puissance  doth  abate. 
And  mighty  proud  to  humble  weak  does  yield, 
Forgetful  of  the  hungry  rage  which  late 
Him  prick'd,  in  pity  of  my  sad  estate : 
But  he,  my  lion,  and  my  noble  lord. 
How  does  he  find  in  cruel  heart  to  hate 
Her  that  him  loved,  and  ever  most  adored. 

As  the  God  of  my  lifel  why  hath  he  me  abhorr'dl" 
Redounding  tears  did  choke  th'  end  of  her  plaint, 
Which  softly  echoed  from  the  neighbour  wood ; 
And,  sad  to  see  her  sorrowful  constraint, 
The  kingly  beast  up>on  her  gazing  stood ; 
With  pity  calm'd,  down  fell  his  angry  mood. 
At  last,  in  close  heart  shutting  up  her  pain. 
Arose  the  virgin,  born  of  heavenly  blood. 
And  to  her  snowy  palfrey  got  again, 

To  seek  her  strayed  champion,  if  she  might  attaui 


108 


EDMUND   SPENSER. 


The  lion  would  not  leave  her  desolate, 
But  with  her  went  along,  as  a  strong  guard 
Of  her  chaste  person,  and  a  faithful  mate 
Of  her  sad  troubles,  and  misfortunes  hard. 
Still,  when  she  slept,  he  kept  both  watch  and  ward ; 
And,  when  she  waked,  he  waited  diligent, 
With  humble  service  to  her  will  prepared : 
From  her  fair  eyes  he  took  commandement, 
And  ever  by  her  looks  conceived,  her  intent. 


BOOK  I^  CANTO  V. 

TOE  FAITHTOl.  KMOHT  HAVING  KILLED  THE  8ARACEX  8ANSP0T, 
DOESSA  THE  WITCH  MAKES  A  JOURNEY  TO  THE  INFERNAL 
EEOIONS  TO  RBCOVKE  THE  BODY   OF   HER  INFIDEL  CHAMPION. 

So  wept  Duessa  until  eventide. 
That  shining  lamps  in  love's  high  house  were  light; 
Then  forth  she  rose,  no  longer  would  abide. 
But  comes  unto  the  place  where  th'  heathen 

knight. 
In  slumb'ring  swoon'd,  nigh  void  of  vital  sp'rit, 
Lay  cover'd  with  enchanted  cloud  all  day ; 
Whom,  when  she  found,  as  she  him  left  in  plight, 
To  waU  his  woeful  case  she  would  not  stay. 

But  to  the  eastern  coast  of  Heaven  makes  speedy 
way. 
W^here  grisly  Night,  vnth  visage  deadly  sad, 
That  Phoebus'  cheerful  face  durst  never  view, 
And  in  a  foul  black  pitchy  mantle  clad. 
She  finds  forthcoming  from  her  darksome  mew. 
Where  she  all  day  did  hide  her  hated  hue. 
Before  the  door  her  iron  chariot  stood. 
Already  harnessed  for  journey  new ; 
And  coal-black  steeds,  yborn  of  hellish  brood. 

That  on  their  rusty  bits  did  champ  as  they  were 
wood." 
So  well  they  sped,  that  they  be  come  at  length 
Unto  the  place  whereas  the  Paynim  lay, 
Devoid  of  outward  sense  and  native  strength, 
Cover'd  with  charmed  cloud,  from  view  of  day 
And  sight  of  men,  since  his  late  luckless  fray. 
His  cruel  wounds  with  cruddy  blood  congeal'd, 
They  binden  up  so  wisely  as  they  may, 
And  handled  softy  till  they  can  be  heal'^ : 

So  lay  him  in  her  chari't,  close  in  Night  conceal'd. 
And  all  the  while  she  stood  upon  the  ground. 
The  wakeful  dogs  did  never  cease  to  bay. 
As  giving  warning  of  th'  unwonted  sound. 
With  which  her  iron  wheels  did  them  ali'ray. 
And  her  dark  grisly  look  them  much  dismay ; 
The  messenger  of  death,  the  ghastly  owl. 
With  dreary  shrieks  did  also  her  bewray ; 
And  hungry  wolves  continually  did  howl 

At  her  abhorred  face,  so  filthy  and  so  foul. 
By  that  same  way  the  direful  dames  do  drive 
Their  mournful  chariot,  fiU'd  with  rusty  blood. 
And  down  to  Pluto's  house  are  come  bilive  ;* 
Which  passing  through,  on  every  side  them  stood 
The  trembling  ghosts,  with  sad  amazed  mood. 
Chattering  their  iron  teeth,  and  staring  wide 
With  stony  eyes ;  and  all  the  hellish  brood 
Of  fiends  infernal  flock'd  on  every  side      [ride. 

I't'  gaze  on  earthly  wight,  that  with  the  Night  durst 

•  Mad.  »  Quickly. 


BOOK  II,  CANTO  VL 
A  HAEDER  lesson  to  learn  continence 
In  joyous  pleasure  than  in  grievous  pain ; 
For  sweetness  doth  allure  the  weaker  sense 
So  strongly,  that  uneathes  it  can  refrain 
From  that  which  feeble  nature  covets  fain ; 
But  grief  and  wrath,  that  be  her  enemies 
And  foes  of  life,  she  better  can  restrain : 
Yet  Virtue  vaunts  in  both  her  victories, 

And  Guyon  in  them  all  shows  goodly  masteries. 
When  bold  Cymochles  travelling  to  find. 
With  cruel  purpose  bent  to  wreak  on  him 
The  wrath  which  Atin  kindled  in  his  mind. 
Came  to  a  river,  by  whose  utmost  brim 
Waiting  to  pass,  he  saw  whereas  did  swim 
Along  the  shore,  as  swift  as  glance  of  eye, 
A  little  gondelay,  bedecked  trim 
With  boughs  and  arbours  woven  cunningly. 

That  like  a  little  forest  seemed  outwardly ; 
And  therein  sate  a  lady  fresh  and  fair. 
Making  sweet  solace  to  herself  alone ; 
Sometimes  she  sung  as  loud  as  lark  in  air. 
Sometimes  she  laugh'd,  that  nigh  her  breath  was 
Yet  was  there  not  with  her  else  any  one,  [gone, 
That  to  her  might  move  cause  of  merriment ; 
Matter  of  mirth  enough,  though  there  were  none. 
She  could  devise,  and  thousand  ways  invent 

To  feel  her  foolish  humour  and  vain  joUiineiu. 
Which  when  far  oiT,  Cymochles  heard  and  saw. 
He  loudly  call'd  to  such  as  were  aboard 
The  little  bark,  unto  the  shore  to  draw. 
And  him  to  ferry  over  that  deep  ford : 
The  merry  mariner  unto  his  word 
Soon  heark'ned,  and  her  painted  boat  straightway 
Turn'd  to  the  shore,  where  that  same  warlike  lord 
She  in  received ;  but  Atin  by  no  way 

She  would  admit,  albe  the  knight  her  much  did 
pray. 
Eftsoons  her  shallow  ship  away  did  slide. 
More  swift  than  swallow  sheers  the  liquid  sky, 
Withouten  oar  or  pilot  it  to  guide. 
Or  winged  canvas  with  the  wind  to  fly : 
Only  she  turn'd  a  pin,  and  by  and  by 
It  cut  away  upon  the  yielding  wave ; 
Ne  cared  she  her  course  for  to  apply, 
For  it  was  taught  the  way  which  she  would  have, 

And  both  from  rocks  and  flats  itself  could  wisely 
save. 
And  all  the  way  the  wanton  damsel  found 
New  mirth  her  passenger  to  entertain ; 
For  she  in  pleasant  purpose  did  abound. 
And  greatly  joyed,  merry  tales  to  feign. 
Of  which  a  store-house  did  with  her  remain. 
Yet  seemed  nothing  well  they  her  became ; 
For  all  her  words  she  drown'd  with  laughter  vain. 
And  wanted  grace  in  utt'ring  of  the  same, 
That  turned  all  her  pleasaunce  to  a  scoffing  game. 
And  other  whiles  vain  toys  she  would  devise 
As  her  fantastic  wit  did  most  delight : 
Sometimes  her  head  she  fondly  would  agnize 
With  gaudy  garlands,  or  fresh  flowrets  dight 
About  her  neck,  or  rings  of  rushes  plight : 


EDMUND   SPENSER. 


109 


Sometimes  to  do  him  laugh,  she  would  assay 
To  laugh  at  shaking  of  the  leaves  light, 
Or  to  behold  the  water  work  and  play 
About  her  little  frigate,  therein  making  way. 

Her  light  behaviour  and  loose  dalliance 
Gave  wondrous  great  contentment  to  the  knight. 
That  of  his  way  he  had  no  sovenaunce, 
Nor  care  of  vow'd  revenge  and  cruel  fight, 
But  to  weak  wench  did  yield  his  martial  might : 
So  easy  was  to  quench  his  flamed  mind 
With  one  sweet  drop  of  sensual  delight ; 
So  easy  is  t'  appease  the  stormy  wind 
Of  malice  in  the  calm  of  pleasant  womankind. 

Diverse  discourses  in  their  way  they  spent ; 
'Mongst  which  Cymochles  of  her  questioned 
Both  what  she  was,  and  what  the  usage  meant. 
Which  in  her  cot  she  daily  practised  ] 
"Vain  man !"  said  she, "  that  wouldst  be  reckoned 
A  stranger  in  thy  home,  and  ignorant 
Of  Phoedria  (for  so  my  name  is  read) 
Of  Phoedria,  thine  own  fellow-servant : 
For  thou  to  serve  Acrasia  thyself  dost  vaunt. 

"In  this  wide  inland  sea,  that  hight  by  name 
The  Idle  Lake,  my  wand'ring  ship  I  row. 
That  knows  her  port,  and  thither  sails  by  aim, 
Ne  care  ne  fear  I  how  the  wind  do  blow, 
Or  whether  swift  I  wend  or  whether  slow : 
Both  slow  and  swift  alike  do  serve  my  turn : 
Ne  swelling  Neptune,  ne  loud-thund'ring  Jove, 
Can  change  my  cheer,  or  make  me  ever  mourn ; 
My   little   boat    can    safely   pass    this    perilous 
bourne." 

Whiles  thus  she  talk'd,  and  whiles  thus  she  toy'd, 
They  were  far  past  the  passage  which  he  spake, 
And  come  unto  an  island  waste  and  void. 
That  floated  in  the  midst  of  that  great  lake ; 
There  her  small  gondelay  her  port  did  make, 
And  that  gay  pair  issuing  on  the  shore 
Disburthen'd  her :  their  way  they  forward  take 
Into  the  land  that  lay  them  fair  before. 
Whose  pleasaunce  she  him  shew'd,  and  plentiful 
great  store. 

It  was  a  chosen  plot  of  fertile  land. 
Amongst  wide  waves  set  like  a  little  nest, 
As  if  it  had  by  Nature's  cunning  hand 
Been  choicely  picked  out  from  all  the  rest. 
And  laid  forth  for  ensample  of  the  best : 
No  dainty  flower  or  herb  that  grows  on  ground, 
Nor  arboret  with  painted  blossoms  drest. 
And  smelling  sweet,  but  there  it  might  be  found 
To  bud  out  fair,  and  her  sweet  smells  throw  all 
around. 

No  tree,  whose  branches  did  not  bravely  spring; 
No  branch,  whereon  a  fine  bird  did  not  sit ; 
No  bird,  but  did  her  shrill  notes  sweetly  sing ; 
No  song,  but  did  contain  a  lovely  dit. 
Trees,  branches,  birds,  and  songs,  were  framed  fit 
F  »r  to  allure  frail  mind  to  careless  ease. 
Careless  the  man  soon  woxe,  and  his  weak  wit 
Was  overcome  of  thing  that  did  him  please : 
So  pleased,  did  his  wrathful  purpose  fair  appease. 


Thus  when  she  had  his  eyes  and  senses  fed 
With  false  delights,  and  fill'd  with  pleasures  vain, 
Into  a  shady  dale  she  soft  him  led. 
And  laid  him  down  upon  a  grassy  plain, 
And  her  sweet  self,  without  dread  or  disdain. 
She  set  beside,  laying  his  head  disarm'd 
In  her  loose  lap,  it  softly  to  sustain. 
Where  soon  he  slumber'd,  fearing  not  be  hat  m'd ; 
The  whiles  with  a  love-lay  she  thus  him  sweetly 
charm'd : 

"  Behold,  O  man !  that  toilsome  pains  dost  take. 
The  flowers,  the  fields,  and  all  that  pleasant  grows. 
How  they  themselves  do  thine  ensample  make. 
Whiles  nothing  envious  Nature  them  forth  throws 
Out  of  her  fruitful  lap :  how  no  man  knows 
They  spring,  they  bud,  they  blossom  fresh  and  fair, 
Anddcck  theworldwith  their  rich  pompous  shows ; 
Yet  no  man  for  them  taketh  pains  or  care. 
Yet  no  man  to  them  can  his  careful  pains  compare. 

"  The  lily,  lady  of  the  flow'ring  field. 
The  flower-de-luce,  her  lovely  paramour. 
Bid  thee  to  them  thy  fruitless  labours  yield. 
And  soon  leave  off  this  toilsome  weary  stour ; 
Lo,lo  !  how  brave  she  decks  her  bounteous  bower. 
With  silken  curtains  and  gold  coverlets. 
Therein  to  shroud  her  sumptuous  belamoure; 
Yet  neither  spins  nor  cards,  ne  cares  nor  frets, 
But  to  her  mother  Nature  all  her  care  she  lets. 

"Why  then  dost  thou,  0  Man,  that  of  them  all 
Art  lord,  and  eke  of  Nature  sovereign. 
Wilfully  make  thyself  a  wretched  thrall. 
And  waste  thy  joyous  hours  in  needless  pain. 
Seeking  for  danger  and  adventure  vain  1 
What  boots  it  all  to  have  and  nothing  use  ? 
Who  shall  him  rue  that,  swimming  in  the  main, 
Will  die  for  thirst,  and  water  doth  refuse  1 
Refuse  such  fruitless  toil  and  present  pleasures 
choose." 

By  this  she  had  him  lulled  fast  asleep. 
That  of  no  worldly  thing  he  care  did  take; 
Then  she  with  liquors  strong  his  eyes  did  steep, 
That  nothing  should  him  hastily  awake : 
So  she  him  left,  and  did  herself  betake 
Unto  her  boat  again,  with  which  she  cleft 
The  slothful  wave  of  that  great  grisly  lake ; 
Soon  she  that  island  far  behind  her  left. 
And  now  is  come  to  that  same  place  where  first 
she  weft. 

By  this  time  was  the  worthy  Guyon  brought 
Unto  the  other  side  of  that  wide  strand 
Where  she  was  rowing,  and  for  passage  sought: 
Him  needed  not  long  call ;  she  soon  to  hand 
Her  ferry  brought,  where  him  she  biding  found 
With  his  sad  guide :  himself  she  took  aboard, 
But  the  black  palmer  sufTer'd  still  to  stand, 
Ne  would  for  price  or  prayers  once  afford 
To  ferry  that  old  man  over  the  perilous  ford. 

Guyon  was  loath  to  leave  his  guide  behind. 
Yet  being  enter'd  might  not  back  retire ; 
For  the  flit  bark  obeying  to  her  mind. 
Forth  launched  quickly,  as  she  did  desire, 
Ne  gave  him  leave  to  bid  that  aged  sire 
K 


110 


EDMUND  SPENSER. 


Adieu,  but  nimbly  ran  her  wonted  course 
Through  the  dull  billows,  thick  as  troubled  mire, 
Whom  neither  wind  out  of  their  seat  could  force, 

Nor  timely  tides  did  drive  out  of  their  sluggish 
source. 
And  by  the  way,  as  was  her  wonted  guise, 
Her  merry  fit  she  freshly  'gan  to  rear, 
And  did  of  joy  and  jolity  devise. 
Herself  to  cherish,  and  her  guest  to  cheer. 
The  knight  was  courteous,  and  did  not  forbear 
Her  honest  mirth  and  pleasaunce  to  partake ; 
But  when  he  saw  her  toy,  and  gibe,  and  jeer, 
And  pass  the  bonds  of  modest  merimake, 

Her  dalliance  he  despised,  and  follies  did  forsake. 
Yet  she  still  followed  her  former  style. 
And  said,  and  did  all  that  mote  him  delight, 
Till  they  arrived  in  that  pleasant  isle. 
Where  sleeping  late  she  left  her  other  knight: 
But  whenas  Guyon  of  that  land  had  sight, 
He  wist  himself  amiss,  and  angry  said, 
«  Ah !  Dame,  perdy  ye  have  not  done  me  right, 
Thus  to  mislead  me,  whiles  I  you  obey'd : 

Me  little  needed  from  my  right  way  to  have  stray'd." 
<'Fair  Sir!"  quoth  she,  "be  not  displeased  at  all; 
Who  fares  on  sea  may  not  command  his  way, 
Ne  wind  and  weather  at  his  pleasure  call : 
The  sea  is  wide,  and  easy  for  to  stray, 
The  wind  unstable,  and  doth  never  stay  : 
But  here  a  while  ye  may  in  safety  rest, 
Till  season  serve  new  passage  to  assay : 
Better  safe  port,  than  be  in  seas  distrest." 

Therewith  she  laugh'd,  and  did  her  earnest  end 
in  jest. 
But  he,  half  discontent,  mote  natheless 
Himself  appease,  and  issued  forth  on  shore ; 
The  joys  whereof,  and  happy  fruitfulness, 
Such  as  he  saw,  she  'gan  him  lay  before. 
And  all  though  pleasant,yet  she  made  much  more. 
The  fields  did  laugh,the  flowers  did  freshly  spring. 
The  trees  did  bud,  and  early  blossoms  bore, 
And  all  the  quire  of  birds  did  sweetly  sing, 

And  told  the  garden's  pleasures  in  their  caroling. 
And  she,  more  sweet  than  any  bird  on  bough, 
Would  oftentimes  amongst  them  bear  a  part, 
And  strive  to  pass  (as  she  could  well  enough) 
Their  native  music  by  her  skilful  art : 
So  did  she  all,  that  might  his  constant  heart 
Withdraw  from  thought  of  warlike  enterprise, 
And  drown  in  dissolute  delights  apart. 
Where  noise  of  arms,  or  view  of  martial  guise 
Might  not  revive  desire  of  knightly  exercise. 

But  he  was  wise,  and  wary  of  her  will, 
And  ever  held  his  hand  upon  his  heart; 
Yet  would  not  seem  so  rude  and  thewed  ill, 
As  to  despise  so  courteous  seeming  part, 
That  gentle  lady  did  to  him  impart ; 
But  fairly  tempering,  fond  desire  subdued, 
And  ever  her  desired  to  depart; 
She  list  not  hear,  but  her  disports  pursued, 
And  ever  bade  him  stay  till  time  the  tide  renew'd. 
And  now  by  this  Cymochles'  hour  was  spent 
That  he  awoke  out  of  his  idle  dream ; 
\tu\  shaking  ofif  his  drowsy  dreriment, 


'Gan  him  advise  how  ill  did  him  beseem 
In  slothful  sleep  his  moulten  heart  to  steme, 
And  quench  the  brand  of  his  conceived  ire ; 
Tho'  up  he  started,  stirr'd  with  shame  extreme, 
Ne  stayed  for  his  damsel  to  enquire. 
But  marched  to  the  strand,  there  passage  to  require. 

And  in  the  way  he  with  Sir  Guyon  met, 
Accompanied  with  Phoedria  the  fair ; 
Eftsoons  he  'gan  to  rage  and  inly  fret. 
Crying,  "  Let  be  that  lady  debonair, 
Thou  recreant  knight,  and  soon  thyself  prepare 
To  battle,  if  thou  mean  her  love  to  gain. 
Lo,  lo,  already  how  the  fowls  in  air 
Do  flock,  awaiting  shortly  to  obtain 

Thy  carcass  for  their  prey,  the  guerdon  of  thy  pain." 
And  therewithal  he  fiercely  at  him  flew. 
And  with  importune  outrage  him  assail'd  ; 
Who  soon  prepared,  to  field  his  sword  fctrth  drew, 
And  him  with  equal  value  countervail'd ; 
Their  mighty  strokes  their  haberieons  dismail'd. 
And  naked  made  each  other's  manly  spalles ; 
The  mortal  steel  dispiteously  entail'd 
Deep  in  their  flesh,  quite  through  the  iron  walls. 

That  a  large  purple  stream  adown  their  giambeux 
falls. 
Cymochles,  that  had  never  met  before 
So  puissant  foe,  with  envious  despight 
His  proud  presumed  force  encreased  more, 
Disdaining  to  be  held  so  long  in  fight. 
Sir  Guyon,  grudging  not  so  much  his  might. 
As  those  unknightly  railings  which  he  spoke. 
With  wrathful  fire  his  courage  kindled  bright, 
Thereof  devising  shortly  to  be  wroke. 

And  doubling  all  his  powers,  redoubled  every  stroke. 

Both  of  them  high  at  once  their  hands  enhaunst. 
And  both  at  once  their  huge  blows  dovsm  did  sway  : 
Cymochles'  sword  on  Guyon's  shield  yglaunst. 
And  thereof  nigh  one  quarter  shear'd  away  ; 
But  Guyon's  angry  blade  so  fierce  did  play 
On  th'  other's  helmet,  which  as  Titan  shone, 
That  quite  it  clove  his  plumed  crest  in  tway, 
And  bared  all  his  head  into  the  bone, 

Wherewith  astonish'd  still  he  stood  as  senseless 
stone. 
Still  as  he  stood,  fair  Phoedria  (that  beheld 
That  deadly  danger)  soon  atweene  them  ran. 
And  at  their  feet  herself  most  humbly  fell'd. 
Crying  with  piteous  voice  and  count'nance  wan, 
"  Ah  !  well  away  !  most  noble  lords,  how  can 
•     Your  cruel  eyes  endure  so  piteous  sight 

To  shed  your  lives  on  g^round  1  woe  worth  the  man 
That  first  did  teach  the  cursed  steel  to  bite 

In  his  own  flesh,  and  make  way  to  the  Uving  spright ! 
_"  If  ever  love  of  lady  did  empierce 
Your  iron  breasts,  or  pity  could  find  place. 
Withhold  your  bloody  hands  from  battle  fierce, 
And  sith  for  me  ye  fight,  to  me  this  grace 
Both  yield,  to  stay  your  deadly  strife  a  space ;" 
They  stay'd  awhile,  and  forth  she  'gan  proceed : 
"  Most  wretched  woman,  and  of  wicked  race. 
That  am  the  author  of  this  heinous  deed. 

And  cause  of  death  between  two  doughty  knights 
do  breed. 


EDMUND   SPENSER. 


Ill 


•*  But  if  for  me  ye  fight,  or  me  will  serve, 
Not  this  rude  kind  of  battle,  nor  these  arms 
Are  meet,  the  which  do  men  in  bale  to  sterve, 
And  doleful  sorrow  heap  with  deadly  harms : 
Such  cruel  game  my  scarmoges  disarms. 
Another  war  and  other  weapons  I 
Do  love,  where  love  does  give  his  sweet  alarms 
Without  bloodshed,  and  where  the  enemy 
Does  yield  unto  his  foe  a  pleasant  victory. 

"  Debateful  strife  and  cruel  enmity 
The  famous  name  of  knighthood  foully  shend ; 
But  lovely  peace  and  gentle  amity, 
And  in  amours  the  passing  hours  to  spend, 
The  mighty  martial  hands  do  most  commend ; 
Of  love  they  ever  greater  glory  bore 
Than  of  their  arms :  Mars  is  Cupido's  friend. 
And  is  for  Venus'  loves  renowned  more 
Than  all  his  wars  and  spoils  the  which  he  did  of 
yore."  • 

Therewith  she  sweetly  smiled.     They,  though 

full  bent 
To  prove  extremities  of  bloody  fight. 
Yet  at  her  speech  their  rages  'gan  relent, 
And  calm  the  sea  of  their  tempestuous  spite : 
Such  power  have  pleasing  words;  such  is  the  might 
Of  courteous  clemency  in  gentle  heart. 
Now  after  all  was  ceased,  the  Faery  Knight 
Besought  that  damsel  suffer  him  depart. 
And  yield  him  ready  passage  to  that  other  part. 

She  no  less  glad  than  he  desirous  was 
Of  his  departure  thence ;  for  of  her  joy 
And  vain  delight  she  saw  he  light  did  pass, 
A  foe  of  folly  and  immodest  toy. 
Still  solemn  sad,  or  still  disdainful  coy, 
Delighting  all  in  arms  and  cruel  war. 
That  her  sweet  peace  and  pleasures  did  annoy, 
Troubled  with  terror  and  unquiet  jar, 
That  she  well  pleased  was  thence  to  amove  him  far. 

,  Tho'  him  she  brought  abroad,  and  her  swift  boat 
Forthwith  directed  to  that  further  strand, 
That  which  on  the  dull  waves  did  lightly  float. 
And  soon  arrived  on  the  shallow  sand, 
Where  gladsome  Guyon  sallied  forth  to  land, 
And  to  that  damsel  thanks  gave  for  reward : 
Upon  that  shore  he  espied  Atin  stand, 
There  by  his  master  left,  when  late  he  fared 

In  Phoedria's  fleet  bark,  over  that  perlous  shard. . . . 


tn  aUTOX,  GUIDED  BT  THE  PALMER  TEMPERANCE,   PASSES 
THE  DAN0EB8  OP  THE  BOWER  OF  BUSS. 

With  that  the  rolling  sea  resounding  soft, 
In  his  big  base  them  fitly  answered, 
And  on  the  rock  the  waves  breaking  aloft, 
A  solemn  mean  unto  them  measured ; 
The  whiles  sweet  Zephyrus  loud  whistled 
His  treble,  a  strange  kind  of  harmony, 
V'liich  Guyon's  senses  softly  tickled, 
'j  .int  he  the  boatman  bade  row  easily, 
And  let  him  hear  some  part  of  their  rare  melody. 

But  him  the  palmer  from  that  vanity 
M  ith  temperate  advice  discounselled, 


That  they  it  past,  and  shortly  'gan  descry 
The  land  to  which  their  course  they  levelled ; 
When  suddenly  a  gross  fog  overspread 
With  his  dull  vapour  all  that  desert  has, 
And  heaven's  cheerfiil  face  enveloped, 
That  all  thmgs  one,  and  one  as  nothing  was. 
And  this  great  universe  seem'd  one  conftised  mass. 

Thereat  they  greatly  was  dismay'd,  ne  wist 
How  to  direct  their  way  in  darkness  wide, 
But  fear'd  to  wander  in  that  wasteftil  mist, 
For  tumbling  into  mischief  unespied : 
Worse  is  the  danger  hidden  than  descried. 
Suddenly  an  innumerable  flight 
Of  harmful  fowls  about  them  fluttering  cried. 
And  with  their  wicked  wings  them  oft  did  smite, 
And  sore  annoy'd,  groping  in  that  griesly  night. 

Even  all  the  nation  of  unfortunate 
And  fatal  birds  about  them  flocked  were, 
Such  as  by  nature  men  abhor  and  hate ; 
The  ill-faced  owl,  death's  dreadful  messenger ; 
The  hoarse  night-raven,  trump  of  doleful  drear ; 
The  leather-winged  bat,  day's  enemy ; 
The  rueful  strich,  still  waiting  on  the  bier; 
The  whistler  shrill,  that  whoso  hears  doth  die , 
The  hellish  harpies,  prophets  of  sad  destiny ; 

All  those,  and  all  that  else  does  horror  breed. 
About  them  flew,  and  fill'd  their  sails  with  fear . 
Yet  stay'd  they  not,  but  forward  did  proceed, 
Whiles  th'  one  did  row,  and  th'  other  stiflSy  steer , 
Till  that  at  last  the  weather  gan  to  clear. 
And  the  fair  Itmd  itself  did  plainly  show. 
Said  then  the  palmer,  "  Lo  where  does  appear 
The  sacred  soil  where  all  our  perils  grow. 
Therefore,  Sir  Knight,  your  ready  arms  about  you 
throw." 

He  hearken'd,  and  his  arms  about  him  took, 
The  whiles  the  nimble  boat  so  well  her  sped, 
That  with  her  crooked  keel  the  land  she  struck 
Then  forth  the  noble  Guyon  sallied. 
And  his  sage  palmer  that  him  governed ; 
But  the  other  by  his  boat  behind  did  stay. 
They  marched  fairly  forth,  of  nought  ydred. 
Both  firmly  arm'd  for  every  hard  assay, 
W  ith  constancy  and  care,gainst  danger  and  dismay. 

Ere  long  they  heard  an  hideous  bellowing 
Of  many  beasts,  that  roar'd  outrageously. 
As  if  that  Hunger's  point,  or  Venus'  sting. 
Had  them  enraged  with  fell  surquedry ; 
Yet  nought  they  fear'd,  but  past  on  hardily, 
Until  they  came  in  view  of  those  wild  beasts, 
Who  all  at  once,  gaping  full  greedily. 
And  rearing  fiercely  their  upstarting  crests. 
Ran  towards  to  devour  those  unexpected  guests. 

But  soon  as  they  approach'd  with  deadly  threat, 
The  palmer  over  them  his  staff  upheld. 
His  mighty  stafl',  that  could  all  charms  defeat ; 
Eftsoons  their  stubborn  courages  were  quell'd, 
And  high-advanced  crests  down  meekly  fell'd: 
Instead  of  fraying  they  themselves  did  fear, 
And  trembled,  as  them  passing  they  beheld : 
Such  wond'rous  power  did  in  that  stafl'  appeal. 
All  monsters  to  subdue  to  him  that  did  it  bear. 


112 


EDMUND   SPENSER. 


Of  that  same  wood  it  framed  was  cunningly 
Of  which  Caduceus  whileome  was  made, 
Caduceus,  the  rod  of  Mercury, 
With  which  he  wont  the  Stygian  realms  invade 
Through  ghastly  horror  and  eternal  shade ; 
Th'  infernal  fiends  with  it  he  can  assuage. 
And  Orcus  tame,  whom  nothing  can  persuade. 
And  rule  the  furies  when  they  most  do  rage : 
Such  virtue  in  his  staff  had  eke  this  palmer  sage. 

Thence  passing  forth,  they  shortly  do  arrive 
Whereat  the  Bower  of  Bliss  was  situate ; 
A  place  pick'd  out  by  choice  of  best  alive. 
That  Nature's  work  by  art  can  imitate : 
In  which  whatever  in  this  worldly  state 
Is  sweet  and  pleasing  unto  living  sense, 
Or  that  may  daintiest  fantasy  aggrate, 
Was  poured  forth  with  plentiful  dispense. 
And  made  there  to  abound  with  lavish  affluence. 

Goodly  it  was,  enclosed  round  about. 
As  well  their  enter'd  guests  to  keep  within, 
As  those  unruly  beasts  to  hold  without ; 
Yet  was  the  fence  thereof  but  weak  and  thin ; 
Nought  fear'd  they  force  that  fortilage  to  win, 
But  Wisdom's  power,  and  Temperance's  might. 
By  which  the  mightiest  things  efforced  been  : 
And  eke  the  gate  was  wrought  of  substance  light, 
Rather  for  pleasure  than  for  battery  or  fight. 

It  framed  was  of  precious  ivory. 
That  seem'd  a  work  of  admirable  wit, 
And  therein  all  the  famous  history 
Of  Jason  and  Medsea  was  ywrit; 
Her  mighty  charms,  her  furious  loving  fit, 
His  goodly  conquest  of  the  Golden  Fleece, 
His  falsed  faith,  and  love  too  lightly  flit. 
The  wondered  Argo,  which,  in  venturous  peace. 
First  through  the  Euxine  seas  bore  all  the  flower 
of  Greece. 

Ye  might  have  seen  the  frothy  billows  fry 
Under  the  ship,  as  thorough  them  she  went, 
That  seem'd  the  waves  were  into  ivory. 
Or  ivory  into  the  waves,  were  sent ; 
And  otherwhere  the  snowy  substance  sprent 
With  vermeil,  like  the  boy's  blood  therein  shed, 
A  piteous  spectacle  did  represent ; 
And  othcrwhiles,  with  gold  besprinkled, 
ft  seem'd  th'  enchanted  flame  which  did  Creusa 
wed. 

All  this,  and  more,  might  in  that  goodly  gate 
Be  read,  that  ever  open  stood  to  all 
Which  thither  came ;  but  in  the  porch  there  sat 
A  comely  personage,  of  stature  tall, 
And  semblance  pleasing,  more  than  natural, 
That  travellers  to  him  seemed  to  entice ; 
His  looser  garment  to  the  ground  did  fall, 
And  flew  about  his  heels  in  wanton  wise. 
Nor  fit  for  speedy  pace  or  manly  exercise. 

They  in  that  place  him  Genius  did  call ; 
jVot  that  celestial  power  to  whom  the  care 
Of  life,  and  generation  of  all 
That  lives,  pertains  in  charge  particular. 
Who  wond'rous  things  concerning  our  welfare, 


And  strange  phantoms,  doth  let  us  ofl  foresee, 
And  ofl  of  secret  ills  bids  us  beware, 
That  is  ourself,  whom  though  we  do  not  see, 
Yet  each  doth  in  himself  it  well  perceive  to  be : 

Therefore  a  god  him  sage  antiquity 
Did  wisely  make,  and  good  Agdistes  call; 
But  this  same  was  to  that  quite  contrary. 
The  foe  of  life,  that  good  envies  to  all ; 
That  secretly  doth  us  procure  to  fall 
Through  guileful  semblance,  which  he  makes  us 
He  of  this  garden  had  the  governale,  [see. 

And  Pleasure's  porter  was  devised  to  be, 
Holding  a  staff  in  hand  for  more  formality. 

With  divers  flowers  he  daintily  was  deck'd 
And  strewed  round  about,  and  by  his  side 
A  mighty  mazer  bowl  of  wine  was  set. 
As  if  it  had  to  him  been  sacrificed. 
Wherewith  all  new-come  guests  he  gratified ; 
So  did  he  eke  Sir  Guyon  passing  by : 
But  he  his  idle  courtesy  defied. 
And  overthrew  his  bowl  disdainfully, 
And  broke  his  staff,  with  which  he  charged  sem- 
blants  sly. 

Thus  being  enter'd,  they  behold  around 
A  large  and  spacious  plain,  on  every  side 
Strewd  with  pleasances;  whosefair  grassy  ground, 
Mantled  with  green,  and  goodly  beautified 
With  all  the  ornaments  of  Flora's  pride. 
Wherewith  her  mother  Art,  as  half  in  scorn 
Of  niggard  Nature,  like  a  pompous  bride. 
Did  deck  her,  and  too  lavishly  adorn, 
When  forth  from  virgin  bow'r  she  comes  in  th' 
early  morn. 

There  with  the  heavens,  always  jovial, 
Look'd  on  them  lovely,  still  in  stedfast  state, 
Ne  suffer'd  storm  nor  frost  on  them  to  fall, 
Their  tender  buds  or  leaves  to  violate ; 
Nor  scorching  heat,  nor  cold  intemperate, 
T'  afflict  the  creatures  which  therein  did  dwell; 
But  the  mild  air,  with  season  moderate. 
Gently  attemper'd,  and  disposed  so  well. 
That  still  it  breathed  forth  sweet  spirit  and  whole- 
some smell. 

More  sweet  and  wholesome  than  the  pleasant  hill 
Of  Rhodope,  on  which  the  nymph,  that  bore 
A  giant  babe,  herself  for  grief  did  kill ; 
Or  the  Thessalian  Tempe,  where  of  yore 
Fair  Daphne  Phoebus'  heart  with  love  did  gore ; 
Or  Ida,  where  the  gods  loved  to  repair 
Whenever  they  their  heavenly  bowers  forlore; 
Or  sweet  Parnasse,  the  haunt  of  muses  fair ; 
Or  Eden  self,  if  aught  with  Eden  mote  compare. 

Much  wonder'd  Guyon  at  the  fair  aspect 
Of  that  sweet  place,  yet  suffer'd  no  delight 
To  sink  into  his  sense,  nor  mind  affect ; 
But  passed  forth,  and  look'd  still  forward  right, 
Bridling  his  will,  and  mastering  his  might, 
Till  that  he  came  unto  another  gate ; 
No  gate,  but  like  one,  being  goodly  dight 
With  boughs  and  branches,  which  did  broad  dilate 
Their  clasping  arm8,in  wanton  wreathings  intiicate. 


EDMUND   SPENSER. 


113 


So  fashioned  a  porch  with  rare  device, 
Arch'd  over  head  with  an  embracing  vine, 
Whose  bunches  banging  down  seem'd  to  entice 
All  passers  by  to  taste  their  luscious  wine, 
And  did  themselves  into  their  hands  incline, 
As  freely  offering  to  be  gathered ; 
Some  deep  empurpled  as  the  hyacine, 
Some  as  the  rubine,  laughing  sweetly  red, 
Some  like  fair  emeraudes  not  yet  well  ripened : 

And  them  amongst  some  were  of  bumish'd  gold, 
So  made  by  art  to  beautify  the  rest, 
Which  did  themselves  amongst  the  leaves  enfold, 
As  lurking  from  the  view  of  covetous  guest, 
That  the  weak  boughs,  with  so  rich  load  oppressed. 
Did  bow  adown  as  overburthened. 
Under  that  porch  a  comely  dame  did  rest. 
Clad  in  fair  weeds,  but  foul  disordered, 
And   garments   loose,  that  seem'd   unmeet  for 
womanhead : 

In  her  left  hand  a  cup  of  gold  she  held, 
And  with  her  right  the  riper  fruit  did  reach. 
Whose  sappy  liquor,  that  with  fullness  swell'd. 
Into  her  cup  she  scruzed  with  dainty  breach 
Of  her  fine  fingers,  without  foul  empeach 
That  so  fair  wine-press  made  thewine  more  sweet : 
Thereof  she  used  to  give  to  drink  to  each, 
W^hom  passing  by  she  happened  to  meet: 
It  was  her  guise  all  strangers  goodly  so  to  greet. 

So  she  to  Guyon  offer'd  it  to  taste : 
Who,  taking  it  out  of  her  tender  hand. 
The  cup  to  ground  did  violently  cast, 
That  all  in  pieces  it  was  broken  fond, 
And  with  the  liquor  stained  all  the  land : 
Whereat  Excess  exceedingly  was  wroth. 
Yet  no'te  the  same  amend,  ne  yet  withstand, 
But  suflTered  him  to  pass,  all  were  she  lothe, 
Who,  nought  regarding  her  displeasure,  forward 
goeth. 

There  the  most  dainty  paradise  on  ground 
Itself  doth  offer  to  his  sober  eye. 
In  which  all  pleasures  plenteously  abound. 
And  none  does  other's  happiness  envy  ; 
The  painted  flowers,  the  trees  upshooting  high ; 
The  dales  for  shade,  the  hills  for  breathing  space ; 
That  trembling  groves,  the  crystal  running  by ; 
And  that  which  all  fair  works  doth  most  aggrace. 
The  art,  which  all  that  wrought,  appeared  in  no 
place. 

One  would  have  thought,  (so  cunningly  the  rude 
And  scorned  parts  were  mingled  with  the  fine,) 
That  Nature  had  for  wantonness  ensude 
Art,  and  that  Art  at  Nature  did  repine ; 
So  striving  each  th'  other  to  undermine. 
Each  did  the  other's  work  more  beautify, 
So  differing  both  in  wills  agreed  in  fine : 
So  all  agreed,  through  sweet  diversity, 
This  garden  to  adorn  with  all  variety. 

And  in  the  midst  of  all  a  fountain  stood. 
Of  richest  substance  that  on  the  earth  might  be, 
So  pure  and  shiny,  that  the  silver  flood 
Through  every  channel  running  one  might  see : 
Most  goodly  it  with  curious  imagery 
15 


Was  over-wrought,  and  shapes  of  naked  boys. 
Of  which  some  seem'd,  with  lively  jollity, 
To  fly  about,  playing  their  wanton  toys, 
Whilst  others  did  themselves  embay  in  liquid  joya 

And  over  all  of  purest  gold  was  spread 
A  trayle  of  ivy  in  his  native  hue ; 
For  the  rich  metal  was  so  coloured. 
That  wight,  who  did  not  well  advised  it  view, 
Would  surely  deem  it  to  be  ivy  true : 
Low  his  lascivious  arms  adown  did  creep, 
That  themselves,  dipping  in  the  silver  dew 
Their  fleecy  flowers,  they  fearfully  did  steep. 
Which  drops  of  crystal  seem'd  for  wantonness  to 
weep. 

Infinite  streams  continually  did  well 
Out  of  this  fountain,  sweet  and  fair  to  see. 
The  which  into  an  ample  laver  fell, 
And  shortly  grew  to  so  great  quantity. 
That  like  a  little  lake  it  seem'd  to  be. 
Whose  depth  exceeded  not  three  cubits  height. 
That  through  the  waves  one  might  the  bottom  see. 
All  paved  beneath  with  jasper,  shining  bright. 
That  seem'd  the  fountain  in  that  sea  did  sail 
upright. 

And  all  the  margent  round  about  was  set 
With  shady  laurel  trees,  thence  to  defend 
The  sunny  beams  which  on  the  billows  beat, 
And  those  which  therein  bathed  mote  offend. 
As  Guyon  happen'd  by  the  same  to  wend, 
Two  naked  damsels  he  therein  espied, 
Which  therein  bathing,  seemed  to  contend 
And  wrestle  wantonly,  ne  cared  to  hide 
Their  dainty  parts  from  view  of  any  which  them 
eyed.  .  .  . 

As  that  fair  star,  the  messenger  of  mom, 
His  dewy  face  out  of  the  sea  doth  rear ; 
Or  as  the  Cyprian  goddess,  newly  bom 
Of  th'  ocean's  fruitful  froth,  did  first  appear: 
Such  seemed  they,  and  so  their  yellow  heare 
Crystalline  humour  dropped  down  apace ; 
Whom  such  when  Guyon  saw,  he  drew  him  near, 
And  somewhat  'gan  relent  his  earnest  pace ; 
His   stubborn  breast  'gan  secret  pleasaunce  to 
embrace.  .  .  . 

On  which  when  gazing  him  the  palmer  saw. 
He  much  rebuked  those  wand'ring  eyes  of  his, 
And,  counsell'd  well,him  forward  thence  did  draw. 
Now  are  they  come  nigh  to  the  Bower  of  Bliss, 
Of  her  fond  favourites  so  named  amiss; 
When  thus  the  palmer :  «<  Now,  Sir,  well  avise. 
For  here  the  end  of  all  our  travel  is ; 
Here  wonnes  Acrasia,  whom  we  must  surprise. 
Else  she  will  slip  away,  and  all  our  drift  despise." 

Eftsoons  they  heard  a  most  melodious  sound. 
Of  all  that  mote  delight  a  dainty  ear. 
Such  as  at  once  might  not  on  living  ground, 
Save  in  this  paradise,  be  heard  elsewhere : 
Right  hard  it  was  for  wight  which  did  it  hear. 
To  rede  what  manner  music  that  mote  be; 
For  all  that  pleasing  is  to  living  ear. 
Was  there  consorted  in  one  harmony ; 
Birds,  voices,  instruments,  winds,  waters,  all  agrM. 
k2 


114 


EDMUND   SPENSER. 


The  joyous  birds,  shrouded  in  cheerful  shade, 
Their  notes  unto  the  voice  attemper'd  sweet ; 
Th'  angelical  soft  trembling  voices  made 
To  th'  instruments  divine  respondence  meet ; 
The  silver-sounding  instruments  did  meet 
With  the  base  murmur  of  the  water's  fall ; 
The  water's  fall  with  difference  discreet. 
Now  soft,  now  loud,  unto  the  wind  did  call ; 
The  gentle  warbling  wind  low  answered  to  all. 


OLACCE  ANT)  BRITOMAET  EXPLORING   THE   CAVE  OF  MEKLIN. 

Full  many  ways  within  her  troubled  mind 
Old  Glauce  cast  to  cure  this  lady's  grief; 
Full  many  ways  she  sought,  but  none  could  find. 
Nor  herbs,  nor  charms,  nor  counsel,  that  is  chief 
And  choicest  med'cine  for  sick  heart's  relief; 
Forthy  great  care  she  took,  and  greater  fear, 
Least  that  it  should  her  turn  to  foul  reprief. 
And  sore  reproach,  whenso  her  father  dear  [hear. 
Should  of  his  dearest  daughter's  hard  misfortune 

At  last  she  her  advised,  that  he  which  made 
That  mirror  wherein  the  sick  damosel 
So  strangely  viewed  her  strange  lover's  shade, 
To  weet  the  learned  Merlin,  well  could  tell 
Under  what  coast  of  heaven  the  man  did  dwell. 
And  by  what  means  his  love  might  best  be 

wrought ; 
For  though  beyond  the  Afric  Ismael, 
Or  th'  Indian  Peru  he  were,  she  thought 
Him  forth  through  infinite   endeavour  to  have 

sought 

Forthwith  themselves  disguising  both  in  strange 
And  base  attire,  that  none  might  them  bewray, 
To  Maridunum,  that  is  now  by  change 
Of  name  Cayr-Merdin  call'd,  they  took  their  way ; 
There  the  wise  Merlin  whylome  wont  (they  say) 
To  make  his  wonne,  low  underneath  the  ground, 
In  a  deep  delve,  far  from  the  view  of  day ; 
That  of  no  Uving  wight  he  mote  be  found, 
Whenso  he  counsell'd,  with  his  sprites  encompass'd 
round. 

And  if  thou  ever  happen  that  same  way 
To  travel,  go  to  see  that  dreadful  place : 
It  is  an  hideous  hollow  cave  (they  say) 
Under  a  rock  that  lies  a  little  space 
From  the  swift  Barry,  tumbUng  down  apace 
Amongst  the  woody  hills  of  Dynevowre : 
But  dare  thou  not,  I  charge,  in  any  case. 
To  enter  into  that  same  baleful  bower. 
For  fear  the  cruel  fiends  should  thee  unwares 
devour. 

But  standing  high  aloft,  low  lay  thine  ear, 
And  there  such  ghastly  noise  of  iron  chains. 
And  brazen  cauldrons  thou  shalt  rumbling  hear, 
Which   thousand  sprites,  with   long-enduring 

pains. 
Do  toss,  that  it  will  stun  thy  feeble  brains ; 
And    oftentimes    great    groans    and   grievous 

stounds, 
When  too  huge  toil  and  labour  them  constrains, 
And  ofU>ntime8  loud  strokes  and  ringing  sounds, 
From  under  that  deep  rock  most  horribly  rebounds. 


The  cause,  some  say,  is  this :  a  little  while 
Before  that  Merlin  died,  he  did  intend 
A  brazen  wall  in  compass  to  compile 
About  Cairmardin,  and  did  it  commend 
Unto  these  sprites  to  bring  to  perfect  end ; 
During  which  work  the  Lady  of  the  Lake, 
Whom  long  he  loved,  for  him  in  haste  did  send. 
Who  thereby  forced  his  workmen  to  forsake. 
Them  bound  till  his  return  their  labour  not  to 
slake. 

In  the  mean  time,  through  that  false  lady's  train, 
He  was  surprised  and  buried  under  bier, 
Ne  ever  to  his  work  return'd  again ; 
Nathless  those  fiends  may  not  their  work  forbear, 
So  greatly  his  commandement  they  fear. 
But  there  do  toil  and  travail  day  and  night, 
Until  that  brazen  wall  they  up  do  rear ; 
For  Merlin  had  in  magic  more  insight 
Than  ever  him  before  or  after  living  wight. 

For  he  by  words  could  call  out  of  the  sky 
Both  sun  and  moon,  and  make  them  him  obey ; 
The  land  to  sea,  and  sea  to  mainland  dry. 
And  darksome  night  he  eke  could  turn  to  day ; 
Huge  hosts  of  men  he  could  done  dismay. 
And  hosts  of  men  of  meanest  things  could  frame, 
Whenso  him  list  his  enemies  to  fi-ay ; 
That  to  this  day,  for  terror  of  his  fame. 
The  fiends  do  quake  when  any  him  to  them  does 
name. 

And  sooth  men  say,  that  he  was  not  the  son 
Of  mortal  sire,  and  other  living  wight. 
But  wond'rously  begotten  and  begone 
By  false  illusion  of  a  guileful  sprite 
On  a  fair  lady  nun,  that  whilom  hight 
Matilda,  daughter  to  Pubidius, 
Who  was  the  lord  of  Mathtraval  by  right. 
And  cousin  unto  king  Ambrosius, 
Whence  he  endued  was  with  skill  so  marvel- 
lous. 

They  here  arriving,  stay'd  awhile  without, 
Ne  durst  adventure  rashly  in  to  wend, 
But  of  their  first  intent  'gan  make  new  doubt 
For  dread  of  danger,  which  it  might  portend. 
Until  the  hardy  maid  (with  love  to  friend) 
First  entering,  the  dreadful  mage  there  found 
Deep  busied  'bout  work  of  wond'rous  end. 
And  writing  strange  characters  in  the  ground. 
With  which  the  stubborn  fiends  he  to  his  service 
bound 


BELPHOEBE  FINDS  TIMIAS  WOUNDED  AND  CON- 
VEYS HIM  TO  HER  DWELLING. 
BOOK  m.     OANTO  y. 

She  on  a  day,  as  she  pursued  the  chace 
Of  some  wUd  beast,  which,  with  her  arrows  keen, 
She  wounded  had,  the  same  along  did  trace 
By  tract  of  blood,  which  she  had  freshly  seen 
To  have  besprinkled  all  the  grassy  green ; 
By  the  great  pursue  which  she  there  perceivwd. 
Well  hoped  she  the  beast  engored  had  been, 
And  made  more  haste  the  life  to  have  bereaved  t 
But  ah !  her  expectation  greatly  was  deceived. 


EDMUND  SPENSER. 


115 


Shortly  she  came  whereas  that  woeful  squire, 
With  blood  deformed,  lay  in  deadly  swound ; 
In  whose  fair  eyes,  like  lamps  of  quenched  fire, 
The  crystal  humour  stood  congealed  round ; 
His  locks,  like  faded  leaves,  fallen  to  ground. 
Knotted  with  blood,  in  bunches  rudely  ran. 
And  his  sweet  lips,  on  which,  before  that  stound, 
The  bud  of  youth  to  blossom  fair  began 
Spoil'd  of  their  rosy  red,  were  waxen  pale  and  wan. 

Saw  never  living  eye  more  heavy  sight. 
That  could  have  made  a  rock  of  stone  to  rue 
Or  rive  in  twain ;  which  when  that  lady  bright 
Besides  all  hope,  with  melting  eyes  did  view. 
All  suddenly  abash'd,  she  changed  hue. 
And  with  stern  horror  backward  'gan  to  start ; 
But  when  she  better  him  beheld,  she  grew 
Full  of  soft  passion  and  unwonted  smart; 
The  point  of  pity  pierced   through  her  tender 
heart 

Meekly  she  bowed  down,  to  weet  if  life 
Yet  in  his  frozen  members  did  remain, 
And  feeUng  by  his  pulse's  beating  rife 
That  the  weak  soul  her  seat  did  yet  retain, 
She  cast  to  comfort  him  with  busy  pain. 
His  double-folded  neck  she  rear'd  upright, 
And  rubb'd  his  temples  and  each  trembling  vein ; 
His  mailed  haberjon  she  did  undight. 
And  from  his  head  his  heavy  burganet  did  light. 

Into  the  woods  thenceforth  in  haste  she  went. 
To  seek  for  herbs  that  mote  him  remedy, 
For  she  of  herbs  had  great  intendiment, 
Taught  of  the  nymph  which  from  her  infancy 
Her  nursed  had  in  true  nobility  ; 
There,  whether  it  divine  tobacco  were, 
Or  panacea,  or  polygeny. 
She  found,  and  brought  it  to  her  patient  dear, 
Who  all  this  while  lay  bleeding  out  his  heart-blood 
near. 

The  sovereign  weed,  betwixt  two  marbles  plain. 
She  pounded  small,  and  did  in  pieces  bruise, 
And  then  atween  her  lily  handes  twain 
Into  his  wound  the  juice  thereof  did  scruze. 
And  round  about  (as  she  could  well  it  use) 
The  flesh  therewith  she  suppled  and  did  steep, 
T'  abate  all  spasm,  and  soak  the  swelling  bruise ; 
And  after  having  search'd  the  intuse  deep. 
She  with  her  scarf  did  bind  the  wound,  from  cold 
to  keep. 

By  this  he  had  sweet  life  recur'd  again. 
And  groaning  inly  deep,  at  last  his  eyes. 
His  watery  eyes,  drizzling  like  dewy  rain, 
He  up  'gan  lift  toward  the  azure  skies. 
From  whence  descend  all  hopeless  remedies : 
Therewith  he  sigh'd ;  and  turning  him  aside. 
The  goodly  maid,  full  of  divinities. 
And  gifts  of  heavenly  grace,  he  by  him  spied, 
Her  bow  and  gilden  quiver  lying  him  beside. 

«  Mercy,  dear  Lord !"  said  he, "  what  grace  is  this 
That  thou  hast  shewed  to  me,  sinful  wight,  ^ 
To  send  thine  angel  from  her  bower  of  bliss 
To  comfort  me  in  my  distressed  plight ! 
\ngel,  or  goddess,  do  I  call  thee  right  1 


What  service  may  I  do  unto  thee  meet, 
That  hast  from  darkness  me  return'd  to  light, 
And  with  thy  heavenly  salves  and  medVines  sweet 
Hast  drest  my  sinful  wounds  ]  I  kiss  thy  blessed 
feet" 

Thereat  she  blushing  said,  "  Ah !  gentle  Squire, 
Nor  goddess  I,  nor  angel,  but  the  maid 
And  daughter  of  a  woody  nymph,  desire 
No  service  but  thy  safety  and  aid, 
Which  if  thou  gain,  I  shall  be  well  apaid. 
We  mortal  wights,  whose  lives  and  fortunes  be 
To  common  accidents  still  open  laid. 
Are  bound  with  common  bond  of  frailty, 
To  succour  wretched  wights  whom  we  captived 
see." 

By  this  her  damsels,  which  the  former  chace 
Had  undertaken  after  her,  arrived. 
As  did  Belphoebe,  in  the  bloody  place. 
And  thereby  deem'd  the  beast  had  been  deprived 
Of  life  whom  late  their  lady's  arrow  rived ; 
Forthy  the  bloody  tract  they  foUow'd  fast, 
And  every  one  to  run  the  swiftest  strived ; 
But  two  of  them  the  rest  far  overpast. 
And  where  their  lady  was  arrived  at  the  last. 

Where,  when  they  saw  that  goodly  boy  with  blood 
Defouled,  and  their  lady  dress  his  wound. 
They  wonder'd  much,  and  shortly  understood 
How  him  in  deadly  case  their  lady  found. 
And  rescued  out  of  the  heavy  stound : 
Eftsoons  his  warlike  courser,  which  was  stray'd 
Far  in  the  woods,  whiles  that  he  lay  in  swownd, 
She  made  those  damsels  search ;  which  being 

stay'd, 
They  did  him  set  thereon,  and  forthwith  them 

convey'd. 

Into  that  forest  far  they  thence  him  led. 
Where  was  their  dwelling,  in  a  pleasant  glade, 
With  mountains  round  about  environed, 
And  mighty  woods  which  did  the  valley  shade 
And  like  a  stately  theatre  it  made. 
Spreading  itself  into  a  spacious  plain ; 
And  in  the  midst  a  httle  river  play'd 
Amongst  the  pu  mice  stones,  which  seem'd  to  plain 
With  gentle  murmur,  that  his  course  they  did 
restrain. 

Beside  the  same  a  dainty  place  there  lay. 
Planted  with  myrtle  trees  and  laurels  green, 
In  which  the  birds  sang  many  a  lovely  lay 
Of  God's  high  praise,  and  of  their  sweet  loves*  teen. 
As  it  an  earthly  paradise  had  been ; 
In  whose  enclosed  shadow  there  was  pight 
A  fair  pavilion,  scarcely  to  be  seen. 
The  which  was  all  within  most  richly  dight. 
That  greatest  princes  living  it  mote  well  delight 

Thither  they  brought  that  wounded  squire,  and 

laid 
In  easy  couch  his  feeble  limbs  to  rest : 
He  rested  him  a  while,  and  then  the  maid 
His  ready  wound  with  better  salves  new  drest; 
Daily  she  dressed  him,  and  did  the  best 

*  Sorrow. 


116 


POETRY  OF  UNCERTAIN  AUTHORS. 


His  grievous  hurt  to  guarish''  that  she  might, 
That  shortly  he  his  dolour  had  redrest, 
And  his  foul  sore  reduced  to  fair  plight ; 

It  she  reduced,  but  himself  destroyed  quite. 
O  foolish  physic,  and  unfruitful  pain. 
That  heals  up  one,  and  makes  another  wound  ; 
She  his  hurt  thigh  to  him  recured  again. 
But  hurt  his  heart,  the  which  before  was  sound, 
Through  an  unwary  dart,  which  did  rebound 
From  her  fair  eyes  and  gracious  countenance : 
What  boots  it  him  from  death  to  be  unbound. 
To  be  captived  in  endeless  durance 

Of  sorrow  and  despair  without  allegiance  1  .  .  . . 
Thus  warred  he  long  time  against  his  will. 
Till  that  through  weakness  he  was  forced  at  last 
To  yield  himself  unto  the  mighty  ill. 
Which  as  a  victor  proud  'gan  ransack  fast 
His  inward  parts,  and  all  his  entrails  waste. 
That  neither  blood  in  face,  nor  life  in  heart, 
It  left,  but  both  did  quite  dry  up  and  blast, 
As  piercing  levin,  which  the  inner  part 

Of  every  thing  consumes,  and  calcineth  by  art. 
Which  seeing,  fair  Belphoebe  'gan  to  fear 
Least  that  his  wound  were  inly  well  not  heal'd. 
Or  that  the  wicked  steel  empoison'd  were  ; 
Little  she  ween'd  that  love  he  close  conceal'd ; 
Yet  still  he  wasted  as  the  snow  congeal'd. 
When  the  bright  sun  his  beams  thereon  doth  beat; 
Yet  never  he  his  heart  to  her  reveal'd. 
But  rather  chose  to  die  for  sorrow  great. 

Than  with  dishonourable  terms  her  to  entreat.  . . 

'  e  Heal. 


FROM    SPENSER'S  SONNETS. 

SOXUET  LXXXVI. 

Since  I  did  leave  the  presence  of  my  love, 
Many  long  weary  days  I  have  outworn. 
And  many  nights  that  slowly  seem'd  to  move 
Their  sad  protract  from  evening  until  mom. 
For,  when  as  day  the  heaven  doth  adorn, 
I  wish  that  night  the  noyous  day  would  end ; 
And  when  as  night  hath  us  of  light  forlorn, 
I  wish  that  day  would  shortly  reascend. 
Thus  I  the  time  with  expectation  spend, 
And  fain  my  grief  with  changes  to  beguile. 
That  further  seems  his  term  still  to  extend, 
And  maketh  every  minute  seem  a  mile. 
So  sorrow  still  doth  seem  too  long  to  last. 
But  joyous  hours  do  fly  away  too  fast. 


SONNET  Lxxxvnr. 
Like  as  the  culver,  on  the  bared  bough. 
Sits  mourning  for  the  absence  of  her  mate. 
And  in  her  songs  sends  many  a  wishful  vow 
For  his  return  that  seems  to  linger  late ; 
So  I  alone,  now  left  disconsolate. 
Mourn  to  myself  the  absence  of  my  Love, 
And,  wand'ring  here  and  there,  all  desolate. 
Seek  with  my  plaints  to  match  that  mournful  dove ; 
Ne  joy  of  aught  that  under  heaven  doth  hove. 
Can  comfort  me  but  her  own  joyous  sight, 
Whose  sweet  aspect  both  God  and  man  can  move. 
In  her  unspotted  pleasuns  to  delight, 
Dark  is  my  day,  whiles  her  fair  light  I  miss. 
And  dead  my  life,  that  wants  such  lively  bliss. 


POETRY  OF  UNCERTAIN  AUTHORS 


THE  END  OF  THE  SIXTEENTH  CENTURY. 


THE  SOUL'S  ERRAND. 


TROU  DAVISON'S  "POCTIOAL  KHAPSODT." 


This  bold  and  spirited  poem  has  been  ascribed 
to  several  authors,  but  to  none  on  satisfactory 
authority.  It  can  be  traced  to  MS.  of  a  date  as 
early  as  1593,  when  Francis  Davison,  who  pub- 
lished it  in  his  Poetical  Rhapsody,  was  too  young 
to  be  supposed,  with  much  probability,  to  have 
written  it ;  and  as  Davison's  work  was  a  compi- 
lation, his  claims  to  it  must  be  very  doubtful. 
Sir  Egerton  Brydges  has  published  it  among  Sir 
Walter  Raleigh's  poems,  but  without  a  tittle  of 
evidence  to  show  that  it  was  the  production  of 
that  great  man.  Mr.  Ellis  gives  it  to  Joshua 
Sylvester,  evidently  by  mistake.  Whoever  looks 
at  the  foUo  vol.  of  Sylvester's  poems,  will  see  that 


Joshua  uses  the  beautiful  original  merely  as  a 
text,  and  has  the  conscience  to  print  his  own  stuflf 
in  a  way  that  shows  it  to  be  interpolated.  Among 
those  additions  there  occur  some  such  execrable 
stanzas  as  the  following : 

Say,  soldiers  are  the  sink 
Of  sin  to  all  the  realm, 
Giv'n  all  to  whore  and  drink. 
To  quarrel  and  blaspheme. 

Tell  townsmen,  that  because  that 
They  prank  their  brides  so  proud, 
Too  many  times  it  draws  that 
Which  makes  them  beetle-brow'd. 

Ohejam  satis  I 


THB   SOUL'S  ERKAND. 

Go,  Soul,  the  bod5''s  guest, 
Upon  a  thankless  errand. 
Fear  not  to  touch  the  best. 
The  truth  shall  be  thy  warrant ; 
Go,  since  I  needs  must  die, 
And  give  the  world  the  lie. 

Go,  tell  the  Court  it  glows. 
And  shines  like  rotten  wood ; 
Go,  tell  the  Church  it  shows 
What's  good  and  doth  no  good; 
If  Church  and  Court  reply, 
Then  give  them  both  the  lie. 

Tell  potentates  they  live, 
Acting  by  others'  actions. 
Not  loved,  unless  they  give. 
Not  strong  but  by  their  factions ; 
If  potentates  reply. 
Give  potentates  the  lie. 

Tell  men  of  high  condition 
That  rule  affairs  of  state. 
Their  purpose  is  ambition, 
Their  practice  only  hate ; 
And  if  they  once  reply, 
Then  give  them  all  the  lie. 

Tell  them  that  brave  it  most, 
They  beg  for  more  by  spending, 
Who,  in  their  greatest  cost, 
8eek  nothing  but  commending ; 
And  if  they  make  reply. 
Then  give  them  all  the  lie. 

Tell  Zeal  it  lacks  devotion. 
Tell  Love  it  is  but  lust. 
Tell  Time  it  is  but  motion, 
Tell  Flesh  it  is  but  dust ; 
And  wish  them  not  reply. 
For  thou  must  give  the  Ue. 

Tell  Age  it  daily  wasteth. 
Tell  Honour  how  it  alters, 
Tell  Beauty  how  she  blasteth. 
Tell  Favour  how  she  falters ; 
And  as  they  shall  reply, 
Give  every  one  the  lie. 

Tell  Wit  how  much  it  wrangles 
In  treble  points  of  niceness. 
Tell  Wisdom  she  entangles 
Herself  in  overwiseness ; 
And  when  they  do  reply. 
Straight  give  them  both  the  lie. 

Tell  Physic  of  her  boldness. 
Tell  Skill  it  is  pretension, 
Tell  Charity  of  coldness. 
Tell  Law  it  is  contention ; 
And  as  they  do  reply. 
So  give  them  still  the  lie. 

Tell  Fortune  of  her  blindness. 
Tell  Nature  of  decay. 
Tell  Friendship  of  unkindness, 
Tell  Justice  of  delay  ; 


And  if  they  will  reply, 
Then  give  thepi  all  the  lie. 

Tell  Arts  they  have  no  soundness. 

But  vary  by  esteeming. 

Tell  Schools  they  want  profoundness, 

And  stand  too  much  on  seeming ; 

If  Arts  and  Schools  reply. 

Give  Arts  and  Schools  the  lie. 

Tell  Faith  it's  fled  the  city. 
Tell  how  the  country  erreth, 
Tell  manhood  shakes  off  pity. 
Tell  Virtue  least  preferreth ; 
And  if  they  do  reply, 
Spare  not  to  give  the  lie. 

And  when  thou  hast,  as  I 
Commanded  thee,  done  blabbing. 
Although  to  give  the  lie 
Deserves  no  less  than  stabbing; 
Yet  stab  at  thee  who  will. 
No  stab  the  Soul  can  kill. 


CANZONET. 

FROM  DAVISON'S  EHAPSODT.    EBrT.  1608. 

The  golden  sun  that  brings  the  day, 
And  lends  men  light  to  see  withal, 
In  vain  doth  cast  his  beams  away, 
When  they  are  blind  on  whom  they  fall ; 
There  is  no  force  in  all  his  light 
To  give  the  mole  a  perfect  sight. 

But  thou,  my  sun,  more  bright  than  he 
That  shines  at  noon  in  summer  tide, 
Hast  given  me  light  and  power  to  see 
With  perfect  skill  my  sight  to  guide ; 
Till  now  I  lived  as  blind  as  mole 
That  hides  her  head  in  earthly  hole. 

I  heard  the  praise  of  Beauty's  grace. 
Yet  deem'd  it  nought  but  poet's  skill, 
I  gazed  on  many  a  lovely  face. 
Yet  fond  I  none  to  bend  my  will ; 
Which  made  me  think  that  beauty  bright 
Was  nothing  else  but  red  and  white. 

But  now  thy  beams  have  clear'd  my  sight, 
I  blush  to  think  I  was  so  blind. 
Thy  flaming  eyes  afford  me  light. 
That  beauty's  blaze  each  where  I  find ; 
And  yet  those  dames  that  shine  so  bright 
Are  but  the  shadows  of  thy  light 


FROM  THE   PHCENIX'  NEST.    EDIT.  1593. 
O  NIOHT.O  jealous  night,repugnant  to  my  pleasure, 
O  night  so  long  desired,  yet  cross  to  my  content, 
There's  none  but  only  thou  can  guide  me  t<J  my 

treasure, 
Yet  none  but  only  thou  that  hindereth  my  intent. 

Sweet  night,  withhold  thy  beams,  withhold  them 

till  to-morrow, 
Whose  joy,  in  lack  so  long,  a  hell  of  torment  breeds, 
Sweet  night,  sweet  gentle  night,  do  not  prolong 

my  sorrow. 
Desire  is  guide  to  me,  and  love  no  loadstar  needit. 


(^ 


118 


POETRY   OF   UNCERTAIN   AUTHORS. 


Let  8;iilors  gaze  on  stars  and  moon  so  freshly 
shining, 

Let  them  that  miss  the  way  be  guided  by  the  light, 

[  know  my  lady's  bower,  there  needs  no  more  di- 
vining, 

Affection  sees  in  dark,  and  love  hath  eyes  by  night. 

Dame  Cynthia,  couch  awhile ;  hold  in  thy  thorns 

for  shining, 
\nd  glad  not  low'ring  night  with  thy  too  glorious 

rays; 
But  be  she  dim  and  dark,  tempestuous  and  repining. 
That  in  her  spite  my  sport  may  work  thy  endless 

praise. 

A  nd  when  my  will  is  done,  then  Cynthia  shine, 

good  lady. 
All  other  nights  and  days  in  honour  of  that  night. 
That  happy,  heavenly  night,  that  night  so  deirk 

and  shady. 
Wherein  my  love  had  eyes  that  lighted  my  delight 


FROM  THE  SAMB. 

The  gentle  season  of  the  year 

Hath  made  my  blooming  branch  appear, 

And  beautified  the  land  with  flowers ; 

The  air  doth  savour  with  delight, 

The  heavens  do  smile  to  see  the  sight. 

And  yet  mine  eyes  augment  their  showers. 

The  meads  are  mantled  all  with  green, 
The  trembhng  leaves  have  clothed  the  treen. 
The  birds  with  feathers  new  do  sing ; 
But  I,  poor  soul,  whom  wrong  doth  rack, 
Attire  myself  in  mourning  black. 
Whose  leaf  doth  fall  amidst  his  spring. 

And  as  you  see  the  scarlet  rose 
In  his  sweet  prime  his  buds  disclose. 
Whose  hue  is  with  the  sun  revived ; 
So,  in  the  April  of  mine  age. 
My  Uvely  colours  do  assuage. 
Because  my  sunshine  is  deprived. 

My  heart,  that  wonted  was  of  yore. 

Light  as  the  winds,  abroad  to  soar 

Amongst  the  buds,  when  beauty  springs. 

Now  only  hovers  over  you. 

As  doth  the  bird  that's  taken  new, 

And  mourns  when  all  her  neighbours  sings. 

When  every  man  is  bent  to  sport, 

Then,  pensive,  I  alone  resort 

Into  some  solitary  walk. 

As  doth  the  doleful  turtle-dove, 

Who,  having  lost  her  faithful  love. 

Sits  mourning  on  some  wither'd  stalk. 

There  to  myself  I  do  recount 
How  far  my  woes  my  joys  surmount, 
How  love  requiteth  me  with  hate. 
How  all  my  pleasures  end  in  pain. 
How  hate  doth  say  my  hope  is  vain, 
How  fortune  frowns  upon  my  state. 

.\nd  in  tliis  mood,  charged  with  despair, 
With  vapour'd  sighs  I  dun  the  air. 


And  to  the  Gods  make  this  request, 
That  by  the  ending  of  my  life, 
I  may  have  truce  with  this  strange  strife, 
And  bring  my  soul  to  better  rest. 


SONGS. 


FROM  WILBTE'S   madrigals.      EDIT.   1598. 

Lady,  your  words  do  spite  me, 

Yet  your  sweet  lips  so  soft  kiss  and  delight  me ; 

Your  deeds  my  heart  surcharged  with  overjoying 

Your  taunts  my  life  destroying ; 

Since  both  have  force  to  kill  me. 

Let  kisses  sweet,  sweet  kill  me  ! 

Knights  fight  with  swords  and  lances. 

Fight  you  with  smiling  glances, 

So,  like  swans  of  Meander, 

My  ghost  fi-om  hence  shall  wander. 

Singing  and  dying,  singing  and  dying. 

There  is  a  jewel  which  no  Indian  mine  can  buy, 
No  chemic  art  can  counterfeit ; 
It  makes  men  rich  in  greatest  poverty. 
Makes  water  wine,  turns  wooden  cups  to  gold. 
The  homely  whistle  to  sweet  music's  strain ; 
Seldom  it  comes,  to  few  from  heaven  sent. 
That  much  in  little — all  in  nought — Content. 

Change  me,  0  heaven  !  into  the  ruby  stone 
That  on  my  love's  fair  locks  doth  hang  in  gold. 
Yet  leave  me  speech  to  her  to  make  my  moan. 
And  give  me  eyes  her  beauty  to  behold  : 
Or  if  you  will  not  make  my  flesh  a  stone. 
Make  her  hard  heart  seem  flesh,  that  now  is  none 


I  SANG  sometimes  my  thoughts  and  fancy's  pleasure, 

Where  then  I  list,  or  time  served  best. 

While  Daphne  did  invite  me 

To  supper  once,  and  drank  to  me  to  spite  me ; 

I  smiled,  yet  still  did  doubt  her. 

And  drank  where  she  had  drank  before,  to  flout  her 

But  O,  while  I  did  eye  her. 

My  eyes  drank  love,  my  lips  drank  burning  fire. 

O  LIGHT  is  love,  in  matchless  beauty  shining. 
When  she  revisits  Cyprus'  hallowed  bowers. 
Two  feeble  doves,  harness'd  in  silken  twining. 
Can  draw  her  chariot  'mid  the  Paphian  floweis  • 
Lightness  in  love  how  ill  she  fitteth,  , 

So  heavy  on  my  heart  she  sitteth. 

Love  me  not  for  comely  grace, 
For  my  pleasing  eye  or  face ; 
Not  for  any  outward  part. 
No,  nor  for  my  constant  heart , 
For  those  may  fail,  or  turn  to  ill, 
And  thus  we  love  shall  sever : 
Keep,  therefore,  a  true  woman's  eye. 
And  love  me  still. 
Yet  kno^v  not  why. 
So  hast  thou  the  same  reason  still. 
To  dote  upon  me  ever. 


POETRY   OF   UNCERTAIN   AUTHORS. 


119 


FROM  BIRD'S  COLLECTION  OF  SONGS,  Ac 
Your  shining  eyes  and  golden  hair, 
Your  lily  rosed  lips  most  fair, 
Your  other  beauties  that  excel, 
Men  cannot  choose  but  like  them  well ; 
But  when  for  them  they  say  they'll  die, 
Believe  them  not,  they  do  but  lie. 

Ambitious  love  hath  forced  me  to  aspire 
To  beauties  rare,  which  do  adorn  thy  face ; 
Thy  modest  life  yet  bridles  my  desire, 
Whose  law  severe  doth  promise  me  no  grace. 

But  what !  may  love  live  under  any  law  1 
No,  no.  his  power  exceedeth  man's  conceit, 
Of  which  the  gods  themselves  do  stand  in  awe, 
For  on  his  frown  a  thousand  torments  wait 

Proceed,  then,  in  this  desperate  enterprise 
With  good  advice,  and  follow  love,  thy  guide, 
That  leads  thee  to  thy  wished  paradise  : 
Thy  climbing  thoughts  this  comfort  take  withal, 
That  if  it  be  thy  foul  disgrace  to  slide. 
Thy  brave  attempt  shall  yet  excuse  thy  fall. 

Amid  the  seas  a  gallant  ship  set  out. 
Wherein  nor  men  nor  yet  'munition  lacks. 
In  greatest  winds  that  spareth  not  a  clout. 
But  cuts  the  waves  in  spite  of  weather's  wrack. 
Would  force  a  swain  that  comes  of  coward  kind. 
To  change  himself,  and  be  of  noble  mind. 

Who  makes  his  seat  a  stately  stamping  steed, 
Whose  neighs  and  plays  are  princely  to  behold ; 
Whose  courage  stout,  whose  eyes  are  fiery  red, 
M^hose  joints  well  knit,  whose  harness  all  of  gold. 
Doth  well  deserve  to  be  no  meaner  thing 
Than  Persian  knight,  whose  horse  made  him  a 
king. 

By  that  bedside  where  sits  a  gallant  dame. 
Who  casteth  off  her  brave  and  rich  attire, 
Whose  petticoat  sets  forth  as  fair  a  frame 
As  mortal  men  or  gods  can  well  desire ; 
Who  sits  and  sees  her  petticoat  unlaced, 
I  say  no  more — the  rest  are  all  disgraced. 


SONGS  FROM  WEELKES'S  MADRIGALS. 
SDIT.  1601. 

LiKR  two  proud  armies  marching  in  the  field, 
Joining  a  thund'ring  fight,  each  scorns  to  yield. 
So  in  my  heart  your  beauty  and  my  reason. 
To  th'  other  says,  it's  treason,  treason,  treason : 
But  your  fair  beauty  shineth  as  the  sun. 
And  dazzled  reason  yields  as  quite  undone. 

Hold  out  my  heart,  with  joy's  delights  accloy'd ; 

Hold  out  my  heart  and  show  it. 

That  all  the  world  may  know  it, 

What  sweet  content  thou  lately  hast  enjoy'd. 

She  that  '<Come,  dear!"  would  say. 

Then  laugh,  and  smile,  and  run  away ; 

And  if  I  f.tay'd  her  would  cry  nay, 

Fy  for  shame,  fy. 


My  true  love  not  regarding. 

Hath  giv'n  me  at  length  his  full  rewarding. 

So  that  unless  I  tell 

The  joys  that  overfill  me. 
My  joys,  kept  in  full  well, 

I  know  vidll  kill  me. 

Give  me  my  heart  and  I  will  go. 
Or  else  forsake  your  wonted  no. 

No,  no,  no — No,  no,  no. 
But  since  my  dear  doth  doubt  me, 
With  no,  no,  no,  I  mean  to  flout  thee ; 

No,  no,  no. 
Now  there  is  hope  we  shall  agree. 
Since  double  no  imparteth  yea ; 
If  that  be  so,  my  dearest. 
With  no,  no,  no,  my  heart  thou  cheerest. 

Cold  winter  ice  is  fled  and  gone. 
And  summer  brags  on  every  tree ; 
The  red-breast  peeps  among  the  throng 
Of  wood-brown  birds  that  wanton  be  : 
Each  one  forgets  what  they  have  been. 
And  so  doth  Phyllis,  summer's  queen. 

Sat,  dear,  will  you  not  have  me  1 

Then  take  the  kiss  you  gave  me ; 

You  elsewhere  would,  perhaps,  bestow  it, 

And  I  would  be  as  loth  to  owe  it; 

Or  if  you  will  not  take  the  thing  once  given. 

Let  me  kiss  you,  and  then  we  shall  be  even. 


FROM  BATESON'S  MADRIGALS. 
EDIT.  1606. 

Love  would  discharge  the  duty  of  his  heart 
In  beauty's  praise,  whose  greatness  doth  deny 
Words  to  his  thoughts,  and  thoughts  to  his  desert 
Which  high  conceit,  since  nothing  can  supply, 
Love  here  constrain'd  through  conquest  to  confess, 
Bids  silence  sigh  what  tongue  cannot  express. 

Whither  so  fasti     Ah,  see  the  kindly  flowers 
Perfume  the  air,  and  all  to  make  thee  stay ; 
The  climbing  woodbind,  clipping  all  these  bowers. 
Clips  thee  likewise,  for  fear  thou  pass  away : 
Fortune,  our  friend,  our  foe,  will  not  gainsay : 
Stay  but  a  while,  Phoebe  no  tell-tale  is, 
She  her  Endymion — I'll  my  Phoebe  kiss. 

Yet  stay,  alway  be  chained  to  my  heart 
With  links  of  love,  that  we  do  never  part ; 
Then  I'll  not  call  thee  serpent,  tiger,  cruel. 
But  my  sweet  Gemma,  and  my  dearest  jeweL 


TO  HIS  LOVE, 

FROX  bxoiand's  HEUOON. 


Come  away,  come,  sweet  love ! 
The  golden  morning  breaks, 
All  the  earth,  all  the  air. 
Of  love  and  pleasure  speaks ; 


120 


JOHN  LYLY. 


Teach  thine  arms  then  to  embrace, 
And  sweet  rosy  lips  to  kiss, 
And  mix  our  souls  in  mutual  bliss : 
Eyes  were  made  for  beauty's  grace ; 
Viewing,  ruing,  love's  long  pain. 
Procured  by  beauty's  rude  disdain. 
Come  away,  come,  sweet  love ! 
The  golden  morning  wastes. 
While  the  sun  from  his  sphere 
His  fiery  arrows  casts. 
Making  all  the  shadows  fly. 
Playing,  staying,  in  the  grove. 


To  entertain  the  stealth  of  love  ; 

Thither,  sweet  love,  let  us  hie, 

Flying,  dying,  in  desire, 

Wing'd  with  sweet  hopes  and  heavenly  fire. 

Come,  come,  sweet  love! 

Do  not  in  vain  adorn 

Beauty's  grace,  that  should  rise 

Like  to  the  naked  morn. 

Lilies  on  the  river's  side, 

And  fair  Cyprian  flow'rs  newly  blown, 

Ask  no  beauties  but  their  own. 

Ornament  is  nurse  of  pride .... 


JOHN  LYLY 


[Born,  1S54. 

Was  bom  in  the  Weald  of  Kent  Wood  places 
nis  birth  in  1553.  Oldys  makes  it  appear  proba- 
ble that  he  was  bom  much  earlier,*  He  studied 
at  both  the  universities,  and  for  many  years 
attended  the  court  of  Elizabeth  in  expectation  of 
being  made  Master  of  the  Revels.  In  this  object 
he  was  disappointed,  and  was  obliged,  in  his  old 
age,  to  solicit  the  Queen  for  some  trifling  grant  to 
support  him,t  which  it  is  uncertain  whether  he 
ever  obtained.  Very  little  indeed  is  known  of 
him,  though  Blount,  his  editor,  tells  us  that  "  he 
sate  at  Apollo's  table,  and  that  the  god  gave  him 
a  wreath  of  his  own  bays  without  snatching." 
Whether  Apollo  was  ever  so  complaisant  or  not, 
it  is  certain  that  Lyly's  work  of  "  Euphues  and  his 
England,"  preceded  by  another  called  »  Euphues, 
the  Anatomy  of  Wit,"  &c.,  promoted  a  fantastic 
style  of  false  wit,  bombastic  metaphor,  and  pedantic 
allusion,  which  it  was  fashionable  to  speak  at  court 
under  the  name  of  Euphuism,  and  which  the  ladies 


Died,  1600.] 

thought  it  indispensable  to  acquire.  Lyly,  m  his 
Euphues,  probably  did  not  create  the  new  style,  but 
only  collected  and  methodized  the  floating  afiecta- 
tions  of  phraseology.  Drayton  ascribes  the  over- 
throw of  Euphuism  to  Sir  P.  Sydney,  who,  he  says, 

did  first  reduce 

Our  tongues  from  Lylie's  writing  then  in  use, 
Talking  of  stones,  stars,  plants,  of  fishes,  flies, 
Plying  with  words  and  idle  similies, 
As  th'  English  apes  and  very  zanies  be 
Of  every  thing  that  they  do  hear  and  see. 

Sydney  died  in  1586,  and  Euphues  had  appeared 
but  six  years  earlier.  We  may  well  suppose  Syd- 
ney to  have  been  hostile  to  such  absurdity,  and  his 
writings  probably  promoted  a  better  taste ;  but  we 
hear  of  Euphuism  being  in  vogue  many  years  after 
his  death ;  and  it  seems  to  have  expired,  like  all 
other  fashions,  by  growing  vulgar.  Lyly  wrote 
nine  plays,  in  some  of  which  there  is  considera- 
ble wit  and  humour,  rescued  from  the  jargon  of 
his  favourite  system. 


CDPID  AND  CAMPASPE. 
Cupid  and  my  Campaspe  play'd 
At  cards  for  kisses :  Cupid  paid. 
He  stakes  his  quiver,  bow,  and  arrows ; 
His  mother's  doves  and  team  of  sparrows ; 
Loses  them  too :  then  down  he  throws 
The  coral  of  his  lip — the  rose 
Growing  on  's  cheek,  but  none  knows  how, 
With  these  the  crystal  on  his  brow. 
And  then  the  dimple  of  his  chin ; 
All  these  did  my  Campaspe  win : 
At  last  he  set  her  both  his  eyes ; 
She  won,  and  Cupid  blind  did  rise ; 
0  Love,  hath  she  done  this  to  thee  1 
What  shall,  alas !  become  of  me  1 


SONQ. 

ntOM   ALEXANDER  AND  CAMPASPE. 

What  bird  so  sings,  yet  so  does  wail  1 
O  'tis  the  ravish'd  nightingale — 
Jug,  jug,  jug,  jug — tereu — she  cries. 
And  still  her  woes  at  midnight  rise. 

[•  Lyly  was  born  in  Kent  In  1554.  and  was  matriculated  at 
Oxford  in  15n.when  it  was  recorded  in  the  entrythat  he  was 
•eTvnteen  years  old.— Coluer's  Annals,  vol.  iii.  p.  174.— C.j 


Brave  prick-song!  who  is't  now  we  hear? 
None  but  the  lark  so  shrill  and  clear ; 
Now  at  Heaven's  gate  she  claps  her  wings, 
The  morn  not  waking  till  she  sings. 
Hark  !  hark !  but  what  a  pretty  note, 
Poor  Robin  red-breast  tunes  his  throat ; 
Hark !  how  the  jolly  cuckoos  sing 
Cuckoo — to  welcome  in  the  spring. 

FROM  MOTHER  BOMBIE. 

0  Cupid,  monarch  over  kings. 

Wherefore  hast  thou  leet  and  wings  1 

Is  it  to  show  how  swift  thou  art. 

When  thou  wound'st  a  tender  heart  1 

Thy  wings  being  dipt  and  feet  held  still. 

Thy  bow  so  many  could  not  kill. 

It  is  all  one  in  Venus'  wanton  school. 

Who  highest  sits,  the  wise  man  or  the  fool — 

Fools  in  Love's  college 

Have  far  more  knowledge 

To  read  a  woman  over,  * 

Than  a  neat-prating  lover ; 

Nay,  'tis  confest 

That  fools  please  women  best. 

t  If  he  was  an  old  man  in  the  reign  of  Elizabeth,  01 
dys's  conjecture  as  to  the  date  of  his  birth  seems  to  1» 
verified, — as  we  scarcely  call  a  man  old  at  fifty. 


lb 


ALEXANDER  HUME 


[Born,  15607     Died,  I6U9?] 


Was  the  second  son  of  Patrick,  fifth  Baron  of 
Polwarth,  from  whom  the  family  of  Marchmont 
are  descended.  He  was  bom  probably  about  the 
middle,  and  died  about  the  end,  of  the  sixteenth 
century.  During  four  years  of  the  earher  part 
of  his  life,  he  resided  in  France,  sdler  which  he 
returned  home  and  studied  law,  but  abandoned 
the  bar  to  try  his  fortune  at  court.  There  he  is 
said  to  have  been  disgusted  with  the  preference 
shown  to  a  poetical  rival,  Montgomery,  with  whom 
he  exchanged  flylings,  (or  invectives,)  in  verse, 
and  who  boasts  of  having  «» driven  Polwart  from 
the  chimney  nook."  He  then  went  into  the 
church,  and  was  appointed  rector  or  minister  of 
Logie  ;  the  names  of  ecclesiastical  offices  in  Scot- 
land then  floating  between  presbytery  and  pre- 
lacy. In  the  clerical  profession  he  continued  till 
his  death.  Hume  hved  at  a  period  when  the 
spirit  of  Calvinism  in  Scotland  was  at  its  gloomi- 
est pitch,  and  when  a  reformation,  fostered  by  the 
poetry  of  Lyndsay,  and  by  the  learning  of  Bu- 


chanan, had  begun  to  grow  hostile  to  elegant  lite- 
rature. Though  the  drama,  rude  as  it  was,  had 
been  no  mean  engine  in  the  hands  of  Lyndsay 
against  popery,  yet  the  Scottish  reformers  of  this 
latter  period  even  anticipated  the  zeal  of  the  Eng- 
lish puritans  against  dramatic  and  romantic  poetry, 
which  they  regarded  as  emanations  from  hell. 
Hume  had  imbided  so  far  the  spirit  of  his  times 
as  to  publish  an  exhortation  to  the  youth  of  Scot- 
land to  forego  the  admiration  of  all  classical  he- 
roes, and  to  read  no  other  books  on  the  subject 
of  love  than  the  Song  of  Solomon.  But  Calvin- 
ism* itself  could  not  entirely  eradicate  the  beauty 
of  Hume's  fancy,  and  left  liim  still  the  high  foun- 
tain of  Hebrew  poetry  to  refresh  it.  In  the  fol- 
lowing specimen  of  his  poetry,  describing  the 
successive  appearances  of  nature  during  a  sum- 
mer's day,  there  is  a  train  of  images  that  seem 
pecuUarly  pleasing  and  unborrowed — the  pictures 
of  a  poetical  mind,  humble  but  genuine  in  its 
cast. 


THANKS   FOR  A   SUMMER'S   DAY. 


O  PERFECT  light  which  shaid"  away 
The  darkness  from  the  light. 
And  set  a  ruler  o'er  the  day, 
Another  o'er  the  night. 

Thy  glory,  when  the  day  forth  flies. 
More  vively  does  appear. 
Nor*  at  midday  unto  our  eyes 
The  shining  sun  is  clear. 

The  shadow  of  the  earth  anon 
Removes  and  drawls  by. 
Syne'  in  the  east,  when  it  is  gone, 
Appears  a  clearer  sky. 

Whilk"*  soon  perceive  the  little  larks, 
The  lapwing,  and  the  snipe, 
And  tune  their  song  like  Nature's  clerks, 
O'er  meadow,  muir,  and  stripe. 

But  every  bold  nocturnal  beast 
No  longer  may  abide. 
They  hie  away  both  maist  and  least,* 
Themselves  in  house  to  hide 

The  golden  globe  incontinent 
Sets  up  his  shining  head, 
And  o'er  the  earth  and  firmament 
Displays  his  beams  abread./ 

*  This  once  gloomy  influence  of  Calvinism  on  the  lite- 
rary character  of  the  Scottish  churchmen,  forms  a  con- 
trast with  more  recent  times,  that  nettls  scarcely  to  be 
suggested  to  those  acquainted  with  Scotland.  In  extend- 
ing the  classical  fame,  no  less  than  in  establishing  the 
moral  reputation  of  their  country,  the  Scottish  clergy 
have  exerted  a  primary  influence;  and  whatever  Presbv- 
16 


For  joy  the  birds  with  boulden*  throats. 
Against  his  visage  sheen,* 
Take  up  their  kindly  music  notes 
In  woods  and  gardens  green. 

Upbraids'  the  careful  husbandman. 
His  com  and  vines  to  see, 
And  every  timeousi  artisan 
In  booths  works  busily. 

The  pastor  quits  the  slothfril  sleep. 
And  passes  forth  with  speed. 
His  little  camow-nosed*  sheep. 
And  rowting  kye'  to  feed. 

The  passenger,  from  perils  sure, 
Goes  gladly  forth  the  way. 
Brief,  every  living  creature 
Takes  comfort  of  the  day. . . . 

The  misty  reek,*"  the  clouds  of  rain 
From  tops  of  mountain  skails," 
Clear  are  the  highest  hills  and  plain, 
The  vapours  take  the  vales. 

Bagaired"  is  the  sapphire  pendi" 
With  spraings"?  of  scarlet  hue ; 
And  preciously  from  end  to  end. 
Damasked  white  and  blue. 

terian  eloquence  might  onoe  be,  the  voice  of  enlightened 
principles  and  universal  charity  is  nowhere  to  be  heard 
more  distinctly  than  at  the  present  hour  from  their  pulpits. 
»  For  shaded.^  Scotticd  for  than. — e  Then. — d  Which. 
— «  Largest  and  smallest. — f  Abroad. — S  Kmboldened. — 
*  Shining. — •  Uprises.— j  Early. — *  Flat-nosed. — '  l>owing 
kiue. — n»iw. — ^nPours  off. — oDrest  out. — pArch. — fStreaks 
L  121 


122 


ALEXANDER  HUME. 


The  ample  heaven,  of  fabric  sure. 

In  clearness  does  surpass 

The  crjstal  and  the  silver,  pure 

As  clearest  polish'd  glass, 

The  time  so  tranquil  is  and  clear, 

That  no  where  shall  ye  find, 

Save  on  a  high  and  barren  hill, 

The  air  of  passing  wind. 

All  trees  and  simples,  great  and  small, 

That  balmy  leaf  do  bear. 

Than  they  were  painted  on  a  wall, 

No  more  they  move  or  steirT 

The  rivers  fresh,  the  callour'  streams. 

O'er  rocks  can  swiftly  rin,' 

The  water  clear  like  crystal  beams. 

And  makes  a  pleasant  din 

Calm  is  the  deep  and  purple  sea. 

Yea,  smoother  than  the  sand ; 

The  waves,  that  woltering"  wont  to  be, 

Are  stable  like  the  land. 

So  silent  is  the  cessile  air. 

That  every  cry  and  call, 

The  hills  and  dales,  and  forest  fair, 

Again  repeats  them  all. 

The  clogged  busy  humming  bees, 

That  never  think  to  drown," 

On  flowers  and  flourishes  of  trees. 

Collect  their  liquor  brown. 

The  sun  most  like  a  speedy  post 

With  ardent  course  ascends ; 

The  beauty  of  our  heavenly  host 

Up  to  our  zenith  tends  .... 

The  breathless  flocks  draw  to  the  shade 

And  freshure"'  of  their  fauld ; 

The  startling  nolt,*  a^  they  were  mad. 

Run  to  the  rivers  cald. 

The  herds  beneath  some  leafy  trees, 

Amidst  the  flow'rs  they  lie ; 
The  stable  ships  upon  the  seas 
Tend  up  their  sails  to  dry. 
The  hart,  the  hind,  the  fallow  deer, 

j\re  tapish'dv  at  their  rest ; 

The  fowls  and  birds  that  made  thee  beare,* 

Prepare  their  pretty  nest 

The  rayons  dure"  descending  down. 

All  kindle  in  a  gleid ;' 

In  city,  nor  in  burrough  town. 

May  name  set  forth  their  head. 

Back  from  the  blue  pavemented  whun,« 

And  from  ilk  plaster  wall. 

The  hot  reflexing  of  the  sun 

Inflames  the  air  and  all. 

The  labourers  that  timely  rose. 

All  weary,  faint,  and  weak. 

For  heat  down  to  their  houses  goes,* 

Noon-meite  and  sleep  to  take. 

r  Stir. — •  Cool. — «  Run.— «  Tumbling.— «  To  drone,  or  to 
be  ldl«.— •»  Fr«shne8«.— »  Oxen.— »  Carpeted. — «  Beare,  I 
suppose,  means  muKic. — To  beare  in  old  Scotch,  is  to  recite. 
Wynton,  in  his  Chronicle,  says,  '•  As  I  have  heard  men 
beare  on  hand." — «  Hard  or  keen  rays. — 1>  Fire. — e  Whin- 
stone.— <<  In  old  Scottish  poetry  little  attention  is  paid  to 
glTing  plural  nouns  a  plunl  verb. 


The  callour*  wine  in  cave  is  sought, 
Men's  brothing/  breasts  to  cool ; 
The  water  cold  and  clear  is  brought, 
And  sallads  steeped  in  ule.f 
With  gilded  eyes  and  open  wings, 
The  cock  his  courage  shows ; 
With  claps  of  joy  his  breast  he  dings,* 
And  twenty  times  he  crows. 
,  The  dove  with  whistling  wings  so  blue, 
The  winds  can  fast  collect, 
Her  purple  pens  turn  many  a  hue 
Against  the  sun  direct. 
Now  noon  is  gone — gone  is  midday. 
The  heat  does  slake  at  last. 
The  sun  descends  down  west  away, 
For  three  o'clock  is  past.  .... 

The  rayons  of  the  sun  we  see 

Diminish  in  their  strength. 

The  shade  of  every  tower  and  tree 

Extended  is  in  length. 

Great  is  the  calm,  for  everywhere 

The  wind  is  setting  down. 

The  reek'  throws  up  right  in  the  air. 

From  every  tower  and  town 

The  mavis  and  the  philomeen,i 

The  sterling  whistles  loud, 

The  cushats*  on  the  branches  green, 

Full  quietly  they  crood.' 

The  glomin™  comes,  the  day  is  spent. 

The  sun  goes  out  of  sight. 

And  painted  is  the  Occident 

With  purple  sanguine  bright. 
The  scarlet  nor  the  golden  thread, 
Who  would  their  beauty  try, 
Are  nothing  like  the  colour  red 

And  beauty  of  the  sky 

What  pleasure  then  to  walk  and  see, 
Endlang"  a  river  clear. 

The  perfect  form  of  every  tree 

Within  the  deep  appear. 

The  salmon  out  of  cruives"  and  creels,' 

Uphailed  into  scouts :' 

The  bells  and  circles  on  the  weills,*" 

Through  leaping  of  the  trouts. 

O  sure  it  were  a  seemly  thing. 

While  all  is  still  and  calm, 

The  praise  of  God  to  play  and  sing 

With  trumpet  and  with  shalm. 

Through  all  the  land  great  is  the  gild* 

Of  rustic  folks  that  cry  ; 

Of  bleating  sheep,  fra  they  be  fill'd. 

Of  calves  and  rowting  kye. 

All  labourers  draw  hame  at  even, 

And  can  to  others  say, 

Thanks  to  the  gracious  God  of  Heaven, 

Quhilk'  sent  this  summer  day. 

«  Cool.—/  Burning.—*  Oil. — *  Beats.—*  Smoke.— i  Thrush 
and  nightingale. — *  Wood-pigeons.— J  A  very  expressive 
word  for  the  note  of  the  cushat,  or  vrood-pigeon.— 
nt  Kvening. — »•  Along. — o  Places  for  confining  fish,  ge- 
nerally placed  in  the  dam  of  a  river. — P  Ba-skets. 
— 9  Small  boats  or  yawls. — '  Wells. — »  Throng.— 
t  Who. 


THOMAS   NASH. 


[Born,  1560?    Died  about  1600-4.] 


Thomas  Nash  was  bom  at  Lowestoft  in  Suf- 
folk, was  bred  at  Cambridge,  and  closed  a  calami- 
tous life  of  authorship  at  the  age,  it  is  said,  of 
forty-two.  Dr.  Beloe*  has  given  a  list  of  his 
works,  and  Mr.  D'Israelit  an  account  of  his  shifts 
and  miseries.  Adversity  seems  to  have  whetted 
his  genius,  as  his  most  tolerable  verses  are  those 
which  describe  his  own  despair ;  and  in  the  midst 
of  his  woes,  he  exposed  to  just  derision  the  pro- 
found fooleries  of  the  astrologer  Harvey,  who,  in 
the  year  1582,  had  thrown  the  whole  kingdom 
into  consternation  by  his  predictions  of  the  proba- 


ble effects  of  the  junction  of  Jupiter  ano  Saturp 
Drayton,  in  his  Epistle  of  Poets  and  Poesy,  saya 
of  him — 

Sharply  satyric  was  he,  and  that  way 
He  went,  since  that  his  being  to  this  day. 
Few  have  attempted,  and  I  surely  think, 
These  words  shall  hardly  be  set  down  with  ink, 
Shall  blast  and  scorch  so  as  his  could. 

From  the  allusion  which  he  makes  in  the  follow- 
ing quotation  to  Sir  P.  Sydney's  compassion,  be- 
fore the  introduction  of  the  following  lines,  it  may 
be  conjectured  that  he  had  experienced  the  bounty 
of  that  noble  character. 


DESPAIR   OF   A   POOR   SCHOLAR. 


FROM  PIERC£  PENNILESS. 


Why  is't  damnation  to  despair  and  die. 
When  life  is  my  true  happiness'  disease  ] 
My  soul,  my  soul,  thy  safety  makes  me  fly 
The  faulty  means  that  might  my  pain  appease: 
Divines  and  dying  nien  may  talk  of  hell, 
But  in  my  heart  her  several  torments  dwell. 

Ah,  worthless  wit!  to  train  me  to  this  woe: 
Deceitful  arts !  that  nourish  discontent : 
111  thrive  the  folly  that  bewitch'd  me  so ! 
Vain  thoughts,  adieu  !  for  now  I  will  repent. 
And  yet  my  wants  persuade  me  to  proceed. 
For  none  take  pity  of  a  scholar's  need. 

*  Anecdotes  of  Scarce  Books,    f  Calamities  of  Authors. 


Forgive  me,  God,  although  I  curse  my  birth. 
And  ban  the  air  wherein  I  breathe  a  wretch. 
Since  misery  hath  daunted  all  my  mirth, 
And  I  am  quite  undone  through  promise  breach ; 
Ah    friends! — no    friends    that    then    ungentle 

frown, 
When  changing  fortune  casts  us  headlong  down. 

Without  redress  complains  my  careless  verse, 
And  Midas'  ears  relent  not  at  my  moan ; 
In  some  far  land  will  I  my  griefs  rehearse, 
'Mongst  them  that  will  be  moved  when  I  shall 

groan. 
England,  adieu !  the  soil  that  brought  me  forth, 
Adieu  !  unkind,  where  skill  is  nothing  worth. 


EDWARD   VERE,  EARL  OF  OXFORD. 


[Born,  IS34. 

This  nobleman  sat  as  Great  Chamberlain  of 
England  upon  the  trial  of  Mary  Queen  of  Scots. 
In  the  year  of  the  Armada,  he  distinguished  his 
pubhc  spirit  by  fitting  out  some  ships  at  his  pri- 
vate cost.  He  had  travelled  in  Italy  in  his  youth, 
and  is  said  to  have  returned  the  most  accom- 
plished coxcomb  of  his  age.     The  story  of  his 


Died,  1604.] 

quarrel  with  Sir  Philip  Sydney,  as  it  is  related  by 
Collins,  gives  us  a  most  unfavourable  idea  of  his 
manners  and  temper,  and  shows  to  what  a  height 
the  claims  of  aristocratical  privilege  were  at  that 
time  carried.^  Some  still  more  discreditable  traits 
of  his  character  are  to  be  found  in  the  history  of 
his  life.§ 


FANCY   AND   DESIRE. 

FROM  THE  PARADISE  OP  D.UNTT  DETICEB. 


When  wert  thou  bom,  Desire  1     In  pride  and 

pomp  of  May. 
By  whom,  sweet  boy,  wert  thou  begot  1     By  fond 

conceit,  men  say. 

t  The  Earl  of  Oxford  being  one  day  in  the  tenuliMSOurt 
with  Sir  Philip  Sydney,  on  gome  offence  which  he  had 
taken,  ordertnl  him  to  leave  the  room,  and,  on  hi-s  refusal, 
gave  him  the  epithet  of  a  puppy.  Sir  Philip  ri'torted  the 
Hh  on  his  lord<hip,  and  left  the  place,  expecting  to  be  fol- 
lowed by  the  peer.  But  Lord  Oxford  neither  followe<l  him 
nor  nnil»-d  h'R  quarrel,  till  her  majesty's  council  had  time 
til  oomiiiand  the  peace.  The<]ueen  intt^rft^red,  reminding 
Sir  Philip  of  the  difference  between  "  earls  and  gentlemen." 


Tell  me  who  was  thy  nurse  ?     Fresh  Youth,  in 

sugar'd  joy. 
What  was  thy  meat  and  daily  food  1     Sad  sighs 

with  great  annoy. 

and  of  the  respect  which  inferiors  owed  their  guperion). 
Sydney,  boldly  but  respectfully,  stated  to  her  majesty, 
that  rank  among  fn'Cmen  could  claim  no  other  homage 
than  precedency,  and  did  not  obey  her  commands  to  make 
submission  to  Oxford.  For  a  fuller  stata-ment  of  this  anec- 
dote, vide  the  quotation  from  Collins,  in  the  British  Biblio- 
grapher, vol.  i.  p.  83, 

§  By  Mr.  Park,  in  the  Catalogue  of  Royal  and  Nobl* 
Authors. 

123 


124 


THOMAS  STOKER. 


What  hadst  thou  then  to  drink  1  Unsavoury 
lovers'  tears. 

What  cradle  wert  thou  rock'd  in  1  In  hope  de- 
void of  fears. 

What  luU'd  thee,  then,  asleep  1  Sweet  sleep,  which 
likes  me  best. 

Tell  me  where  is  thy  dwelling-place  ?  In  gentle 
hearts  I  rest 

What  thing  doth  please  thee  most  1     To  gaze  on 

beauty  still. 
What  dost  thou  think  to  be  thy  foe  1     Disdain  of 

my  good- will. 
Doth  company  displease  1    Yes,  surely,  many  one. 
Where  doth  Desire  delight  to  live  1     He  loves  to 

live  alone. 

Doth  either  Time  or  Age  bring  him  into  decay  1 
No,  no,  Desire  both  lives  and  dies  a  thousand 

times  a  day. 
Then,  fond  Desire,  farewell !  thou  art  no  mate 

for  me : 
I  should,  methinks,  be  loth  to  dwell  with  such  a 

one  as  thee. 


LIN£S  ATTRIBUTED  TO  THE  EARL  OF  OXFORD. 

IN   A   MS.  OF  THE   BODLEIAN  UBRART. 

If  women  could  be  fair,  and  yet  not  fond. 
Or  that  their  love  were  firm,  not  fickle  still, 
I  would  not  marvel  that  they  make  me  bond. 
By  service  long,  to  purchase  their  good-will ; 
But  when  I  see  how  frail  those  creatures  are, 
I  muse  that  men  forget  themselves  so  far. 

To  mark  the  choice   they  make,  and  how  they 

change, 
How  oft  from  Phoebus  they  do  flee  to  Pan; 
Unsettled  still,  like  haggards  wild  they  range, 
These  gentle  birds  that  fly  from  man  to  man ; 
Who  would  not  scorn  and  shake  them  from  the  fist. 
And  let  them  fly,  fair  fools,  where'er  they  list? 

Yet,  for  disport,  we  fawn  and  flatter  both. 
To  pass  the  time  when  nothing  else  can  please, 
And  train  them  to  our  lure  with  subtle  oath. 
Till,  weary  of  their  wiles,  ourselves  we  ease ; 
And  then  we  say,  when  we  their  fancy  try, 
To  play  with  fools,  oh,  what  a  fool  was  I ! 


THOMAS  STOKER. 


[Died,  1604.] 


The  date  of  this  writer's  birth  can  only  be 
generally  conjectured  from  his  having  been 
elected  a  Student  of  Christ  Church,  Oxford,  in 
\1 587.  The  slight  notice  of  him  by  Wood  only 
mentions  that  he  was  the  son  of  John  Storer,  a 


Londoner,  and  that  he  died  in  the  metropolis. 
Besides  the  History  of  Cardinal  Wolsey  in  three 
parts,  viz.  his  aspiring,  his  triumph,  and  death, 
he  wrote  several  pastoral  pieces  in  England's 
Helicon. 


FROM  THE  LIFE  AND   DEATH   OF  CARDINAL  WOLSEY. 


Perchance  the  tenor  of  my  mourning  verse 
May  lead  some  pilgrim  to  my  tombless  grave, 
W^here  neither  marble  monument,  nor  hearse, 
The  passenger's  attentive  view  may  crave. 
Which  honours  now  ^he  meanest  persons  have ; 
But  well  is  me,  where'er  my  ashes  lie. 
If  one  tear  drop  from  some  religious  eye. 


WOLSEY-S  AMBITION. 
Yet,  as  through  Tagus'  fair  transparent  streams. 
The  wand 'ring  merchant  sees  the  wealthy  gold, 
Or  like  in  Cynthia's  half-obscured  beams. 
Through  misty  clouds  and  vapours  manifold ; 
So  through  a  mirror  of  my  hoped-for  gain, 
I  saw  the  treasure  which  I  should  obtain. 


WOLSEY'S  VISION. 
From  that  rich  valley  where  the  angels  laid  him, 
His  unknown  sepulchre  in  Moab's  land, 
Moses,  that  Israel  led,  and  they  obey'd  him. 
In  glorious  view  before  my  face  did  stand, 
Bearing  the  folded  tables  in  his  hand. 
Wherein  the  doom  of  life,  and  death's  despair 
By  God's  own  finger  was  engraven  there. 


Then  passing  forth  a  joyful  troop  ensued 

Of  worthy  judges  and  triumphant  kings.  .  .  . 

After  several  personages  of  sacred  history,  some  alle- 
gorical ones  condescend  to  visit  the  sleeping  Cardinal, 
among  whom  Theology  naturally  has  a  place,  and  is  thus 
described : — 

In  chariot  framed  of  celestial  mould. 

And  simple  pureness  of  the  purest  sky, 

A  more  than  heavenly  nymph  I  did  behold. 

Who  glancing  on  me  with  her  gracious  eye. 

So  gave  me  leave  her  beauty  to  espy ; 

For  sure  no  sense  such  sight  can  comprehend. 

Except  her  beams  their  fair  reflection  lend. 

Her  beauty  with  Eternity  began, 

And  only  unto  God  was  ever  seen. 

When  Eden  was  possess'd  with  sinful  man. 

She  came  to  him  and  gladly  would  have  been 

The  long  succeeding  world's  eternal  Queen ; 

But  they  refused  her,  O  heinous  deed ! 

And  from  that  garden  banish'd  was  their  seed. 

Since  when,  at  sundry  times  in  sundry  ways, 

Atheism  and  blended  Ignorance  conspire. 

How  to  obscure  those  holy  burning  rays. 

And  quench  that  zeal  of  heart-inflaming  fire 

That  makes  our  souls  to  heavenly  things  aspiri* ; 

But  all  in  vain,  for,  maugre  all  their  might, 

She  never  lost  one  sparkle  of  her  light 


JOSEPH   HALL. 


[Bom,  IS74.    Died,  1656.] 


Bishop  Hall,  who  for  his  ethical  eloquence 
has  been  sometimes  denominated  the  Christian 
Seneca,  was  also  the  first  who  gave  our  language 
an  example  of  epistolary  composition  in  prose- 
He  wrote  besides  a  satirical  fiction,  entitled  Mun- 
dus  alter  et  idem,  in  which,  under  pretence  of  de- 
scribing the  Terra  Auslralis  Incognita,  he  reversed 
the  plan  of  Sir  Thomas  More's  Utopia,  and  cha- 
racterized the  vices  of  existing  nations.  Of  our 
satirical  poetry,  taking  satire  in  its  moral  and 
dignified  sense,  he  claims,  and  may  be  allowed, 
to  be  the  founder:  for  the  ribaldry  of  Skelton, 
and  the  crude  essays  of  the  graver  Wyat,  hardly 
entitle  them  to  that  appellation.*  Though  he 
lived  till  beyond  the  middle  of  the  seventeenth 
century,  his  satires  were  written  before,  and  his 
Mundus  alter  et  idem  about,  the  year  1600:  so 
that  his  antiquity,  no  less  than  his  strength,  gives 
hhn  an  important  place  in  the  formation  of  our 
literature.t 

In  his  Satires,  which  were  pubUshed  at  the  age 
of  twenty-three,  he  discovered  not  only  the  early 
vigour  of  his  own  genius,  but  the  powers  and 
pliability  of  his  native  tongue.  Unfortunately, 
perhaps  unconsciously,  he  caught,  firom  studying 
Juvenal  and  Persius  as  his  models,  an  elliptical 
manner  and  an  antique  allusion,  which  cast  ob- 
scurity over  his  otherwise  spirited  and  amusing 
traits  of  English  manners;  though  the  satirist 
himself  was  so  far  fi-om  anticipating  this  objection, 
that  he  formally  apologizes  for  "  too  much  looping 
to  the  low  reach  of  the  vulgar."  But  in  many 
instances  he  redeems  the  antiquity  of  his  allusions 
by  their  ingenious  adaptation  to  modern  manners; 
and  this  is  but  a  small  part  of  his  praise ;  for  in 
the  point  and  volubility,  and  vigour  of  Hall's 
numbers,  we  might  fi-equently  imagine  ourselves 
perusing  Dryden.J  This  may  be  exemplified  in 
the  harmony  and  picturesqueness  of  the  following 
description  of  a  magnificent  rural  mansion,  which 
the  traveller  approaches  in  the  hopes  of  reaching 
the  seat  of  ancient  hospitality,  but  finds  it  deserted 
by  its  selfish  owner. 

Beat  the  broad  gates,  a  goodly  bollow  nottnd, 
With  double  echoes,  doth  again  rebound; 
But  not  a  dog  doth  bark  to  welcome  thee. 
Nor  churlish  porter  canst  thou  chafing  see. 

[♦  Donne  appears  to  have  been  the  first  in  order  of  com- 
position— though  Hall  and  Marston  made  their  appearance 
in  print  before  him. — C.] 

t  His  name  is  therefore  placed  in  these  Specimens  with 
a  variation  from  the  general  order,  not  according  to  the 
date  of  his  death,  but  about  the  time  of  his  appeamnre  as 
a  poet. 

X  The  satire  which  I  think  contains  the  most  vigorous 
and  musical  couplets  of  this  old  poet,  is  the  first  of  Book 
3d,  beginning. 

Time  was,  and  that  was  term'd  the  time  of  gold, 
M'hen  world  and  time  were  young,  that  now  are  old. 

I  preferred,  however,  the  insertion  of  others  as  examples 
of  his  poetry,  m  they  are  more  descriptive  of  Knglish 


All  dumb  and  silent  like  the  dead  of  night, 
Or  dwelling  of  some  sleepy  Sybarite ; 
The  marble  pavement  hid  with  desert  weed, 
With  house-leek,  thistle,  dock,  and  hemlock  seed. 

Look  to  the  towered  chimneys,  which  should  be 

The  wind-pipes  Of  good  liospitality, 

Through  which  it  l>reatheth  to  the  open  air. 

Betokening  life  and  liberal  welf&re, 

Lo.  there  th'  unthankful  swallow  takes  her  rest 

And  fills  the  tunnel  with  her  circled  nest. 

His  satires  are  neither  cramped  by  personal 
hostility,  nor  spun  out  to  vague  declamations  on 
vice,  but  give  us  the  form  and  pressure  of  the 
times  exhibited  in  the  faults  of  coeval  literature, 
and  in  the  foppery  or  sordid  traits  of  prevailing 
manners.  The  age  was  undoubtedly  fertile  in 
eccentricity.  His  picture  of  its  literature  may  at 
first  view  appear  to  be  overcharged  with  severity, 
accustomed  as  we  are  to  associate  a  general  idea 
of  excellence  with  the  period  of  Elizabeth;  but 
when  Hall  wrote  there  was  not  a  great  poet  firmly 
established  in  the  language  except  Spenser,  and 
on  him  he  has  bestowed  ample  applause.  With 
regard  to  Shakspeare,  the  reader  will  observe  a 
passage  in  the  first  satire,  where  the  poet  speaks 
of  resigning  the  honours  of  heroic  and  tragic 
poetry  to  more  inspired  geniuses ;  and  it  is  possi- 
ble that  the  great  dramatist  may  be  here  alluded 
to,  as  well  as  Spenser.  But  the  allusion  is  in- 
distinct, and  not  necessarily  applicable  to  the 
bard  of  Avon.  Shakspeare's  Romeo  and  Juliet, 
Richard  H.  and  III.  have  been  traced  in  print  to 
no  earlier  date  than  the  year  1597,  in  which  Hall's 
first  series  of  satires  appeared ;  and  we  have  no 
suflScient  proof  of  his  previous  fame  as  a  dramatist 
having  been  so  great  as  to  leave  Hall  without 
excuse  for  omitting  to  pay  him  homage.  But 
the  sunrise  of  the  drama  with  Shakspeare  was 
not  without  abundance  of  stttendant  mists  in  the 
contemporary  fustian  of  inferior  playmakers,  who 
are  severely  ridiculed  by  our  satirist.  In  addition 
to  this,  our  poetry  was  still  haunted  by  the  whining 
ghosts  of  the  Mirror  for  Magistrates,  while  ob- 
scenity walked  in  barbarous  nakedness,  and  the 
very  genius  of  the  language  was  threatened  by 
revolutionary  prosodists. 

From  the  literature  of  the  age  Hall  proceeds  to 
its  manners  and  prejudices,  and  among  the  latter 
derides  the  prevalent  confidence  in  alchymy  and 
astrology.  To  us  this  ridicule  appears  an  ordinary 
eflbrt  of  reason;  but  it  was  in  him  a  common 
sense  above  the  level  of  the  times.  If  any  proof 
were  required  to  illustrate  the  slow  departure  of 
prejudices,  it  would  be  found  in  the  fact  of  an 

manners  than  the  fanciful  praises  of  the  golden  age  which 
that  satire  contains.  It  is  flowing  and  fanciful,  but  eon 
veys  only  the  insipid  moral  of  men  decaying  by  th(!  pro- 
gress of  civilization:  a  doctrine  not  unlike  that  which 
Gulliver  found  in  the  book  of  the  old  woman  of  Brobdiiruag, 
whose  author  lamented  the  tinj  sijse  of  the  modern  BroS 
dignagdi&ns  compared  with  that  of  their  ancestors. 
l2  Vii 


126 


JOSEPH   HALL. 


astrologer  being  patronised,  half  a  century  after- 
wards, by  the  government  of  England.* 

During  his  youth  and  education  he  had  to 
struggle  with  poverty ;  and  in  his  old  age  he  was 
one  of  those  sufferers  in  the  cause  of  episcopacy 
whose  virtues  shed  a  lustre  on  its  fall.  He  was 
born  in  the  parish  of  Ashby  de  la  Zouche,  in 
Liecestershire,  studied  and  took  orders  at  Cam- 
bridge, and  was  for  some  time  master  of  the 
school  of  Tiverton,  in  Devonsliire.  An  accidental 
opportunity  which  he  had  of  preaching  before 
Prince  Henry  seems  to  have  given  the  first  im- 
pulse to  his  preferment,  till  by  gradual  promotion 
ho  rose  to  be  bishop  of  Exeter,  having  previously 
accompanied  King  James,  as  one  of  his  chaplains 
to  Scotland,  and  attended  the  Synod  of  Dort  at  a 
convocation  of  the  protestant  divines.  As  bishop 
of  Exeter  he  was  so  mild  in  his  conduct  towards 
the  puritans,  that  he,  who  was  one  of  the  last 
broken  pillars  of  the  church,  was  nearly  perse- 
cuted for  favouring  them.  Had  such  conduct 
been,  at  this  critical  period,  pursued  by  the  high 


churchmen  in  general,  the  history  of  a  bloody 
age  might  have  been  changed  into  that  of  peace ; 
but  the  violence  of  Laud  prevailed  over  the  milder 
counsels  of  a  Hall,  an  Usher,  and  a  Corbet.  When 
the  dangers  of  the  church  grew  more  instant.  Hall 
became  its  champion,  and  was  met  in  the  field 
of  controversy  by  Milton,  whose  respect  for  the 
bishop's  learning  is  ill  concealed  under  the  attempt 
to  cover  it  with  derision. 

By  the  little  power  that  was  still  left  to  the 
sovereign  in  1641,  Hall  was  created  bishop  of 
Norwich  ;  but  having  joined,  almost  immediately 
after,  in  the  protest  of  the  twelve  prelates  against 
the  validity  of  laws  that  should  be  passed  in  their 
compelled  absence,  he  was  committed  to  the 
Tower,  and,  in  the  sequel,  marked  out  for  seques- 
tration. After  sufi'ering  extreme  hardships,  he  was 
allowed  to  retire,  on  a  small  pittance,  to  Higham, 
near  Norwich,  where  he  continued,  in  comparative 
obscurity,  but  with  indefatigable  zeal  and  intre- 
pidity, to  exercise  the  duties  of  a  pastor,  till  he 
closed  his  days  at  the  venerable  age  of  eighty-two. 


SATIRE  I.    BOOK  I. 
Nor  ladies'  wanton  love,  nor  wand'ring  knight, 
Legend  I  out  in  rhymes  all  richly  dight 
Nor  fright  the  reader  with  the  Pagan  vaunt 
Of  mighty  Mahound,  and  great  Termagaunt 
Nor  hst  I  sonnet  of  my  mistress'  face. 
To  paint  some  Blowesse  with  a  borrowed  grace; 
Nor  can  I  bide  to  pen  some  hungry  scene 
For  thick-skui  ears,  and  undiscerning  eyne. 
Nor  ever  could  my  scornful  muse  abide 
With  tragic  shoes  her  ancles  for  to  hide. 
Nor  can  I  crouch,  and  writhe  my  fawning  tail 
To  some  great  patron,  for  my  best  avail. 
Such  hunger  stars'en  trencher  poetry, 
Or  let  it  never  live,  or  timely  die : 
Nor  under  every  bank  and  every  tree, 
Speak  rhymes  unto  my  oaten  minstrelsy : 
Nor  carol  out  so  pleasing  lively  lays. 
As  might  the  Graces  move  my  mirth  to  praise.f 
Trumpet,  and  reeds,  and  socks,  and  buskins  fine, 
I  them  bequeath :  whose  statues  wand'ring  twine 
Of  ivy  mix'd  with  bays,  circling  around 
Their  living  temples  likewise  laurel-bound. 
Rathei  had  I,  albe  in  ceireless  rhymes. 
Check  the  mis-order'd  world,  and  lawless  times. 
Nor  need  I  crave  the  muse's  midwifery, 
To  bring  to  light  so  worthless  poetry  : 

•  William  Lilly  received  a  pension  from  the  council  of 
otate,  in  IWS.  He  was.  besides,  consulted  by  Charles ;  and 
during  the  siege  of  Colchester,  wa^  sent  fur  by  the  heads 
of  the  parliauii-ntary  army,  to  encourage  the  soldiers,  by 
assuring  tliem  that  the  town  would  be  taken.  Fairfax 
toid  the  seer,  that  he  did  not  understand  his  art,  but 
hoped  it  was  lawful,  and  agreeable  to  Ood's  word.  Butler 
alludes  to  this  when  he  says. 

Do  not  our  great  Reformers  use 
This  Sidrophel  to  forebode  news; 
To  write  of  victories  next  year. 
And  castles  taken  yet  i'  th'  air?  .  .  . 

And  has  not  he  point-blank  foretold 
What's'er  the  Close  Committee  would; 
Made  Mars  and  Saturn  for  the  Cause, 
The  moon  for  fundamental  laws     .  .  , 


Or  if  we  list,  what  baser  muse  can  bide, 
To  sit  and  sing  by  Granta's  naked  side  ] 
They  haunt  the  tided  Thames  and  salt  Medway, 
E'er  since  the  fame  of  their  late  bridal  day. 
Nought  have  we  here  but  willow-shaded  shore. 
To  tell  our  Grant  his  banks  are  left  forlore. 


SATIRE  III.J    BOOK  X. 
With  some  pot  fury,  ravish'd  fi-om  their  wit,  , 
They  sit  and  muse  on  some  no-vulgar  writ : 
As  frozen  dunghills  in  a  winter's  morn, 
That  void  of  vapours  seemed  all  befom, 
Soon  as  the  sun  sends  out  his  piercing  beams, 
Exhale  out  filthy  smoke  and  stinking  steams. 
So  doth  the  base,  and  the  sore-barren  brain, 
Soon  as  the  raging  wine  begins  to  reign. 
One  higher  pitch'd  doth  set  his  soaring  thought 
On  crowned  kings,  that  fortune  hath  low  brought : 
Or  some  upreared,  high-aspiring  swain. 
As  it  might  be  the  Turkish  Tamberlain : 
Then  weeneth  he  his  base  drink-drowned  spright, 
Rapt  to  the  threefold  loft  of  heaven  height. 
When  he  conceives  upon  his  feigned  stage 
The  stalking  steps  of  his  great  personage. 
Graced  with  huff-cap  terms  and  thund'ring  threats, 
That  his  poor  hearer's  hair  quite  upright  sets. 


Made  all  the  Royal  stars  recant, 
Compound  and  take  the  Covenant? 

Uadibras,  Canto  ra 

t  In  this  satire,  which  is  not  perfectly  intelligible  at  the 
first  glance,  the  author,  after  deriding  the  romantic  and 
pastoral  vein  of  affected  or  mercenary  poetasters,  proceeds 
to  declare,  that  ibr  his  own  part  he  resigns  the  higher 
walks  of  genuine  poetry  to  others;  that  he  need  not  crave 
the  "Muse's  midwifery,"  since  not  even  a  baser  muse 
would  now  haunt  the  shore  of  Granta  (the  Cam),  which 
they  have  left  deserted,  and  crowned  with  willows,  the 
types  of  desertion  ever  since  Spenser  celebrated  the  mar- 
riage of  the  Medway  »nd  the  Thames. — E. 

X  This  satire  is  levelled  at  the  intemperance  and  bom- 
bastic fury  of  his  contemporary  dramatists,  witii  an  evi- 
dent allusion  to  Marlowe;  and  in  the  conclusion  he  attacks 
the  buffoonery  that  disgraced  the  stage. — E. 


JOSEPH   HALL. 


127 


Suet  soon  as  some  brave-minded  hungry  youth 

Sees  fitly  frame  to  his  wide-strained  mouth, 

He  vaunts  his  voice  upon  an  hired  stage, 

With  high-set  steps,  and  princely  carriage ; 

Now  sweeping  in  side  robes  of  royalty. 

That  erst  did  scrub  in  lousy  brokery, 

There  if  he  can  with  terms  Italianate 

Big  sounding  sentences,  and  words  of  state, 

Fair  patch  me  up  his  pure  iambic  verse, 

He  ravishes  the  gazing  scaffolders : 

Then  certes  was  the  famous  Corduban, 

Never  but  half  so  high  tragedian. 

Now,  lest  such  frightful  shows  of  fortune's  fall, 

And  bloody  tyrant's  rage,  should  chance  appal 

The  dead-struck  audience,  'midst  the  silent  rout, 

Comes  leaping  in  a  self-misformed  lout, 

And  laughs,  and  grins,  and  frames  his  mimic  face, 

And  justles  straight  into  the  prince's  place ; 

Then  doth  the  theatre  echo  all  aloud. 

With  gladsome  noise  of  that  applauding  crowd. 

A  goodly  hotch-potch !  when  vile  russetings 

Are  match'd  with  monarchs,  and  with  mighty  kings. 

A  goodly  grace  to  sober  tragic  muse. 

When  each  base  clown  his  clumsy  fist  doth  bruise, 

And  show  his  teeth  in  double  rotten  row, 

For  laughter  at  his  self-resembled  show. 

Meanwhile  our  poets  in  high  parliament 

Sit  watching  every  word  and  gesturement, 

Like  curious  censors  of  some  doughty  gear, 

Whispering  their  verdict  in  their  fellow's  ear. 

Woe  to  the  word  whose  margent  in  their  scroll 

Is  noted  with  a  black  condemning  coal. 

But  if  each  period  might  the  synod  please. 

Ho : — bring  the  ivy  boughs,  and  bands  of  bays. 

Now  when  they  part  and  leave  the  naked  stage, 

'Gins  the  bare  hearer,  in  a  guilty  rage. 

To  curse  arfd  ban,  and  blame  his  likerous  eye. 

That  thus  hath  lavish'd  his  late  halfpenny. 

Shame  that  the  muses  should  be  bought  and  sold 

For  every  peasant's  brass,  on  each  scaffold. 


SATIRE  V.    BOOK  in. 
Fie  on  all  courtesy  and  unruly  winds. 
Two  only  foes  that  fair  disguisement  finds. 
Strange  curse!  but  fit  for  such  a  fickle  age, 
When  scalps  are  subject  to  such  vassalage. 
Late  travelling  along  in  London  way, 
Me  met,  as  seem'd  by  his  disguised  array, 
A  lusty  courtier,  whose  curled  head 
With  auburn  locks  was  fairly  furnished. 
I  him    aluted  in  our  lavish  wise: 
He  answers  my  untimely  courtesies. 
His  bonnet  vail'd,  ere  ever  I  should  think, 
Th'  unruly  wind  blows  off  his  periwink. 
He  lights  and  runs,  and  quickly  hath  him  sped 
To  overtake  his  over-running  head. 
The  sportful  wind,  to  mock  the  headless  man, 
Tosses  apace  his  pitch'd  Rogerian, 

*  In  this  description  of  a  famished  gallant,  Hall  has 
rlTalled  the  succeeding  humour  of  Uen  Jonson  in  similar 
comic  portraits.  Among  the  traits  of  affi-ctation  in  his 
Bnished  character,  is  that  of  dining  with  Duke  Humphry, 
while  he  pretends  to  keep  open  house.  The  phrase  of 
dining  with  Dako  Humphry  arose  from  St.  Paul's  being 


And  straight  it  to  a  deeper  ditch  hath  blown : 
There  must  my  yonker  fetch  his  waxen  crown. 
I  look'd  and  laugh'd,  whiles,  in  his  raging  mind. 
He  crust  all  courtesy  and  unruly  wind. 
I  look'd  and  laugh'd,  and  much  I  marvelled. 
To  see  so  large  a  causeway  in  his  head ; 
And  me  bethought  that  when  it  first  begon, 
'Twas  some  shroad  autumn  that  so  bared  the  bone. 
Is't  not  sweet  pride  then,  when  the  crowns  must 

shade 
With  that  which  jerks  the  hams  of  every  jade. 
Or  floor-strew'd  locks  fi-om  off  the  barber's  shears  1 
But  waxen  crowns  well  'gree  with  borrow'd  hairs. 


SATIRE  VII.*    BOOK  III. 
Seest  thou  how  gayly  my  young  master  goes. 
Vaunting  himself  upon  his  rising  toes ; 
And  pranks  his  hand  upon  his  dagger's  side ; 
And  picks  his  glutted  teeth  since  late  noon-tide  1 
'Tis  Ruffio :  Trow'st  thou  where  he  dined  to-day 
In  sooth  I  saw  him  sit  with  Duke  Humfiray. 
Many  good  welcomes,  and  much  gratis  cheer 
Keeps  he  for  every  straggling  cavalier. 
And  open  house,  haunted  with  great  resort* 
Long  service  mix'd  with  musical  disport. 
Many  fair  yonker  with  a  feather'd  crest. 
Chooses  much  rather  be  his  shot-fi-ee  gues:. 
To  fare  so  fireely  with  so  little  cost. 
Than  stake  his  twelvepcnce  to  a  meaner  host 
Hadst  thou  not  told  me,  I  should  surely  say 
He  touch'd  no  meat  of  all  this  live-long  day. 
For  sure  methought,  yet  that  weis  but  a  guess, 
His  eyes  seem'd  sunk  from  very  hollowness, 
But  could  he  have  (as  I  did  it  mistake) 
So  httle  in  his  purse,  so  much  upon  his  backl 
So  nothing  in  his  maw  1  yet  seemeth  by  his  belt, 
That  his  gaunt  gut  no  too  much  stuflSng  felt. 
Seest  thou  how  side  it  hangs  beneath  his  hip  1 
Hunger  and  heavy  iron  makes  girdles  sUp. 
Yet  for  all  that,  how  stiffly  struts  he  by, 
AU  trapped  in  the  new-found  bravery. 
The  nuns  of  new-won  Calais  his  bonnet  lent, 
In  lieu  of  their  so  kind  a  conquerment. 
What  needed  he  fetch  that  from  farthest  Spain, 
His  grandame  could  have  lent  with  lesser  pain  1 
Though  he  perhaps  ne'er  pass'd  the  English  shore, 
Yef  fain  would  counted  be  a  conqueror. 
His  hair,  French-like,  stares  on  his  frighted  head. 
One  lock  amazon-like  dishevelled. 
As  if  he  meant  to  wear  a  native  cord. 
If  chance  his  fates  should  him  that  bane  afford. 
All  British  bare  upon  the  bristled  skin. 
Close  notched  is  his  beard  both  Up  and  chin; 
His  linen  collar  labyrinthian  set) 
Whose  thousand  double  turnings  never  met: 
His  sleeves  half  hid  with  elbow  pinionings. 
As  if  he  meant  to  fiy  with  linen  wings. 
But  when  I  look,  and  cast  mine  eyes  below. 
What  monster  meets  mine  eyes  in  human  show  1 

the  general  resort  of  the  loungers  of  those  days,  many 
of  whom,  like  Hall's  gallant,  were  glad  to  beguile  the 
thoughts  of  dinner  with  a  walk  in  the  middle  aisle,  where 
there  was  a  tomb,  by  mistake  supposed  to  be  that  of 
Humphry,  Duke  of  Qloucester. — E. 


128 


JOSEPH   HALL. 


So  slender  waist  with  such  an  abbot's  loin. 

Did  never  sober  nature  sure  conjoin. 

Lik'st  a  straw  scare-crow  in  the  new-sown  field, 

Rcar'd  on  some  stick,  the  tender  corn  to  shield ; 

Or  if  that  semblance  suit  not  every  deal, 

Like  a  broad  shake-fork  with  a  slender  steel.  . . . 


SATIRE  VI  •    BOOK  IV. 
Quid  placet  ergo  f 
I  WOT  not  how  the  world's  degenerate, 
That  men  or  know  or  like  not  their  estate : 
Out  from  the  Gades  up  to  th'  eastern  morn. 
Not  one  but  holds  his  native  state  forlorn. 
When  comely  striplings  wish  it  were  their  chance 
For  Csenis'  distaflT  to  exchange  their  lance, 
And  wear  curl'd  periwigs,  and  chalk  their  face, 
And  still  are  poring  on  their  pocket-glass. 
Tired  with  pinn'd  ruffs  and  fans,  and  partlet  strips 
And  busks  and  verdingales  about  their  hips; 
And  tread  on  corked  stilts  a  prisoner's  pace, 
And  make  their  napkin  for  their  spitting-place, 
And  gripe  their  waist  within  a  narrow  span : 
Fond  Cfenis,  that  wouldst  wish  to  be  a  man! 
Whosp  mannish  housewives  like  their  refuse  state. 
And  make  a  drudge  of  their  uxorious  mate, 
Who  like  a  cot-queen  freezeth  at  the  rock, 
"Whiles  his  breech'd  dame  doth  man  the  foreign 

stock. 
Is"t  not  a  shame  to  see  each  homely  groom 
Sit  per«-hed  in  an  idle  chariot  room, 
That  were  not  meet  some  pannel  to  bestride, 
Surcingled  to  a  galled  hackney's  hide? 
Eiich  murk-worm  will  be  rich  with  lawless  gain, 
Although  he  smother  up  mows  of  seven  years' 

ffrain, 
And  hang'd  himself  when  corn  grows  cheap  again ; 
Although  he  buy  whole  harvests  in  the  spring. 
And  foist  in  false  strikes  to  the  measuring, 
Although  his  shop  be  muffled  from  the  light, 
Like  a  day  dungeon,  or  Cimmeri.in  night; 
Nor  full  nor  fasting  can  the  carle  take  rest, 
While  his  george-nobles  rusten  in  his  chest; 
He  sleeps  but  once,  and  dreams  of  burglary 
And  wakes,  and  casts  about  his  frighted  eye, 
And  gropes  for  thieves  in  every  darker  shade ; 
And  if  a  mouse  but  stir,  he  calls  for  aid. 
The  sturdy  ploughman  doth  the  soldier  see, 
All  scarf 'd  with  pied  colours  to  the  knee. 
Whom  Indian  pdlage  hath  made  fortunate, 

•  The  f;en«ral  mrnpe  of  this  satire,  ax  its  motto  denotes, 
is  directed  against  the  discontent  or  human  beings  with 
their  respective  conditions.  It  paints  the  ambition  of  the 
youth  to  become  a  man,  of  the  muckworm  to  be  rich,  of 


And  now  he  'gins  to  loath  his  former  state ; 

Now  doth  he  inly  scorn  his  Kendal-green, 

And  his  patch'd  cockers  now  despised  been. 

Nor  list  he  now  go  whistling  to  the  car. 

But  sells  his  team,  and  fetleth  to  the  war. 

O  war !  to  them  that  never  tried  thee,  sweet ! 

When  his  dead  mate  falls  grovelling  at  his  feet. 

And  angry  bullets  whistlen  at  his  ear. 

And  his  dim  eyes  see  nought  but  death  and  drear. 

0  happy  ploughman !  were  thy  weal  well  known : 

O  happy  all  estates,  except  his  own  ! 

Some  drunken  rhymer  thinks  his  time  well  spent. 

If  he  can  live  to  see  his  name  in  print. 

Who,  when  he  is  once  fleshed  to  the  press. 

And  sees  his  hansell  have  such  fair  success. 

Sung  to  the  wheel,  and  sung  unto  the  pail. 

He  sends  forth  thraves  of  ballads  to  the  sail. 

Nor  then  can  rest,  but  volumes  up  bodged  rhymes. 

To  have  his  name  talked  of  in  future  times, 

The  brain-sick  youth,  that  feeds  his  tickled  ear 

With  sweet-sauced  lies  of  some  false  traveller, 

Which  hath  the  Spanish  Decades  read  awhile, 

Or  whetstone  leasings  of  old  Mandeville, 

Now  with  discourses  breaks  his  midnight  sleep 

Of  his  adventures  through  the  Indian  deep. 

Of  all  their  massy  heaps  of  golden  mine. 

Or  of  the  antique  tombs  of  Palestine, 

Or  of  Damascus'  magic  wall  of  glass. 

Of  Solomon  his  sweating  piles  of  brass. 

Of  the  bird  rue  that  bears  an  elephant, 

Of  mermaids  that  the  southern  seas  do  haunt. 

Of  headless  men,  of  savage  cannibals. 

The  fashions  of  their  lives  and  governals ; 

What  monstrous  cities  there  erected  be, 

Cairo,  or  the  city  of  the  Trinity  ; 

Now  are  they  dunghill  cocks  that  have  not  seen 

The  bordering  Alps,  or  else  the  neighbour  Rhine : 

And  now  he  plies  the  news-full  Grasshopper, 

Of  voyages  and  ventures  to  inquire. 

His  land  mortgaged,  he  sea-beat  in  the  way. 

Wishes  for  home  a  thousand  sighs  a  day ; 

And  now  he  deems  his  home-bred  fare  as  leaf 

As  his  parch'd  biscuit,  or  his  barrell'd  beef. 

'Mongst  all  these  stirs  of  discontented  strife, 

0  let  me  lead  an  academic  life ; 

To  know  much,  and  to  think  for  nothing,  know 

Nothing  to  have,  yet  think  we  have  enow ; 

In  skill  to  want,  and  wanting  seek  for  more ; 

In  weal  nor  want,  nor  wish  for  greater  store. 

Envy,  ye  monarchs,  with  your  proud  excess. 

At  our  low  sail,  and  our  high  happiness. 

the  rustic  to  become  a  soldier,  of  the  rhymer  to  appear  in 
print,  and  of  the  brain-sick  reader  of  foreign  wonders  to 
become  a  traveller. — £. 


W.350f»t:3**'rT!l*»caili»UW*w*«^t 


WILLIAM   WARNER 


[Died,  1608-9.] 


Was  a  native  of  Oxfordshire,  and  was  bom,  as 
Mr.  Ellis  conjectures,  in  1558.  He  left  the  uni- 
versity of  Oxford  without  a  degree,  and  came  to 
London,  where  he  pursued  the  business  of  an 
attorney  of  the  common  pleas.  Scott,  the  poet 
of  Amwell,  discovered  that  he  had  been  buried  in 
the  church  of  that  parish  in  1609,  having  died 
suddenly  in  the  night-time.* 

His  "Albion's  England"  was  once  exceedingly 
popular.  Its  publication  was  at  one  time  inter- 
dicted by  the  Star-chamber,  for  no  other  reason 
that  can  now  be  assigned,  but  that  it  contains 
some  love-stories  more  simply  than  delicately 
related.  His  contemporaries  compared  him  to 
Virgil,   whom   he    certainly    did   not   make   his 


model.  Dr.  Percy  thinks  he  rather  resenibleu 
Ovid,  to  whom  he  is,  if  possible,  still  more  unlike. 
His  poem  is,  in  fact,  an  enormous  ballad  on  tlie 
history,  or  rather  on  the  fables  appendant  to  the 
history  of  England;  heterogeneous,  indeed,  like 
the  Metamorphoses,  but  written  with  an  almost 
doggrel  simplicity.  Headley  has  rashly  preferred 
his  works  to  our  ancient  ballads ;  but  with  the 
best  of  these  they  will  bear  no  comparison.  Ar- 
gentile  and  Curan  has  indeed  some  beautiful 
touches,  yet  that  episode  requires  to  be  weeded 
of  many  lines  to  be  read  with  unqualified  plea- 
sure ;  and  through  the  rest  of  his  stories  we  shall 
search  in  vain  for  the  familiar  magic  of  such 
ballads  as  Chevy  Chase  or  Gill  Morrice. 


ARGENTILE   AND   CURAN. 

PROM   ALBION'S   ENOLAND. 

Argentile,  the  daughter  and  heiress  of  the  deceased  King, 
Artelbright,  has  been  left  to  the  protection  of  her  uncle 
Edel,  who  dischari;>!.4  his  trust  unfaithfully,  and  seeks 
to  force  his  niece  to  marry  a  suitor  whom  he  b«»lieves  to 
be  ignoble,  that  he  may  have  a  pretext  for  seizing  on 
her  kingdom. 

Yet  well  he  fosters  for  a  time  the  damsel,  that 

was  grown 
The  fairest  lady  under  heav'n,  whose  beauty  being 

known, 
A  many  princes  seek  her  love,  but  none  might 

her  obtain, 
For  gripel  Edel  to  himself  her  kingdom  sought 

to  gain. 
And  for  that  cause,  irom  sight  of  such  he  did  his 

ward  restrain. 
By  chance  one   Curan,  son  unto  a  Prince  of 

Danske,  did  see 
The  maid  with  whom  he  fell  in  love,  as  much  as 

one  might  be : 
Unhappy  youth,  what  should  he  do  ?  his  saint 

was  kept  in  mew ; 
Nor  he  nor  any  nobleman  admitted  to  her  view: 
One  while  in  melancholy  fits.he  pines  himself  away, 
Anon  he  thought  by  force  of  arms  to  win  her  if 

he  may. 
And  still  against  the  king's  restraint  did  secretly 

inveigh. 
At  length  the  high  controller,  Love,  whom  none 

may  disobey, 
Imbased  him  from  lordliness  into  a  kitchen  drudge. 
That  80  at  least  of  life  or  death  she  might  become 

his  judge ; 
Access  so  had,  to  see  and  speak,  he  did  his  love 

bewray. 
And  tells  his  birth — her  answer  was,  she  husband- 

less  would  stay : 
Meanwhile  the  king  did  beat  his  brain,  his  booty 

to  achieve, 

•  On  the  9th  March,  1608-9. 
17 


Not  caring  what  became  of  her,  so  he  by  her 

might  thrive ; 
At  last  his  resolution  was  some  peasant  should 

her  wive : 
And  (which  was  working  to  his  wish)  he  did  ob- 
serve with  joy. 
How  Curan,  whom  he  thought  a  drudge,  scap'd 

many  an  am'rous  toy : 
The  king,  perceiving  such  his  vein,  promotes  hi? 

vassal  still. 
Lest  that  the  baseness  of  the  maii  should  let 

perhaps  his  will; 
Assured,  therefore,  of  his  love,  but  not  suspecting 

who 
The  lover  was,  the  kinghimself in  his  behalf  did  woo : 
The  lady,  resolute  from  love, unkindly  takes  that  he 
Should  bar  the  noble  and  unto  so  base  a  match  agree ; 
And   therefore,  shifting  out  of  doors,  departed 

hence  by  stealth, 
Preferring   poverty  before   a   dangerous   life    in 

wealth. 
When  Curan  heard  of  her  escape,  the  anguish 

of  his  heart 
Was  more  than  much,  and  after  her  he  did  from 

court  depart ; 
Forgetful  of  himself,  his  birth,  his  country,  friends, 

and  all. 
And  only  minding  whom  he  miss'd,  the  foundress 

of  bis  thrall : 
Nor  means  he  after  to  frequent  the  court,  or 

stately  towns. 
But  solitarily  to  live  among  the  country  growns. 
A  brace  of  years  he  lived  thus,  well  pleased  so  to  hve. 
And,  shepherd-like,  to  feed  a  flock  himself  did 

wholly  give; 
So  wasting  love,  by  work  and  want,  grew  almost 

to  the  wane. 
And  then  began  a  second  love  the  worser  of  the 

twain; 
A   country  wench,  a  neat-herd's  maid,   where 
,      Curan  kept  his  sheep, 

129 


180 


SIR  JOHN   HARRINGTON. 


Did  feed  her  drove ;  and  now  on  her  was  all  the 

shepherd's  keep. 
He  borrowd  on  the  working  days  his  holie  russets  oft, 
And  of  the  bacon's  fat  to  make  his  startups  black 

and  soft, 
And  lest  his  tar-box  should  offend,  he  left  it  at 

the  fold : 
Sweet  grout  or  whig  his  bottle  had  as  much  as  it 

might  hold ; 
A  shave  of  bread  as  brown  as  nut,  and  cheese  as 

white  as  snow. 
And  wildings,  or  the  season's  ftnit,  he  did  in  scrip 

bestow ; 
And  whilst  his  pyebald  cur  did  sleep,  and  sheep- 
hook  lay  him  by. 
On  hollow  quills  of  oaten  straw  he  piped  melody ; 
But  when  he  spied  her  his  saint  .  .  . 

Thus  the  shepherd  woo'd  .  .  . 
Thou  art  too  elvish,  faith,  thou  art ;  too  elvish 

and  too  coy ; 
Am  I,  I  pray  thee,  beggarly,  that   such  a  flock 

enjoy?  .  .  . 
Believe  me,  lass,  a  king  is  but  a  man,  and  so  am  I ; 
Content  is  worth  a  monarchy,  and  mischiefs  hit 

the  high, 
As  late  it  did  a  king,  and  his,  not  dwelling  far 

from  hence, 
Who   left   a  daughter,  save   thyself,  for  fair  a 

matchless  wench; 
Here  did  he  pause,  as  if  his  tongue  had  done  his 

heart  offence: 
The  neatress,  longing  for  the  rest,  did  egg  him 

on  to  tell 
How  fair  she  was,  and  who  she  was.     She  bore, 

quoth  he,  the  belle ; 
For  beauty,  though  I  clownish  am,  I  know  what 

beauty  is. 
Or  did  I  not,  yet  seeing  thee,  I  senseless  were  to  miss : 
Suppose  her  beauty  Helen's  like,  or  Helen's  some- 
thing less. 
And  every  star  consorting  to  a  pure  complexion 

guess ; 
Her  stature  comely  tall,  her  gait  well  graced,  and 

her  wit 
To  marvel  at,  not  meddle  with,  as  matchless  I  omit ; 
A  globe-like  head,  a  gold-like  hair,  a  forehead 

smooth  and  high. 
An  even  nose ;  on  either  side  did  shine  a  greyish 

eye.  .  .  . 


Her  smiles  were  sober,  and  her  looks  were  cheer- 
ful unto  all. 

And  such  as  neither  wanton  seem,  nor  wayward, 
mell  nor  gall : 

A  nymph  no  tongue,  no  heart,  no  eye,  might 
•praise,  might  wish,  might  see. 

For  life,  for  love,  for  form,  more  good,  more 
worth,  more  fair  than  she ; 

Yea,  such  a  one  as  such  was  none,  save  only  she 
was  such ; 

Of  Argentile,  to  say  the  most,  were  to  be  silent 
much. — 

I  knew  the  lady  very  well,  but  worthless  of  such 
praise. 

The  neatress  said,  and  muse  I  do  a  shepherd  thus 
should  blaze 

The  coat  of  beauty ;  credit  me,  thy  latter  speech 
bewrays 

Thy  clownish  shape  a  colour'd  show ;  but  where- 
fore dost  thou  weep  1 — 

The  shepherd  wept,  and  she  was  woe,  and  both 
did  silence  keep  : — 

In  troth,  quoth  he,  I  am  not  such  as  seeming  I 
profess. 

But  then  for  her,  and  now  for  thee,  I  from  my- 
self digress  ; 

Her  loved  I,  wretch  that  I  am,  a  recreant  to  be, 

I  loved  her  that  hated  love,  but  now  I  die  for  thee 

At  Kirkland  is  my  father's  court,  and  Curan  is 
my  name. 

In  Edel's  court  sometime  in  pomp,  till  love  con- 
troU'd  the  same ; 

But  now — ^what  now  1  dear  heart,  how  now,  what 
aileth  thou  to  weepl — 

The  damsel  wept,  and  he  was  woe,  and  both  did 
silence  keep. 

I  grant,  quoth  she,  it  was  too  much,  that  you  did 
love  so  much. 

But  whom  your  former  could  not  move,  your 
second  love  doth  touch ; 

Thy  twice-beloved  Argentile  submitteth  her  to  thee, 

And,  for  thy  double  love,  presents  herself  a  sin- 
gle fee; 

In  passion,  not  in  person,  changed;  and  I,  my 
lord,  am  she ; — 

Thus  sweetly  surfeiting  in  joy,  and  silent  for  a 
space. 

When  as  the  ecstasy  had  end,  did  tenderly  em- 
brace  


SIR  JOHN  HARRINGTON. 


[Bom,  1661?    Died,  1612?] 


A  SPECIMEN  of  the  poetry  of  Sir  John  Har- 
rington's father  has  been  already  given  in  this 
volume,  which  is  so  polished  and  refined,  as 
almost  to  warrant  a  suspicion  that  the  editor  of 
♦.he  Nugae  Antiquffi  got  it  from  a  more  modern 
quarter.  The  elder  Harrington  was  imprisoned 
in  the  Tower,  under  Queen  Mary,  for  holding  a 
correspondence  with  Elizabeth ;  on  whose  acces- 
•ion   his   fideUty  was  rewarded  by  her  favour. 


His  son,  the  translator  of  Ariosto,  was  knighter 
on  the  field  by  the  Earl  of  Essex,  not  much  to 
the  satisfaction  of  Elizabeth,  who  was  sparing 
of  such  honours,  and  chose  to  confer  them  her- 
self. He  was  created  a  knight  of  the  Bath  in  the 
reign  of  James,  and  distinguished  himself,  to  the 
violent  offence  of  the  high-church  party,  by  his 
zeal  against  the  marriage  of  bishops. 


HENRY  PERROT.— SIR   THOMAS   OVERBURY. 


181 


OF  A   PRECISE  TAILOR. 

PROM  SIR  JOHN  HARRINGTON'S  EPIGRAMS. 

A  TAILOR,  thought  a  man  of  upright  dealing — 
True,  but  for  lying — ^honest,  but  for  stealing, 
Did  fall  one  day  extremely  sick  by  chance. 
And  on  the  sudden  was  in  wond'rous  trance ; 
The  fiends  of  hell,  mustering  in  fearful  manner. 
Of  sundry  colour'd  silks  display'd  a  banner 
Which  he  had  stolen,  and  wish'd,  as  they  did  tell, 
That  he  might  find  it  all  one  day  in  hell. 
The  man.  affrighted  with  this  apparition. 
Upon  recovery  grew  a  great  precisian  : 
He  bought  a  Bible  of  the  best  translation. 
And  in  his  life  he  show'd  great  reformation; 
He  walked  mannerly,  he  talked  meekly. 
He  heard  three  lectures  and  two  sermons  weekly ; 
He  vow'd  to  shun  all  company  unruly. 
And  in  his  speech  he  used  no  oath ;  but  truly 


And  zealously  to  keep  the  sabbath's  rest, 

His  meat  for  that  day  on  the  eve  was  drest ; 

And  lest  the  custom  which  he  had  to  steal 

Might  cause  him  sometimes  to  forget  his  zeal. 

He  gives  his  journeymen  a  special  charge, 

That  if  the  stuff,  allowance  being  large, 

He  found  his  fingers  were  to  filch  inclined, 

Bid  him  to  have  the  banner  in  his  mind. 

This  done  (I  scant  can  tell  the  rest  for  laughter) 

A  captain  of  a  ship  came  three  days  after, 

And  brought  three  yards  of  velvet  and  three 

quarters. 
To  make  Venetians  down  below  the  garters. 
He,  that  precisely  knew  what  was  enough, 
Soon  slipt  aside  three  quarters  of  the  stuff; 
His  man,  espying  it,  said,  in  derision. 
Master,  remember  how  you  saw  the  vision ! 
Peace,  knave !  quoth  he,  I  did  not  see  one  rag 
Of  such  a  colour'd  silk  in  all  the  flag. 


HENRY  PERROT'S  BOOK   OF   EPIGRAMS, 

ENTITLED  "SPRINGES  FOR  WOODCOCKS." 


(KDIT.  1613.) 


Perrot,  I  suspect,  was  not  the  author,  but 
only  the  collector  of  these  trifles,  some  of  which 
are  claimed  by  other  epigrammatists,  probably 
with  no  better  right.     It  is  indeed  very  difficult 


to  ascertain  the  real  authors  of  a  vast  number  of 
little  pieces  of  the  sixteenth  and  seventeenth  cen- 
turies, as  the  minor  poets  pilfer  from  each  other 
with  the  utmost  coolness  and  apparent  impunity. 


AMBITIO  FEMININI  GENERIS. 
Mistress  Matrossa  hopes  to  be  a  lady, 
Not  as  a  dignity  of  late  expected  ; 
But  from  the  time  almost  she  was  a  baby. 
That  hath  your  richest  gentlemen  rejected ; 
But  yet  not  dubb'd  at  present  as  she  should  be. 
Lives  in  expectance  still — my  lady  Would-be. 


NEC  SUTOR  ULTRA. 

FROM   THE   SAME. 

A  COBBLER  and  a  curate  once  disputed. 
Before  a  judge,  about  the  king's  injunctions. 
Wherein  the  curate  being  still  confuted, 
One  said  'twere  good  if  they  two  changed  fiinctions : 
Nay,  quoth  the  judge,  I  thereto  would  be  loth. 
But,  an  you  like,  we'll  make  them  cobblers  both. 


SIR   THOMAS  OVERBURY 

[Born,  1581.    Died,  1613.] 


Was  bom  in  1581,  and  perished  in  the  Tower 
of  London,  1613,  by  a  fate  that  is  too  well  known. 
The  compassion  of  the  public  for  a  man  of  worth, 
"whose  spirit  still  walked  unrevenged  amongst 
them,"  together  with  the  contrast  of  his  ideal 
Wife  with  the  Countess  of  Essex,  who  was  his 
murderess,  attached  an  interest  and  popularity  to 
his  poem,  and  made  it  pass  through  sixteen  edi- 
tions before  the  year  1653.  His  Characters,  or 
Witty  Descriptions  of  the  Properties  of  sundry  Per- 
sons, is  a  work  of  considerable  merit ;  but  unfor- 
tunately his  prose,  as  well  as  his  verse,  has  a  dry- 


ness and  quaintness  that  seem  to  oppress  the 
natural  movement  of  his  thoughts.  As  a  poet, 
he  has  few  imposing  attractions:  his  beauties 
must  be  fetched  by  repeated  perusal.  They  are 
those  of  solid  reflection,  predominating  over,  but 
not  extinguishing,  sensibility ;  and  there  is  danger 
of  the  reader  neglecting,  under  the  coldness  and 
ruggedness  of  his  manner,  the  manly  but  unosten- 
tatious moral  feeling  that  is  conveyed  in  his  max- 
ims, which  are  sterling  and  liberal,  if  we  can  only 
pardon  a  few  obsolete  ideas  on  female  educa- 
tion. 


THE  WIFE. 

PBOM  SIB  THOMAS  OTERBURT'S  POEM. 

Then  may  I  trust  her  body  with  her  mind, 
And,  thereupon  secure,  need  never  know 
The  pangs  of  jealousy :  and  love  doth  find 
More  pain  to  doubt  her  fiJse  than  find  her  so ; 


For  patience  is,  of  evils  that  are  known, 
The  certain  remedy ;  but  doubt  hath  none. 

And  be  that  thought  once  stirr'd,  'twill  never  die. 
Nor  will  the  grief  more  mild  by  custom  prove. 
Nor  yet  amendment  can  it  satisfy ; 
The  anguish  more  or  less  is  as  our  love : 


This  misery  doth  from  jealousy  ensue, 

That  we  may  prove  her  false,  but  cannot  true.  . 

Give  me,  next  good,  an  understanding  wife. 

By  nature  wise,  not  learned  by  much  art ; 

Some  knowledge  on  her  part  will,  all  her  life, 

More  scope  of  conversation  impart ; 

Besides  her  inborn  virtue  fortify  ; 

They  are  most  firmly  good  that  best  know  why. 

A  passive  understanding  to  conceive. 

And  judgment  to  discern.  I  wish  to  find ; 

Beyond  that  all  as  hazardous  I  leave ; 

Learning  and  pregnant  wit,  in  womankind. 

What  it  finds  malleable  (it)  makes  frail, 

And  doth  not  add  more  ballast,  but  more  sail. 

Books  are  a  part  of  man's  prerogative ; 

In  formal  ink  they  thoughts  and  voices  hold. 

That  we  to  them  our  solitude  may  give. 

And  make  time  present  travel  that  of  old ; 

Our  life  fame  pieceth  longer  at  the  end, 

And  books  it  farther  backward  do  extend 

So  fair  at  least  let  me  imagine  her ; 
That  thought  to  me  is  truth.     Opinion 


Cannot  in  matters  of  opinion  err ; 

And  as  my  fancy  her  conceives  to  be, 

Ev'n  such  my  senses  both  do  feel  and  see 

Beauty  in  decent  shape  and  colour  lies ; 
Colours  the  matter  are,  and  shape  the  soul ; 
The  soul — ^which  from  no  single  part  doth  rise, 
But  firom  the  just  proportion  of  the  whole  :— 
And  is  a  mere  spiritual  harmony 
Of  every  part  united  in  the  eye. 

No  circumstance  doth  beauty  fortify 

Like  graceful  fashion,  native  comeliness ;  .  .  .  . 

But  let  that  fashion  more  to  modesty 
Tend  than  assurance — Modesty  doth  set 
The  face  in  her  just  place,  from  passion  free ; 
'Tis  both  the  mind's  and  body's  beauty  met. 

All  these  good  parts  a  perfect  woman  make ; 
Add  love  to  me,  they  make  a  perfect  wife ; 
Without  her  love,  her  beauty  I  should  take 
As  that  of  pictures  dead — Ihat  gives  it  life ; 
Till  then  her  beauty,  like  the  sun,  doth  shine 
Alike  to  all ; — that  only  makes  it  mine. 


WILLIAM   SHAKSPEARE. 


[Bom,  1564.    Died,  1616.] 


[Mr.  Campiiell  gave  us  no  history  or  opinion 
of  Shakspoare,  in  his  specimens  of  the  British 
Poets,  but  he  prefixed  to  Moxon's  edition  of  the 
works  of  the  great  dramatist  an  elaborate  biogra- 
phy and  criticism,  of  which  the  present  editor 
makes  the  following  abridgment.] 

Shakspeare's  father,  John  Shakspeare,  was  a 
glover  in  Stratford  ;  that  this  was  his  main  trade 
has  been  completely  ascertained  by  Mr.  Malone. 
He  seems,  however,  to  have  been  a  speculative 
tradesman ;  he  farmed  meadow-land,  and  may 
possibly  have  traded  in  wool  and  cattle,  as  has 
been  alleged  ;  but  the  tradition  of  his  having  been 
a  butcher  is  entitled  to  no  credit,  for,  if  he  sold 
gloves,  it  is  not  very  likely  that  he  had  either  an- 
other shop,  or  the  same  shop  with  shambles  be- 
fore it. 

Our  great  poet,  the  eldest  son  and  the  third 
child  of  his  parents,  was  born  at  Stratford  in  the 
month  of  April,  1564,  probably  on  the  twenty- 
third  of  the  month,  says  Mr.  Malone,  bemuse  he 
was  baptized  on  the  twenty-fifth.  When  he  was 
but  nine  weeks  old  the  plague  visited  Stratford, 
and  carried  off  more  than  a  seventh  part  of  the 
population,  but  the  door-posts  of  our  sacred  infant, 
like  those  of  the  Israelites  in  Egypt,  were  sprinkled 
80  as  to  be  passed  by  by  the  destroying  angel,  and 
he  was  spared. 

No  anecdotes  of  his  earliest  years  have  been 
preserved.  All  the  education  he  ever  received  was 
probably  at  the  free  school  of  Stratford ;  but  at 
what  age  he  was  placed  there,  or  how  long  he 
remained,  are  points  that  can  be  only  conjectured. 
That  Shakspeare  was  not  a  cla-ssical  scholar,  may 
be  taken  for  granted ;  but  that  he  learned  some 


Latin  at  the  free  school  of  Stratford,  is  conceded 
even  by  those  who  estimate  his  classic  acquire- 
ments at  the  lowest  rate ;  even  allowing,  as  seems 
to  be  ascertained,  that  he  derived  his  plots,  in  the 
main,  from  translations  of  books. 

Shakspeare's  learning,  whatever  it  was,  gave 
him  hints  as  to  sources  from  which  classical  in- 
formation was  to  be  drawn.  The  age  abounded 
in  classical  translations ;  it  also  teemed  with  pub- 
lic pageants,  and  Allegory  itself  might  be  said  to 
have  walked  the  streets.  He  may  have  laughed 
at  the  absurdity  of  many  of  those  pageants,  but 
still  they  would  refresh  his  fancy.  Whether  he 
read  assiduously  or  carelessly,  it  should  be  remem- 
bered that  reading  was  to  him  not  of  the  vulgar 
benefit  that  it  is  to  ordinary  minds.  Was  there 
a  spark  of  sense  or  sensibility  in  any  author,  on 
whose  works  he  glanced,  that  spark  assimilated 
to  his  soul,  and  it  belonged  to  it  as  rightfully  as 
the  light  of  heaven  to  the  eye  of  the  eagle. 

Malone  calls  in  question  Rowe's  assertion  that 
our  poet  was  recalled  from  school  merely  on  ac- 
count of  his  father's  circumstances,  and  in  order 
to  assist  him  in  his  own  trade ;  and  says,  it  is 
more  likely  that  he  was  taken  away  with  a  view 
to  his  learning  some  business,  in  which  he  might 
afterwards  maintain  himself.  My  own  suspicions 
however  is,  that  his  father  recalled  him  in  order 
to  assist  him  in  his  own  business. 

Whatever  his  occupation  was,  between  the 
time  of  his  leaving  school  and  his  going  to  Lon- 
don, it  is  certain  that  he  married  in  the  interim. 
His  choice  was  Anne  Hathaway,  who  was  then 
in  her  twenty-sixth  year,  he,  the  boy  poet,  being 
only  eighteen  years  and  soir  f  months,  and  conse- 


KC4^ 


^  .-2^?^ 


WILLIAM   SHAKSPEARE. 


1?,6 


expression ;  but  not  the  broad  freedom  and  effect 
in  harmonious  language  that  characterize  Shak- 
speare. 

Six  other  plays,  viz.,  The  Arraignment  of  Paris, 
The  Birth  of  Meriin,  Edward  III.,  The  Fan-  Em- 
ma, The  Merry  Devil  of  Edmonton,  and  Muce- 
dorus, — are  found  entpred  on  the  books  of  the 
London  stationers,  a.s  written  by  William  Shak- 
spearc ;  but  these,  and  some  others  which  have 
beei.  fathered  on  our  poet,  are  regarded  as  spuri- 
ous, in  spite  of  Schlegel's  credulity  on  the  subject. 
A  difl'erent  opinion  attends  the  play  of  Pericles, 
of  which  Dryden  says,  that  "  Shakspeare's  own 
muse  his  Pericles  first  bore ;"  and  the  credibility 
of  this  tradition  is  not  weakened  by  the  fact  that 
Heminge  and  Condell,  the  first  editors  of  the 
poet's  works,  omitted  "  Pericles"  in  their  edition ; 
for  it  happens  that  they  omitted  « Troilus  and 
Cressida,"  a  play  which  nobody  doubts  to  have 
been  Shakspeare's. 

I  am  glad  that  we  may  safely  reject  the  "  First 
Part  of  Henry  VI."  from  the  list  of  Shakspeare's 
genuine  plays,  when  I  think  of  that  infernal  scene 
in  the  fifth  act,  the  condemnation  of  Joan  of  Arc 
to  be  burnt  alive. 

Malone  assigns  both  the  "  Second  and  Third 
Parts  of  Henry  VI."  to  the  year  1591.  In  both 
parts  there  are  such  obvious  traces  of  Shakspeare's 
genius,  particularly  in  the  Second  Part,  that  we 
must  suppose  them  to  have  been  written  princi- 
pally by  him.  They  are  both,  to  be  sure,  altera- 
tions of  older  plays ;  but  it  has  been  well  observed 
that  the  antecedent  pieces  received  from  our  poet's 
band  '*  a  thorough  repair." 

To  the  same  date,  1591,  Mr.  Malone  ascribes 
the  "  Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona."  It  is  plain 
from  this  piece  that  Shakspeare  was  yet  very  far 
from  having  arrived  at  the  maturity  of  his  art; 
but  it  shows  us  the  young  poet  in  bounding  high 
spirits,  getting  through  his  subject,  sometimes  with 
graceful  and  sometimes  with  farcical  glee.  He 
unravels  the  plot,  we  are  told,  precipitately,  and 
his  characters  are  reconciled  as  friends  too  impro- 
bably. 

When  we  come  to  his  next  comedy,  "  Love's 
Labour's  Lost,"  (1592,)  we  are  still  far  from  find- 
ing him  at  the  zenith  of  his  inspiration;  though 
this  play  is  interspersed  with  Shakspearian  bursts 
of  poetry,  and  though  it  breathes,  if  possible,  a 
still  more  reveling  spirit  than  the  "  Two  Gentle- 
men of  Verona." 

"  Richard  II."  as  well  as  «  Richard  III.,"  accord- 
ing to  Malone's  dates,  appeared  in  1593.  The 
former  tragedy  is  estimable  for  its  pathos  and 
skilful  delineation  of  character. 

In «'  Richard  IIL,"  (1593,)  Shakspeare  put  forth 
a  power  of  terrific  delineation  which,  with  the  ex- 
ception of  the  death-scene  of  Cardinal  Beaufort, 
in  the  Second  Part  of  Henry  VI.,  he  had  never 
before  displayed.  This  tragedy  forms  an  epoch 
in  the  history  of  our  poet  and  in  that  of  dramatic 
poetry.  In  his  preceding  dramas  he  showed 
rather  the  suppleness  than  the  knotted  strength 
of  his  genius ;  but  in  the  subtle  cunning,  the  com- 
manduig  courage,  the  lofty  pride  and  ambition, 


the  remorsclessness  of  the  third  Richard,  and  in 
the  whole  sublime  depravity  of  his  character,  he 
reminds  us  of  the  eulogium  passed  by  Fuseli  on 
Michael  Angelo,  who  says,  that  Michael  could 
stamp  sublimity  on  the  hump  of  a  dwarf.  So 
complete  was  this  picture  of  human  guilt,  that 
Milton,  in  seeking  for  a  guilty  hero,  was  obliged 
to  descend  to  the  nether  regions. 

The  '•  Merchant  of  Venice,"  (in  1594,)  was  a 
long  and  forward  stride  of  Shakspeare's  progress 
in  the  drama.  Here,  as  in  "  Richard  III.,"  we  see 
the  giant  in  his  seven-league  boots,  and  he  is  now 
grown  to  a  maturity  of  art  and  strength,  froin 
which  still  greater  miracles  are  yet  to  be  expected. 

Of  all  his  works,  the  "  Midsummer  Night's 
Dream"  (1594)  leaves  the  strongest  impression 
on  my  mind,  that  this  miserable  world  must  have, 
for  once  at  least,  contained  a  happy  man.  This 
play  is  so  purely  delicious,  so  little  intermixed  with 
the  painful  passions  from  which  poetry  distils  her 
sterner  sweets,  so  fragrant  with  hilarity,  so  bland 
and  yet  so  bold,  that  I  cannot  imagine  Shak- 
speare's mind  to  have  been  in  any  other  frame 
than  that  of  healthful  ecstasy  when  the  sparks  of 
inspiration  thrilled  through  his  brain  in  compos- 
ing it. 

In  the  "Taming  of  the  Shrew,"  (1596,)  we 
have  no  new  triumph  of  Shakspeare's  absolute 
invention;  for  in  1594,  a  play  called  "the  Tam- 
ing of  a  Shrew,"  was  entered  on  the  books  of  the 
Stationers'  Company,  and  the  plot  of  that  elder 
piece  is  in  the  main  a  rude  fore-image  of  Shak- 
speare's play. 

In  "  Romeo  and  Juliet,"  (1596,)  there  is  a 
much  larger  pretension  to  originality.  It  is  true 
that  the  mere  story  of  the  play  can  be  traced  to 
much  earlier  narrators.  Yet,  what  does  his  pos- 
session of  those  undramatized  materials  derogate 
from  his  merit  as  a  dramatist?  The  structure  of 
the  play  is  one  of  the  most  regular  in  his  theatre, 
and  its  luxury  of  language  and  imagery  were  all 
his  own.  The  general,  the  vaguely  general  con- 
ception of  two  young  persons  having  been  des- 
perately in  love,  had  undoubtedly  been  imparted 
to  our  poet  by  his  informants;  but  who  among 
them  had  conceived  the  finely-depicted  progress  of 
Juliet's  impassioned  character,  in  her  transition 
from  girlish  confidence  in  the  sympathy  of  others 
— to  the  assertion  of  her  own  superiority  over 
their  vulgar  minds  in  the  majesty  of  her  despair  1 
To  eulogize  this  luxuriant  drama,  however,  would 
be  like  gilding  refined  gold. 

"Henry  IV.  Part  1st,"  (1597,)  may  challenge 
the  world  to  produce  another  more  original  and  rich 
in  characters :  the  whole  zodiac  of  theatrical  ge- 
nius has  no  constellation  with  so  many  bright  and 
fixed  stars  of  the  first  magnitude  as  are  here 
grouped  together. 

«  King  John"  (1596  according  to  Malone,  1598 
according  to  Dyce)  was  founded  on  a  former 
drama,  entitled  "  The  troublesome  Jtaigne  of  King 
John  of  England,  with  the  D'vxmerie  of  King 
Richard  Coiur-de-lion't  base  son,  vulgarly  named  the 
Bastard  Fatdconbi-idgr ;  also  the  death  of  King 
John  at  Suriiuslead  Abbey  as  it  was  ^sundrie  tunn') 


186 


WILLIAM   SHAKSPEARE. 


publickly  acted  by  the  Queen^s  Alaj'estie's  players,  in 
the  Honourubk  my  of  London."  It  is  curious  to 
find  that  the  former  was  almost  an  exact  forerun- 
ner of  the  latter,  in  point  of  incidents  and  per- 
sonages. I  say  personages  and  not  characters, 
for  Shakspeare  has  thrown  more  vivacity  into  the 
part  of  Faulconbridge  than  can  be  found  in  the 
prototype ;  more  dignity  into  that  of  Constance, 
and  more  pathos  into  that  of  Arthur.  In  the 
old  piece  there  was  no  anticipation  of  Shak- 
speare's  high  painting, 

"All's  Well  that  Ends  Well"  (1598)  was  de- 
rived originally  from  Boccacio,  but  was  immedi- 
ately borrowed  by  Shakspeare  from  a  novel  in 
Painter's  "  Palace  of  Pleasure,"  entitled  Giletta  of 
Narbona.  It  is  far  from  being  in  the  front  rank 
of  his  plays. 

The  play  of  «  Henry  V."  had  a  forerunner  in 
an  older  drama  which  bore  the  same  title,  and  con- 
tained many  of  the  incidents  which  Shakspeare 
has  employed. 

In  Shakspeare's  "  Henry  V."  there  is  no  want  of 
spirited  action  and  striking  personages ;  but  I  cannot 
agree  with  Schlegel  as  to  the  nice  discrimination 
which  he  discovers  in  the  portraiture  of  Irish,  Scotch, 
and  Welsh  character  among  the  brave  captains 
of  Henry's  camp.  The  play  has  noble  passages. 
And  amongst  these,  the  description  of  the  night 
before  the  battle  of  Agincourt  will  be  repeated  by 
the  youth  of  England  when  our  children's  chil- 
dren shall  be  gray  with  age.  It  was  said  of 
^schylus,  that  he  composed  his  "  Seven  Chiefs 
against  Thebes,"  under  the  inspiration  of  Mars 
himself.  If  Shakspeare's  "  Henry  V."  had  been 
written  for  the  Greeks,  they  would  have  paid  him 
the  same  compliment. 

The  dehcious  comedy  of  « As  You  Like  It" 
was  taken  from  Lodge's  "  Rosalynd,  or  Euphues' 
Golden  Legacye,"  but  never  was  the  prolixity  and 
pedantry  of  a  prosaiic  narrative  transmuted  by  ge- 
nius into  such  magical  poetry.  The  events  of 
the  play  are  not  numerous,  and  its  interest  is  pre- 
served by  characters  more  than  incidents.  But 
what  a  tablet  of  characters !  the  witty  and  impeis- 
sioned  Rosalind,  the  love-devoted  Orlando,  the 
friendship-devoted  Celia,  the  duty-devoted  old 
Adam,  the  humourous  Clown,  and  the  melan- 
choly Jaques ;  all  these,  together  witli  the  digni- 
fied and  banished  Duke/  make  the  forest  of  Arden 
an  Elysium  to  our  unagination ;  and  our  hearts 
are  so  stricken  by  those  benevolent  beings,  that 
we  easily  forgive  the  other  once  culpable  but  at 
last  repentant  characters. 

The  principal  incident  in  the  comedy  of  "  Much 
Ado  about  Nothing,"  (».  e.  the  crimination  of  an 
innocent  woman,  in  consequence  of  a  villain  pro- 
curing the  lady's  maid-servant  to  appear  dressed 
like  her  mistress,  and  receive  a  lover  at  the  win- 
dow,) is  found  in  the  "  Orlando  Furioso"  of  Ariosto, 
as  well  as  in  one  of  the  novels  of  Bandello,  who 
borrowed  it  from  his  compatriot  poet.  The  story 
is  probably  still  older  than  Ariosto.  It  is  likely 
to  have  reached  Shakspeare  through  Belleforest's 
"  Cent  Histoires  Tragiques,"  published  in  1583, 
»'id  translated  into  EngUsh  shortly  afterwards. 


The  story  which  mainly  forms  the  plot  ol 
"Hamlet,"  (1600,)  can  be  traced  back  to  the 
History  of  Denmark  by  Saxo  Grammaticus. 
Amidst  our  universal  admiration  of  this  tragedy, 
the  precise  character  of  its  hero  has  nevertheless 
I'emained  a  problem  in  the  hands  of  its  admirers. 
Hamlet  is  strong  in  imagination,  beautiful  in  ab- 
stracted thoughts,  and  great  and  good  in  his  ge- 
neral intentions ;  yet  he  is  weak,  wayward,  and 
inconsistent ;  fond,  but  barbarous  towards  Ophelia ; 
proudly  and  justly  conscious  of  his  superiority 
to  ordinary  men,  and  yet,  not  always  unjustly,  a 
despiser  of  himself.  The  theorists  respecting  his 
character  reconcile  its  contrarieties  to  their  own 
satisfaction,  but  no  two  of  them  in  the  same  man- 
ner. My  solution  of  the  question  about  Ham- 
let's inconsistencies  is,  that  his  morbid  mind  is 
indued  both  with  the  reality  and  the  affectation  of 
madness.  Such  cases  are  not  unknown  in  the 
history  of  mental  aberration.  Surpassingly  ex- 
cellent as  Shakspeare's  "  Hamlet"  is,  it  has  a  fault, 
as  a  piece  of  dramatic  structure,  in  the  unneces- 
sary perplexity  of  events  towards  its  close,  when 
the  prince  sails  for  England  and  returns,  whilst 
all  this  while  ue  might  as  well  have  been  in  Den- 
mark. 

In  "The  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor,"  (1600,) 
which  displays  a  rich  variety  of  incidents  and  a 
throng  of  well-supf)orted  characters,  we  are  pre- 
sented with  an  unrivaled  instance  of  pure,  domestic 
English  comedy,  heightened  in  zest  by  the  frolic- 
some adjunction  of  mock  fairy  mythology. 

« Twelfth  Night"  is  shown  by  Mr.  Collier  to 
have  been  written  in  1601.  The  delicacy  with 
which  a  modest  maiden  makes  love  to  her  lord  in 
male  disguise,  and  the  pathos  with  which  she  de- 
scribes her  imaginary,  but  too  real  self — ^when 
"  concealment,  like  a  worm  i'  the  bud,  preyed  on 
her  damask  cheek,"  and  the  sudden  growth  of 
Orsino's  attachment  to  her  on  the  discovery  of  her 
sex,  and  on  the  recalling  of  her  words  from  his 
memory  to  his  understanding,  form  beauties  in 
this  comedy  which  no«touch  of  human  revision 
could  unprove. 

"  Troilus  and  Cressida"  was  probably  written 
in  1602.  It  is  not  one  of  Shakspeare's  master- 
pieces. The  language  is  ^oo  often  tortuously  and 
tumultuously  figurative,  smd  is  so  cramped  with 
Shakspeare's  frequent  fault  of  trying  to  be  over- 
muscular  in  expression,  that  there  are  almost 
whole  scenes  which,  if  they  had  been  written  by 
a  satiric  imitator  of  his  style,  I  should  say  were  a 
cruel  caricature  of  Shakspeare. 

It  seems  to  me  that  "  Henry  VIII."  was  writ- 
ten, at  the  latest,  in  1602.  Poetical  art  perhaps 
never  flattered  a  monster  with  such  palpable  like- 
ness, and  yet  with  such  impalpable  and  cunning 
mitigation.  He  suborns  his  guilty  love  itself  to 
seduce  our  sympathy  by  the  beauty  of  its  object. 

"  Measure  for  Measure"  was  written  in  1 603. 
In  the  drama,  as  in  the  merry  conversation  of 
common  life,  we  forgive  a  man  for  telling  white- 
lie  anecdotes ;  but  they  must  be  lily-white  lies, 
and  must  be  fragrant  with  merriment.  At  the 
same  time,  we  must  own  that  Shakspeare,  in 


L-:^- 


WILLIAM   SHAKSPEARE. 


137 


"  Measure  for  Measure,"  presumes  a  little  too  far 
on  his  right  to  improbability,  and,  to  use  a  vulgar 
phrase,  "  draws  a  long  bow." 

The  tragedy  of  "Othello"  (1604)  has  evident 
marks  of  its  plot  and  incidents  having  been  largely 
borrowed  from  the  seventh  novel  of  the  third  de- 
cade of  Cinthio's  Hecatommithi. 

This  drama^  by  itself,  would  huve  immortalized 
any  poet;  th^  what  are  we  to  think  of  Shak- 
speare,  wlltn  we  may  hesitate  to  pronounce  it  to  be 
the  best  of  his  plays !  Certainly,  however,  it  has 
no  superior  in  his  own  theatre,  and  no  rival  in 
any  other.  The  Moor  is  at  once  one  of  the  most 
complex  and  astonishing,  and  yet  most  intelligible 
pictures,  that  fiction  ever  portrayed  of  human 
character.  His  grandeur  of  soul  is  natural,  and 
we  admire  it;  his  gentleness  is  equally  natural, 
and  we  love  him  for  it ;  his  appearance  we  can- 
not but  conceive  to  be  majestic,  and  his  physiog- 
nomy benevolent.  Othello  had  been,  bred  a 
bar^rian,  and  though  his  bland  nature  and  in- 
tercourse with  the  more  civilized  world  had  long 
warred  against  and  conquered  the  half-natural 
habits  of  barbarism,  yet  those  habits,  at  last,  broke 
3ut,  and  prevailed  in  the  moments  of  hie  jealousy. 
He  is  not  a  jealous  man  by  nature,  but,  being 
once  made  jealous,  he  reverts  to  savage  ness,  and 
becomes  as  terrible  as  he  had  before  been  tender. 
This  contrast  in  his  conduct,  however,  is  not  an 
Ovidian  metamorphosis,  but  a  transition  so  proba- 
bly managed  as  to  seem  unavoidable ;  yet,  the  na- 
turalness of  the  change  prevents  neither  our  ter- 
ror nor  pity :  on  the  contrary,  the  sweetness  of 
his  character  before  its  fall  is  the  smoothness  of 
the  stream  before  its  cataract ;  and  his  bland  dis- 
positions, heretofore  displayed,  appear,  like  a  rich 
autumnal  day,  contrasted  with  the  thunder-storm 
of  its  evening.  The  terrors  of  the  storm  are 
also  made  more  striking  to  our  imagination  by 
the  gentleness  of  the  victim  on  which  they  fall — 
Desdcmona.  Had  one  symptom  of  an  angry 
spirit  appeared  in  that  lovely  martyr,  our  sympa- 
thy with  her  would  have  been  endangered ;  but 
Shakspeare  knew  better. 

"King  Lear"  (1605)  was  based  upon  a  play 
entitled  "The  True  Chronicle  Historic  of  King 
Leare  and  his  Three  Dsiughters,"  by  an  unknown 
author.  Independently  of  Shakspeare's  having 
created  a  new  Lear,  he  has  sublimated  the  old 
tragedy  into  a  new  one,  by  an  entire  orignality  in 
the  spiritual  protraiture  of  its  personages.  Wher- 
ever Shakspeare  works  on  old  materials,  you  will 
find  him  not  wiping  dusted  gold,  but  extracting 
gold  from  dust  where  none  but  himself  could  have 
made  the  golden  extraction. 

Enlightened  criticism  and  universal  opinion 
have  so  completely  set  the  seal  of  celebrity  on  the 
tragedy  of  «  Macbeth,"  (1606,)  that  it  will  stand 
whilst  our  language  exists,  as  a  monument  of  Eng- 
lish genius.  Nay,  it  will  outlast  the  present  form 
of  our  language,  and  speak  to  generations  unborn 
in  parts  of  the  earth  that  are  yet  uninhabited. 
No  drama  in  any  national  theatre,  taking  even 
that  of  Greece  into  the  account,  has  more  wonder- 
fully amalgamated  the  natural  and  the  superna- 
U 


tural — or  made  the  substances  of  truth  more  awful 
by  their  superstitious  shadows — than  has  the  tra- 
gedy of  "  Macbeth."  The  progress  of  Macbeth 
in  crime  is  an  unparalleled  lecture  in  ethical  ana 
tomy.  The  heart  of  man,  naturally  prone  to 
goodness,  is  exposed  so  as  to  teach  us  clearly 
through  what  avenues  of  that  heart  the  black 
drop  of  guilt  found  its  way  to  expel  the  more 
innocent  blood.  A  semblance  of  superstitious  ne- 
cessity is  no  doubt  preserved  in  the  actions  of  Mac- 
beth ;  and  a  superficial  reader  might  say  that  the 
witches  not  only  tempted,  but  necessitated  Mac- 
beth to  murder  Duncan.  But  this  is  not  the  case, 
for  Shakspeare  has  contrived  to  give  at  once  the 
awful  appearance  of  preternatural  impulse  on 
Macbeth's  mind,  and  yet  visibly  to  leave  him  a 
free  agent,  and  a  voluntary  sinner. 

"Julius  Cffisar"  was  written  in  1607.  Three 
out  of  four  of  Shakspeare's  classical  dramas, 
"  Julius  Cffisar,"  "  Antony  and  Cleopatra,"  and 
"  Coriolanus,"  are  so  consummate,  that  he  must 
be  pronounced  as  much  at  home  in  Roman  as  in 
romantic  history.  Already  he  had  shown,  in  his 
allusions  to  Pagan  mythology,  that  he  had  inhaled 
its  sweetest  aroma,  distilled,  not  by  toiUng  scholar- 
ship, but  by  the  fire  of  his  genius.  But,  now  that 
he  was  in  the  fullest  manhood  of  his  mind,  he 
could  borrow  more  from  the  ancients  than  the 
bloom  and  breath  of  their  mythology.  He  cast 
his  eyes  both  in  their  quiet  and  in  their  kindled 
inspiration,  both  as  a  philosopher  and  as  a  poet, 
on  tlie  page  of  classic  history ;  he  discriminated 
its  characters  with  the  Ught  of  philosophy ;  and 
he  irradiated  Iruih  without  encroaching  on  its  solid 
shapes  with  the  hues  of  fancy. 

"Timon  of  Athens"  is  referred  to  1610.  It  is 
far  from  displaying  Shakspeare  improved  either 
in  his  philosophy  or  his  philanthropy  at  the  time 
he  wrote  it.  It  is  the  production  of  his  spleen 
more  than  of  his  heart.  The  interwoven  episode 
of  Alcibiades  is  uninteresting,  for  it  is  a  moot  point 
whether  he  or  the  Athenians  were  in  the  wrong. 
Altogether  "  Timon"  is  a  pillar  in  his  theatric 
fame  that  might  be  removed  without  endanger- 
ing the  edifice. 

"  Cymbeline"  is  dated  in  1609.  In  order  tc 
enjoy  the  romantic  drama,  we  must  accept  of  the 
terms  on  which  the  romantic  poet  offers  us  enjoy- 
ment. The  outline  of  his  piece  in  such  a  poem 
as  "  Cymbeline"  will  at  once  show  that  the  scene 
is  placed  remotely  as  to  time,  in  order  to  soften 
its  improbabilities  to  the  imagination  by  the  effect 
of  distance.  We  all  know  that  in  landscapes 
and  landscape-painting  the  undefined  appearance 
of  objects  resulting  from  distance  has  a  charm 
different  from  that  of  their  distinctness  in  the 
foreground ;  and  the  same  principle  holds  true  in 
the  romantic  drama,  when  the  poet  avowedly 
leaves  his  scenes  open  to  the  objection  of  impro- 
bability, owing  to  the  very  nature  of  romantic 
fiction.  Of  all  plays  in  the  world,  I  think  these  re- 
marks are  particularly  applicable  to  Shakspeare's 
"  Cymbeline."  With  my  heart  open  to  romantic 
belief,  I  conscientiously  suppose  all  the  boldly  im- 
agined events  of  the  diama — ^I  am  rewarded  with 
m2 


138 


WILLIAM   SHAKSPEARE. 


the  delightful  conceptions  of  Imogen,  of  her  arri- 
val at  the  cave  of  her  banished  brothers,  with  its  in- 
numerable beauties,  and  with  its  happy  conclusion. 
This  play  is  perhaps  the  fittest  in  Shakspeare's 
whole  theatre  to  illustrate  the  principle,  that  great 
dramatic  genius  can  occasionally  venture  on  bold 
improbabilities,  and  yet  not  only  shrive  the  offence, 
but  leave  us  enchanted  with  the  offender.  I  think 
I  exaggerate  not,  in  saying  that  Shakspeare  has  no- 
where breathed  more  pleasurable  feelings  over  the 
mind,  as  an  antidote  to  tragic  pain,  than  in  "  Cym- 
beline." 

If  I  were  to  select  any  historical  play  of 
Shakspeare,  in  which  he  has  combined  an  almost 
Uteral  fidelity  to  history  with  an  equally  faithful 
adherence  to  the  truth  of  nature,  and  in  which 
he  superinduces  the  merit  of  skilful  dramatic 
management,  it  would  be  "  Antony  and  Cleo- 
patra," (1608.)  In  his  portraiture  of  Antony 
there  is,  perhaps,  a  flattered  likeness  of  the  origi- 
nal by  Plutarch ;  but  the  similitude  loses  little  of 
its  strength  by  Shakspeare's  softening  and  keeping 
in  the  shade  his  traits  of  cruelty.  In  Cleopatra, 
we  can  discern  nothing  materially  different  from 
the  vouched  historical  sorceress ;  she  nevertheless 
has  a  more  vivid  meteoric  and  versatile  play  of  en- 
chantment in  Shakspeare's  likeness  of  her,  than 
in  a  dozen  of  other  poetical  copies  in  which  the 
artists  took  much  greater  liberties  with  historical 
truth : — he  paints  her  as  if  the  gipsy  herself  had 
cast  her  spell  over  him,  and  given  her  own  witch- 
craft to  his  pencil. 

"  Coriolanus"  was  written  in  1610;  "Winter's 
Tale"  in  1611;  and  "The  Tempest" — believed 
♦o  be  the  last  of  Shakspeare's  plays — in  the  same 
year.  This  drama  is  comparatively  a  grave  coun- 
terpart to  "  A  Midsummer  Night's  Dream."  I 
say  comparatively,  for  its  gayety  is  only  less  aban- 
doned and  frolicsome.  To  be  condemned  to  give 
the  preference  to  either  would  give  me  a  distress 
similar  to  that  of  being  obliged  to  choose  between 
the  loss  of  two  very  dear  fi-iends. 

"  The  Tempest,"  however,  has  a  sort  of  sacred- 
ness,  as  the  last  work  of  the  mighty  workman. 
Shakspeare,  as  if  conscious  that  it  would  be  his 
last,  and,  as  if  inspired  to  typify  himself,  has  made 


its  hero  a  natural,  a  dignified,  and  benevolent  ma- 
gician, who  could  conjure  up  spirits  from  the  vasty 
deep,  and  command  supernatural  agency  by  the 
most  seemingly  natural  and  simple  means. — And 
this  final  play  of  our  poet  has  magic  indeed  ;  for 
what  can  be  simpler  in  language  than  the  court- 
ship of  Ferdinand  and  Miranda,  and  yet  what  can 
be  more  magical  than  the  sympatt^  with  which 
it  subdues  us  1  Here  Shakspeare  himself  is  Pros- 
pero,  or  rather  the  superior  genius  who  f  ommands 
both  Prospero  and  Ariel.  But  the  time  was  ap- 
proaching when  the  potent  sorcerer  was  to  break 
his  staff,  and  to  bury  it  fathoms  in  the  ocean- — 

Deeper  than  did  ever  plummet  sound. 

That  staff  has  never  been,  and- never  will  be,  re- 
covered. 

The  exact  period  at  which  Shakspeare  quitted 
the  metrppolis,  and  settled  in  his  native  place,  has 
not  been  ascertained,  but  as  it  was  certainly  ^me 
years  before  his  death,  it  cannot  be  well  put  later 
than  1611  or  1612.  His  fame,  his  engaging  man- 
ners, and  his  easy  fortune — for  he  retired  with  an 
income  of  three  hundred  pounds  a-year — equal 
to  fifteen  hundred  pounds  in  the  present  day — • 
must  have  made  him  associate  with  the  best  so- 
ciety in  and  around  Stratford;  and  we  cannot 
conceive  his  settlement  to  have  been  less  than  a 
joyous  era  to  his  townsmen  and  neighbourhood. 

His  wife  had  brought  him  three  children :  Su- 
sanna, who  was  born  in  May,  1583 ;  about  eigh- 
teen months  afterwards,  she  was  delivered  of 
twins,  a  son  and  daughter,  who  were  baptized  by 
the  names  Hamnet  and  Judith.  In  the  year 
1596,  he  lost  his  only  son,  who  died  at  the  age 
of  twelve.  Susanna  was  married,  June  5,  1607, 
to  Dr.  John  Hall,  a  respectable  physician  ;  and  in 
1615-16  his  youngest  daughter  Judith,  then  in 
her  thirty-first  year,  was  married  to  Thomas 
Quiney,  a  vintner,  in  Stratford.  On  the  25th  of 
the  succeeding  month  he  executed  his  will,  as  if 
warned  of  impending  fate,  for,  on  the  23d  of  x\pril, 
1616,  on  his  birthday,  and  when  he  had  exactly 
completed  his  fifty-second  year,  the  best  of  poets 
expired. — G.] 


80NNET8. 
When  forty  winters  shall  besiege  thy  brow, 
And  dig  deep  trenches  in  thy  beauty's  field. 
Thy  youth's  proud  livery,  so  gazed  on  now. 
Will  be  a  tatter'd  weed  of  small  worth  held ; 
Then  being  ask'd  where  all  thy  beauty  lies, — 
Where  all  the  treasure  of  thy  lusty  days — 
To  say  "  within  thine  own  deep  sunken  eyes," 
Were  an  all-eating  shame  and  thriftless  praise ; 
How  much  more  praise  deserved  thy  beauty's  use, 
If  thou  couldst  answer  «  This  fair  child  of  mine 
Siiall  sum  my  count,  and  make  my  old  excuse," 
Proving  his  beauty  by  succession  thine : 
This  were  to  be  new-made  when  thou  art  old. 
And  see  thy  blood  warm  when  thou  feel'st  it 
cold. 


Oh  !   how  much   more  doth  Beauty  beauteous 

seem. 
By  that  sweet  ornament  which  truth  doth  give ! 
The  rose  looks  fair,  but  fairer  we  it  deem 
For  that  sweet  odour  which  doth  in  it  live ; 
The  canker'd  blooms  have  full  as  deep  a  dye, 
As  the  perfumed  tincture  of  the  roses. 
Hang  on  such  thorns,  and  play  as  wantonly. 
When  summer's  breath  -their  masked  buds  dis- 
closes ; 
But,  for  their  virtue  only  is  their  show. 
They  live  unwoo'd,  and  unrespected  fade, 
Die  to  themselves — Sweet  roses  do  not  so, 
Of  their  sweet  deaths  are  sweetest  odours  made ; 
As  so  of  you,  beauteous  and  lovely  youth. 
When  that  shall  fade  my  verse  distils  your  truth. 


WILLIAM   SHAKSPEARE. 


139 


Let  me  not  to  the  marriage  of  true  minds 
Admit  impediments.     Love  is  not  love 
Which  alters  when  it  alteration  finds, 
Or  bends  with  the  remover  to  remove ; 

0  no,  it  is  an  ever-fixed  mark 

That  looks  on  tempests  and  is  never  shaken ; 

It  is  the  star  to  every  wandering  bark, 

Whose  worth's  unknown,  although  his  height  be 

taken. 
Love's  not  Time's  fool,  though  rosy  lips  and  cheeks 
Within  his  bending  sickle's  compass  come ; 
Love  alters  not  with  his  brief  hours  and  weeks, 
But  bears  it  out  even  to  the  edge  of  doom: 
If  this  be  error,  and  upon  me  proved, 

1  never  writ,  nor  no  man  ever  loved. 


Those  lips,  that  Love's  own  hand  did  make. 
Breathed  forth  the  sound  that  said  "  I  hate," 
To  me  that  languish  for  her  sake. 
But  when  she  saw  my  woeful  state. 
Straight  in  her  heart  did  mercy  come. 
Chiding  that  tongue  that,  ever  sweet. 
Was  used  in  giving  gentle  doom ; 
And  taught  it  thus  anew  to  greet : 
"  I  hate"  she  alter'd  with  an  end 
That  follow'd  it  as  gentle  day 
Doth  follow  night,  who,  like  a  fiend. 
From  heav'n  to  hell  is  flown  away. 
"  I  hate" — from  hate  away  she  threw. 
And  saved  my  life,  saying — «  not  you." 


When  in  disgrace  with  fortune  and  men's  eyes, 
I  all  alone  beweep  my  outcast  state. 
And  trouble  deaf  heaven  with  my  bootless  cries. 
And  look  upon  myself,  and  curse  my  fate. 
Wishing  me  like  to  one  more  rich  in  hope. 
Featured  like  him,  like  him  with  fi-iends  possest, 
Desiring  this  man's  art,  and  that  man's  scope. 
With  what  I  most  enjoy  contented  least: 
Yet  in  these  thoughts  myself  almost  despising, 
Haply  I  think  on  thee,  and  then  my  state, 
(Like  to  the  lark,  at  break  of  day  arising 
From  sullen  earth)  sings  hymns  at  heaven's  gate ; 
For  thy  sweet  love  remember'd,  such  wealth  brings 
That  then  I  scorn  to  change  my  state  with  kings. 


Let  me  confess  that  we  two  must  be  twain. 

Although  our  undivided  loves  are  one : 

So  shall  those  blots  that  do  with  me  remain, 

Without  th}  help,  by  me  be  borne  alone. 

In  our  two  loves  there  is  but  one  respect. 

Though  in  our  lives  a  separable  spight. 

Which  though  it  alter  not  love's  sole  effect, 

Yel  doth  it  steal  sweet  hours  from  love's  delight. 

I  niHy  not  evermore  acknowledge  thee, 

Lest  my  bewailed  guilt  should  do  thee  shame ; 

Nor  thou  with  pubUc  kindness  honour  me, 

Unless  thou  take  that  honour  from  thy  name: 

But  do  not  so ;  I  love  thee  in  such  sort. 

As  thou  being  mine,  mine  is  thy  good  report. 


As  a  decrepit  father  takes  delight 

To  see  his  active  child  do  deeds  of  youth. 

So  I,  made  lame  by  fortune's  dearest  spight. 

Take  all  my  comfort  of  thy  worth  and  truth; 

For  whether  beauty,  birth,  or  wealth,  or  wit, 

Or  any  of  these  all,  or  all,  or  more, 

Entitled  in  their  parts  do  crowned  sit, 

I  make  my  love  engrafted  to  this  store : 

So  then  I  am  not  lame,  poor,  nor  despised. 

Whilst  that   this  shadow  doth  such  substance 

give. 
That  I  in  thy  abundance  am  sufficed. 
And  by  a  part  of  all  thy  glory  live. 
Look  what  is  best,  that  best  I  wish  in  thee ; 
This  wish  I  have ;  then  ten  times  happy  me ! 


No  longer  mourn  for  me  when  I  am  dead. 
Than  you  shall  hear  the  surly  sullen  bell 
Give  warning  to  the  world  that  I  am  fled 
From  this  vile  world,  with  vilest  worms  to  dwell ; 
Nay,  if  you  read  this  line,  remember  not 
The  hand  that  writ  it ;  for  I  love  you  so, 
That  I  in  your  sweet  thoughts  would  be  forgot, 
If  thinking  on  me  then  should  make  you  woe. 
0  if  (I  say)  you  look  upon  this  verse, 
When  I,  perhaps,  compounded  am  with  clay. 
Do  not  so  much  as  my  poor  name  rehearse; 
But  let  your  love  even  with  my  life  decay  ; 
Lest  the  wise  world  should  look  into  your  moan, 
And  mock  you  with  me  alter  I  am  gone. 


Say  that  thou  didst  forsake  me  for  some  fault. 

And  I  will  comment  upon  that  offence ; 

Speak  of  my  lameness,  and  I  straight  will  halt ; 

Against  thy  reasons  making  no  defence. 

Thou  canst  not,  love,  disgrace  rae  half  so  ill. 

To  set  a  form  upon  desired  change, 

As  I'll  myself  disgrace  :  knowing  thy  will, 

I  will  acquaintance  strangle,  and  look  strange ; 

Be  absent  fi-om  thy  walks ;  and  on  my  tongue 

Thy  sweet  beloved  name  no  more  shall  dwell ; 

Lest  I  (too  much  profane)  should  do  it  wrong. 

And  haply  of  our  old  acquaintance  tell. 

For  thee,  against  myself  I'll  vow  debate. 

For  I  must  ne'er  love  him  whom  thou  dost  hate. 


Alas,  'tis  true,  I  have  gone  here  and  there. 
And  made  myself  a  motley  to  the  view,       [dear 
Gored  mine  own  thoughts,  sold  cheap  what  is  most 
Made  old  offences  of  affections  new. 
Most  true  it  is,  that  I  have  look'd  on  truth 
Askance  and  strangely ;  but,  by  all  above. 
These  blenches  gave  my  heart  another  youth. 
And  worst  assaies  proved  thee  my  best  of  love. 
Now  all  is  done,  have  what  shall  have  no  end : 
Mine  appetite  I  never  more  will  grind 
On  newer  proof,  to  try  an  older  friend, 
A  god  in  love,  to  whom  I  am  confined. 
Then  give  me  welcome,  next  my  heaven  the  best 
Even  to  thy  pure  and  most,  most  loving  breast. 


SIR  WALTER   RALEIGH. 


[Born,  1532.    Died,  1618.] 


Ir  id  difficult  exactly  to  estimate  the  poetical 
character  of  this  great  man,  as  many  of  the  pieces 
that  are  ascribed  to  him  have  not  been  authenti- 
cated. Among  these  is  the  "  Soul's  Farewell," 
which  possesses  a  fire  of  imagination  that  we 
would  willingly  ascribe  to  him;  but  his  claim  to 
it,  as  has  been  already  mentioned,  is  exceedingly 
doubtful.  The  tradition  of  his  having  written  it 
on  the  night  before  his  execution,  is  highly  in- 
teresting to  the  fancy,  but,  like  many  fine  stories, 
it  has  the  little  defect  of  being  untrue,  as  the  poem 
was  in  existence  more  than  twenty  years  before 
his  death.  It  has  accordingly  been  placed  in  this 
collection,  with  several  other  pieces  to  which  his 
name  has  been  conjecturally  athxed,  among  the 
anonymous  poetry  of  that  period. 

Sir  Walter  was  born  at  Hayes  Farm,  in  Devon- 
shire, and  studied  at  Oxford.  Leaving  the  uni- 
versity at  seventeen,  he  fought  for  six  years  under 
the  Protestant  banners  in  France,  and  afterwards 
served  a  campaign  in  the  Netherlands.  He  next 
distinguished  himself  in  Ireland  during  the  rebel- 
lion of  1580,  under  the  lord  deputy  Lord  Grey  de 
Wilton,  with  whom  his  personal  disputes  eventu- 
ally promoted  his  fortunes ;  for  being  heard  in  his 
own  cause  on  returning  to  England,  he  won  the 
favour  of  Elizabeth,  who  knighted  him,  and  raised 
him  to  such  honours  as  alarmed  the  jealousy  of 
her  favourite  Leicester. 

In  the  mean  time,  as  early  as  1579,  he  had  com- 
menced his  adventures  with  a  view  to  colonize 
America — surveyed  the  territory  now  called  Vir- 
ginia, in  1584,  and  fitted  out  successive  fleets  in 
support  of  the  infant  colony.  In  the  destruction 
of  the  Spanish  armada,  as  well  as  in  the  expedi- 
tion to  Portugal  in  behalf  of  Don  Antonio,  he  had 
his  full  share  of  action  and  glory;  and  though  re- 
called, in  159.2,  from  the  appointment  of  general 
of  the  expedition  against  Panama,  he  must  have 
made  a  princely  fortune  by  the  success  of  his  fleet, 
which  sailed  upon  that  occasion,  and  returned 
with  the  richest  prize  that  had  ever  been  brought 
to  England.  The  queen  was  about  this  period  so 
indignant  with  him  for  an  amour  which  he  had 
with  one  of  her  maids  of  honour,  that,  though  he 
married  the  lady,  (she  was  the  daughter  of  Sir 
r<Iicholas  Throgmorton,)  her  majesty  committed 


him,  with. his  fair  partner,  to  the  Tower.  The 
queen  forgave  him,  however,  at  last,  and  rewarded 
his  services  with  a  grant  of  the  manor  of  Sher- 
borne, in  Dorsetshire,  where  he  built  a  magnificent 
seat.  Raleigh's  mind  W£is  not  one  that  was  des- 
tined to  travel  in  the  wheel-ruts  of  common  pre- 
judice. It  was  rumoured  that  he  had  carried  the 
freedom  of  his  philosophical  speculation  to  an  he- 
retical height  on  many  subjects.;  and  his  accept- 
ance of  the  church  lands  of  Sherborne,  already 
mentioned,  probably  supplied  additional  motives 
to  the  clergy  to  swell  the  outcry  against  his  prin- 
ciples. He  was  accused  (by  the  Jesuits)  of  athe- 
ism— a  charge  which  his  own  writings  sufficiently 
refute.  Whatever  were  his  opinions,  the  public 
saved  him  the  trouble  of  explaining  them ;  and 
the  queen,  taking  it  for  granted  that  they  must 
be  bad,  gave  him  an  open,  and,  no  doubt,  edifying 
reprnnand.  To  console  himself  under  these  cir- 
cumstances, he  projected  the  conquest  of  Guiana, 
sailed  thither  in  1595,  and  having  captured  the 
city  of  San  Joseph,  returned  and  published  an 
account  of  his  voyage.  In  the  following  year  he 
acted  gallantly  under  the  Earl  of  Essex  at  Cadiz, 
as  well  as  in  what  was  called  the  "  Island  Voy- 
age."* On  the  latter  occasion  he  failed  of  com- 
plete success  only  through  the  jealousy  of  the 
favourite. 

His  letter  to  Cecil,  in  which  he  exhorted  that 
statesman  to  the  destruction  of  Essex,  forms  but 
too  sad  and  notorious  a  blot  in  our  hero's  memory  , 
yet  even  that  ofl'ence  wUl  not  reconcile  us  to  be- 
hold the  successor  of  Elizabeth  robbing  Raleigh 
of  his  estate  to  bestow  it  on  the  minion  Carr;  and 
on  the  grounds  of  a  plot  in  which  his  participa- 
tion was  never  proved,  condemning  to  fifteen  years 
of  imprisonment  the  man  who  had  enlarged  the 
empire  of  his  country,  and  the  boundaries  of  hu- 
man knowledge.  James  could  estimate  the  wise, 
but  shrunk  from  cordiality  with  the  brave.  He 
released  Raleigh,  from  avaricious  hopes  about  the 
mine  of  Guiana ;  and  when  disappointed  in  that 
object,  sacrificed  him  to  motives  still  baser  than 
avarice.  On  the  29th  of  October,  1618,  Raleigh 
perished  on  a  scaffold,  in  Old  Palace-yard,  by  a 
sentence  originally  iniquitous,  and  which  liis  com- 
mission to  Guiana  had  virtually  revoked. 


THE  SILENT  LOVER. 
Passions  are  liken'd  best  to  floods  and  streams, 
The  shallow  murmur,  but  the  deep  are  dumb ; 
8<)  when  affection  yields  discourse,  it  seems 
The  bottom  is  but  shallow  whence  they  come ; 
They  that  are  rich  in  words  must  needs  discover 
They  are  but  poor  in  that  which  makes  a  lover. 

Wrong  not,  sweet  mistress  of  my  heart, 
The  merit  of  true  passion. 
With  thinking  that  he  feels  no  smart 
That  sues  for  no  compassion. 
140 


Since  if  my  plaints  were  not  t'  approve 
The  conquest  of  thy  beauty, 
It  comes  not  from  defect  of  love, 
But  fear  t'  exceed  my  duty. 

For  not  knowing  that  I  sue  to  serve 
A  saint  of  such  perfection 
As  all  desire,  but  none  deserve 
A  place  in  her  affection, 

*  A  voyage  that  was  aimed  principally  at  the  Spanish 
Plate  fleets. 


SIR  WALTER   RALEIGH. 


141 


I  rather  choose  to  want  relief 
Than  venture  the  revealing ; 
Where  glory  recommends  the  grief, 
Despair  disdains  the  healing. 

Silence  in  love  betrays  more  woe 
Than  words,  though  ne'er  so  witty ; 
A  beggar  that  is  dumb,  you  know, 
May  challenge  double  pity. 

Then  wrong  not,  dearest  to  my  heart. 
My  love  for  secret  passion  ; 
He  smarteth  most  who  hides  his  smart, 
And  sues  for  no  compassion.* 


A   NYMPH'S  DISDAIN  OF   LOVE. 

Hkt  down  a  down,  did  Dian  sing. 

Amongst  her  virgins  sitting, 

Than  love  there  is  no  vainer  thing 

For  maidens  most  unfitting: 

And  so  thuik  I,  with  a  down  down  deny. 

When  women  knew  no  woe. 

But  lived  themselves  to  please. 

Men's  feigning  guiles  they  did  not  know, 

The  ground  of  their  disease. 

Unborn  was  false  Suspect ; 

No  thought  of  Jealousy ; 

From  wanton  toys  and  fond  affect 

The  virgin's  life  was  free  ; 

Hey  down  a  down,  did  Dian  sing,  &c. 

At  length  men  used  charms. 
To  which  what  maids  gave  ear, 
Embracing  gladly  endless  harms. 
Anon  enthralled  were. 

Thus  women  welcomed  woe, 
Disguised  in  name  of  love ; 
A  jealous  hell,  a  painted  show, 
So  shall  they  find  that  prove. 

Hey  down  a  down,  did  Dian  sing. 
Amongst  her  virgins  sitting, 
Than  love  there  is  no  vainer  thing, 
For  maidens  most  unfitting. 


THK  SHEPHERD'S  DESCRIPTION  OF  LOVE. 
Ascribed  to  Sir  Walter  Raleigh  in  "  England's  Helicon." 

Melib.  Shepherd,  what's  love  1  I  pray  thee  tell. 

Faust.  It  is  that  fountain  and  that  well 

Where  pleasure  and  repentance  dwell ; 
It  is,  perhaps,  that  sauncing  bell 
That  tolls  all  into  heav'n  or  hell. 
And  this  is  love  as  I  heard  tell. 

31.  Yet,  what  is  love  1  I  prithee  say. 

F.  It  is  a  work  on  holiday ; 

It  is  December  match'd  with  May, 
When  lusty  blood 's  in  fresh  array. 
And  this  is  love  as  I  hear  say. 

•  [This  po«>m  is  attributfd  to  f.ord  Pembroke, — but  it 
has  been  ascribed  with  great  probability  to  Sir  Robert  Ay- 
ton  in  a  MS.  and  contemporary  volume  of  Ayton's  poems 
once  in  Mr.  Uebcr's  hands. — C.] 


Jlf.  Yet,  what  is  love  ?  good  shepherd,  sain. 
F.  It  is  a  sunshinie  mixt  with  rain ; 

It  is  a  toothache,  or  like  pain ; 

It  is  a  game  where  none  doth  gain ; 

The  lass  saith  no,  and  would  full  fain. 

And  this  is  love  as  I  hear  sain. 

M.  Yet,  shepherd,  what  is  love,  I  pray  1 
F.  It  is  a  yea,  it  is  a  nay, 

A  pretty  kind  of  sporting  fray, 

It  is  a  thing  will  soon  away  ; 

Then  nymphs  take  vantage  while  you  may, 

And  this  is  love  as  I  hear  say. 

M.  And  what  is  love,  good  shepherd,  show  t 
F.  A  thing  that  creeps,  it  cannot  go ; 

A  prize  that  passeth  to  and  fi-o ; 

A  thing  for  one,  a  thing  for  moe. 

And  he  that  proves  shall  find  it  so ; 

And,  shepherd,  this  is  love,  I  trow. 


DOLCINA. 


As  at  noon  Dulcina  rested 

In  her  sweet  and  shady  bower. 
Came  a  shepherd,  and  requested 
In  her  lap  to  sleep  an  hour. 

But  from  her  look 

A  wound  he  took 
So  deep,  that  for  a  farther  boon 

The  nymph  he  prays ; 

Whereto  she  says, 
"  Forego  me  now,  come  to  me  soon !" 

But  in  vain  she  did  conjure  him 

To  depart  her  presence  so. 
Having  a  thousand  tongues  t'  allure  him, 
And  but  one  to  bid  him  go. 
When  lips  invite. 
And  eyes  delight. 
And  cheeks,  as  fresh  as  rose  in  June, 
Persuade  delay, 
What  boots  to  say, 
•«  Forego  me  now,  come  to  me  soon !" 

He  demands,  what  time  for  pleasure 
Can  there  be  more  fit  than  now  1 
She  says,  night  gives  love  that  leisure 
Which  the  day  doth  not  allow. 

He  says,  the  sight 

Improves  delight ; 
Which  she  denies ;  "  Night's  murky  noon 

In  Venus'  plays 

Makes  bold,"  she  says, 
"  Forego  me  now,  come  to  me  soon !" 

But  what  promise  or  profession. 

From  his  hands  could  purchase  scope  t 
Who  would  sell  the  sweet  possession 
Of  such  beauty  for  a  hope  1 

Or  for  the  sight 

Of  lingering  night. 
Forego  the  present  joys  of  noon  t 

Though  ne'er  so  fair 

Her  speeches  were, 
"  Forego  me  now,  come  to  me  soon  ' 


142 


JOSHUA   SYLVESTER. 


How  at  last  agreed  these  lovers  1 

She  was  fair  and  he  was  young : 
The  tongue  may  tell  what  th'  eye  discovers ; 
Joys  unseen  are  never  sung. 

Did  she  consent, 

Or  he  relent  1 
Accepts  he  night,  or  grants  she  noon  ? 

Left  he  her  maid. 

Or  not  ]   she  said, 
«  Forego  me  now,  come  to  me  soon !" 


HIS  LOVE  ADMITS  NO  RIVAL. 

Shall  I,  like  a  hermit,  dwell, 
On  a  rock,  or  in  a  cell, 
Calling  home  the  smallest  part 
That  is  missing  of  my  heart. 
To  bestow  it  where  I  may 
Meet  a  rival  every  day  1 
If  she  undervalue  me, 
What  care  I  how  fair  she  be ! 
Were  her  tresses  angel  gold, 
If  a  stranger  may  be  bold, 
Unrebuked,  unafraid, 
To  convert  them  to  a  braid. 
And  with  little  more  ado 
Work  them  into  bracelets,  too  T 
If  the  mine  be  grown  so  free. 
What  care  I  how  rich  it  be ! 
Were  her  band  as  rich  a  prize 
As  her  hairs,  or  precious  eyes, 


If  she  lay  them  out  to  take 
Kisses,  for  good  manners'  sake : 
And  let  every  lover  skip 
From  her  hand  unto  her  lip ; 
If  she  seem  not  chaste  to  me. 
What  care  I  how  chaste  she  be ! 

No ;  she  must  be  perfect  snow, 
In  effect  as  well  as  show ; 
Warming  but  as  snow-balls  do, 
Not  like  fire,  by  burning  too  ; 
But  when  she  by  change  hath  got 
To  her  heart  a  second  lot. 
Then,  if  others  share  with  me. 
Farewell  her,  whate'er  she  be ! 


A  VISION   UPON   "THE   FAIRY  QUEEN." 
Methouoht  I  saw  the  grave  where  Laura  lay. 
Within  that  temple  where  the  vestal  flame 
Was  wont  to  burn  :  and  passing  by  that  way 
To  see  that  buried  dust  of  living  fame. 
Whose  tomb  fair  Love  and  fairer  Virtue  kept. 
All  suddenly  I  saw  the  Fairy  Queen, 
At  whose  approach  the  soul  of  Petrarch  wept ; 
And  from  thenceforth  those  Graces  were  not  seen, 
For  they  this  Queen  attended ;  in  whose  stead 
Oblivion  laid  him  down  on  Laura's  hearse. 
Hereat  the  hardest  stones  were  seen  to  bleed. 
And  groans  of  buried  ghosts  the  heavens  did  pierce. 
Where  Homer's  spright  did  tremble  all  for  grief. 
And  cursed  th'  access  of  that  celestial  thief. 


JOSHUA   SYLVESTER, 

[Born,  1563.     Died,  1618.] 


Who  in  his  day  obtained  the  epithet  of  the  Silver- 
tongued,  was  a  merchant  adventurer,  and  died 
abroad,  at  .Middleburgh,  in  1618.  He  was  a  can- 
didate, in  the  year  1597,  for  the  office  of  secre- 
tary to  a  trading  company  at  Stade ;  on  which 
occasion  the  Earl  of  Essex  seems  to  have  taken 
a  friendly  interest  in  his  fortunes.  Though  es- 
teemed by  the  court  of  England,  (on  one  occasion 
he  signs  himself  the  pensioner  of  Prince  Henry,)* 
he  is  said  to  have  been  driven  from  home  by  the 
enmity  which  his  satires  excited.  This  seems 
very  extraordinary,  as  there  is  nothing  in  his  vague 
and  dull  declamations  against  vice  that  needed  to 
ha\c  ruffled  the  most  thin-skinned  enemies — so 


that  his  travels  were  probably  made  more  from 
the  hope  of  gain  than  the  feeir  of  persecution. 
He  was  an  eminent  linguist,  and  writes  his  dedi- 
cations in  several  languages,  but  in  his  own  he 
often  fathoms  the  bathos,  and  brings  up  such  lines 
as  these  to  King  James. 

So  much,  0  king,  thy  sacred  worth  presume  I  on, 
James,  the  just  heir  of  England's  lawful  union. 

His  works  are  chiefly  translations,  including  that 
of  the  "  Divine  Weeks  and  Works  of  Du  Bartas." 
His  claim  to  the  poem  of  the  "  Soul's  Errand," 
as  has  been  already  mentioned,  is  to  be  entirely  set 
aside. 


TO  RELIGION. 

STANZAS  FROM   "ALL  IS   NOT  OOU)  THAT  0LITTES8.' 

Religion,  O  thou  life  of  life. 
How  worldlings,  that  profane  thee  rife. 
Can  wrest  thee  to  their  appetites ! 
How  princes,  who  thy  power  deny. 
Pretend  thee  for  their  tyranny. 
And  people  for  their  false  delights ! 


•  [He  had  a  yearly  pension  of  twenty  pounds  from 
Wnce  Henry.  IJwen  the  Kpigrammatist  had  the  same 
)um :  »d1  Drayton  had  ten.— C  ^ 


Under  thy  sacred  name,  all  ovei. 

The  vicious  all  their  vices  cover; 

The  insolent  their  insolence. 

The  proud  their  pride,  the  false  their  fraud, 

The  thief  his  theft,  her  filth  the  bawd, 

The  impudent  their  impudence. 

Ambition  under  thee  aspires. 
And  Avarice  under  thee  desires ; 
Sloth  under  thee  her  ease  assumes, 
Lux  under  thee  all  overflows, 
W' rath  under  thee  outrageous  grows. 
All  evil  under  thee  presumes. 


SAMUEL   DANIEL. 


143 


Religion,  erst  so  venerable, 
What  art  thou  now  but  made  a  fable, 
A  holy  mask  on  Folly's  brow, 
Where  under  lies  Dissimulation, 
Lined  with  all  abomination. 
Sacred  Religion,  where  art  thou  1 


Not  in  the  church  with  Simony, 

Not  on  the  bench  with  Bribery, 

Nor  in  the  court  with  Machiavel, 

Nor  in  the  city  with  deceits, 

Nor  in  the  country  with  debates ; 

For  what  hath  Heaven  to  do  with  Hell  t 


SAMUEL  DANIEL. 

[Born,  1562.    Died,  Oct  1619.] 


Samuei,  Daniel  was  the  son  of  a  music-master, 
and  was  born  at  Taunton,  in  Somersetshire.  He 
was  patronized  and  probably  maintained  at  Ox- 
ford, by  the  noble  family  of  Pembroke.  At  the 
age  of  twenty-three  he  translated  Paulus  Jo- 
vius's  "  Discourse  of  Rare  Inventions."  He  was 
afterwards  tutor  to  the  accomplished  and  spirited 
Lady  Anne  Clifford,  daughter  to  the  Earl  of  Cum- 
berland, who  raised  a  monument  to  his  memory, 
on  which  she  recorded  that  she  had  been  his  pu- 
pil.    At  the  death  of  Spenser  he  furnished,  as  a 


voluntary  laureat,  several  masks  and  pageants 
for  the  court,  but  retired,  with  apparent  mor- 
tification, before  the  ascendant  favour  of  Jon- 
son.* 

While  composing  his  dramas  he  lived  in  Old- 
street,  St.  Luke's,  which  was  at  that  time  thought 
retirement  from  London;  but  at  times  he  fre- 
quented the  city,  and  had  the  honour  of  ranking 
Shakspeare  and  Selden  among  his  friends.  In 
his  old  age  he  turned  husbandman,  and  closed  his 
days  at  a  farm  in  Somersetshire. 


RICHARD   THE   SECOND,    THE   MORNING   BEFORE 
HIS   MURDER  IN   POMFRET  CASTLE. 
Daniel's  civil  warSi  st.  62,  69. 
Whethek  the  soul  receives  intelligence, 
By  her  near  genius,  of  the  body's  end. 
And  so  imparts  a  sadness  to  the  sense, 
Foregoing  ruin,  whereto  it  doth  tend ; 
Or  whether  nature  else  hath  conference 
With  profound  sleep,  and  so  doth  warning  send, 
By  prophetizing  dreams,  what  hurt  is  near. 
And  gives  the  heavy  careful  heart  to  fear : — 

However,  so  it  is,  the  now  sad  king, 
Toss'd  here  and  there  his  quiet  to  confound. 
Feels  a  strange  weight  of  sorrows  gathering 
Upon  his  trembling  heart,  and  sees  no  ground ; 
Feels  sudden  terror  bring  cold  shivering ; 
Lists  not  to  eat,  still  mu«^s,  sleeps  unsound ; 
His  senses  droop,  his  steady  eyes  unquick. 
And  much  he  ails,  and  yet  he  is  not  sick. 

The  morning  of  that  day  which  was  his  last, 
After  a  weary  rest,  rising  to  pain. 
Out  at  a  little  grate  his  eyes  he  cast 
Upon  those  bordering  hills  and  open  plain, 
Where  others'  liberty  makes  him  complain 
The  more  his  own,  and  grieves  his  soul  the  more, 
Conferring  captive  crowns  with  freedom  poor. 

O  happy«man,  saith  he,  that  lo  I  see. 
Grazing  his  cattle  in  those  pleasant  fields. 
If  he  but  knew  his  good.     How  blessed  he 
That  feels  not  what  affliction  greatness  yields ! 
Other  than  what  he  is  he  would  not  be. 
Nor  change  his  state  with  him  that  sceptre  wields. 
Thine,  thine  is  that  true  life :  that  is  to  live, 
To  rest  secure,  and  not  rise  up  to  grieve. 


*  The  latest  editor  of  Jonson  afflrmg  the  whole  conduct 
of  that  groat  poet  towards  Daniel  to  haw  been  perfectly 
honourable.  Some  small  exception  to  this  must  be  made, 
when  we  turn  to  the  derision  of  Daniel's  verses,  which  is 
pointed  out  by  the  editor  bimsel^  in  Cynthia's  Revels. 


Thou  sitt'st  at  home  safe  by  thy  quiet  fire, 
And  hear'st  of  others'  harms,  but  fearest  none : 
And  there  thou  tell'st  of  kings,  and  who  aspire, 
Who  fall,  who  rise,  who  triumph,  who  do  moan. 
Perhaps  thou  talk'st  of  me,  and  dost  inquire 
Of  my  restraint,  why  here  I  live  alone. 
And  pitiest  this  my  miserable  fall ; 
For  pity  must  have  part — envy  not  all. 

Thrice  happy  you  that  look  as  from  the  shore, 
And  have  no  venture  in  the  wreck  you  see ; 
No  interest,  no  occasion  to  deplore 
Other  men's  travels,  while  yourselves  sit  free. 
How  much  doth  your  sweet  rest  make  us  the  more 
To  see  our  misery  and  what  we  be : 
Whose  blinded  greatness,  ever  in  turmoil, 
Still  seeking  happy  life,  makes  life  a  toil. 


LOVE  IN  INFANCY. 

Ah  !  I  remember  well  (and  how  can  I 
But  evermore  remember  well)  when  first 
Our  flame  began,  when  scarce  we  knew  what  was 
The  flame  we  felt ;  whenas  we  sat  and  sigh'd 
And  look'd  upon  each  other,  and  conceived 
Not  what  we  ail'd,  yet  something  we  did  ail ; 
And  yet  were  well,  and  yet  we  were  not  well. 
And  what  was  our  disease  we  could  not  tell. 
Then  would  we  kiss,  then  sigh,  then  look :  And  thus 
In  that  first  garden  of  our  simpleness 
We  spent  our  childhood :  But  when  years  began 
To  reap  the  fruit  of  knowledge ;  ah,  how  then 
Would  she  with  graver  looks,  and  sweet  stern  brow, 
Check  my  presumption  and  my  forwardness ; 
Yet  still  would  give  uie  flowers,still  would  me  show 
What  she  would  have  me,  yet  not  have  me  know. 


This  was  unworthy  of  Jonson,  as  the  verses  of  Daniel  at 
which  hn  snipers  are  not  contemptible,  and  as  Daniel  waa 
confessedly  an  amiable  man,  who  died  "  beloved,  honoured, 
and  lamented." — ^E. 


GILES  AND   PHINEAS   FLETCHER. 


[Gilo  Fletcher  died,    623  ] 


The  affinity  and  genius  of  these  two  poets  na- 
turally associate  their  names.  They  were  the 
cousins  of  Fletcher  the  dramatist,  and  the  sons  of 
a  Doctor  Giles  Fletcher,  who,  among  several  im- 
portant missions  in  the  reign  of  Queen  Elizabeth, 
negotiated  a  commercial  treaty  with  Russia,  greatly 
to  the  advantage  of  England,  in  spite  of  many 
obstacles  that  were  presented  by  a  capricious  czar 
and  a  barbarous  court.  His  remarks  on  Russia 
were  suppressed  on  their  first  appearance,  but 
were  afterwards  republished  in  1643,  and  incor- 
porated with  Hakluyt's  Voyages. 

Mr.  A.  Chalmers,  in  his  British  Poets,  men- 
tions Giles  as  the  elder  son  of  this  Dr.  Fletcher, 
evidently  by  mistake,  as  Giles,  in  his  poetry,  speaks 
of  his  own  "green  muse  hiding  her  younger  head," 
with  reference  to  his  senior  brother.  Giles  was 
bred  at  Cambridge,  and  died  at  his  living  of  Al- 
derston,  in  Suffolk,  in  1623.  Phineas  was  edu- 
cated at  the  same  university,  and  wrote  an  account 
of  its  founders  and  learned  men.  He  was  also  a 
clergyman,  and  held  the  living  of  Hilgay  in  Nor- 
folk, for  twenty-nine  years.  They  were  both  the 
disciples  of  Spenser,  and,  with  his  diction  gently 
modernized,  retained  much  of  his  melody  and 
luxuriant  expression.  Giles,  inferior  as  he  is  to 
Spenser  and  Milton,  might  be  figured,  in  his  hap- 
piest moments,  as  a  link  of  connection  in  our  poetry 
between  those  congenial  spirits,  for  he  reminds  us 
of  both,  and  evidently  gave  hints  to  the  latter  in  a 
poem  on  the  same  subject  with  Paradise  Regained. 

Giles's  "Temptation  and  Victory  of  Christ" 
has  a  tone  of  enthusiasm  peculiarly  solemn. 
Phineas,  with  a  livelier  fancy,  had  a  worse  taste. 
He  lavished  on  a  bad  subject  the  graces  and  in- 
genuity that  would  have  made  a  fine  poem  on  a 
good  design.  Through  five  cantos  of  his  "  Purple 
Island,"  he  tries  to  sweeten  the  language  of 
anatomy  by  the  flowers  of  poetry,  and  to  support 
the  wings  of  allegory  by  bodily  instead  of  spiritual 
phenomena.  Unfortunately  in  the  remaining 
cantos  he  only  quits  the  dissecting-table  to  launch 
into  the  subtlety  of  the  schools,  and  describes 
Intellect,  the  Prince  of  the  Isle  of  Man,  with  his 
eight  counsellors,  Fancy,  Memory,  the  Common 
Sense,  and  the  five  external  Senses,  as  holding  out 
in  the  Human  Fortress  against  the  Evil  Powers 


that  besiege  it.  Here  he  strongly  resembles  the 
old  Scottish  poet  Gawain  Douglas,  in  his  poem 
of  King  Heart.  But  he  outstrips  all  allegorists 
in  conceit,  when  he  exhibits  Voletta,  or  the  Will, 
the  wife  of  Intellect,  propped  in  her  fainting-fits 
by  Repentance,  who  administers  restorative  waters 
to  the  Queen,  made  with  lip's  confession  and  with 
"  pickled  sighs,"  stilled  in  the  alembic  of  a  broken 
spirit.  At  the  approach  of  the  combat  between 
the  good  and  evil  powers,  the  interest  of  the  nar- 
ration is  somewhat  quickened,  and  the  parting  of 
the  sovereign  and  the  queen,  with  their  cham- 
pions, is  not  unfeelingly  portrayed. 

Long  at  the  gate  the  thoughtful  Intellect 
Stay'd  with  hi8  fearful  queen  and  daughter  fair; 
But  when  the  knights  were  past  their  dim  aspect^ 
They  follow  them  with  vows  and  many  a  prayer. 
At  last  they  climb  up  to  the  castle's  height, 
From  which  they  view'd  the  deeds  of  every  knight. 
And  mark'd  the  doubtful  end  of  this  intestine  fight. 

As  when  a  youth  bound  for  the  Belgic  war, 
Takes  leave  of  friends  upon  the  Kentish  shore. 
Now  are  they  parted ;  and  he  sail'd  so  far, 
They  see  not  now.  and  now  are  seen  no  more ; 
Yet,  far  off,  viewing  the  white  trembling  sails, 
The  tender  mother  soon  plucks  off  her  vails, 
And,  shaking  them  aloft,  unto  her  son  she  hails. 

But  the  conclusion  of  the  Purple  Island  sinks 
into  such  absurdity  and  adulation,  that  we  could 
gladly  wish  the  poet  back  again  to  allegorizing 
the  bladder  and  kidneys.  In  a  contest  about  the 
eternal  salvation  of  the  human  soul,  the  event  is 
decided  by  King  James  the  First  (at  that  time  a 
sinner  upon  earth)  descending  from  heaven  with 
his  treatise  on  the  Revelation  under  his  arm,  in 
the  form  of  an  angel,  and  preceding  the  Omni- 
potent, who  puts  the  forces  of  the  dragon  to  the  rout. 

These  incongruous  conceptions  are  clothed  in 
harmony,  and  interspersed  with  beautiful  thoughts : 
but  natural  sentiments  and  agreeable  imagery  will 
not  incorporate  with  the  shapeless  features  of  such 
a  design  ;  they  stand  apart  from  it  like  things  of 
a  diflerent  element,  and,  when  they  occur,  only 
expose  its  deformity.  On  the  contrary,  in  the 
brother's  poem  of  Christ's  Triumph,  its  main 
effect,  though  somewhat  sombrous,  is  not  marred 
by  such  repulsive  contrasts ;  its  beauties,  there- 
fore, all  tell  in  relieving  tedium,  and  reconciling 
us  to  defects. 


MERCY  DWELLING  IN  HEAVEN  AND  PLEADING 
FOR  THE  GUILTY,  WITH  JUSTICE  DESCRIBED  BY 
HER  QUALITIES. 

FKOM   OILES   FLETCBER'S  "CHRIST'S  VICTORY  IV   HEAVEN." 

But  Justice  had  no  sooner  Mercy  seen 
Smoothing  the  wrinkles  of  her  father's  brow, 
But  up  she  starts,  and  throws  herself  between  : 
As  when  a  vapour  from  a  moorj*  slough. 
Meeting  with  fresh  Eous,  that  but  now 
Open'd  the  world,  which  all  in  darkness  lay, 
144 


Doth  heaven's  bright  face  of  his  rays  disarray. 
And  sads  the  smiling  orient  of  the  springing  day. 

She  was  a  virgin  of  austere  regard : 

Not  as  the  world  esteems  her,  deaf  and  blind , 

But  as  the  eagle,  that  hath  oft  compared 

Hereye  with  heaven's,  so,  and  more  brightly  shined 

Her  lamping  sight:  for  she  the  same  could  wind 

Into  the  solid  heart,  and,  with  her  ears, 

The  silence  of  the  thought  loud  speaking  hears, 

And  in  one  hand  a  pair  of  even  scales  she  weeurs. 


GILES  AND   PHINEAS   FLETCHER. 


U5 


No  riot  of  affection  revel  kept 
Within  her  breast,  but  a  still  apathy 
Possessed  all  her  soul,  which  softly  slept 
Securely  without  tempest ;  no  sad  cry 
Awakes  her  pity,  but  wrong'd  Poverty, 
Sending  his  eyes  to  heaven  swimming  in  tears, 
With  hideous  clamours  ever  struck  her  ears, 
Whetting  the  blazing  sword  that  in  her  hand  she 

bears. 
The  winged  lightning  is  her  Mercury, 
And  round  about  her  mighty  thunders  sound : 
Impatient  of  himself  lies  pining  by 
Pale  Sickness,  with  his  kercher'd  head  upwound, 
And  thousand  noisome  plagues  attend  her  round. 
But  if  her  cloudy  brow  but  once  grow  foul, 
The  flints  do  melt,  and  rocks  to  water  roll. 
And  airy  mountains  shake,  and  frighted  shadows 

howl. 

Famine,  and  bloodless  Care,  and  bloody  War : 
Want,  and  the  want  of  knowledge  how  to  use 
Abundance ;  Age,  and  Fear,  that  runs  afar 
Before  his  fellow  Grief,  that  aye  pursues 
His  winged  steps ;  for  who  would  not  refuse 
Grief's  company,  a  dull  and  raw-boned  spright, 
That  lanks  the  cheeks,  and  pales  the  freshest  sight, 
Unbosoming  the  cheerful  breast  of  all  delight  1 


JUSnCE  ADDRESSING  THE  CREATOR. 
Upon  two  stony  tables,  spread  before  her, 
She  leant  her  bosom,  more  than  stopy  hard ; 
There  slept  th'  impartial  judge  and  strict  restorer 
Of  wrong  or  right,  with  pain  or  with  reward ; 
There  hung  the  score  of  all  our  debts — the  card 
Where  good,  and  bad,  and  life,  and  death,  were 

painted ; 
Was  never  heart  of  mortal  so  untainted. 
But,  when  that  scroll  was  read,  with  thousand 

terrors  fainted. 

Witness  the  thunder  that  Mount  Sinai  heard, 
When  all  the  hill  with  fiery  clouds  did  flame. 
And  wand'ring  Israel,  with  the  sight  afear'd, 
Blinded  with  seeing,  durst  not  touch  the  same, 
But  like  a  wood  of  shaking  leaves  became. 
On  this  dead  Justice,  she,  the  living  law, 
Bowing  herself  with  a  majestic  awe, 
All  heaven,  to  hear  her  speech,  did  into  silence 
draw. 


MERCY  BRIGHTENING  THE  RAINBOW. 

High  in  the  airy  element  there  hung 
Another  cloudy  sea,  that  did  disdain. 
As  though  his  purer  waves  from  heaven  sprung. 
To  crawl  on  earth,  as  doth  the  sluggish  main ! 
But  it  the  earth  would  water  with  his  rain. 
That  ebb'd  and  flow'd  as  wind  and  season  would ; 
And  oft  the  sun  would  cleave  the  limber  mould 
To  alabaster  rocks,  that  in  the  liquid  roU'd. 

Beneath  those  sunny  banks  a  darker  cloud. 
Dropping  with  thicker  dew,  did  melt  apace, 
And  bent  itself  into  a  hollow  shroud, 
On  which,  if  Mercy  did  but  cast  her  face, 


A  thousand  colours  did  the  bow  enchase, 
That  wonder  was  to  see  the  silk  distain'd 
W^ith  the  resplendence  from  her  beauty  gain'd. 
And  Iris  paint  her  locks  with  beams  so  lively  feign'd. 

About  her  head  a  cypress  heav'n  she  wore, 
Spread  like  a  veil  upheld  with  silver  wire. 
In  which  the  stars  so  burnt  in  golden  ore. 
As  seem'd  the  azure  web  was  all  on  fire : 
But  hastily,  to  quench  their  sparkling  ire, 
A  flood  of  milk  came  rolling  up  the  shore, 
That  on  his  curded  wave  swift  Argus  wore. 
And  the  immortal  swan,  that  did  her  life  deplore. 

Yet  strange  it  was  so  many  stars  to  see. 
Without  a  sun  to  give  their  tapers  light : 
Yet  strange  it  was  not  that  it  so  should  be  ; 
For,  where  the  sun  centres  himself  by  right. 
Her  face  and  locks  did  flame,  that  at  the  sight 
The  heavenly  veil,  that  else  should  nimbly  move, 
Forget  his  flight,  and  all  incensed  with  love. 
With  wonder,and  amazement,  did  her  beauty  prove. 

Over  her  hung  a  canopy  of  state, 

Not  of  rich  tissue,  nor  of  spangled  gold, 

But  of  a  substance,  though  not  animate, 

Yet  of  a  heavenly  and  spiritual  mould, 

That  only  eyes  of  spirits  might  behold : 

Such  light  as  from  main  rocks  of  diamond. 

Shooting  their  sparks  at  Phoebus,  would  rebound. 

And  little  angels,  holding  hands,  danced  all  around. 


THE  PALACE  OF  PRESUMPTION. 
Here  did  Presumption  her  pavilion  spread 
Over  the  temple,  the  bright  stars  among, 
(Ah  that  her  foot  should  trample  on  the  head 
Of  that  most  reverend  place  !)  and  a  lewd  throng 
Of  wanton  boys  sung  her  a  pleasant  song 
Of  love,  long  life,  of  mercy,  and  of  grace, 
And  every  one  her  dearly  did  embrace. 
And  she  herself  enamour'd  was  of  her  own  face. 

A  painted  face,  belied  with  vermeil  store, 
Which  light  Euelpis  every  day  did  trim, 
That  in  one  hand  a  gilded  anchor  wore. 
Not  fixed  on  the  rock,  but  on  the  brim 
Of  the  wide  air,  she  let  it  loosely  swim  ! 
Her  other  hand  a  sprinkle  carried, 
And  ever  when  her  lady  wavered, 
Court-holy  water  all  upon  her  sprinkled. 

Her  tent  with  sunny  clouds  was  ciel'd  aloft. 
And  so  exceeding  shone  with  a  false  light, 
That  Heav'n  itself  to  her  it  seemed  oft. 
Heaven  without  clouds  to  her  deluded  sight ; 
But  clouds  withouten  Heaven  it  was  aright : 
And  as  her  house  was  built  so  did  her  brain 
Build  castles  in  the  air,  with  idle  pain, 
But  heart  she  never  had  in  all  her  body  vain. 
Like  as  a  ship,  in  which  no  balance  lies, 
Without  a  pilot  on  the  sleeping  waves. 
Fairly  along  with  wind  and  water  flies. 
And  painted  masts  with  silken  sails  embraves, 
That  Neptune's  self  the  bragging  vessel  saves, 
To  laugh  awhile  at  her  so  proud  array  ; 
Her  wa^'ing  streamers  loosely  she  lets  play. 
And  flagging  colours  shine  as  bright  as  smiling  day 
N 


146 


GILES  AND   PHINEAS   FLETCHER. 


But  all  so  soon  as  Heav'n  his  brows  doth  bend, 
She  veils  her  banners,  and  pulls  in  her  beams. 
The  empty  bark  the  raging  billows  send 
Up  to  the  Olympic  waves,  and  Argus  seems 
Again  to  ride  upon  our  lower  streams : 
Right  so  Presumption  did  herself  behave, 
Tossed  about  with  every  stormy  wave,       [brave. 
And  in  white  lawn  she  went,  most  like  an  angel 

All  suddenly  the  hill  his  snow  devours. 

In  lieu  whereof  a  goodly  garden  grew. 

As  if  the  snow  had  me! fed  into  flow'rs, 

Which  their  sweet  breath  in  subtle  vapours  threw, 

That  all  about  perfumed  spirits  flew. 

For  whatsoever  might  aggrate  the  sense, 

In  all  the  world,  or  please  the  appetence. 

Here  it  was  poured  out  in  lavish  affluence. 

The  garden  like  a  lady  fair  was  cut, 
That  lay  as  if  she  slumber'd  in  delight. 
And  to  the  open  skies  her  eyes  did  shut ; 
The  azure  fields  of  Heav'n  were  'sembled  right 
In  a  large  round,  set  with  the  flow'rs  of  light : 
The  flowers-de-luce,  and  the  round  sparks  of  dew 
That  hung  upon  their  azure  leaves,  did  shew 
Like  twinkling  stars,  that  sparkle  in  the  evening 
blue. 

Upon  a  hilly  bank  her  head  she  cast. 
On  which  the  bower  of  Vain-delight  was  built. 
White  and  red  roses  for  her  face  were  placed, 
And  for  her  tresses  marigolds  were  spilt ; 
Them  broadly  she  display'd,  like  flaming  gilt. 
Till  in  the  ocean  the  glad  day  were  drown'd : 
Then  up  again  her  yellow  locks  she  wound, 
And  with  green  fillets  in  their  pretty  cauls  them 
bound. 

Over  the  edge  depends  the  graping  elm, 
Whose  greener  head  empurpuled  in  wine, 
Seemed  to  wonder  at  his  bloody  helm. 
And  half  suspect  the  bunches  of  the  vine, 
Lest  they,  perhaps,  his  wit  should  undermine. 
For  well  he  knew  such  fruit  he  never  bore : 
But  her  weak  arms  embraced  him  the  more. 
And  her  with  ruby  grapes  laugh'd  at  her  para- 
mour  

Under  the  shadow  of  these  drunken  elms 
A  fountain  rose, .... 

The  font  of  silver  was,  and  so  his  showers 

In  silver  fell,  only  the  gilded  bowls, 

(1  ike  to  a  furnace,  that  the  min'ral  powers) 

Seem'd  to  have  molt  it  in  their  shining  holes  : 

\nd  on  the  water,  like  to  burning  coals, 

On  liquid  silver  leaves  of  roses  lay : 

But  when  Panglory  here  did  list  to  play, 

Rose-water  then  it  ran,  and  milk  it  rain'd  they  say. 

The  roof  thick  clouds  did  paint,  from  which  three 

boyg 
Three  gapmg  mermaids  with  their  ewers  did  feed. 
Whose  breasts  let  fall  the  streams,  with  sleepy  noise. 
To  lions'  mouths,  from  whence  it  leapt  with  speed. 
And  in  the  rosy  laver  seem'd  to  bleed ; 
The  naked  boys  unto  the  waters  fall. 
Their  stony  nightingales  had  taught  to  call. 
When  ze])hyr8  breathed  into  their  wat'rv  InteraiL 


And  all  about,  embayed  in  soft  sleep, 

A  herd  of  charmed  beasts  aground  were  spread. 

Which  the  fair  witch  in  golden  chains  did  keep, 

And  them  in  willing  bondage  fettered  : 

Once  men  they  lived,  but  now  the  men  were  dead, 

And  tum'd  to  beasts,  so  fabled  Homer  old. 

That  Circe  with  her  potion,  charm'd  in  gold. 

Used  manly  souls  in  beastly  bodies  to  immould. 


INSTABILITY  OF  HUMAN  GREATNESS. 

FROM  PHINEAS  FLETCHER'S   "PURPLE  ISLAND."       CANTO  Vn. 

Fond  man,  that  looks  on  earth  for  happiness. 
And  here  long  seeks  what  here  is  never  found ! 
For  all  our  good  we  hold  from  Heav'n  by  lease. 
With  many  forfeits  and  conditions  bound  ; 
Nor  can  we  pay  the  fine  and  rentage  due : 
Though  now  but  writ  and  seal'd,  and  giv'n  anew, 
Yet  daily  we  it  break,  then  daily  must  renew. 

Why  should'st  thou  here  look  for  perpetual  good, 
At  every  loss  against  Heav'n's  face  repining  ] 
Do  but  behold  where  glorious  cities  stood. 
With  gilded  tops,  and  silver  turrets  shining ; 
Where  now  the  hart  fearless  of  greyhound  feeds, 
And  loving  pelican  in  safety  breeds ; 
Where  screeching  satyrs  fill  the  people's  empty 
steads. 

Where  is  the  Assyrian  lion's  golden  hide. 
That  all  the  east  once  grasp'd  in  lordly  paw  t 
Where  that  great  Persian  bear,  whose  swelling 

pride 
The  lion's  self  tore  out  with  ravenous  jaw  1 
Or  he  which,  'twixt  a  lion  and  a  pard. 
Through  all  the  world  with  nimble  pinions  fared, 
And  to  his  greedy  whelps  his  conquer'd  kingdoms 

shared  1 

Hardly  the  place  of  such  antiquity. 

Or  note  of  these  great  monarchies  we  find 

Only  a  fading  verbal  memory. 

An  empty  name  in  writ  is  left  behind : 

But  when  this  second  life  and  glory  fades. 

And  sinks  at  length  in  time's  obscurer  shades, 

A  second  fall  succeeds,  and  double  death  invades. 

That  monstrous  Beast,  which  nursed  in  Tiber's  fen. 
Did  all  the  world  with  hideous  shape  affray ; 
That  fiU'd  with  costly  spoil  his  gaping  den. 
And  trode  down  all  the  rest  to  dust  and  clay : 
His  battering  horns  pull'd  out  by  civil  hands. 
And  iron  teeth  lie  scatter'd  on  the  sands; 
Back'd,  bridled  by  a  monk,  with  seven  heads  yoked 
stands. 

And  that  black  Vulture,"  which  with  deathful  wing 
O'ershadows  half  the  earth,  whose  dismal  sight 
Frighten'd  the  Muses  from  their  native  spring, 
Already  stoops,  and  flags  with  weary  flight : 
Who  then  shall  look  for  happiness  beneath  1 
Where  each  new  day  proclaims  chance,  change, 

and  death. 
And  life  itself's  as  flit  as  is  the  air  we  breathe. 

•  The  Turk. 


HENRY   CONSTABLE.— NICHOLAS   BRETON. 


147 


HAPPINESS  OF  THE   SHEPHERD'S  LIFE. 

FROM   THB  SAME.      CANTO  XII. 

Thrice,  oh,  thrice  happy,  shepherd's  Hfe  and  state ! 
When  courts  are  happiness,  unhappy  pawns ! 
His  cottage  low  and  safely  humble  gate 
Shuts  out  proud  Fortune,with  her  scorns  and  fawns: 
No  feared  treason  breaks  his  quiet  sleep : 
Singing  all  day,  his  flocks  he  learns  to  keep ; 
Himself  as  innocent  as  are  his  simple  sheep. 
No  Serian  worms  he  knows,  that  with  their  threaa 
Draw  out  their  silken  lives :  nor  silken  pride : 
His  lambs'  warm  fleece  well  fits  his  little  need, 
Not  in  that  proud  Sidonian  tincture  dyed : 
No  empty  hopes,  no  courtly  fears  him  fright; 
Nor  begging  wants  his  middle  fortune  bite : 
But  sweet  content  exiles  both  misery  and  spite. 
Instead  of  music,  and  base  flattering  tongues. 
Which  wait  to  first  salute  my  lord's  uprise ; 
The  cheerfiil  lark  wakes  him  with  early  songs, 
And  birds'  sweet  whistling  notes  unlock  his  eyes : 


In  country  plays  is  all  the  strife  he  uses ; 
Or  sing,  or  dance  unto  the  rural  Muses : 
And  but  in  music's  sports  all  difference  refuses. 
His  certain  life,  that  never  can  deceive  him, 
Is  full  of  thousand  sweets,  and  rich  content : 
The  smooth-leaved  beeches  in  the  field  receive 

him 
With  coolest  shades,  till  noon-tide  rage  is  spent  • 
His  life  is  neither  toss'd  in  boist'rous  seas 
Of  troublous  world,  nor  lost  in  slothful  ease ; 
Pleased,  and  full  blest  he  Uves,  when  he  his  God 

can  please. 

His  bed  of  wool  yields  safe  and  quiet  sleeps, 
While  by  his  side  his  faithful  spouse  hath  place; 
His  little  son  into  his  bosom  creeps, 
The  lively  picture  of  his  father's  face : 
Never  his  humble  house  nor  state  torment  him ; 
Less  he  could  like,  if  less  his  God  had  sent  him : 
And  when  he  dies,  g^een  turfs,  with  grassy  tomb, 
content  him. 


HENRY  CONSTABLE, 


rBorn,  IS68?    Died  1604  ?] 

BoRX,  according  to  Mr.  Ellis's  conjecture,  about 
1568,  was  a  noted  sonneteer  of  his  time.  Dr.  Birch, 
in  his  Memoirs  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  supposes  that 
he  was  the  same  Henry  Constable,  who,  for  his 


zeal  in  the  Catholic  religion,  was  long  obliged  to 
live  in  a  state  of  banishment.  He  returned  to 
England,  however,  about  the  beginning  of  James's 
reign.     The  time  of  his  death  is  unknown. 


SONNET. 
Let  others  sing  of  knights  and  paladins, 
In  aged  accents  and  untimely  words, 
Paint  shadows  in  imaginary  lines, 
Which  well  the  reach  of  their  high  wits  records ; 
But  I  must  sing  of  thee  and  those  fair  eyes, 
.Authentic  shall  my  verse  in  time  to  come. 
When  yet  th'  unborn  shall  say,  Lo,  here  she  lies ! 


Whose  beauty  made  him  speak  what  else  was 

dumb. 
These  are  the  arks,  the  trophies  I  erect, 
That  fortify  thy  name  against  old  age, 
And  these  thy  sacred  virtues  must  protect 
Against  the  dark  and  Time's  consuming  age ; 
Though  th'  error  of  my  youth  they  shall  discover, 
Suffice  to  show  I  lived,  and  was  thy  lover. 


NICHOLAS   BRETON. 

[Born,  1555.     Died,  1624.] 


Mr.  Ellis  conjectures  that  this  writer  was 
born  in  1555,  and  died  in  1624.  He  is  supposed 
by  Mr.  Riuon  to  be  the  same  Captain  Nicholas 
Breton  whose  monument  is  still  in  the  church 
of  Norton,  in  which  parish  his  family  were 
lords  of  the  manor  till  within  these  few  years. 
His   happiest  vein   is   in   Uttle   pastoral   pieces. 


In  addition  to  the  long  roll  of  his  indifferent 
works  which  are  enumerated  in  the  Biographia 
Poetica,  the  Censura  Literaria  imputes  to  him 
a  novel  of  singular  absurdity,  in  which  the  mise- 
ries of  the  heroine  of  the  story  are  consummated 
by  having  her  nose  bit  off  by  an  aged  and  angry 
rival  of  her  husband. 


A  SW'EET  PASTORAL. 

FROM  "ESOLAND'8  HEUCON." 

Good  Muse,  rock  me  asleep 
With  some  sweet  harmony ; 
The  weary  eye  is  not  to  keep 
Thy  wary  company. 

Sweet  love,  begone  awhile, 
Thou  know'st  my  heaviness ; 
Beauty  is  born  but  to  beguile 
My  heart  of  happiness. 


See  how  my  little  flock 

That  loved  to  feed  on  high. 

Do  headlong  tumble  down  the  rock, 

And  in  the  valley  die. 

The  bushes  and  the  trees. 
That  were  so  fresh  and  green. 
Do  all  their  dainty  colour  leese. 
And  not  a  leaf  is  seen. 

Sweet  Philomel,  the  bird 
That  hath  the  heavenly  throat. 


148 


DR.  THOMAS   LODGE. 


Djth  now,  alas !  not  once  afford 
Recoriling  of  a  note. 

The  flowers  have  had  a  frost, 
Each  herb  hath  lost  her  savour, 
And  Phillida  the  fair  hath  lost 
The  comfort  of  her  favour. 

Now  all  these  careful  sights 
So  kill  me  in  conceit, 
That  how  to  hope  upon  delights, 
Is  but  a  mere  deceit. 

And,  therefore,  my  sweet  Muse, 
Thou  know'st  what  help  is  best. 
Do  now  thy  heavenly  cunning  use, 
To  set  my  heart  at  rest. 

And  in  a  dream  bewray 
What  fate  shall  be  my  friend. 
Whether  my  life  shall  still  decay. 
Or  when  my  sorrow  end. 


A  PASTORAL  OF  PHILLIS  AND  CORIDON. 

FROM   THE   SAME. 

On  a  hill  there  grows  a  flower. 
Fair  befall  the  dainty  sweet ; 
By  that  flower  there  is  a  bower. 
Where  the  heavenly  Muses  meet. 


In  that  bower  there  is  a  chair, 
Fringed  all  about  with  gold. 
Where  doth  sit  the  fairest  fair 
That  ever  eye  did  yet  behold. 

It  is  Phillis  fair  and  bright. 
She  that  is  the  shepherd's  joy. 
She  that  Venus  did  despite, 
And  did  blind  her  little  boy. 

This  is  she,  the  wise,  the  rich. 
That  the  world  desires  to  see ; 
This  is  ipsa  quee,  the  which 
There  is  none  but  only  she. 

Who  would  not  this  face  admire  1 
Who  would  not  this  saint  adore  1 
Who  would  not  this  sight  desire, 
Though  he  thought  to  see  no  more  * 

O  fair  eyes,  yet  let  me  see 
One  good  look,  and  I  am  gone ; 
Look  on  me,  for  I  am  he. 
Thy  poor  silly  Coridon. 

Thou  that  art  the  shepherd's  queen. 
Look  upon  thy  silly  swain ; 
By  thy  comfort  have  been  seen 
Dead  men  brought  to  life  again. 


DR.  THOMAS  LODGE 


[Born,  1556.     Died,  1625.] 


Was  of  a  family  in  Lincolnshire,  and  was  edu- 
cated at  Oxford.  He  practised  as  a  physician  in 
London,  and  is  supposed  to  have  fallen  a  martyr 
to  the  memorable  plague  of  1625.     He  wrote 


several  plays  and  other  poetical  works  of  con- 
siderable merit,  and  translated  the  works  of  Jo- 
sephus  into  English. 


ROSADER'S  SONETTO 

FBOM  IOBOB'S  romance,  CALLBB  "  EUPnCES'S  GOLDEN  LEGACY.' 

Turn  I  my  looks  unto  the  skies. 

Love  with  his  arrows  wounds  mine  eyes ; 

If  so  I  look  upon  the  ground, 

Love  then  in  every  flower  is  found ; 

Search  I  the  shade  to  flee  my  pain. 

Love  meets  me  in  the  shades  again ; 

Want  I  to  walk  in  secret  grove. 

E'en  there  I  meet  with  sacred  love ; 

If  so  I  bathe  me  in  the  spring. 

E'en  on  the  brink  I  hear  him  sing 

If  so  I  meditate  alone. 

He  will  be  partner  of  my  moan ; 

If  so  I  mourn,  he  weeps  with  me. 

And  where  I  am  there  will  he  be ; 

When  as  I  talk  of  Rosalind, 

The  god  from  coyness  waxeth  kind, 

And  seems  in  self-same  frame  to  fly, 

Because  he  loves  as  well  as  I. 

Sweet  Rosalind,  for  pity  rue, 

For  why,  than  love  I  am  more  true : 

He,  if  he  speed,  will  quickly  fly, 

But  in  thy  love  I  Uve  and  die. 


ANOTHER, 

FROM   THE  SAME. 

First  shall  the  heavens  want  stary  light. 
The  seas  be  robbed  of  their  waves. 
The  day  want  sun,  and  sun  want  bright. 
The  night  want  shade,  the  dead  men  graves, 
The  April  flowers,  and  leaves,  and  tree, 
Before  I  false  my  faith  lo  thee. 

First  shall  the  top  of  highest  hill 
By  humble  plains  be  overpry'd. 
And  poets  scorn  the  Muses'  quill, 
And  fish  forsake  the  water  glide. 
And  Iris  lose  her  colour'd  weed. 
Before  I  false  thee  at  thy  need. 

First  direful  Hate  shall  turn  to  peace, 
And  Love  relent  in  deep  disdain. 
And  Death  his  fatal  stroke  shall  cease. 
And  Envy  pity  every  pain. 
And  Pleasure  mourn,  and  Sorrow  smile. 
Before  I  talk  of  any  guile. 

First  Time  shall  stay  his  stayless  race, 
And  Winter  bless  his  brows  with  com, 


BEAUMONT  AND   FLETCHER. 


149 


And  Snow  bemoisten  July's  face, 
And  Winter  spring,  and  Summer  mourn, 
Before  my  pen,  by  help  of  Fame, 
Cease  to  recite  thy  sacred  name. 


ROSALIND'S  MADRIOAL. 

FBOM  THE  SAME. 

Love  in  my  bosom,  like  a  bee. 
Doth  suck  his  sweet : 
Now  with  his  wings  he  plays  with  me, 
Now  with  his  feet : 
Within  mine  eyes  he  makes  his  nest. 
His  bed  amidst  my  tender  breast ; 
My  kisses  are  his  daily  feast. 
And  yet  he  robs  me  of  my  rest : 
Ah,  wanton,  will  ye ! 

And  if  I  sleep,  then  pierceth  he 

With  pretty  slight ; 

And  makes  his  pillow  of  my  knee 

The  live-long  night. 

Strike  I  my  lute,  he  tunes  the  string, 


He  music  plays  if  I  but  sing ; 
He  lends  me  every  lovely  thing, 
Yet  cruel  he  my  heart  doth  sting ; 
Ah,  wanton,  will  ye ! 

Else  I  with  roses  every  day 
Will  whip  ye  hence, 
And  bind  ye,  when  ye  long  to  play. 
For  your  offence ; 
I'll  shut  my  eyes  to  keep  ye  in, 
I'll  make  you  fast  it  for  your  sin, 
I'll  count  your  power  not  worth  a  pin, 
Alas !  what  hereby  shall  I  win ' 
If  he  gainsay  me. 

What,  if  I  beat  the  wanton  boy 
With  many  a  rod  ] 
He  will  repay  me  with  annoy. 
Because  a  god. 

Then  sit  thou  safely  on  my  knee. 
And  let  thy  bower  my  bosom  be ; 
Lurk  in  mine  eyes,  I  like  of  thee, 
0  Cupid,  so  thou  pity  me ! 
Spare  not,  but  play  thee. 


BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER. 

[Borm,  1588.     Died,  1616 Born,  1S76.     Died,  1625.] 


Thosk  names,  united  by  friendship  and  con- 
federate genius,  ought  not  to  be  disjoined.  Francis 
Beaumont  was  the  son  of  Judge  Beaumont  of 
the  Common  Pleas,  and  was  born  at  Grace-Dieu, 
in  Leicestershire,  in  1586.  He  studied  at  Oxford, 
and  passed  from  thence  to  the  Inner  Temple; 
but  his  application  to  the  law  cannot  be  supposed 
to  have  been  intense,  as  his  first  play,  in  conjunc- 
tion with  Fletcher,  was  acted  in  his  twenty-first 
year,  and  the  short  remainder  of  his  life  was  de- 
voted to  the  drama.  He  married  Ursula,  daugh- 
ter and  co-heiress  of  Sir  Henry  Isley  of  Kent,  by 
whom  he  had  two  daughters,  one  of  whom  was 
alive,  at  a  great  age,  in  the  year  1700.  He  died 
in  1616,  and  was  buried  at  the  entrance  of  Su 
Benedict's  chapel,  near  the  Earl  of  Middlesex's 
monument,  in  the  collegiate  church  of  St.  Peter, 
Westminster.  As  a  lyrical  poet,  F.  Beaumont 
would  be  entitled  to  some  remembrance  inde- 
pendent of  his  niche  in  the  drama. 

John  Fletcher  was  the  son  of  Dr.  Richard  Flet- 
cher, bishop  of  London :  he  was  born  probably  in 
the  metropolis,  in  1576,  and  was  admitted  a  pen- 
sioner of  Bennet  college  about  the  age  of  fifteen. 
His  time  and  progress  at  the  university  have  not 
been  traced,  and  only  a  few  anecdotes  have  been 
gleaned  about  the  manner  of  his  life  and  death. 
Before  the  marriage  of  Beaumont,  we  are  told  by 
Aubrey,  that  Fletcher  and  he  lived  together  in 
Loudon,  near  the  Bankside,  not  far  from  the  thea- 
Je,  had  one  *  *  *  in  the  same  house  between 
them,  the  same  clothes,  cloak,  &c.  Fletcher  died 
in  the  great  plague  of  1625.  A  friend  had  in- 
vited him  to  the  country,  and  he  unfortunately 


stayed  in  town  to  get  a  suit  of  clothes  for  the  visit, 
during  which  time  he  caught  the  fatal  infection. 
He  was  interred  in  St.  Saviour's,  Southwark, 
where  his  grave,  like  that  of  Beaumont's  in  West- 
minster, is  without  an  inscription. 

Fletcher  survived  his  dramatic  associate  ten 
years — so  that  their  share  in  the  drama  that  passes 
by  their  joint  names  was  far  from  equal  in  quan- 
tity, Fletcher  having  written  between  thirty  and 
forty  after  the  death  of  his  companion.*  Respect- 
ing those  which  appeared  in  their  common  life- 
time, the  general  account  is,  that  Fletcher  chiefly 
supplied  the  fancy  and  invention  of  their  pieces, 
and  that  Beaumont,  though  he  was  the  younger, 
dictated  the  cooler  touches  of  taste  and  accuracy. 
This  tradition  is  supported,  or  rather  exaggerated, 
in  the  verses  of  Cartwright  to  Fletcher,  in  which 
he  says, 

"  Beaumont  wa.«  fain 
To  bid  thee  be  more  dull;  that'ti  writ«  again. 
And  bate  some  of  tliy  fire  which  from  thee  came 
In  a  clear,  bri^lit,  full,  but  too  large  a  tlame." 

Many  verses  to  the  same  effect  might  be  quoted, 
but  this  tradition,  so  derogatory  to  Beaumont's 
genius,  is  contradicted  by  other  testimonies  of 
rather  an  earlier  date,  and  coming  from  writers 
who  must  have  known  the  great  dramatists  them- 
selves much  better  than  Cartwright.  Ben  Jonson 
sp.-aks  of  Beaumont's  originality  with  the  em- 
phasis peculiar  to  the  expression  of  all  his  opinions; 
and  Earle,  the  intimate  friend  of  Beaumont,  as 

*  Fli!tcher  wa-s  atiMxted  by  Ma^singer  in  one  instance, 
probiibly  in  several ;  and  it  is  likely  tbnt  atter  Ueaumoni's 
death  he  bad  other  auxiliaries.  [  Rowley,  .Middleton,  auJ 
Shirley,  were  bis  other  assistants. — C.] 


11 


150 


BEAUMONT   AND   FLETCHER. 


cribed  to  him,  while  Fletcher  was  still  alive,  the 
exclus've  claim  to  those  three  distinguished  plays, 
the  Maid's  Tragedy,  Philaster,  and  King  and 
No  King ;  a  statement  which  Fletcher's  friends 
were  likely  to  have  contradicted,  if  it  had  been 
untrue-.  If  Beaumont  had  the  sole  or  chief  merit 
of  those  pieces,  he  could  not  have  been  what  Cart- 
wright  would  have  us  believe,  the  mere  pruner  of 
Fletcher's  luxuriancies,  an  assessor,  who  made 
him  write  again  and  more  dully.  Indeed,  with 
reverence  to  their  memories,  nothing  that  they 
have  left  us  has  much  the  appearance  of  being 
twice  written :  and  whatever  their  amiable  editor, 
M'.  Seward,  may  say  about  the  correctness  of 
heir  plots,  the  management  of  their  stories  would 
«ad  us  to  suspect,  that  neither  of  the  duumvi- 
tate  troubled  themselves  much  about  correctness. 
Their  charm  is  vigour  and  variety,  their  defects 
a  coarseness  and  grotesqueness  that  betray  no 
circumspection.  There  is  so  much  more  hardihood 
than  discretion  in  the  arrangement  of  their  scenes, 
that  if  Beaumont's  taste  and  judgment  had  the 
disposal  of  them,  he  fully  proved  himself  the  junior 
partner.  But  it  is  not  probable  that  their  depart- 
ments were  so  divided. 

Still,  however,  the  scanty  lights  that  enable  us 
to  guess  at  what  they  respectively  wrote,  seem  to 
warrant  that  distinction  in  the  cast  of  their  genius 
which  is  made  in  the  poet's  allusion  to 

"Fletcher's  keen  treble,  and  deep  Beaumont's  base." 

Beaumont  was  a  deeper  scholar.    Fletcher  is  said 


to  have  been  more  a  man  of  the  world.  Beau 
mont's  vein  was  more  pathetic  and  solemn,  but 
he  was  not  without  humour ;  for  the  mock-heroic 
scenes,  that  are  excellent  in  some  of  their  plays, 
are  universally  ascribed  to  him.  Fletcher's  muse, 
except  where  she  sleeps  in  pastorals,  seems  to 
have  been  a  nymph  of  boundless  unblushing  plea- 
santry. Fletcher's  admirers  warmly  complimented 
his  originality  at  the  expense  of  Beaumont,*  on 
the  strength  of  his  superior  gayety,  as  if  gay 
thoughts  must  necessarily  be  more  original  than 
serious  ones,  or  depth  of  sensibility  be  allied  to 
shallowness  of  invention.  We  are  told  also  that 
Beaumont's  taste  leant  to  the  hard  and  abstract 
school  of  Jonson,  while  his  coadjutor  followed 
the  wilder  graces  of  Shakspeare.  But  if  Earle 
can  be  credited  for  Beaumont's  having  written 
Philaster,  we  shall  discover  him  in  that  tragedy 
to  be  the  very  opposite  of  an  abstract  painter  of 
character;  it  has  the  spirit  of  individual  life. 
The  piece  owes  much  less  to  art  than  it  loses  by 
negligence.  Its  forms  and  passions  are  those  of 
romance,  and  its  graces,  evidently  imitated  from 
Shakspeare,  want  only  the  fillet  and  zone  of  art 
to  consummate  their  beauty. 

On  the  whole,  while  it  is  generally  allowed  that 
Fletcher  was  the  gayer,  and  Beaumont  the  graver 
genius  of  their  amusing  theatre,  it  is  unnecessary 
to  depreciate  either,  for  they  were  both  original 
and  creative ;  or  to  draw  invidious  comparisons 
between  men  who  themselves  disdained  to  be 
rivals. 


FROM  "THE  MAID'S   TRAGEDY." 
Aspatia.  forsaken  by  her  lover,  finds  her  maid  Antiphila 
working  a  picture  of  Ariadne.    The  expression  of  her 
sorrow  to  Antiphila  and  the  other  attendant  thus  con- 
cludes:— 

Then,  my  good  girls,  be  more  than  women  wise, 
At  least  be  more  than  I  was :  and  be  sure 
You  credit  any  thing  the  light  gives  light  to, 
Before  a  man.     Rather  believe  the  sea 
Weeps  for  the  ruin'd  merchant  when  he  roars ; 
Rather  the  wind  courts  but  the  pregnant  sails. 
When  the  strong  cordage  cracks ;  rather  the  sun 
Comes  but  to  kiss  the  fruit  in  wealthy  autumn, 
When  all  falls  blasted.    If  you  needs  must  love, 
Forced  by  ill  fate,  take  to  your  maiden  bosoms 
Two  dead  cold  aspicks,  and  of  them  make  lovers ; 
They  cannot  flatter  nor  forswear ;  one  kiss 
Makes  a  long  peace  for  all.     But  man, — 
Oh  that  beast  man  !     Come,  let's  be  sad,  my  girls. 
That  downcast  eye  of  thine,  Olympias, 
Shows  a  fine  sorrow.     Mark,  Antiphila; 
Just  such  another  was  the  nymph  Oenone, 
When  Paris  brought  home  Helen.     Now  a  tear, 
And  then  thou  art  a  piece  expressing  fully 
The  Carthage  queen,  when  from  a  cold  sea-rock, 
Full  with  her  sorrow,  she  tied  fast  her  eyes 
Tr  the  fair  Trojan  ships,  and  having  lost  them, 


♦  [At  the  expense  of  all  (^>niu8,  for  in  the  panegyrical 
poems  in  which  Klelch.-r  is  so  warmly  complimented,  and 
to  which  Mr.  Campbell  alludes,  th«  wriUrs  wioi«  to  say 
|E(«a  things  that  looked  like  true,  and  were  saUstied  when 


Just  as  thine  eyes  do,  down  stole  a  tear.  Antiphila ! 
What  would  this  wench  do  if  she  were  Aspatia  1 
Here  she  would  stand  till  some  more  pitying  god 
Turn'd  her  to  marble !  'Tis  enough,  my  wench : 
Show  me  the  piece  of  needlework  you  wrought. 

jlntiph.  Of  Ariadne,  madam  1 

Asp.  Yes,  that  piece 

Fie  you  have  miss'd  it  here,  Antiphila. 

You're  much  mistaken,  wench ; 

These  colours  are  not  dull  and  pale  enough 

To  show  a  soul  so  full  of  misery 

As  this  sad  lady's  was ; — do  it  by  me ; 

Do  it  again  by  me,  the  lost  Aspatia, 

And  you  shall  find  all  true  but  the  wild  island. 

Suppose  I  stand  upon  the  sea-beach  now. 

Mine  arms  thus,  and  mine  hair  blown  with  the 

wind. 
Wild  as  that  desert ;  and  let  all  about  me 
Tell  that  I  am  forsaken.     Do  my  face. 
If  thou  hadst  ever  feeling  of  a  sorrow. 
Thus,  thus,  Antiphila:  strive  to  make  me  look 
Like  sorrow's  monument ;  and  the  trees  about  me, 
Let  them  be  dry  and  leafless ;  let  the  rocks 
Groan  with  continual  surges,  and  behind  me 
Make  all  a  desolation.     Look,  look,  wenches, 
A  miserable  life  of  this  poor  picture. 


the  arrow  of  adulation  was  drawn  to  the  head.  Com- 
uiuiiiiatory  poems  at  the  be.st  reflect  very  little  of  real 
opinion  anri  ulien  brought  into  biography  are  more  apt  to 
mislead  than  inform. — C.J 


BEAUMONT   AND   FLETCHER. 


161 


FROM  "THE  TRAGEDY  OF  PHIL  ASTER." 
Philaster's  description  of  his  page  to  his  mistress  Arethusa. 

Arethiisa.  How  shall  we  devise 
To  hold  intelligence,  that  our  true  loves, 
On  any  new  occasion,  may  agree 
"What  path  is  best  to  tread  I 

Philusler.  I  have  a  boy. 
Sent  by  the  gods,  I  hope,  to  this  intent, 
Not  yet  seen  in  the  court.     Hunting  the  buck, 
I  found  him  sitting  by  a  fountain  side, 
Of  which  he  borrow'd  some  to  quench  his  thirst. 
And  paid  the  nymph  again  as  much  in  tears : 
A  garland  lay  him  by,  made  by  himself 
Of  many  several  flowers,  bred  in  the  bay, 
Stuck  in  that  mystic  order  that  the  rareness 
Delighted  me.     But  ever  when  he  turn'd 
His  tender  eyes  upon  'em,  he  would  weep 
As  if  he  meant  to  make  them  grow  again. 
Seeing  such  pretty  helpless  innocence 
Dwell  in  his  face,  I  ask'd  him  all  his  story. 
He  told  me  that  his  parents  gentle  died, 
Leaving  him  to  the  mercy  of  the  fields. 
Which  gave  him  roots,  and  of  the  crystal  springs, 
Which  did  not  stop  their  courses,  and  the  sun. 
Which  still,  he  thank'd  him,  yielded  him  his  light 
Then  took  he  up  his  garland,  and  did  show 
What  every  flower,  as  country  people  hold. 
Did  signify,  and  how  all  order'd ;  thus 
Express'd  his  grief,  and  to  my  thoughts  did  read 
The  prettiest  lecture  of  his  country  art 
That  could  be  wLsh'd,  so  that  methought  I  could 
Have  studied  it.     I  gladly  entertain'd  him 
Who  was  as  glad  to  follow,  and  have  got 
The  trustiest,  loving'st,  and  the  gentlest  boy 
That  ever  master  kept.     Him  will  I  send 
To  wait  on  you,  and  bear  our  hidden  love. 


FROM  THK  SAME. 

Philaster  parting  with  Bellario,  who  is  to  enter  the  service 
of  Arethusa. — Act  II.  Scene  I. 

Philaster.  And  thou  shalt  find  her,  honourable 
Full  of  regard  unto  thy  tender  youth.  [boy, 

For  thine  own  modesty,  and  for  my  sake, 
Apter  to  give  than  thou  wilt  be  to  ask, — 
Ay,  or  deserve.  [nothing, 

Eelliirio.    Sir,  you  did  take  me  up  when  I  was 
And  only  yet  am  something  by  being  yours. 
You  trusted  me  unknown,  and  that  which  you 

were  apt 
To  construe  a  simple  innocence  in  me,       [a  boy 
Perhaps  might  have  been  craft — the  cunning  of 
Harden'd  in  lies  and  theft ;  yet  ventured  you 
To  part  my  miseries  and  me,  for  which 
I  never  can  expect  to  serve  a  lady 
That  bears  more  honour  in  her  breast  than  you. 

Phil.  But,  boy,  it  will  prefer  thee:  thou   art 
young. 
And  bear'st  a  childish  overflowing  love  [yet. 

To  them  that  clap  thy  cheeks  and  speak  thee  fair 
Butwhen  thy  judgment  comes  to  rule  those  pas- 
sions. 
Thou  wilt  remember  best  those  careful  fHends 
That  placed  thee  in  the  noblest  way  of  life : 
She  is  a  princess  I  prefer  thee  to. 


Bell.  In  that  small  time  that  I  have  seen  th* 
I  never  knew  a  man  hasty  to  part  [world, 

With  a  servant  he  thought  trusty.     I  remember 
My  father  would  prefer  the  boys  he  kept 
To  greater  men  than  he ;  but  did  it  not 
Till  they  were  grown  too  saucy  for  himself. 

Phil.  Why,  gentle  boy,  I  find  no  fault  at  all 
In  thy  behaviour. 

Eell.  Sir,  if  I  have  made 
A  fault  of  ignorance,  instruct  my  youth ; 
I  shall  be  willing,  if  not  apt  to  learn. 
Age  and  experience  will  adorn  my  mind 
With  larger  knowledge ;  and  if  I  have  done 
A  wilful  fault,  think  me  not  past  all  hope 
For  once.     What  master  holds  so  strict «  hand 
Over  his  boy,  that  he  will  part  with  him 
Without  one  warning  1     Let  me  be  corrected 
To  break  my  stubbornness,  if  it  be  so. 
Rather  than  turn  me  off,  and  I  shall  mend. 

Phil.  Thy  love  doth  plead  so  prettily  to  stay. 
That,  trust  me,  I  could  weep  to  part  with  thee. 
Alas,  I  do  not  turn  thee  off:  thou  know'st 
It  is  my  business  that  doth  call  me  hence : 
And  when  thou  art  with  her  thou  dwell'st  with  me . 
Think  so,  and  'tis  so.     And  when  time  is  full 
That  thou  hast  well  discharged  this  heavy  trust 
Laid  on  so  weak  a  one,  I  will  again 
With  joy  receive  thee :  as  I  live,  I  will. 
Nay,  weep  not,  gentle  boy — 'tis  more  than  time 
Thou  didst  attend  the  princess. 

BeU.  I  am  gone. 
And  since  I  am  to  part  with  you,  my  lord. 
And  none  knows  whether  I  shall  live  to  do 
More  service  for  you,  take  this  little  prayer :  [signs  I 
Heav'n  bless  your  loves,  your  fights,  all  your  de- 
May  sick  men,  if  they  have  your  wish,  be  well ; 
And  Heav'n  hate  those  you  curse,  though  I  be  one ' 

Philaster's  mind  being  poisoned  with  jealousy  that  his 
Mistress  is  perfidiously  attached  to  the  Page,  he  tries  to 
extort  the  supposed  secret  from  Bellario. 

PhiL  See — see,  you  gods ! 

Enter  Bellario. 
He  walks  still,  and  the  face  you  let  him  wear 
When  he  was  innocent  is  still  the  same — 
Not  blasted.     Is  this  justice  1     Do  you  mean 
T'  entrap  mortality,  that  you  allow 
Treason  so  smooth  a  brow  1     I  cannot  now 
Think  he  is  guilty. 

Lell.  Health  to  you,  my  lord : 
The  princess  doth  commend  to  you  her  love,  her 
And  this,  unto  you.  [life, 

PhU.  Oh,  Bellario, 
Now  I  perceive  she  loves  me ;  she  does  show  it 
In  loving  thee,  my  boy ;  she's  made  thee  brave. 

Lell.  My  lord,  she  has  attired  me  past  my  wish, 
Past  my  desert,  more  fit  for  her  attendant — 
Though  far  unfit  for  me  who  do  attend,      [women 

Phil.  Thou  art  grown  courtly,  boy.     Oh,  let  all 
That  love  black  deeds  learn  to  dissemble  here  • 
Here  by  this  paper,  she  does  write  to  me 
As  if  her  heart  were  mines  of  adamant 
To  all  the  world  besides,  but  unto  me 
A  maiden  snow  that  melted  with  my  looks. 
Tell  me,  my  boy,  how  doth  the  princess  use  thee'' 
For  I  shall  guess  her  love  to  me  by  that. 


152 


BEAUMONT  AND   FLETCHER. 


Bell.  Scarce  like  her  servant,  but  as  if  I  were 
Something  alhed  to  her,  or  had  preserved 
Her  life  three  times  by  my  fidelity  ; 
As  mothers  fond  do  use  their  only  sons ; 
As  I'd  use  one  that's  left  unto  my  trust, 
For  whom  my  life  should  pay  if  he  met  harm — 
So  she  does  use  me. 

Phil.  Why,  this  is  wond'rous  well ; 
But  what  kind  language  does  she  feed  thee  withl 

Bell.  Why,  she  does  tell  me  she  will  trust  my 
youth 
With  ail  her  loving  secrets,  and  does  call  me 
Her  pretty  servant ;  bids  me  weep  no  more 
For  leaving  you — she'll  see  my  services 
Regarded ;  and  such  words  of  that  soft  strain, 
That  I  am  nearer  weeping  when  she  ends 
Than  ere  she  spake. 

Phil.  This  is  much  better  still. 

Bell.  Are  you  not  ill,  my  lord  1 

Phil,  m— no,  BeUario. 

Bell.  Methinks  your  words 
Fall  not  from  otfyour  tongue  so  evenly, 
Nor  is  there  in  your  looks  that  quietness 
That  I  was  wont  to  see. 

Phil.  Thou  art  deceived,  boy. 
And  she  strokes  thy  head  ] 

Bell.  Yes. 

Phil.  And  does  she  clap  thy  cheeks  1 

Bell.  She  does,  my  lord. 

Phil.  And  does  she  kiss  thee,  boy  1 — ^ha ! 

Bell.  Not  so,  my  lord. 

Phil.  Come,  come,  I  know  she  does. 

Bell.  No,  by  my  life 

Phil.  Oh.  my  heart ! 
This  is  a  salve  worse  than  the  main  disease. 
Tell  me  thy  thoughts,  for  I  will  know  the  least 
That  dwells  within  thee,  or  will  rip  thy  heart 
To  know  it :  I  will  see  thy  thoughts  as  plain 
As  I  do  now  thy  face. 

Bell.  Why,  so  you  do. 
She  is  (for  aught  I  know),  by  all  the  gods, 
As  chaste  as  ice ;  but  were  she  foul  as  hell, 
And  I  did  know  it  thus — the  breath  of  kings 
The  points  of  swords,  tortures,  nor  bulls  of  brass, 
Should  draw  it  from  me. 

Phil.  Then  it  is  no  time 
To  dally  with  thee : — I  will  take  thy  life, 
For  I  do  hate  thee.     I  could  curse  thee  now. 

LelL  If  you  do  hate,  you  could  not  curse  me 
The  gods  have  not  a  punishment  in  store  [worse. 
Greater  for  me  than  is  your  hate. 

PluL  Fie,  fie !  so  young  and  so  dissembling 

Tell  me  when  and  where 

Or  plagues  fall  on  me  if  I  destroy  thee  not ! 

Lell.  Heav'n  knows  I  never  did ;  and  when  I  lie 
To  save  my  life,  may  I  hve  long  and  loathed  ! 
Hew  me  asunder ;  and,  whilst  I  can  think, 
I'll  love  those  pieces  you  have  cut  away 
Better  than  those  that  grow,  and  kiss  those  limbs 
Because  you  made  them  so. 

Phil,  Fear'st  thou  not  death?  Can  boys  contemn 

EelL  Oh,  what  boy  is  he  [that  1 

( '-an  be  content  to  live  to  be  a  man, 
That  sees  the  best  of  men  thus  passionate, 
ThuH  without  reason  1 


Phil.  Oh,  but  thou  dost  not  know 
What  'tis  to  die  ! 

Bell.  Yes,  I  do  know,  my  lord : 
*Tis  less  than  to  be  born — a  lasting  sleep, 
A  quiet  resting  from  all  jealousy, 
A  thing  we  all  pursue.     I  know,  besides, 
It  is  but  giving  o'er  a  game  that  must  be  lost. 

Phil.  But  there  are  pains,  false  boy. 
For  perjured  souls.     Think  but  on  these,  and  then 
Thy  heait  will  melt,  and  thou  wilt  utter  all. 

Bell.  May  they  fall  all  upon  me  whilst  I  live, 
If  I  be  perjured,  or  have  ever  thought 
Of  that  you  charge  me  with !     If  I  be  false, 
Send  me  to  suffer  in  those  punishments 
You  speak  of — kill  me  ! 

Phil.  Oh !  what  should  I  do  1 
Why  who  can  but  believe  him  1  he  does  swear 
So  earnestly,  that  if  it  were  not  true 
The  gods  would  not  endure  him.     Rise,  Bellario ; 
Thy  protestations  are  so  deep,  and  thou 
Dost  look  so  truly  when  thou  utter'st  them, 
That  though  I  know  'em  false  as  were  my  hopes, 
I  cannot  urge  thee  farther;  but  thou  wert 
To  blame  to  injure  me,  for  I  must  love 
Thy  honest  looks,  and  take  no  revenge  upon 
Thy  tender  youth.     A  love  from  me  to  thee 
So  firm,  whate'er  thou  dost,  it  troubles  me 
That  I  have  call'd  the  blood  out  of  thy  cheeks, 
That  did  so  well  become  thee ;  but,  good  boy, 
Let  me  not  see  thee  more.     Something  is  done 
That  will  distract  me,  that  will  make  me  mad, 
If  I  behold  thee.     If  thou  tender'st  me, 
Let  me  not  see  thee. 

Bell.  I  will  fly  as  far 
As  there  is  morning,  ere  I  give  distaste 
To  that  most  honour'd  mind ;  but  through  these 
Shed  at  my  hopeless  parting,  I  can  see         [tears, 
A  world  of  treason  practised  upon  you, 
And  her,  and  me.     Farewell  for  evermore  ! 
If  you  shall  hear  that  sorrow  struck  me  dead, 
And  after  find  me  loyal,  let  there  be 
A  tear  shed  from  you  in  my  memory. 
And  I  shall  rest  at  peac«. 

Phil.  Blessings  be  with  thee. 
Whatever  thou  deservest ! 

In  the  last  scene  of  Philaater,  the  supposed  youth,  JJellario, 
is  obliged  to  confess  her  sex,  and  accounts  thus  for  hex 
assumed  disguise. 

Phil.  But,  Bellario, 
(For  I  must  call  thee  still  so)  tell  me  why 
Thou  didst  conceal  thy  sex  1     It  was  a  fault — 
A  fault,  Bellario,  though  thy  other  deeds 
Of  truth  outweigh'd  it.     All  these  jealousies 
Had  flown  to  nothing,  if  thou  hadst  discover'd 
What  now  we  know. 

Bell.  My  father  oft  would  speak 
Your  worth  and  virtue ;  and  as  I  did  grow 
More  and  more  apprehensive,  I  did  thirst 
To  see  the  man  so  praised ;  but  yet  all  this 
Was  but  a  maiden  longing,  to  be  lost 
As  soon  as  found,  till,  sitting  at  my  window, 
Printing  my  thoughts  in  lawn,  I  saw  a  god, 
I  thought,  but  it  was  you,  enter  our  gates : 
My  blood  flew  out  and  back  again  as  fast 


lkr= 


BEAUMONT  AND    FLETCHER. 


153 


As  I  had  puiTd  it  forth,  and  suck'd  it  in 

Like  breath ;  then  was  I  call'd  away  in  haste 

To  entertain  you :  never  was  a  man, 

Heaved  from  a  sheep-cote  to  a  sceptre,  raised 

80  high  in  thoughts  as  L     You  iell  a  kiss 

Upon  these  lips  then,  which  I  mean  to  keep 

From  you  for  ever.     I  did  hear  you  talk 

Far  above  singing  !     After  you  were  gone, 

I  grew  acquainted  with  my  heart,  and  search'd 

W  hat  stirr'd  it  so.     Alas !  I  found  it  love. 

Yet  far  from  lust ;  for,  could  I  but  have  lived 

In  presence  of  you,  I  had  had  my  end. 

For  this  I  did  delude  my  noble  father 

With  a  feign'd  pilgrimage,  and  dress'd  myself 

In  habit  of  a  boy  ;  and,  for  I  knew 

My  birth  no  match  for  you,  I  was  past  hope 

Of  having  you ;  and  understanding  well, 

That  when  I  made  discovery  of  my  sex 

I  could  not  stay  with  you,  I  made  a  vow, 

By  all  the  most  religious  things  a  maid 

Could  call  together,  never  to  be  known 

While  there  was  hope  to  hide  me  from  men's  eyes 

For  other  than  I  seem'd,  that  I  might  ever 

Abide  with  you ;  then  sat  I  by  the  fount 

Where  first  you  took  me  up. 

King.  Search  out  a  match 
Within  our  kingdom  where  suid  when  thou  wilt. 
And  I  will  pay  thy  dowry ;  and  thyself 
Wilt  well  deserve  him. 

BelL  Never,  sir,  will  I 
Marry :  it  is  a  thing  within  my  vow : 
But  if  I  may  have  leave  to  serve  the  princess, 
To  see  the  virtues  of  her  lord  and  her, 
I  shall  have  hope  to  live. 

jiiethvsa.  I,  Philaster, 
Cannot  be  jealous,  though  you  had  a  lady, 
Dress'd  like  a  page,  to  serve  you  ;  nor  will  I 
Suspect  her  living  here.     Come,  Uve  with  me. 
Live  free  as  I  do :  she  that  loves  my  lord, 
Curst  be  the  wife  that  hates  her ! 


THE  EECONCILEMENT  OF  MR.  ROGER,  T£IB 
CDRATE,   AND   ABIGAIL. 

FROM    "THE   SCORNFDI,  L.U)Y,"   SCENE   I.   ACT   IV. 

^bi^.  Ske  how  scornfully  he  passes  by  me. 
With  what  an  equipage  canonical. 
As  though  he  had  broken  the  heart  of  Bellarmine, 
Or  added  something  to  the  singing  brethren ; 
'Tis  scorn,  I  know  it,  and  deserve  it,  Master  Roger. 

Rog.  Fair  gentlewoman,  my  name  is  Roger. 

^big.  Then,  gentle  Roger 

Bog.  Ungentle  Abigail 

Mig.   Why,  Master  Roger,  will  you  set  your  wit 
To  a  weak  woman's  ] 

Ri>g.  You  are  weak,  indeed ; 
For  M  the  poet  sings. 

.ibig.  I  do  confess 
My  weakness,  sweet  Sir  Roger. 

Rog.  Good,  my  lady's 
Gentlewoman,  or  my  good  lady's  gentlewoman, 
(This  trope  is  lost  to  you  now)  leave  your  prating. 
You  have  a  season  of  your  first  mother  in  you, 
And,  surely,  had  the  devil  been  in  love. 
He  had  been  abused  too.     Go,  Dalilah, 
You  make  men  fools,  and  wear  fig-breeches. 
20 


^big.  Well,  well,  hard-hearted  man,  you  may 
Upon  the  weak  infirmities  of  woman,         [dilate 
These  are  fit  texts :  but  once  there  was  a  tune — 
Would  I  had  never  seen  those  eyes,  those  eyes. 
Those  orient  eyes ! 

Rog.  Ay,  they  were  pearls  once  with  you. 

Mig.  Saving  your  presence,  sir,  so  they  are  still. 

Rog.  Nay,  nay,  I  do  beseech  you,  leave  your 
What  they  are,  they  are —  [cogging ; 

They  serve  me  without  spectacles — I  thank  'em. 

Abig.  Oh,  will  you  kill  me  1 

Rog.  I  do  not  think  I  can  : 
You're  like  a  copyhold  with  nine  lives  in't. 

Mig.  You  were  wont  to  wear  a  Christian  fear 
For  your  own  worship's  sake.  [about  you, 

Rog.  I  was  a  Christian  fool,  then. 
Do  you  remember  what  a  dance  you  led  me. 
How  I  grew  qualm'd  in  love,  and  was  a  dunce ; 
Could  not  expound  but  once  a  quarter,  and  then 

was  out  too — 
And  then,  out  of  the  stir  you  put  me  in, 
I  pray'd  for  my  own  royal  issue.     You  do 
Remember  all  this. 

jlbig.  Oh,  be  as  then  you  were. 

Rog.  I  thank  you  for  it 
Surely  I  will  be  wiser,  Abigail, 
And,  as  the  Ethnic  poet  sings, 
I  will  not  lose  my  oil  and  labour  too. 
You're  for  the  worshipful,  I  take  it,  Abigail. 

Mig.  Oh,  take  it  so,  and  then  I  am  for  thee. 

Rog.  I   like   these  symptoms  well,   and   this 
humbling  also. 
They  are  symptoms  of  contrition,  as  a  father  saith. 
If  I  should  fall  into  my  fit  again, 
Would  you  not  shake  me  into  a  quotidian  coxcomb, 
Would  you  not  use  me  scurvily  again. 
And  give  me  possets  with  purging  comfits  in  them  1 
I  tell  thee,  gentlewoman,  thou  has  been  harder  to  me 
Than  a  long  chapter  with  a  pedigree. 

.^big.  Oh,  curate,  cure  me ; 
I  will  love  thee  better,  dearer,  longer ! 
I  will  do  any  thing — betray  the  secrets 
Of  the  main  household  to  thy  reformation ; 
My  lady  shall  look  lovingly  on  thy  learning ; 
And  when  due  time  shall  point  thee  for  a  parson, 
I  will  convert  thy  eggs  to  penny  custards. 
And  thy  tithe  goose  shall  graze  and  multiply 

Rog.  I  am  mollified, 
As  well  shall  testify  this  faithfiil  kiss. 
But  have  a  great  care.  Mistress  Abigail, 
How  you  depress  the  spirit  any  more. 
With  your  rebukes  and  mocks,  for  certainly 
The  edge  of  such  a  folly  cuts  itself. 

Mig.  Oh,  Sir, you've  pierced  me  thorough !  Here 
A  recantation  to  those  malicious  faults       [I  vow 
I  ever  did  against  you.     Never  more 
Will  I  despise  your  learning ;  never  more 
Pin  cards  and  cony  tails  upon  your  cassock ; 
Never  again  reproach  your  reverend  nightcap. 
And  call  it  by  the  mangy  name  of  murrion ; 
Never  your  reverend  person  more,  and  say 
You  look  like  one  of  Baal's  priests  i'  the  hanging 
Never  again,  when  you  say  grace,  laugh  at  vou. 
Nor  put  you  out  at  pray'rs ;  never  cramp  you  more 
With  the  great  book  of  M  arty  rs :  nor,  when  you  ride. 


154 


BEAUMONT   AND   FLETCHER. 


Get  soap  and  thistles  for  you— No,  my  Roger, 
These  faults  shall  he  corrected  and  amended, 
As  by  the  tenor  of  my  tears  appears. 


JULIO  TANTALIZED   BV  BUSTOPHA   ABOUT  THE 
FATE  OF   UIS  XEPHKW   ANTONIO. 

"THE  MAID  OF  THE   MILL,"   ACT   IV.   SCENE  IL 

Jul.  My  mind's  unquiet ;  while  Antonio 
My  nephew's  abroad,  my  heart's  not  at  home ; 
Only  my  fears  stay  with  me — bad  company, 
But  I  cannot  shift  'em  off.     This  hatred 
Betwixt  the  house  of  Bellides  and  us 
Is  not  fair  war — 'tis  civil,  but  uncivil ; 
We  are  near  neighbours,  were  of  love  as  near, 
Till  a  cross  misconstruction  ('twas  no  more 
In  conscience)  put  us  so  far  asunder. 
I  would  'twere  reconciled ;  it  has  lasted 
Too  many  sunsets :  if  grace  might  moderate, 
Man  should  not  lose  so  many  days  of  peace 
To  satisfy  the  anger  of  one  minute. 
I  could  repent  it  heartily.     I  sent 
The  knave  to  attend  my  Antonio  too, 
Yet  he  returns  no  comfort  to  me  neither. 
Enter  Bustopba. 
Bust.  No,  I  must  not. 
Jul.  Ha !  he  is  come. 
Bust.  I  must  not : 
'Twill  break  his  heart  to  hear  it. 
Jul.  How !  there's  bad  tidings. 
I  must  obscure  and  hear  it :  he'll  not  tell  it 
For  breaking  of  my  heart.     It's  half  split  already. 
Bust.  I  have  spied  him.     Now  to  knock  down  a 
With  a  Ue — a  silly,  harmless  lie :  'twill  be    [don 
Valiantly  done,  and  nobly,  perhaps. 
Jul.  I  cannot  hear  him  now. 
Bust.  Oh,  the  bloody  days  that  we  live  in ! 
The  envious,  malicious,  deadly  days 
That  we  draw  breath  in. 

Jul.  Now  I  hear  too  loud.  [rue. 

Bust.  The  children  that  never  shall  be  bom  may 
For  men  that  are  slain  now,  might  have  lived 
To  have  got  children  that  might  have  cursed 
Their  fathers. 

Jul.  Oh,  my  posterity  is  ruin  d. 
Bust.  Oh,  sweet  Antonio  ! 
JuL  O  dear  Antonio  ! 
Bust.  Yet  it  W81S  nobly  done  of  both  parts, 
When  he  and  Lisauro  met. 

Jul.  Oh,  death  has  parted  them  ! 
Bust.  Welcome,   my   mortal    foe !    says    one ; 
Welcome,  [doublets. 

My  deadly  enemy !  says  t'  other.     Off  goes  their 
They  in  their  shirts,  and  their  swords  stark  naked. 
Here  lies  Antonio — here  lies  Lisauro. 
He  comes  upon  him  with  an  embroccado, 
Then  he  puts  by  with  a  puncta  reversa.     Lisauro 
Recoils  me  two  paces,  and  some  six  inches  back 

Takes  his  career,  and  then — Oh ! 

Jul.  Oh! 

Bust.  Runs  Antonio 
vjuite  through. 
Jul.  Oh,  villain ! 

Bust.  Quite  through,  between  the  arm 
And  the  body,  so  that  he  had  no  hurt  at  that  bout. 


Jul.  Goodness  be  praised  ! 
Bust.  But  then,  at  next  encounter, 
He  fetches  me  up  Lisauro  ;  Lisauro 
Makes  out  a  lunge  at  him,  which  he  thinking 
To  be  a  pa.ssado,  Antonio's  foot 

SUpping  down — oh  !  down 

Jul   Oh,  now  thou  art  lost !  [gentlemen, 

Bust.  Oh,  but  the  quality  of  the  thing;  both 
Both  Spanish  Christians — ^yet  one  man  to  shed — 
/((/.  Say  his  enemy's  blood. 
Bust.  His  hair  may  come 
By  divers  casualties,  though  he  never  go 
Into  the  field  with  his  foe ;  but  a  man 
To  lose  nine  ounces  and  two  drams  of  blood 
At  one  wound,  thirteen  and  a  scruple  at  another, 
And  to  live  till  he  die  in  cold  blood  ;  yet  the  surgeon 
That  cured  him  said,  that  if  pia  nui.er  had  not 
Been  perish'd,  he  had  been  a  hves  man 
Till  this  day. 

Jul.  There  he  concludes — he  is  gone,     [point. 
Bust.  But  all  this  is  nothing, — now  I  come  to  the 
Jul.  Ay,  the  point — that's  deadly  ;  the  ancient 
blow 
Over  the  buckler  ne'er  went  half  so  deep. 

Bust.  Yet  pity  bids  me  keep  in  my  charity ; 
For  me  to  pull  an  old  man's  ears  from  his  head 
With  telling  of  a  tale.     Oh,  foul  tale  !  no,  be  silent. 
Furthermore,  there  is  the  charge  of  burial,    [tale. 
Every  one  will  cry  blacks,  blacks,  that  had 
But  the  least  finger  dipt  in  his  blood,  though  ten 
Degrees  removed  when  'twas  done.     Moreover, 
The  surgeons  that  made  an  end  of  him  will  be  paid 
Sugar-plums  and  sweet-breads ;  yet,  sfiy  I, 
The  man  may  recover  again,  and  die  in  his  bed. 

Jul.  What  motley  stuff  is  this  ]     Sirrah,  speak 
What  hath  befallen  my  dear  Antonio !        [truth. 
Restrain  your  pity  in  concealing  it ; 
Tell  me  the  danger  full.     Take  off  your  care 
Of  my  receiving  it ;  kill  me  that  way,        [truth, 
I'll  forgive  my  death  !  What  thou  keep'st  back  from 
Thou  shalt  speak  in  pain :  do  not  look  to  find 
A  limb  in  his  right  place,  a  bone  unbroke, 
Nor  so  much  flesh  unbroil'd  of  all  that  mountain, 
As  aworm  might  sup  on — despatch  or  be  despatch'd. 

Bust.  Alas,  Sir,  I  know  nothing  but  that  Antonio 
Is  a  man  of  God's  making  to  this  hour ; 
'Tis  not  two  since  I  left  him  so. 

Jul.  Where  didst  thou  leave  him  1 

Bust.  In  the  same  clothes  he  had  on  when  bfi 
went  from  you. 

Jul.  Does  he  live  1 

Bust.  I  saw  him  drink. 

Jul.  Is  he  not  wounded  1 

Bust.  He  may  have  a  cut  i'  the  leg  by  this  time 
For  Don  Martino  and  he  were  at  whole  slashes. 

Jul.  Met  he  not  with  Lisauro  1 

Bust.  I  do  not  know  her. 

JuL  Her !  Lisauro  is  a  man,  as  he  is. 

Btisl.  I  saw  ne'er  a  man  like  him. 

Jul.  Didst  thou  not  discourse 
A  fight  betwixt  Antonio  and  Lisauro  ? 

bust.  Ay,  to  myself: 
I  hope  a  man  may  give  himself  the  lie 
If  it  please  him. 

Jul.  Didst  thou  lie  then  1 


BEAUMONT   AND   FLETCHER. 


155 


Buif.  As  sure  as  you  live  now.  [return  1 

Jul.  I  live  the  happier  by  it.     When  will  he 

Bust.  That  he  sent  me  to  tell  you — within  these 
Ten  days  at  farthest. 

Jul.  Ten  days !  he's  not  wont 
To  be  absent  two.  [be  at  home 

Bu^t.  Nor  I  think  he  will  not.   He  said  he  would 
To-morrow ;  but  I  love  to  speak  within 
My  compass. 

Jul.  You  shall  speak  within  mine,  Sir,  now. 
Within  there !  take  this  fellow  into  custody. 
Keep  him  safe,  I  charge  you.  [Entfr  Servants. 

JiiM/.  Safe,  do  you  hear !  take  notice 
What  plight  you  find  me  in.     If  there  want  but 
Or  a  steak  of  me,  look  to  't.  [a  collop, 

Jul.  If  my  nephew 
Return  not  in  his  health  to-morrow,  thou  goest 
To  the  rack. 

Bust.  Let  me  go  to  the  manger  first, 
I'd  rather  eat  oats  than  hay. 


EDITH  PLEADING  FOR  THE  LIFE  OF  HER  FATHER. 


FROM 


THE   TBAOEDT  OF  BOLLO  DCKS  OF  NOBMANDT." 
ACT  UL 


Persons  o/tlie  scene — Rou/),  Ihike  of  Nnrmandy ;  Hamosd, 
Captain  of  the  Ouard ;  Baldwin,  Tutor  of  tlie  PriTux  ; 
KiiiTU,  Baldwin's  Daughter. 

RoUo.  Go,  take  this  dotard  here   (pointing  to 
Baldwm),  and  take  his  head 
Off  with  a  sword. 

Ham.  Your  schoolmaster ! 

Rolh.  Even  he. 

Buld.  For  teaching  thee  no  better :  'tis  the  best 
Of  all  thy  damned  justices.     Away ! 
Captain,  I'll  follow. 

Ediih.  O  stay  there,  Duke, 
And,  in  the  midst  of  all  thy  blood  and  fury. 
Hear  a  poor  maid's  petition — hear  a  daughter, 
The  only  daughter  of  a  wretched  father  ! 
Oh  !  stay  your  haste,  as  I  shall  need  your  mercy. 

RolU).  Away  with  this  fond  woman ! 

Edith.  You  must  hear  me, 
If  there  be  any  spark  of  pity  in  you ; 
If  sweet  humanity  and  mercy  rule  you. 
I  do  confess  you  are  a  prince — ^your  anger 
As  great  as  you,  your  execution  greater. 

Rollo.  Away  with  him  ! 

Edilh.  Oh,  Captain,  by  thy  manhood. 
By  her  soft  soul  that  bare  thee — I  do  confess.  Sir, 
Your  doom  of  justice  on  your  foes  most  righteous. 
Good,  noble  Prince,  look  on  me. 

Rollo.  Take  her  from  me. 

Edith    A  curse  upon  his  life  that  hinders  me ! 
May  father's  blessing  never  fall  upon  him ! 
May  heav'n  ne'er  hear  his  prayers!  I  beseech  you — 
O  Sir.  these  tears  beseech  you — these  chaste  hands 

woo  you. 
That  never  yet  were  heaved  but  to  things  holy. 
Things  like  yourself.     You  are  a  god  above  us. 
Be  as  a  god,  then,  full  of  saving  mercy. 
Mercy  !  Oh,  mercy  !  Sir — for  his  sake  mercy. 
That,  when  your  stout  heart  weeps,  shall  give  you 
Here  I  must  grow.  [P'ty- 

RoUo.  By  heaven  I'll  strike  thee,  woman .' 


Edith.  Most  willingly — ^let  all  thy  anger  seize  me, 
All  the  most  studied  tortures,  so  this  good  man, 
This  old  man,  and  this  innocent  escape  thee. 

Rollo.  Carry  him  away,  I  say. 

Edith.  Now  blessing  on  thee !  Oh,  sweet  pity, 
I  see  it  in  thine  eyes.     I  charge  you,  soldiers, 
Ev'n  by  the  Prince's  power,  release  my  father ! 
The  Prince  is  merciful — why  do  you  hold  him  1 
The  Prince  forgets  his  fury — ^why  do  you  tug  him '; 
He  is  old — why  do  you  hurt  him  1     Speak,  oh 

speak.  Sir ! 
Speak,  as  you  are  a  mein — a  man's  life  hangs.  Sir, 
A  firiend's  life,  and  a  foster  life,  upon  you. 
'Tis  but  a  word,  but  mercy — quickly  spoke,  Sir. 
Oh  speak.  Prince,  speak  ! 

Rollo.  Will  no  man  here  obey  me  1 
Have  I  no  rule  yet  ]     As  I  live,  he  dies 
That  does  not  execute  my  will,  and  suddenly. 

Buld.  All  thou  canst  do  takes  but  one  short  hour 

Rollo.  Hew  off  her  hands  !  [from  me. 

Ham.  Lady,  hold  off. 

Edith.  No,  hew  'em ; 
Hew  off  my  innocent  hands,  as  he  commands  you, 
They'll  hang  the  faster  on  for  death's  convulsion. 
{Exit  Baldwin  with  the  guard. 
Thou  seed  of  rocks,  will  nothing  move  thee  then  7 
Are  all  my  tears  lost,  all  my  righteous  prayers 
Drown'd  in  thy  drunken  wrath  ]  I  stand  up  thus, 
Thus  boldly,  bloody  tyrant !  [then. 

And  to  thy  face,  in  heav'n's  high  name,  defy  thee  ; 
And  may  sweet  mercy,  when  thy  soul  sighs  for  it. 
When  under  thy  black  mischiefs  thy  flesh  trembles. 
When  neither  strength,  nor  youth,  nor  friends, 
nor  gold,  [science. 

Can  stay  one  hour ;  when  thy  most  wretched  con- 
Waked  from  her  dream  of  death,  like  fire  shall 

melt  thee ; 
When  all  thy  mother's  tears,  thy  brother's  wounds. 
Thy  people's  fears  and  curses,  and  my  loss. 
My  aged  father's  loss,  shall  stand  before  thee  : — 
....  May  then  that  pity, —  [mercy 

That  comfort  thou  expect'st  from  heav'n — that 
Be  lock'd  up  firom  thee — fly  thee !  bowlings  find 

thee! 
Despair !  (Oh  my  sweet  father !)  Storms  of  terror ! 
Blood  till  thou  burst  again  ! 

Rollo.  Oh  fair,  sweet  anger ! 


INSTALLATION  OF  THE  KING  OF  THE  BEGGARS. 

FROM    ■'  BEOOARS'   BUSH,"   ACT   U.   SCENE  I. 

Pirtans. — Kiiio  Clause,  I^rioo,  Ginks,  Hiooen,  Ferret,  <md 
other  Beggars. 

Ferret.  What  is't  I  see  1     Snap  has  got  it. 

Snap.  A  good  crown,  marry. 

Prigg.  A  crown  of  gold 

Ferre!.  For  our  new  King — good  luck. 

Ginks.  To  the  common  treasury  with  it — if  it 
Thither  it  must.  [be  gold 

Prigg.  Spoke  like  a  patriot.  Ginks. 

King  Clause.  I  bid   ^lod  save   thee   first;  first 

After  this  golden  tokt^n  of  a  crown [Clause, 

Where's  orator  Higgen  with  his  gratulating  speech 
In  all  our  names  1  [now. 

Ferret.  Here  he  is,  pumping  i)T  it. 


156 


BEAUMONT  AND   FLETCHER. 


Ginks.  H'  has  cough'd  the  second  time,  'tis  but 
And  then  it  comes.  [once  more, 

Ferret.  So  out  with  all !     Expect  now 

Hig.  That  thou  art  chosen,  venerable  Clause, 
Our  king,  and  sovereign  monarch  of  the  maunders. 
Thus  we  throw  up  our  nab-cheats  first  for  joy. 
And  then  our  filches ;  last  we  clap  our  fambles — 
Three  subject  signs — we  do  it  without  envy. 
For  who  is  he  here,  did  not  wish  thee  chosen  1 
Now  thou  art  chosen,  ask  them — all  will  say  so — 
Is' ay,  swear' t — 'tis  for  the  King :  but  let  that  pass. 
W  hen  last  in  conference  at  the  bouzu  g  »  jn," 
This  other  day,  we  sat  about  our  dead  prince, 
Of  famous  memory  (rest  go  with  his  rags  !) 
And  that  I  saw  thee  at  the  table's  end. 
Rise  moved,  and  gravely  leaning  on  one  crutch, 
Lift  t'other,  like  a  sceptre,  at  my  head ; 
I  then  presaged  thou  shortly  wouldst  be  king. 
And  now  thou  art  so — but  what  need  presage 
To  us,  that  might  have  read  it  in  thy  beard. 
As  well  as  he  that  chose  thee  !     By  that  beard. 
Thou  wert  found  out  and  mark'd  for  sovereignty  ! 
Oh,  happy  beard !  but  happier  Prince,  whose  beard 
Was  so  remark'd,  as  marking  out  our  Prince, 
Not  bating  us  a  hair.     Long  may  it  grow. 
And  thick  and  fair,  that  who  lives  under  it 
May  live  as  safe  as  under  beggars'  bush, 
Of  which  this  is  the  thing,  that  but  the  type. 

Omues.  Excellent,  excellent  orator !     Forward, 

good  Higgen [Higgen ! 

Give   hini  leave  to   spit — the   fine,   well-spoken 

Hig.  This  is  the  beard,  the  bush,  or  bushy  beard, 
Under  whose  gold  and  silver  reign  'twas  said 
So  many  ages  since,  we  all  should  smile. 
No  impositions,  taxes,  grievances ! 
Knots  in  a  state,  and  whips  unto  a  subject, 
Lie  lurking  in  this  beard,  but  all  kemb'd*  out. 
ll,  now,  the  beard  be  such,  what  is  the  Prince 
That  owes  the  beard?  Afather?  no — a  grandfather? 
Nay,  the  great  grandfather  of  you  his  people. 
He  will  not  force  away  your  hens,  your  bacon, 
When  you  have  ventured  hard  for't;  nor  take 

from  you 
The  fattest  of  your  puddings.    Under  him 
Each  man  shall  eat  his  own  stol'n  eggs  and  butter, 
In  his  own  shade  or  sunshine,  and  enjoy 
His  own  dear  dull  doxy,  or  mort  at  night 
In  his  own  straw,  with  his  own  shirt  or  sheet, 
'J'hat  he  hath  filched  that  day — ay,  and  possess 
W  hat  he  can  purchase — hack  or  belly  ilieals 
To  his  own  prop.     He  will  have  no  purveyors 
For  pigs  and  poultry. 

Cluwse.  That  we  must  have,  my  learned  orator, 
It  is  our  wdl — and  every  man  to  keep 
In  his  own  path  and  circuit 

IJig.  Do  you  hear  1 
You  must  hereafter  maund  on  your  own  pads, 
he  says. 

Cl.iuse.  And  what  they  get  there  is  their  own ; 
besides, 
I'o  give  good  words 

htg.  Do  you  mark,  to  cut  been  whids, 

This  is  the  second  law. 


•  Alehouse.-^  Combed. 


DISTANT  VIEW  OF  THE  ROMAN  ARMY  ENGAGING 
TIIK   BRITONS. 

FROM   "THE   TRAGESr   OF   BONDUCA,"   SCENE  V.   ACT  IH. 

See  that  huge  battle  moving  from  the  mountains, 
Their  gilt  coats  shine  like  dragon  scales,  their  march 
Like  a  rough  tumbling  storm ;  see  'em,  .... 
And  then  see  Rome  no  more.    Say  they  fad;  look, 
Look  where  the  armed  carts  stand,  a  new  army  ! 
Look  how  they  hang  like  falling  rocks,  as  murdering 
Death  rides  in  triumph,  Drusius,  fell  Destruction 
Lashes  his  fiery  horse,  and  round  about  him 
His  many  thousand  ways  to  let  out  souls.       [tain 
Move  me  again  when  they  charge,'  when  the  moun- 
Melts  under  their  hot  wheels,  and  from  their  ax- 
trees 
Huge  claps  of  thunder  plough  the  ground  before 
Till  then  I'll  dream  what  Rome  was.  [them, 


BONDUCA  ATTACKED  IN  HER  FORTRESS  BY  THE 
KOMAXS. 

FROM   THE   SAME,   SCENE   IV.  ACT  IV. 

Perfons — Suetonius,  Junius,  Decius,  and  other  Romans. 
BoNDUCA,  and  her  DaughUrs,  with  Nennios  above. 

Suet.  Bring  up  the  catapults,  and  shake  the  wall, 
We  will  not  be  outbraved  thus. 

Nen.  Shake  the  earth. 
Ye  cannot  shake  our  souls.     Bring  up  your  rams, 
And  with  their  armed  heads  make  the  fort  totter. 
Ye  do  but  rock  us  into  death. 

Ju)i,  See,  sir. 
See  the  Icenian  queen  in  all  her  glory 
From  the  strong  battlements  proudly  appearing, 
As  if  she  meant  to  give  us  lashes. 

Der.  Yield,  queen.  [Roman. 

Bond.  I'm  unacquainted  with  that  language, 

Suet.  Yield,honour'd  lady,  and  expect  our  mercy ; 
We  love  thy  nobleness. 

Bond.  I  thank  ye,  ye  say  well ; 
But  mercy  and  love  are  sins  in  Rome  and  hell. 

Suei.  You  cannot  'scape  our  strength,  you  must 
yield,  lady ; 
You  must  adore  and  fear  the  power  of  Rome. 

Bond.  If  Rome  be  earthly,  why  should  any  knee 
With  bending  adoration  worship  her  1 
She's  vicious,  and  your  partial  selves  confess 
Aspires  the  height  of  all  impiety. 
Therefore  'tis  fitter  I  should  reverence 
The  thatched  houses  where  the  Britons  dwell 
In  careless  mirth ;  where  the  bless'd  household  pods 
See  nought  but  chaste  and  simple  purity. 
'Tis  not  high  power  that  makes  a  place  divine. 
Nor  that  the  men  from  gods  derive  their  line ; 
But  sacred  thoughts^  in  holy  bosoms  stored, 
Make  people  noble,  and  the  place  adored. 

Suet.  Beat  the  wall  deeper. 

Loud.  Beat  it  to  the  centre. 
We  will  not  sink  one  thought. 

Sue:.  I'll  make  ye. 

Loud.  No. 

2d  Davgliter.  Oh,    mother,    these    are    fearful 
hours  ! — speak  gently. 

e  The  Roman  who  makes  this  speech  is  supposed  to  be 
recliiiiiifr,  overcome  with  fatigue,  and  going  to  snaich  a 
momenlary  repose. 


BEAUMONT   AND   FLETCHER. 


157 


CARATACH,    PRIXCE  OF  THB  BRITOXS,   WITH 
HIS  NEPHEW   HENGO  ASLEEP. 

FROM   SCENE  in.    ACT  V.   OP   THB  SAME. 

Car.  Sleep  still,  sleep  sweetly,  child ;  'tis  all 
thou  fced'st  on : 
No  gentle  Briton  near,  no  valiant  charity 
To  bring  thee  food.      Poor  knave,  thou'rt  sick, 

extreme  sick. 
Almost  grown  wild  for  meat,  and  yet  thy  goodness 
Will  not  confess  or  show  it.     All  the  woods 
Are  double  lined  with  soldiers,  no  way  left  us 
To  make  a  noble  'scape.     I'll  sit  down  by  thee. 
And  when  thou  wakest  either  get  meat  to  save  thee, 
Or  lose  my  life  i'  the  purchase.     Good  gods  comfort 
thee! 
Enter  Cabataoh  and  Henoo  on  the  rock. 

Car.  Courage,  my  boy,  I've  found  meat :  look, 
Hengo, 
Look,  where  some  blessed  Briton,  to  preserve  thee, 
Has  hung  a  little  food  and  drink.     Cheer  up,  boy  ! 
Do  not  forsake  me  now. 

Hengo.  Oh  !  uncle,  uncle, 
I  feel  I  cannot  stay  long ;  yet  I'll  fetch  it 
To  keep  your  noble  life.     Uncle,  I'm  heart  whole. 
And  would  live. 

Car.  Thou  shalt,  long,  I  hope. 

Hengo.  But — my  head,  uncle — 
Methinks  the  rock  goes  round. 

ETiter  Macbr  and  Judas,  Romans. 

Macer.  Mark  'em  well,  Judas. 

Judas.  Peace,  as  you  love  your  life. 

Hengo.  Do  not  you  hear 
The  noise  of  bells  1 

Car.  Of  bells,  boy  1  'tis  thy  fancy. 
Alas !  thy  body's  full  of  wind. 

Hengo.  Methinks,  sir, 
They  ring  a  strange  sad  knell,  a  preparation 
To  some  near  funeral  of  state.     Nay,  weep  not. 

Car.  Oh  !  my  poor  chicken. 

Hengo.  Fye,  faint-hearted  uncle ; 
Come,  tie  me  in  your  belt,  and  let  me  down. 

Car.  I'll  go  myself,  boy. 

Hengo.  No ;  as  you  love  me,  uncle, 
I  will  not  eat  it  if  I  do  not  fetch  it, 
The  danger  only  I  desire;  pray  tie  me. 

Car.  I  will,  and  all  my  care  hang  o'er  thee. 
My  valiant  child.  [Come,  child, 

Hengo.  Let  me  down  apace,  uncle. 
And  you  shall  see  how  like  a  daw  I'll  whip  it 
From  all  their  policies ;  for  'tis  most  certain 
A  Roman  train.     And  you  must  hold  me  sure  too. 
You'll  spoil  all  else.     When  I  have  brought  it, 
We'll  be  as  merry [uncle. 

Car.  Go  i'  the  name  of  heav'n,  boy. 

Hengo.  Quick,  quick,  uncle,  I  have  it.     Oh  ! 

[JoDAS  shoott  Hengo. 

Car.  What  ail'st  thou  ? 

Hengo.  Oh !  my  best  uncle,  I  am  slain. 

Car.  I  see  you —  [KiUs  Judas  with  a  stone. 

And  heav'n  direct  my  hand  !     Destruction 
Go  with  thy  coward  soul !     How  dost  thou,  boy  1 
Oh!  villain 

Hengo.  Oh !  uncle,  uncle ! 
Oh  !  how  it  pricks  me ;  extremely  pricks  me. 


Car.  Coward  rascal ! 
Dogs  eat  thy  flesh  ! 

Hengo.  O.  I  bleed  hard — I  faint  too — out  upon  t 
How  sick  I  am — the  lean  rogue,  uncle ! 

Car.  Look,  boy,  I've  laid  him  sure  enough. 

Hengo.  Have  you  knock'd  out  his  brains  1 

Car.  I  warrant  thee,  for  stirring  more.     Cheer 
up,  child. 

Hengo.  Hold  my  sides  hard ;  stop,  stop ;  oh ! 
wretched  fortune — 
Must  we  part  thus  ?     Still  I  grow  sicker,  uncle. 

Car.  Heav'n  look  upon  this  noble  child. 

Hengo.  I  once  hoped 

I  should  have  lived  to  have  met  these  bloody  Romans 

At  my  sword's  point,  to  have  revenged  my  father, 

To  have  beaten  'em. — Oh  !  held  me  hard : — but 

uncle [I  draw  it  1 

Car.  Thou  shalt  live  still,  I  hope,  boy.     Shall 

Hengo.  You  draw  away  my  soul  then.  I  would  Uve 
A  little  longer  (spare  me,  heav'n !)  but  only 
To  thank  you  for  your  tender  love,  good  uncle 
Good,  noble  uncle,  weep  not. 

Car.  Oh  !  my  chicken  ! 
My  dear  boy  !  what  shall  I  lose  ? 

Hengo.  W'hy,  a  child. 
That  must  have  died  however,  had  this  'scaped  me, 
Fever  or  famine.     I  was  born  to  die,  sir. 

Car.  But  thus  unblown,  my  boy — ■ 

Hengo.  I  go  the  straighter 
My  journey  to  the  gods.     Sure  I  shall  know  you 
When  you  come,  my  uncle. 

Car.  Yes,  boy. 

Hengo.  And  I  hope 
We  shall  enjoy  together  that  great  blessedness 
You  told  me  of. 

Car.  Most  certain,  child. 

Hengo.  I  grow  cold ; 
Mine  eyes  are  going. 

Car.  Lift  'em  up. 

Hengo.  Pray  for  me. 
And,  noble  uncle,  when  my  bones  are  ashes, 
Think  of  your  little  nephew.     Mercy  ! 

Car.  Mercy  !     You  blessed  angels  take  him. 

Hengo.  Kiss  me  !  so — 
Farewell !  farewell !  [Dies. 

Car.  Farewell  the  hopes  of  Britain ! 
Thou  royal  graft,  farewell  for  ever !     Time  and 
Death,  [proudly 

You've  done  your  worst. — Fortune,  now  see,  now 
Pluck  off  thy  veil,  and  view  thy  triumph.  Look, 
Look  what  th'  hast  brought  this  land  to.     Oh !  fair 

flower, 
How  lovely  yet  thy  ruins  show !  how  sweetly 
E  v'n  death  embraces  thee !  The  peace  of  heav'n — 
The  fellowship  of  all  good  souls  be  with  thee ! 


ARXOLDO  TEMPTED  BY  HYPOLITA. 

FitOM  "THE  CUSTOM  Of  THS  OOUXTKT." 

yirn.  Ft  !  stand  off; 
And  give  me  leave  more  now  than  e'er  to  wonder 
A  building  of  so  goodly  a  proportion. 
Outwardly  all  exact,  the  frame  of  heaven, 
Should  hide  wi/Sin  so  base  inhabitants. 
0 


158 


BEAUMONT   AND   FLETCHER. 


Vou  are  as  fair  as  if  the  morning  bare  you, 

Imagination  never  made  a  sweeter 

Be  excellent  in  all  as  you  are  outward ; 
The  worthy  mistress  of  those  many  blessings 
Heav'n  has  bestow'd,  make  'em  appear  still  nobler, 
Because  they're  trusted  to  a  weaker  keeper- — 
Would  you  have  me  love  you  1 

Hyp.  Ves. 

Aril.  Not  for  your  beauty ; 
Though  I  confess  it  blows  the  first  fire  in  us ; 
Time  as  he  passes  by  puts  out  that  sparkle. 
Nor  for  your  wealth,  although  the  world  kneel  to  it. 
And  make  it  all  addition  to  a  woman ; 
Fortune,  that  ruins  all,  make  that  his  conquest. 
Be  honest  and  be  virtuous,  I'll  admire  you ; 
At  least  be  wise :  and,  where  you  lay  these  nets. 
Strew  over  them  a  little  modesty, 
'Twill  well  becomeyour  cause,  and  catch  more  fools. 

Hyp.  Could  any  one,  that  loved  this  wholesome 
counsel. 
But  love  the  giver  more  1 — You  make  me  fonder. 
You  have  a  virtuous  mind — I  want  that  ornament. 
Is  it  a  sin,  I  cdvet  to  enjoy  you  1 — 
If  you  imagine  I'm  too  free  a  lover. 
And  act  that  part  belongs  to  you,  I'm  silent 
Mine  eyes  shall  speak,  my  blushes  parley  with  you ; 
I  will  not  touch  your  hand  but  with  a  tremble 
Fitting  a  vestal  nun ;  not  long  to  kiss  you. 
But  gently  as  the  air,  and  undiscern'd  too, 
I'll  steal  it  thus.     I'll  walk  your  shadow  by  you. 
So  still  and  silent,  that  it  shall  be  equal 
To  put  me  off  as  that. 


NO  RIVALSHIP  OR  TAINT  OF   FAITH   ADMIS- 
SIBLE IN   LOVE. 

FROM   THE   SAME. 

Zenocia  to  Arnoldo. 
Should  you  lay  by  the  least  part  of  that  love 
You've  sworn  is  mine,  your  youth  and  faith  have 
To  entertain  another,  nay,  a  fairer,  [given  me, 
A  nd  make  the  case  thus  desperate,  she  must  die  also ; 
D'ye  think  I  would  give  way,  or  count  this  honest  1 
Be  not  deceived ;  these  eyes  should  never  see  you 

more. 
This  tongue  forget  to  name  you,  and  this  heart 
Hate  you  as  if  you  were  born  my  full  antipathy: 
Empire  and  more  imperious  love  alone 
Rule  and  admit  no  rivals.     The  pure  springs. 
When  they  are  courted  by  lascivious  land-floods. 
Their  maiden  sweetness  and  their  coolness  perish  ; 
And  though  they  purge  again  to  their  first  beauty, 
The  sweetness  of  their  taste  is  clean  departed. 
I  must  have  all  or  none;  and  am  not  worthy 
Longer  the  noble  name  of  wife,  Arnoldo, 
Than  I  can  bring  a  whole  heart  pure  and  handsome. 


fcCEMK  IN  THE  COMEDY  OF  MONSIEUR  THOMAS. 
Valentine  having  formed  the  noble  resolution  of  giving 
up  hiB  mistress  Cellide  to  prcserre  the  life  of  his  friend 
Francis,  who  is  in  love  with  her.  is  supposed  to  hear 
the  following  dialogue,  unknown  to  Francis. 
Francis.  Bless  me,  what  beams 
Flew  firom  those  angel  eyes !  Oh,  what  a  misery, 
What  a  most  studied  torment  'tis  to  me  now 
To  be  an  honest  man !     Dare  you  sit  by  me  1 


Cellide.  Yes,  and  do  more  than  that  too — com 
fort  you  ; 
I  see  you've  need. 

Fran.  You  are  a  fair  physician ; 
You  bring  no  bitterness,  gilt  o'er,  to  gull  us. 
No  danger  in  your  looks:  yet  there  my  death  lies  ! 

Cel.  I  would  be  sorry,  sir,  my  charity. 
And  my  good  wishes  for  your  health,  should  merit 
So  stubborn  a  construction.     Will  it  please  you 
To  taste  a  little  of  this  cordial  1 

[Enter  Valentine  privately. 
For  this  I  think  must  cure  you. 

Fran.  Of  which,  lady  1 —  [so  \ 

Sure  she  has  found  my  grief. — Why  do  you  blush 

Cel.  Do  you  not  understand?  of  this — this  cordial. 

Valentine.  Oh,  my  afflicted  heart !  she's  gone 
for  ever."* 

Fran.  What  heaven  you  have  brought  me,  lad v ! 

Cel.  Do  not  wonder : 
For  'tis  not  impudence,  noi  want  of  honour. 
Makes  me  do  this ;  but  love  to  save  your  life,  sir. 
Your  life,  too  excellent  to  lose  in  wishes — 
Love,  virtuous  love ! 

Fran.  A  virtuous  blessing  crown  you  ! 
Oh,  goodly  sweet !  can  there  be  so  much  charity. 
So  noble  a  compassion  in  that  heart, 
That's  fill'd  up  with  another's  fair  affections  1 
Can  mercy  drop  tirom  those  eyes  1 
Can  miracles  be  wrought  upon  a  dead  man. 
When  all  the  power  you  have,  and  perfect  object. 
Lies  in  another's  light,  and  his  deserves  it  ? 

Cel.  Do  not  despair ;  nor  do  not  think  too  boldly 
I  dare  abuse  my  promise ;  'twas  your  friend's. 
And  so  fast  tied,  I  thought  no  time  could  ruin . 
But  so  much  has  your  danger,  and  that  spell, 
The  powerful  name  of  friend,  prevail'd  above  him, 
To  whom  I  ever  owe  obedience. 
That  here  I  am,  by  his  command,  to  cure  ye ; 
Nay  more,  for  ever,  by  his  full  resignment ; 
And  willingly  I  ratify  it. 

Fran.  Hold,  for  heaven's  sake ! 
Must  my  fi-iend's  misery  make  me  a  triumph  1 
Bear  I  that  noble  name  to  be  a  traitor  1 
Oh,  virtuous  goodness !  keep  thyself  untainted : 
You  have  no  power  to  yield,  nor  he  to  render, 
Nor  I  to  take — I  am  resolved  to  die  first ! 

Val.  Ha !  say'st  thou  so  1 — Nay,  then  thou  shall 
not  perish ! 

Fran.  And  though  I  love  ye  above  the  light  shines 
on  me ; 
Beyond  the  wealth  of  kingdoms;  free  content 
Sooner  would  snatch  at  such  a  blessing  oller'd. 
Than  at  my  pardon'd  life,  by  the  law  forfeited. 
Yet — yet,  oh,  noble  beauty  ! — yet,  oh,  paradise ! 
(For  you  are  all  the  wonder  reveal'd  of  it ;) 
Yet  is  a  gratitude  to  be  preserved, 
A  worthy  gratitude,  to  one  most  worthy 
The  name  and  nobleness  of  friends! 

Cel.  Pray  tell  me, 
If  I  had  never  known  that  gentleman. 
Would  you  not  willingly  embrace  my  offer  1 

Fran.  D'you  make  a  doubt  1 

<*  Valentine  is  supposed  to  remain  undisoovorej,  and 
his  speeches  not  to  be  heard  by  Francis  and  Oliide. 


BEAUMONT  AND   FLETCHER. 


159 


CeL  And  can  you  be  unwilling, 
He  being  old  and  impotent  1 — his  aim,  too, 
Levell'd  at  you,  for  your  good  ;  not  constrain'd, 
But  out  of  cure  and  counsel  1 — Alas !  consider ; 
Play  but  the  woman  with  me,  and  consider, 
As  he  himself  does,  and  I  now  dare  see  it — • 
Truly  consider,  sir,  what  misery 

Frun.  For  virtue's  sake,  take  heed  ! 

CeL  What  loss  of  youth. 
What  everlasting  banishment  from  that 
Our  years  do  only  covet  to  arrive  at, 
Equal  affections,  born  and  shot  together ! 
What  living  name  can  dead  age  leave  behind  him  1 
What  act  of  memory,  but  fruitless  doting  1 

Fran.  This  cannot  be. 

Cel.  To  you,  unless  you  apply  it 
With  more  and  firmer  faith,  and  so  digest  it : 
I  speak  but  of  things  possible,  not  done, 
Nor  like  to  be ;  a  posset  cures  your  sickness, 
And  yet  I  know  you  grieve  this ;  and  howsoever 
The  worthiness  of  friends  may  make  you  stagger 
(Which  is  a  fair  thing  in  you,)  yet,  my  patient, 
My  gentle  patient,  I  would  fain  say  more, 
If  you  would  understand. 

Vul.  Oh !  cruel  woman  ! 

Cel,  Yet,  sure  your  sickness  is  not  so  forgetful, 
Nor  you  so  willing  to  be  lost ! 

Fran.  Pray  stay  there ; 
Methinks  you  are  not  fair  now ;  methinks  more, 
That  modest  virtue,  men  deliver'd  of  you. 
Shows  but  like  shadow  to  me,  thin  and  fading ! 

Val.  Excellent  friend ! 

Fran.  You  have  no  share  in  goodness ; 
You  are  belied ;  you  are  not  Cellide, 
The  modest,  the  immaculate  ! — 'Who  are  you  1 

For  I  will  know What  devil,  to  do  mischief 

Unto  my  virtuous  friend,  hath  shifted  shapes 
With  that  unblemish'd  beauty] 

Cel.  Do  not  rave,  sir. 
Nor  let  the  violence  of  thoughts  distract  you ; 
You  shall  enjoy  me ;  I  am  yours ;  I  pity, 
By  those  fair  eyes,  I  do. 

Fran.  Oh,  double  hearted ! 
Oh,  woman  !  perfect  woman !  what  distraction 
Was  meant  to  mankind  when  thou  wast  made  a 

devil ! 
What  an  inviting  hell  invented  ! — Tell  me, 
And  if  you  yet  remember  what  is  goodness. 
Tell  me  by  that,  and  truth,  can  one  so  cherish'd, 
So  sainted  in  the  soul  of  him,  whose  service 
Is  almost  turn'd  to  superstition. 
Whose  every  day  endeavours  and  desires 
Offer  themselves  like  incense  on  your  altar. 
Whose  heart  holds  no  intelligence,  but  holy 
And  most  religious  with  his  love,  whose  life 
,   (And  let  it  ever  be  remeraber'd,  lady !) 
Is  drawn  out  only  for  your  ends 

Val.  Oh!  miracle! 

Fran.  Whose  all  and  every  part  of  man,  (pray 
mark  me !) 
Like  ready  pages,  wait  upon  your  pleasures, 
Whose  breath  is  but  your  bubble — can  you,  dare 

you. 
Must  you,  cast  off  this  man  (though  he  were  willing. 
Though,  in  a  nobleness  to  cross  my  danger, 


His  friendship  durst  confirm  it,)  without  baseness, 
Without  the  stain  of  honour? — Shall  not  people 
Say  liberally  hereafter,  «  There's  the  lady 
That  lost  her  father,  friend,  herself,  her  faith  too. 
To  fawn  upon  a  stranger,"  for  aught  you  know 
As  faithless  as  yourself — in  love,  as  fruitless ! 

Val.  Take  her,  with  all  my  heart ! — Thou  art 
so  honest. 
That  'tis  most  necessary  I  be  undone. 
With  all  my  soul  possess  her ! 

Cel.  Till  this  minute 
I  scorn'd  and  hated  you,  and  came  to  cozen  you ; 
Utter'd  those  things  might  draw  a  wonder  on  me, 
To  make  you  mad. 

Fran.  Good  heaven !  what  is  this  woman  ? 

CeL  Nor  did  your  danger,  but  in  charity, 
Move  me  a  whit ;  nor  you  appear  unto  me 
More  than  a  common  object;  yet  now,  truly, 
Truly,  and  nobly,  I  do  love  you  dearly, 
And  from  this  hour  you  are  the  man  I  honour ; 
You  are  the  man,  the  excellence,  the  honesty. 
The  only  friend : — and  I  am  glad  your  sickness 
Fell  so  most  happily  at  this  time  on  you. 
To  make  this  truth  the  world's. 

Fran.  Whither  d'you  drive  me  T 

CeL  B  ack  to  your  honesty ;  make  that  good  ever ; 
'Tis  like  a  strong-built  castle,  seated  high. 
That  draws  on  all  ambitions ;  still  repair  it. 
Still  fortify  it ;  there  are  thousand  foes. 
Besides  the  tyrant  Beauty,  will  assail  it : 
Look  to  your  sentinels,  that  watch  it  hourly ; 
Your  eyes — let  them  not  wander ! 

Fran.  Is  this  serious, 
Or  does  she  play  still  with  me  1 

CeL  Keep  your  ears. 
The  two  main  ports  that  may  betray  you,  strongly 
From  light  belief  first,  then  from  flatter)'. 
Especially  where  woman  beats  the  parley ; 
The  body  of  your  strength,  your  noble  heart, 
From  ever  yielding  to  dishonest  ends. 
Ridged  round  about  with  virtue,  that  no  breaches. 
No  subtle  mines,  may  meet  you  ! 

Fran.  How  like  the  sun 
Labouring  in  his  eclipse,  dark  and  prodigious, 
She  show'd  till  now  !   When,  having  won  his  way. 
How  full  of  wonder  he  breaks  out  again, 
And  sheds  his  virtuous  beams !  Excellent  angel ! 
(For  no  less  can  that  heavenly  mind  proclaim  thee.) 
Honour  of  all  thy  sex  !  let  it  be  lawful 
(And  like  a  pilgrim  thus  I  kneel  to  beg  it. 
Not  with  profane  lips  now,  nor  burnt  affections 
But,  reconciled  to  faith,  with  holy  wishes,) 
To  kiss  that  virgin  hand  ! 

Cel.  Take  your  desire,  sir. 
And  in  a  nobler  way,  for  I  dare  trust  you ; 
No  other  fruit  my  love  must  ever  yield  you, 
I  fear,  no  more ! — Yet,  your  most  constant  me- 
mory 
(So  much  I'm  wedded  to  that  worthiness) 
Shall  ever  be  my  friend,  companion,  husband ! 
Farewell !  and  fairly  govern  your  affections ; 
Stand,  and  deceive  me  not! — Oh,  noble  young 

man ! 
I  love  thee  with  my  soul,  but  dare  not  say  it ! 
Ouce  more,  farewell,  and  prosper ! 


160 


BEAUMONT   AND   FLETCHER. 


FROM  "A  KING  AND  NO  KING." 

ACT  IV.   SCENE  IV. 

Arbaces,  King  of  Iberia,  reveals  to  Panthea,  his  sister,  the 

criminality  of  his  love  for  her. 

An  Apartmenl  in  the  Palace. 

Enter  Arbaces  at  one  door,  and  Gobrias  wUh  Panthba  at 

another. 

Gob.  Sir,  here's  the  princess. 

j3rb.  Leave  us,  then,  alone ; 
For  the  main  cause  of  her  imprisonment 
Must  not  be  heard  by  any  but  herself. — 

[Exit  GoBPiAS. 
You're  welcome,  sister  ;  and  I  would  to  heaven 
I  could  so  bid  you  by  another  name. — 
If  you  above  love  not  such  sins  as  these. 
Circle  my  heart  with  thoughts  as  cold  as  snow, 
To  quench  these  rising  flames  that  harbour  here. 

Pan.  Sir,  does  it  i)lease  you  I  shall  speak  1 

.Arb.  Please  me  1 
Ay,  more  than  all  the  art  of  music  can. 
Thy  speech  doth  please  me :  for  it  ever  sounds 
As  thou  brought'st  joyful  unexpected  news : 
And  yet  it  is  not  fit  thou  shouldst  be  heard ; 
I  pray  thee,  think  so. 

Pan.  Be  it  so  :  I  will. 
Am  I  the  first  that  ever  had  a  wrong 
So  far  from  being  fit  to  have  redress, 
That  'twas  unfit  to  hear  it  1     I  will  back 
To  prison,  rather  than  disquiet  you, 
And  wait  till  it  be  fit. 

jlrb.  No,  do  not  go ; 
For  I  will  hear  thee  with  a  serious  thought : 
I  have  collected  all  that's  man  about  me 
Together  strongly,  and  I  am  resolved 
To  hear  thee  largely  :  but  I  do  beseech  thee, 
Do  not  come  nearer  me ;  for  there  is 
Something  in  that,  that  will  undo  us  both. 

Pan.  Alas,  sir,  am  I  venom  1 

Arb.  Yes,  to  me  ; 
Though,  of  thyself,  I  think  thee  to  be  in 
As  equal  a  degree  of  heat  or  cold. 
As  Nature  can  make:  yet,  as  unsound  men 
Convert  the  sweetest  and  the  nourishing'st  meats 
Into  diseases,  so  shall  I,  distemper'd. 
Do  thee :  I  pray  thee,  draw  no  nearer  to  me. 

Pan.  Sir,  this  is  that  I  would :  I  am  of  late 
Shut  from  the  world,  and  why  it  should  be  thus 
Is  all  I  wish  to  know. 

Arb.  Why,  credit  me, 
Panthea,  credit  me,  that  am  thy  brother, 
Thy  loving  brother,  that  there  is  a  cause 
Sufficient,  yet  unfit  for  thee  to  know. 
That  might  undo  thee  everlastingly, 
Only  to  hear.     Wilt  thou  but  credit  this  1 
By  heaven,  'tis  true :  believe  it,  if  thou  canst. 

Pan.  Children  and  fools  are  very  credulous, 
And  I  am  both,  I  think,  for  I  believe. 
If  you  dissemble,  be  it  on  your  head ! 
I'll  oack  unto  my  prison.     Yet  methinks, 
I  might  be  kept  in  some  place  where  you  are ; 
For  in  myself,  I  find,  I  know  not  what 
To  call  it,  but  it  is  a  great  desire 
To  see  you  otlen. 


Arb.  Fy,  you  come  in  a  step;  what  do  you 
Dear  sister,  do  not  so  !  Alas,  Panthea,      [mean  ? 
Where  I  am  would  you  be  ]  why,  that's  the  cause 
You  are  imprison'd,  that  you  may  not  be 
Where  I  am. 

Pan.  Then  I  must  endure  it,  sir. 
Heaven  keep  you  !  [Panthea: 

Arb.  Nay,  you  shall  hear  the  cause  in  short, 
And  when  thou  hear'st  it,  thou  wilt  blush  for  me, 
And  hang  thy  head  down  like  a  violet 
Full  of  the  morning's  dew.     There  is  a  way 
To  gain  thy  freedom ;  but  'tis  such  a  one 
As  puts  thee  in  worse  bondage,  and  I  know 
Thou  wouldst  encounter  fire,  and  make  a  proof 
Whether  the  gods  have  care  of  innocence, 
Rather  than  follow  it :  Know,  that  I  have  lost, 
The  only  difference  betwixt  man  and  beast, 
My  reason. 

Pan.  Heaven  forbid ! 

Arb.  Nay,  it  is  gone ; 
And  I  am  left  as  far  without  a  bound 
As  the  wild  ocean  that  obeys  the  winds; 
Each  sudden  passion  throws  me  where  it  lists, 
And  overwhelms  all  that  oppose  my  will. 
I  have  beheld  thee  with  a  lustful  eye : 
My  heart  is  set  on  wickedness,  to  act 
Such  sins  with  thee,  as  I  have  been  afraid 
To  think  of.     If  thou  dar'st  consent  to  this. 
Which,  I  beseech  thee,  do  not,  thou  may'st  gain 
Thy  liberty,  and  yield  me  a  content ; 
If  not,  thy  dwelling  must  be  dark  and  close. 
Where  I  may  never  see  tliee :  for  Heaven  knows. 
That  laid  this  punishment  upon  my  pride. 
Thy  sight  at  some  time  will  enforce  my  madness 
To  make  a  start  e'en  to  thy  ravishing. 
Now  spit  upon  me,  and  call  all  reproaches 
Thou  canst  devise  together,  and  at  once 
Hurl  'em  against  me ;  for  I  am  a  sickness 
As  killing  as  the  plague,  ready  to  seize  thee. 

Pan.  Far  be  it  from  me  to  revile  the  king ! 
But  it  is  true,  that  I  shall  rather  choose 
To  search  out  death,  that  else  would  search  out  me. 
And  in  a  grave  sleep  with  my  innocence. 
Than  welcome  such  a  sin.     It  is  my  fate ; 
To  these  cross  accidents  I  was  ordain'd, 
And  must  have  patience ;  and,  but  that  my  eyes 
Have  more  of  woman  in  'em  than  my  heart, 
I  would  not  weep.     Peace  enter  you  again  ! 

Arb.  Farewell ;  and.  good  Panthea,  pray  for  me 
(Thy  prayers  are  pure)  that  I  may  find  a  death, 
However  soon,  before  my  passions  grow, 
That  they  forget  what  I  desire  is  sin ; 
For  thither  they  are  tending :  if  that  happen. 
Then  I  shall  force  thee,  though  thou  wert  a  virgin 
By  vow  to  Heaven,  and  shall  pull  a  heap 
Of  strange,  yet  uninvented,  sm  upon  me. 

Pan.  Sir,  I  will  pray  for  you !  yet  you  shall  know 
It  is  a  sullen  fate  that  governs  us : 
For  I  could  wish,  as  heartily  as  you, 
I  were  no  sister  to  you ;  I  should  then 
Embrace  your  lawful  love,  sooner  than  health. 

Arb.  Couldst  thou  affect  me  then  1 

Pan.  So  perfectly. 
That,  as  it  is,  I  ne'er  shall  sway  my  heart 
'I'o  like  another. 


SIR  JOHN  DAVIES. 


IGl 


Jlrb.  Then  I  curse  my  birth ! 
Must  this  be  added  to  my  miseries, 
That  thou  art  willing  too  ]     Is  there  no  stop 
I'o  our  full  happiness,  but  these  mere  sounds, 
Brother  and  sister  1 

Van.  There  is  nothing  else : 
But  these,  alas  !  will  separate  us  more 
Than  twenty  worlds  betwixt  us. 

Jlrb.  I  have  lived 
To  conquer  men,  and  now  am  overthrown 
Only  by  words,  brother  and  sister.     Where 
Have  those  words  dwelling  1     I  will  find  'em  out, 
And  utterly  destroy  'em ;  but  they  are 
Not  to  be  grasp'd :  let  them  be  men  or  beasts, 
And  I  will  cut  'em  from  the  earth ;  or  towns, 
And  I  will  raze  'em,  and  then  blow  'em  up : 
Let  'em  be  seas,  and  I  will  drink  'em  off. 
And  yet  have  unquench'd  fire  left  in  my  breast : 
Let  'em  be  any  thing  but  merely  voice. 

Pan,  But  'tis  not  in  the  power  of  any  force. 
Or  policy,  to  conquer  them. 

Arb.  Panthea, 
What  shall  we  do  ?     Shall  we  stand  firmly  here. 
And  gaze  our  eyes  out  ] 

Pan.  '  Would  I  could  do  so ! 
But  I  shall  weep  out  mine. 

Arb.  Accursed  man, 
Thou  bought'st  thy  reason  at  too  dear  a  rate ; 
For  thou  hast  all  thy  actions  bounded  in 
With  curious  rules,  when  every  beast  is  free : 
What  is  there  that  acknowledges  a  kindred. 
But  wretched  man  1     Who  ever  saw  the  bull 
Fearfully  leave  the  heifer  that  he  liked. 
Because  they  bad  one  dam  1 


Pan.  Sir,  I  disturb  you 
And  myself  too ;  'twere  better  I  were  gone. 

Arb,  I  will  not  be  so  foolish  as  I  was ; 
Stay,  we  will  love  just  as  becomes  our  burths, 
No  otherwise :  brothers  and  sisters  may 
Widk  hand  and  hand  together ;  so  shall  w& 
Come  nearer :  Is  there  any  hurt  in  this  1 

Pan,  I  hope  not. 

Arb.  'Faith,  there  is  none  at  all : 
And  tell  me  truly  now,  is  there  not  one 
You  love  above  me  I 

Pan.  No,  by  Heaven. 

Arb.  Why,  yet 
You  sent  unto  Tigranes,  sister. 

Pan.  True, 
But  for  another :  for  the  truth 

Arb.  No  more, 
I'll  credit  thee ;  I  know  thou  canst  not  lie. 
Thou  art  all  truth. 

Pan.  But  is  there  nothing  else, 
That  we  may  do,  but  only  walk  1  Methinks, 
Brothers  and  sisters  lawfully  may  kiss. 

Arb.  And  so  they  may,  Panthea ;  so  will  we ; 
And  kiss  again  too ;  we  were  too  scrupulous 
And  foolish,  but  we  will  be  so  no  more. 

Pan.  If  you  have  any  mercy,  let  me  go 
To  prison,  to  my  death,  to  any  thing  : 
I  feel  a  sin  growing  upon  my  blood. 
Worse  than  all  these,  hotter,  I  fear,  thsui  yours. 

Arb,  That  is  impossible :  what  should  we  do  ■• 

Pan.  Fly,  sir,  for  Heaven's  sake. 

Arb.  So  we  must;  away  ! 
Sin  grows  upon  us  more  by  this  delay. 

[Exeunt  ttveral  voayt. 


SIR  JOHN  DAVIES. 


[Born,  1570. 

SiE  John  Davies  wrote,  at  twenty-five  years 
of  age,  a  poem  on  the  immortality  of  the  soul ; 
and  at  fifty-two,  when  he  was  a  judge  and  a 
statesman,  another  on  "iAe  art  of  dancing."* 
Well  might  the  teacher  of  that  noble  accomplish- 
ment, in  Moliere's  comedy  exclaim.  La  philosophie 
est  quelqtie  chose — mais  la  danse  ! 

Sir  John  was  the  son  of  a  practising  lawyer  at 
Tisbury,  in  Wiltshire.  He  was  expelled  from  the 
Temple  for  beating  Richard  Martin.f  who  was 
afterwards  recorder  of  London;  but  his  talents 
redeemed  the  disgrace.  He  was  restored  to  the 
Temple,  and  elected  to  parliament,  where,  although 
he  had  flattered  Queen  Elizabeth  in  his  poetry,  he 
distinguished  himself  by  supporting  the  privileges 
of  the  house,  and  by  opposing  royal  monopolies. 
On  the  accession  of  King  James  he  went  to  Scot- 
land with  Lord  Hunsdon,  and  was  received  by 
the  new  sovereign  with  flattering  cordiality,  as 
author  of  the  poem  Nosce  Teipsum.     In  Ireland 

*  [This  is  not  the  case;  the  "Poeme  of  Dauncing"  ap- 
peared in  1696,  in  his  twenty-sixth  year,  and,  curious 
enough,  with  a  de>licatory  sonnet  "To  his  very  Friend, 
Ma.  Kich.  Martin."  A  copy,  supposed  unique,  is  in  the 
BriJgewater  Library.  The  poem  wa.^  the  work  of  fifteen 
days. — See  Collier's  BAlioffraphical  Calalogue,  p.  92.  The 
poet  wrote  his  name  Dauts.— C.I 
21 


Died,  1626.] 

he  was  successively  nominated  solicitor  and  attor- 
ney-general, was  knighted,  and  chosen  speaker 
of  the  Irish  House  of  Commons,  in  opposition  to 
the  Catholic  interest  Two  works  which  he  pub- 
lished as  the  finiits  of  his  observation  in  that  king- 
dom, have  attached  considerable  importance  to  his 
name  in  the  legal  and  poUtical  history  of  Ireland.^ 
On  his  return  to  England  he  sat  in  parliament  for 
Newcastle-under-Lyne,  and  had  assurances  of 
being  appointed  chief  justice  of  England,  when 
his  death  was  suddenly  occasioned  by  apoplexy. 
He  married,  while  in  Ireland,  Eleanor,  a  daughter 
of  Lord  Audley,  by  whom  he  had  a  daughter, 
who  was  married  to  Ferdinand  Lord  Hastings, 
afterwards  Earl  of  Huntingdon.  Sir  John's 
widow  turned  out  an  enthusiast  and  a  prophets 
ess.  A  volume  of  her  ravings  was  published 
in  1649,  for  which  the  revolutionary  government 
sent  her  to  the  Tower,  and  to  Bethlehem  Hoa 
pital. 

f  A  respectable  man,  to  whom  Ben  Jonson  dedicated 
his  Poeta.iter. 

X  The  works  are  "  A  Discovery  of  the  Causes  why  Ire 
land  was  never  subdued  till  the  beginnini;  of  his  Majesty's 
Reign."  and  "  Reports  of  Cases  adjudged  in  the  King*! 
Courts  in  Ireland." 

02 


162 


SIR  JOHN   DAVIES. 


THE  VANITY  OF   HDMAN  KNOWLEDGE. 

FROM  "N08CE  inPSUM,"  OE  A  POEM  ON  THE  XMHORTAUrT 
OP   THE   SOUL. 

Wht  did  my  parents  send  me  to  the  schools, 
That  I  with  knowledge  might  enrich  my  mind  1 
Since  the  desire  to  know  first  made  men  fools, 
And  did  corrupt  the  root  of  all  mankind 

What  is  this  knowledge  but  the  sky-stol'n  fire. 
For  which  the  thief •  still  chain'd  in  ice  doth  siti 
And  which  the  poor  rude  satyr  did  admire, 
And  needs  would  kiss, but  burnt  his  lips  with  it . . 

In  fine,  what  is  it  but  the  fiery  coach 

Which  the  youthf  sought,  and  sought  his  death 

withal, 
Or  the  boy's  wingsj  which,  when  he  did  approach 
The  sun's  hot  beams,  did  melt  and  let  him  fall  ] 

And  yet,  alas !  when  all  our  lamps  are  bum'd. 
Our  bodies  wasted  and  our  spirits  spent ; 
When  we  have  all  the  learned  volumes  tum'd, 
Which  yield  men's  wits  both  strength  and  orna- 
ment. 
What  can  we  know,  or  what  can  we  discern. 
When  error  chokes  the  windows  of  the  mind  ? 
The  divers  forms  of  things  how  can  we  learn. 
That  have  been  ever  fi-om  our  birth-day  blind  ! 

When  reason's  lamp,  that,  like  the  sun  in  sky, 
Throughout  man's  little  world  her  beams  did  spread, 
Is  no'w  become  a  sparkle,  which  doth  lie 
Under  the  ashes,  half  extinct  and  dead. 

How  can  we  hope,  that  through  the  eye  and  ear 
This  dying  sparkle,  in  this  cloudy  space. 
Can  recollect  these  beams  of  knowledge  clear. 
Which  were  infused  in  the  first  minds  by  grace  1 

So  might  the  heir  whose  father  hath  in  play 
Wasted  a  thousand  pounds  of  ancient  rent, 
By  painful  earning  of  one  groat  a  day 
Hope  to  restore  the  patrimony  spent. 

The  wits  that  dived  most  deep  and  soar'd  most  high, 
Seeking  man's  powers,  have  found  his  weakness 

such; 
Skill  comes  so  slow,  and  time  so  fast  doth  fiy, 
We  learn  so  little  and  forget  so  much. 

For  this  the  wisest  of  all  moral  men 
Said,  "  he  knew  nought  but  that  he  did  not  know." 
And  the  great  mocking  master  mock'd  not  then. 
When  he  said  "  Truth  was  buried  deep  below."  . . . 

As  spiders,  touch'd,  seek  their  web's  inmost  part ; 
As  bees,  in  storms,  back  to  their  hives  return ; 
As  blood  in  danger  gathers  to  the  heart ; 
As  men  seek  towns  when  foes  the  country  bum : 

If  aught  can  teach  us  aught,  afiliction's  looks 
(Making  us  pry  into  ourselves  so  near) 
Teach  us  to  know  ourselves  beyond  all  books. 
Or  all  the  learned  schools  that  ever  were 

She  within  lists  my  ranging  mind  hath  brought, 
That  now  beyond  myself  I  will  not  go : 
Myself  am  centre  of  my  circling  thought  : 
Only  myself  I  study,  learn,  and  know. 


I  know  my  body's  of  so  fi-ail  a  kind, 
As  force  without,  fevers  within  can  kill ; 
I  know  the  heavenly  nature  of  my  mind. 
But  'tis  corrupted  both  in  wit  and  will. 

I  know  my  soul  hath  power  to  know  all  thi^igs, 
Yet  is  she  Wind  and  ignorant  in  all ; 
I  know  I'm  one  of  nature's  little  kings. 
Yet  to  the  least  and  vilest  things  am  thrall. 

I  know  my  life's  a  pain,  and  but  a  span ; 
I  know  my  sense  is  mock'd  in  every  thing : 
And,  to  conclude,  I  know  myself  a  man, 
Which  is  a  proud  and  yet  a  wretched  thing.  .  .  . 

We  seek  to  know  the  moving  of  each  sphere, 
And  the  strange  cause  of  th'  ebbs  and  floods  of  Nile ; 
But  of  that  clock  within  our  breasts  we  bear, 
The  subtle  motions  we  forget  the  while. 

For  this  few  know  themselves ;  for  merchants  broke 
View  their  estate  with  discontent  and  pain ; 
And  seas  are  troubled,  when  they  do  revoke 
Their  flowing  waves  into  themselves  again. 

And  while  the  face  of  outward  things  we  find 
Pleasing  and  fair,  agreeable  and  sweet. 
These  things  transport  and  carry  out  the  mind. 
That  with  herself  the  mind  can  never  meet 

Yet  if  affliction  once  her  wars  begin. 
And  threat  the  feebler  sense  with  sword  and  fire, 
The  mind  contracts  herself  and  shrinketh  in, 
And  to  herself  she  gladly  doth  retire. 


*  Prometheus. 


t  Phaeton. 


t  Icarus. 


REASONS  FOR  THE  SOUL'S  IMMORTALITY. 

Again,  how  can  she  but  immortal  be. 
When,  with  the  motions  of  both  will  and  wit, 
She  still  aspireth  to  eternity. 
And  never  rests  till  she  attain  to  it  1  ... . 

All  moving  things  to  other  things  do  move 
Of  the  same  kind,  which  shows  their  nature  such ; 
So  earth  falls  down,  and  fire  doth  mount  above. 
Till  both  their  proper  elements  do  touch. 

And  as  the  moisture  which  the  thirsty  earth 
Sucks  fi-om  the  sea  to  fill  her  empty  veins, 
From  out  her  womb  at  last  doth  take  a  birth, 
And  runs  a  lymph  along  the  grassy  plains. 

Long  doth  she  stay,  as  loth  to  leave  the  land 
From  whose  soft  side  she  first  did  issue  make ; 
She  tastes  all  places,  turns  to  every  hand, 
Her  flowery  banks  unwilling  to  forsake. 

Yet  nature  so  her  streams  doth  lead  and  carry. 
As  that  her  course  doth  make  no  final  stay, 
Till  she  herself  unto  the  sea  doth  marry. 
Within  whose  wat'ry  bosom  first  she  lay. 

E'en  so  the  soul,  which,  in  this  earthly  mould, 
The  spirit  of  God  doth  secretly  infuse. 
Because  at  first  she  doth  the  earth  behold. 
And  only  this  material  world  she  views. 

At  first  her  mother  earth  she  holdeth  dear. 
And  doth  embrace  the  world  and  worldly  things 
She  flies  close  by  the  ground,  and  hovers  here. 
And  mounts  not  up  with  her  celestial  wings : 


SIR  JOHN  DAVIES. 


163 


Yet  under  heaven  she  cannot  light  on  aught 
That  with  her  heavenly  nature  doth  agree ; 
She  cannot  re§t,  she  cannot  fix  her  thought, 
She  cannot  in  this  world  contented  be. 

For  who  did  ever  yet,  in  honour,  wealth. 
Or  pleasure  of  the  sense,  contentment  find  1 
Who  ever  ceased  to  wish,  when  he  had  health. 
Or,  having  wisdom,  was  not  vex'd  in  mind  ] 

Then,  as  a  bee  which  among  weeds  doth  fall, 
"Which  seem   sweet  flowers,   with  lustre   fresh 

and  gay, 
She  lights  on  that,  and  this,  and  tasteth  all. 
But,  pleased  with  none,  doth  rise  and  soar  away. 

So,  when  the  soul  finds  here  no  true  content, 
And,  like  Noah's  dove,  can  no  sure  footing  take, 
She  doth  return  fi-om  whence  she  first  was  sent. 
And  flies  to  him  that  first  her  wings  did  make. . .  . 

Doubtless,  all  souls  have  a  surviving  thought. 
Therefore  of  death  we  think  with  quiet  mind ; 
But  if  we  think  of  being  turned  to  nought, 
A  trembling  horror  in  oui  souls  we  find. 


IN  WHAT  MANNER  THE  SOUL  IS  UNITED  TO 
THE  BODY. 

But  how  shall  we  this  union  well  express  ? 
Nought  ties  the  soul,  her  subtlety  is  such. 
She  moves  the  body  which  she  doth  possess. 
Yet  no  part  toucheth  but  by  virtue's  touch. 

Then  dwells  she  not  therein  as  in  a  tent, 
Nor  as  a  pilot  in  his  ship  doth  sit. 
Nor  as  the  spider  in  his  web  is  pent. 
Nor  as  the  wax  retains  the  print  in  it 

Nor  as  a  vessel  water  doth  contain, 

Nor  as  one  liquor  in  another  shed. 

Nor  as  the  heat  doth  in  the  fire  remain. 

Nor  as  the  voice  throughout  the  air  is  spread ; 

But  as  the  fair  and  cheerful  morning  light 
Doth  here  and  there  her  silver  beams  impart. 
And  in  an  instant  doth  herself  unite 
To  the  transparent  air,  in  all  and  every  part. .  .  . 

So  doth  the  piercing  soul  the  body  fill. 
Being  all  in  all,  and  all  in  part  diffused ; 
Indivisible,  inc6rruptible  still. 
Not  forced,  encounter'd,  troubled,  nor  confused. 

And  as  the  sun  above  the  light  doth  bring. 
Though  we  behold  it  in  the  air  below, 
So  fi-om  the  Eternal  light  the  soul  doth  spnng, 
Though  in  the  body  she  her  powers  do  show. 


THAT  THE  SOUL  IS  MORE  THAN  THE  TEMPERA- 
TURE OF  THE  HUMOURS  OF  THE  BODY. 

If  she  doth,  then,  the  subtle  sense  excel. 
How  g^oss  are  they  that  drown  her  in  the  blood 
Or  in  the  body's  humours  temper'd  well  1 
As  if  in  them  such  high  perfection  stood. 

As  if  most  skill  in  that  musician  were. 
Which  had  the  best,  and  best  tuned,  instrument ; 
As  if  the  pencil  neat,  and  colours  clear, 
Had  power  to  make  the  painter  excellent. 

Why  doth  not  beauty,  then,  refine  the  wit. 
And  good  complexion  rectify  the  will  1 
Why  doth  not  health  bring  wisdom  still  with  it  T 
Why  doth  not  sickness  make  men  brutish  still  1 

Who  can  in  memory,  or  wit,  or  will. 
Or  air,  or  fire,  or  earth,  or  water,  find ; 
What  alchymist  can  dijaw,  with  all  his  skill. 
The  quintessences  of  these  from  out  the  mindt 

If  th'  elements,  which  have  nor  life  nor  sense, 
Can  breed  in  us  so  great  a  power  as  this. 
Why  give  they  not  themselves  like  excellence. 
Or  other  things  wherein  their  mixture  isl 

If  she  were  but  the  body's  quality. 
Then  we  should  be  with  it  sick,  maim'd,  and  blind 
But  we  perceive,  where  these  privations  be. 
An  healthy,  perfect,  and  sharp-sighted  mind.  . 


THAT  THE  SOUL  IS  MORE  THAN  A  PERFECTION 
OR  REFLEXION  OF  THE  SENSE. 

Are  they  not  senseless,  then,  that  think  the  soul 
Nought  but  a  fine  perfection  of  the  sense. 
Or  of  the  forms  which  fancy  doth  enrol, 
A  quick  resulting  and  a  consequence  1 

What  is  it,  then,  that  doth  the  sense  accuse 
Both  of  false  judgments  and  fond  appetites  f 
What  makes  us  do  what  sense  doth  most  refuse 
Which  oft  in  torment  of  the  sense  delights  ]  . 

Could  any  powers  of  sense  the  Roman  move, 
To  burn  his  own  right  hand  with  courage  stout! 
Could  sense  make  Marius  sit  unbound,  and  prove 
The  cruel  lancing  of  the  knotty  gout  1  . .  . . 

Sense  outsides  knows — ^the  soul  through  all  things 

sees; 
Sense,  circumstance ;  she  doth  the  substance  view : 
Sense  sees  the  bark,  but  she  the  life  of  trees ; 
Sense  hears  the  sounds,  but  she  the  concord  true. . 

Then  is  the  soul  a  nature  which  contains 
The  power  of  sense  within  a  greater  power, 
Which  doth  employ  and  use  the  sense's  pains. 
But  sits  and  rules  within  ber  private  bower.  - 


THOMAS  GOFFE. 

tBorn,  1592.    Died,  16Z7.] 


This  writer  left  four  or  five  dramatic  pieces,  of 
very  ordinary  merit.  He  was  bred  at  Christ's 
Church,  Oxford.  He  held  the  living  of  East 
Clandon  in  Surrey,  but  unfortunately  succeeded 
not  only  to  the  living,  but  to  the  widow  of  his 


predecessor,  who,  being  a  Xantippc,  contributed, 
according  to  Langbaine,  to  shorten  his  days  by 
the  "violence  of  her  provoking  tongue."  He  had 
the  reputation  of  an  eloquent  preacher,  and  some 
of  his  sermons  appeared  in  print. 


«CENB  FROM  GOFFE'S  TRAGEDY  OF  "AMURATH, 
OR  THE  COURAGEOUS  TURK." 

Aladin,  husband  to  the  daughter  of  Amctath,  having 

rebelled  against  his  father-in-law,  is  brought  captive 

before  him. 
Enter  at  one  door,  Amurath,  vrith  Attendants ;  at  the  other 

door,  Alams,  his  Wife,  two  Children,  in  white, — they  kneel 

to  Amurath. 

Anmr.  Our  hate  must  not  part  thus.    I'll  tell 
thee,  prince,  , 

That  thou  hast  kindled  2E,tn&  in  our  breast ! 
And  such  a  flame  is  quench'd  with  nought  but 

blood — 
His  blood  whose  hasty  and  rebellious  blast 
Gave  life  unto  the  fire  !  .  .  . .  [hide 

Alad.  Why  then,  I'll,  like  the  Roman  Pompey, 
My  dying  sight,  scorning  imperious  looks 
Should  grace  so  base  a  stroke  with  sad  aspect. 
Thus  will  I  muffle  up,  and  choke  my  groans, 
Lest  a  grieved  tear  should  quite  put  out  the  name 
Of  lasting  courage  in  Carmania's  fame ! 

Amur.  What,  still  stiflT-neck'dl     Is   this   the 
truce  you  beg  1 
Sprinkled  before  thy  face,  those  rebel  brats 
Shall  have  their  brains — and  their  dissected  limbs 
Hurl'd  for  a  prey  to  kites  ! — for,  lords,  'tis  fit 
No  spark  of  such  a  mountain-threatening  fire 
Be  left  as  unextinct,  lest  it  devour, 
And  prove  more  hot  unto  the  Turkish  Empery 
Than  the  Promethean  blaze  did  trouble  Jove ! — 
First  sacrifice  those  brats ! 

Mad.  Wife.  Dear  father,  let  thy  fury  rush  on  me ! 
Within  these  entrails  sheath  thine  insate  sword ! 
And  let  this  ominous  and  too  fruitful  womb 
3e  torn  in  sunder !  for  from  thence  those  babes 
Took  all  their  crimes;  error  (hath)  made  them 

guilty— 
'Twas  nature's  fault,  not  theirs.     O  if  affection 
Can  work  then  ! — now  show  a  true  father's  love : 
If  not,  appease  those  murdering  thoughts  with  me ; 
For  as  Jocasta  pleaded  with  her  sons 
For  their  dear  father,  so  to  a  father  I       [father ! — 
For  my  dear  babes   and  husband — husband  ! — 
Which  shall  I  first  embrace  ?     Victorious  father ! 
Be  blunt  those  now  sharp  thoughts;  lay  down 

those  threats ;  * 

Unclasp  that  impious  helmet ;  fix  to  earth 
That  monumental  spear — look  on  thy  child 
With  pardoning  looks,  not  with  a  warrior's  eye, 
Else  shall  my  breast  cover  my  husband's  breast, 
And  serve  as  buckler  to  receive  thy  wounds — 
Why  dost  thou  doubt  1 — fear'st  thou  thy  daugh- 
ter's faith  ] 
Amur.  I  fear ;  for  after  daughter's  peijury, 
All  laws  of  nature  shall  distastefiil  be, 
No'-  will  I  trust  thy  children  or  thyself. 
IM 


Alad.  Wife 

0  let  me  kiss,  kind  father !  first  the  earth 
Onwhich  y  ou  tread,then  kiss  mine  husband's  cheek. 
Great  king,  embrace  those  babes — you  are  the  stock 
On  which  these  grafts  were  planted [of  sap, 

Amur.  True ;  and  when  sprouts  do  rob  the  tree 
They  must  be  pruned.  [similitudes. 

Alad.  Wife.  Dear  father !  leave  such  harsh 
By  my  deceased  mother,  to  whose  womb 

1  was  a  ten  months'  burden — by  yourself, 
To  whom  I  was  a  pleasing  infant  once. 
Pity  my  husband  and  these  tender  infants ! 

Amur.  Yes;  to  have  them  collect  a  manlystrength, 
And  their  first  lesson  that  their  dad  shall  teach  them. 
Shall  be  to  read  my  misery,  [shows 

Alad.  Stem  conqueror !  but  that  thy  daughter 
There  once  dwelt  good  in  that  obdurate  breast, 
I  would  not  spend  a  tear  to  soften  thee. 
Thou  see'st  my  countries  turn'd  into  a  grave ! 
My  cities  scare  the  sun  with  fiercer  flames. 
Which  turn  them  into  ashes  ! — all  myself 
So  sleckt  and  carved,  that  my  amazed  blood 
Knows  not  through  which  wound  first  to  take  its 
If  not  on  me,  have  mercy  on  my  babes,      [way ! 
Which  with  thy  mercy  thou  may'st  turn  to  love. 

Amur.  No,  Sir,  we  must  root  out  malicious  seed; 
Nothing  sprouts  faster  than  an  envious  weed. 
We  see  a  little  bullock  'mongst  an  herd, 
Whose  horns  are  yet  scarce  crept  from  out  his  front, 
Grows  on  a  sudden  tall,  and  in  the  fields 
Frolics  so  much,  he  makes  his  father  yield. 
A  little  twig  left  budding  on  an  elm, 
Ungratefully  bars  his  mother's  sight  fi-om  heaven— 
I  love  not  future  Aladins. 

Alad.  Wife 

Alas,  these  infants ! — these  weak-sinew'd  hands 

Can  be  no  terror  to  these  Hector's  arms. 

Beg,  infants — beg,  and  teach  these  tender  joints 

To  ask  for  mercy — learn  your  lisping  tongues 

To  give  due  accent  to  each  syllable ; 

Nothing  that  fortune  urgeth  to  is  base. 

Put  fi-om  your  thoughts  all  memory  of  descent ; 

Forget  the  princely  titles  of  your  father. 

If  your  own  misery  you  can  feel. 

Thus  learn  of  me  to  weep — of  me  to  kneel 

\st  Child.  Good  grandsire,  see — see  how  my  father 

cries !  [ter  prays. 

Wife.  Good  father,  hear — hear  how  thy  daugh- 

Thou  that  know'st  how  to  use  stern  warrior's  arms, 

Learn  how  to  use  mild  warrior's  pity  too 

Amur.  Rise,  my  dear  child  !  as  marble  against 
So  I  at  these  obedient  showers  melt.  [rain 

Thus  I  do  raise  thy  husband — thus  thy  babes. 

Freely  admitting  you  to  former  state 

Be  thou  our  son  and  friend. 


SIR  FULKE   GREVILLE, 


[Born,  IS54.    Died,  1628.] 


Who  ordered  this  inscription  for  his  own  grave : 
**  Servant  to  Queen  Elizabeth,  counsellor  to  King 
James,  and  friend  to  Sir  Philip  Sydney ;"  was 
created  knight  of  the  bath  at  James's  coronation, 


afterwards  appointed  sub-treasurer,  chancellor  of 
the  exchequer,  and  made  a  peer,  by  the  title  of 
Baron  Brooke,  in  1621.  He  died  by  the  stab  of 
a  revengefiil  servant,  in  1628. 


8XANZAS  FBOM  HIS  "TREATISE  ON  HUMAN 
LEARNING." 
KNOWLEDGE. 

A  CLIMBING  height  it  is,  without  a  head, 
Depth  without  bottom,  way  without  an  end ; 
A  circle  with  no  line  environed, 
Not  comprehended,  all  it  comprehends ; 
Worth  infinite,  yet  satisfies  no  mind 
Till  it  that  infinite  of  the  Godhead  find. 
For  our  defects  in  nature  who  sees  not  1 
We  enter  first,  things  present  not  conceiving, 
Not  knowing  future,  what  is  past  forgot ; 
AH  other  creatures  instant  power  receiving 
To  help  themselves :  man  only  bringeth  sense 
To  feel  and  wail  his  native  impotence. 

IMAGINATION. 

Knowledge's  next  organ  is  imagination, 
A  glass  wherein  the  object  of  our  sense 
Ought  to  respect  true  height  or  decUnation, 
For  understanding's  clear  intelligence ; 
But  this  power  also  hath  her  variation 
Fixed  in  some,  in  some  with  difierence— 
In  all  so  shadow'd  with  self-application. 
As  makes  her  pictures  still  too  foul  or  fair. 
Not  like  the  life  in  lineament  or  air 

REASON. 

The  last  chief  oracle  of  what  man  knows 
Is  understanding,  which,  though  it  contain 
Some  ruinous  notions  which  our  nature  shows 
Of  general  truths,  yet  they  have  such  a  stain 
From  our  corruption,  as  all  light  they  lose ; 
Save  to  convince  of  ignorance  or  sin. 
Which,  where  they  reign,  let  no  perfection  in.  . . . 
Nor  in  a  right  line  can  her  eyes  ascend, 
To  view  the  things  that  immaterial  are ; 
For  as  the  sun  doth,  while  his  beams  descend, 
Lighten  the  earth  but  shadow  every  star. 
So  reason,  stooping  to  attend  the  sense, 
Darkens  the  spirit's  clear  intelligence 


INSUFFICIENCY   OF   PHIL080PHT. 

Then  what  is  our  high-praised  philosophy, 
But  books  of  poesy  in  prose  compiled. 
Far  more  delightful  than  they  fruitful  be. 
Witty  appearance,  guile  that  is  beguiled ; 
Corrupting  minds  much  rather  than  directing, 
Th'  allay  of  duty,  and  our  pride's  erecting. 

For,  as  among  physicians,  what  they  call 
Word  magic,  never  helpeth  the  disease 
Which  drugs  and  diet  ought  to  deal  withal. 
And  by  their  real  working  give  us  ease; 
So  these  word-sellers  have  no  power  to  cure 
The  passions  which  corrupted  lives  endure. 


SONNET 

FSOH  LOBD  BEOOKX'S  CAELICA. 

Merlin,  they  say,  an  English  prophet  born. 
When  he  was  young,  and  govern'd  by  his  mother, 
Took  great  delight  to  laugh  such  fools  to  scorn, 
As  thought  by  nature  we  might  know  a  brother. 
His  mother  chid  him  oft,  till  on  a  day 
They  stood  and  saw  a  corpse  to  burial  carried: 
The  father  tears  his  beard,  doth  weep  and  pray, 
The  mother  was  the  woman  he  had  married. 
Merlin  laughs  out  aloud,  instead  of  crying ; 
His  mother  chides  him  for  that  childish  fashion, 
Says  men  must  mourn  the  dead,  themselves  are 

dying ; 
Good  manners  doth  make  answer  unto  passion. 
The  child  (for  children  see  what  should  be  hidden^ 
Replies  unto  his  mother  by  and  by : 
Mother,  if  you  did  know,  and  were  forbidden. 
Yet  you  would  laugh  as  heartily  as  I. 
This  man  no  part  hath  in  the  child  he  sorrows, 
His  father  was  the  monk,  that  sings  before  him  : 
See  then  how  nature  of  adoption  borrows. 
Truth  covets  in  me  that  I  should  restore  him. 


SIR  JOHN   BEAUMONT. 

rSom,  1582.     Died  1628.] 


Sir  John  Beaitmont,  brother  of  the  celebrated 
dramatic  poet,  was  born  at  Grace  Dieu,  the  seat 
of  the  family  in  Leicestershire.  He  studied  at 
Oxford,  and  at  the  inns  of  court;  but,  forsaking 
the  law,  married  and  retired  to  his  native  seat. 
Two  years  before  his  death  he  was  knighted  by 
Charles  the  First. 

He  wrote  the  Crown  of  Thorns,  a  poem,  of 

[•  "The  commendation  of  improving  the  rhythm  of  the 
couplet  is  due  also  to  Sir  John  Beaumont,  author  of  a 
»hort  poem  on  the  Hal  tie  of  liosworth  Field.  In  other 
respects  it  has  no  pretensions  tt>  a  hi){h  rank."' — Halu^m's 
lAt.  Hiit^  vol.  iii.  p.  499.    The  poem,  though  a  poslbu- 


which  no  copy  is  known  to  be  extant ;  Bosworth 
Field ;  and  a  variety  of  small  original  and  trans- 
lated pieces.  Bosworth  Field  may  be  compared 
with  Addison's  Campaign,  without  a  high  compli- 
ment to  either.  Sir  John  has  no  fancy,  but  there 
is  force  and  dignity  in  some  of  his  passages ;  and 
he  deserves  notice  as  one  of  the  earliest  polishers 
of  what  is  called  the  heroic  couplet.* 

mous  publication,  was  not  without  its  prefatory  oommen* 
dutions : 

This  book  will  live  ;  it  bath  a  geniufi ;  this 

Above  his  reader,  or  his  praiser,  is. — Bk>'  Jonson. — C.] 


164 


MICHAEL   DRAYTON. 


BICHARD   BEFORE  THE  BATTLE  OF   B08W0RTH. 
The  duke's  stout  presence,  and  courageous  looks, 
Were  to  the  king  as  falls  of  sliding  brooks ; 
Which  bring  a  gentle  and  delightful  rest 
To  weary  eyes,  with  grievous  care  opprest. 
He  bids  that  Norfolk,  and  his  hopeful  son. 
Whose  rising  fame  in  arms  this  day  begun. 
Should  lead  the  vanguard — for  so  great  command 
He  dares  not  trust  in  any  other  hand — 
The  rest  he  to  his  own  advice  refers, 
And  as  the  spirit  in  that  body  stirs- 
Then,  putting  on  his  crown,  a  fatal  sign  ! 
So  ofier'd  beasts  near  death  in  garlands  shine — 
He  rides  about  the  ranks,  and  strives  t'  inspire 
Each  breast  with  part  of  his  unwearied  fire. 
•     •     "  My  fellow  soldiers !  though  your  swords 
Are  sharp,  and  need  not  whetting  by  my  words, 
Yet  call  to  mind  the  many  glorious  days 
In  which  we  treasured  up  immortal  praise. 
If,  when  I  served,  I  ever  fled  from  foe, 
Flv  ve  from  mine — let  me  be  punish'd  so ! 


But  if  my  father,  when  at  first  he  tried 
How  all  his  sons  could  shining  blades  abide, 
Found  me  an  eagle  whose  undazzled  eyes 
AflVont  the  beams  that  from  the  steel  arise. 
And  if  I  now  in  action  teach  the  same. 
Know  then,  ye  have  but  changed  your  general's 

name. 
Be  still  yourselves !     Ye  fight  against  the  dross 
Of  those  who  oft  have  run  from  you  with  loss. 
How  many  Somersets  (dissension's  brands) 
Have  felt  the  force  of  our  revengeful  hands  ? — 
From  whom  this  youth,  as  from  a  princely  flood, 
Derives  his  best,  but  not  untainted  blood — 
Have  our  assaults  made  Lancaster  to  droopi 
And  shall  this  Welshman,  with  his  ragged  troop, 
Subdue  the  Norman  and  the  Saxon  line, 
That  only  Merlin  may  be  thought  divine  T — 
See  what  a  guide  these  fugitives  have  chose  ! 
Wlio,  bred  among  the  French,  our  ancient  foes. 
Forgets  the  English  language  and  the  ground. 
And  kno\^s  not  what  our  drums  and  trumpets 

sound !" 


MICHAEL  DRAYTON. 


[Born,  1570?    Died,  1631.] 


Michael  Dkayton  was  born  in  the  parish  of 
Atherston,  in  Warwickshire.  His  family  was 
ancient,  but  it  is  not  probable  that  his  parents 
were  opulent,  for  he  was  educated  chiefly  at  the 
expense  of  Sir  Godfrey  Godere.  In  his  childhood, 
which  displayed  remarkable  proficiency,  he  was 
anxious  to  know  what  strange  kind  of  beings 
poets  were,  and  on  his  coming  to  college  he  im- 
portuned his  tutor,  if  possible,  to  make  him  a  poet. 
Either  from  this  ambition,  or  from  necessity,  he 
seems  to  have  adopted  no  profession,  and  to  have 
generally  owed  his  subsistence  to  the  munificence 
of  friends.  An  allusion  which  he  makes,  in  the 
poem  of  "  Moses's  Birth  and  Miracles,"  to  the 
destruction  of  the  Spanish  Armada,  has  been  con- 
tinually alleged  as  a  ground  for  supposing  that  he 
witnessed  that  spectacle  in  a  military  capacity ; 
but  the  Unes,  in  fact,  are  far  from  proving  that  he 
witnessed  it  at  all.  On  the  accession  of  King 
James  the  First,  he  paid  his  court  to  the  new 
sovereign,  with  all  that  a  poet  could  ofler,  his 
congratulatory  verses.  James,  however,  received 
him  but  coldly,  and  though  he  was  patronized  by 
Lord  Buckhurst  and  the  Earl  of  Dorset,*  he  ob- 
tained no  situation  of  independence,  but  continued 
to  publish  his  voluminous  poetry  amidst  severe 
irritations  with  his  booksellers,  f  Popular  as 
Drayton  once  was  in  comparison  of  the  present 
neglect  of  him,  it  is  difficult  to  conceive  that  his 
works  were  ever  so  profitable  as  to  allow  the 
•  bookseller  much  room  for  peculation.  He  was 
known  as  a  poet  many  years  before  the  death  of 
Queen   Elizabeth.     His  Poly-olbion,  which  the 

[*  Lord  Buckhurst  and  the  Earl  of  Dorset,— the  poet  and 
lord  high  treasurer, — are  one  and  the  same  person. — C] 

(^t  He  receiveil  a  yearly  pension  of  ten  pounds  from 
Prince  Uenrjr,  to  whom  he  dedicated  his  Poly-olbion.— C.J 


learned  Selden  honoured  with  notes,  did  not 
appear  till  1613.  In  1626  we  find  him  styled 
poet  laureate ;  but  the  title  at  that  time  was  often 
a  mere  compliment,  and  implied  neither  royal  ap- 
pointment nor  butt  of  canary.  The  Countess  of 
Bedford  supported  him  for  many  years.  At  the 
close  of  his  life  we  find  him  in  the  family  of  the 
Earl  of  Dorset,  to  whose  magnanimous  countess 
the  Aubrey  MSS.  ascribe  the  poet's  monument 
over  his  grave  in  Westminster  Abbey. 

The  language  of  Drayton  is  free  and  perspi- 
cuous. With  less  depth  of  feeling  than  that 
which  occasionally  bursts  from  Cowley,  he  is  a 
less  excruciating  hunter  of  conceits,  and  in  har- 
mony of  expression  is  quite  a  contrast  to  Donne. 
A  tinge  of  grace  and  romance  pervades  much  of 
his  poetry :  and  even  his  pastorals,  which  exhibit 
the  most  fantastic  views  of  nature,  sparkle  with 
elegant  imagery.  The  Nymphidia  is  in  his  hap- 
piest characteristic  manner  of  airy  and  sportive 
pageantry.  In  some  historic  sketches  of  the 
Barons'  Wars  he  reaches  a  manner  beyond  him- 
self— the  pictures  of  Mortimer  and  the  Queen, 
and  of  Edward's  entrance  to  the  castle,  are 
splendid  and  spirited.  In  his  Poly-olbion,  or 
description  of  Great  Britain,  he  has  treated  the 
subject  with  such  topographical  and  minute  detail 
as  to  chain  his  poetry  to  the  map;  and  he  has 
unfortunately  chosen  a  form  of  verse  which, 
though  agreeable  when  interspersed  with  other 
measures,  is  fatiguing  in  long  continuance  by 
itself:  still  it  is  impossible  to  read  the  poem  with- 
out admiring  the  richness  of  his  local  associations, 
and  the  beauty  and  variety  of  the  fabulous  allu- 
sions which  he  scatters  around  him.  Such,  in- 
deed is  the  profusion  of  romantic  recollections  in 
tlie  Poly-olbion,  that  a  poet  of  taste  and  selection 


MICHAEL   DRAYTON. 


167 


might  there  find  subjects  of  happy  description,  to 
which  the  author  who  suggested  them  had  not 
the  power  of  doing  justice;  for  Drayton  started  so 
many  remembrances,  that  he  lost  his  inspiration 
in  the  effort  of  memory.  In  the  Barons'  Wars, 
excepting  the  passages  already  noticed,  where  the 

Pwrpureui  lati  qui  tplendeat  unus  et  alter, 
AssuUur  pannus, 

we  unhappily  exchange  only  the  geographer  for 

the  chronicler.     On  a  general  survey,  the  mass 

of  his  poetry  has  no  strength  or  sustaining  spirit 

adequate  to  its  bulk.     There  is  a  perpetual  play 


of  fancy  on  its  surface  ;  but  the  impulses  of  pas- 
sion, and  the  guidance  of  judgment  give  it  no 
strong  movements  nor  consistent  course.  In 
scenery  or  in  history  he  cannot  command  selected 
views,  but  meets  them  by  chance  as  he  travels 
over  the  track  of  detail.  His  great  subjects  have 
no  interesting  centre,  no  shade  for  uninteresting 
things.  Not  to  speak  of  his  dull  passages,  his 
description  is  generally  lost  in  a  flutter  of  whim- 
sical touches.  His  muse  has  certainly  no  strength 
for  extensive  flights,  though  she  sports  in  happy 
moments  on  a  brilliant  and  graceful  wing.* 


MORTIMER,  EARL  OF  MARCH,  AND  THE  QUEEN, 
SURPRISED  BY  EDWARD  III.  IN  NOTTINGHAM 
CASTLE. 

FBOH   "THE  barons'   WABS,"   BOOK  TI. 

Within  the  castle  hath  the  queen  devised 
A  chamber  with  choice  rarities  so  fraught, 
As  in  the  same  she  had  imparadised 
Almost  what  man  by  industry  hath  sought; 
Where  with  the  curious  pencil  was  comprised 
What  could  with  colours  by  the  art  be  wrought, 
In  the  most  sure  place  of  the  castle  there. 
Which  she  had  named  the  Tower  of  Mortimer. 

An  orbal  form  with  pillars  small  composed, 
Which  to  the  top  like  parallels  do  bear. 
Arching  the  compass  where  they  were  enclosed, 
Fashioning  the  fair  roof  like  the  hemisphere, 
In  whose  partitions  by  the  lines  disposed, 
All  th^  clear  northern  asterisms  were 

In  their  corporeal  shapes  with  stars  inchased. 
As  by  th'  old  poets  they  in  heaven  were  placed. 

About  which  lodgings,  tow'rds  the  upper  face, 
Ran  a  fine  bordure  circularly  led. 
As  equal  'twixt  the  high'st  point  and  the  base, 
That  as  a  zone  the  waist  engirdled. 
That  lends  the  sight  a  breathing,  or  a  space, 
Twixt  things  near  view  and  those  far  over  head, 
Under  the  which  the  painter's  curious  skill 
In  lively  forms  the  goodly  room  did  fill. 

Here  Phoebus  clipping  Hyacinthus  stood, 
Whose  life's  last  drops  his  snowy  breast  imbrue, 
The  one's  tears  mixed  with  the  other's  blood. 
That  should't  be  blood  or  tears  no  sight  could  view, 
80  mix'd  together  in  a  little  flood ; 
Ifet  here  and  there  they  sev'rally  withdrew. 
The  pretty  wood-nymphs  chaffing  him  with  balm, 
To  bring  the  sweet  boy  from  his  deadly  qualm. 

With  the  god's  lyre,  his  quiver,  and  his  bow, 
His  golden  mantle  cast  upon  the  ground, 
T'  express  whose  grief  Art  ev'n  her  best  did  show. 
The  sledge  so  shadow'd  still  seem'd  to  rebound. 
To  counterfeit  the  vigour  of  the  blow. 
As  still  to  give  new  anguish  to  the  wound ; 
The  purple  flower  sprung  from  the  blood  that  run. 
That  op'neth  since  and  closeth  with  the  sun. 

[♦  "  Drayton's  Poly-olbion  ifi  a  poem  of  about  30,000  linos 
in  length,  written  iu  Alexandrine  couplet?,  a  meHSure, 
from  its  monotony,  and  perbapii  from  its  frequency  in 
doK^rel  ballads,  not  at  all  pleacinx  to  the  ear.  It  con- 
*Aiii8  a  topoto'aphical  dewription  of  Kn^land,  illustr»t<>d 
with  a  prodigality  of  historical  and  legendary  erudition 


By  which  the  heifer  lo,  Jove's  fair  rape, 
Gazing  her  new-ta'en  figure  in  a  brook. 
The  water  shadow'd  to  observe  the  shape 
In  the  same  form  that  she  on  it  doth  look. 
So  cunningly  to  cloud  the  wanton  'scape, 
That  gazing  eyes  the  portraiture  mistook. 
By  perspective  devised  beholding  now, 
This  way  a  maiden,  that  way  't  seem'd  a  cow. 

Swift  Mercury,  like  to  a  shepherd's  boy, 
Sporting  with  Hebe  by  a  fountain  brim. 
With  many  a  sweet  glance,  many  an  am'rous  toy. 
He  sprinkling  drops  at  her,  and  she  at  him ; 
Wherein  the  painter  so  explain'd  their  joy. 
As  though  his  skill  the  perfect  life  could  limn. 
Upon  whose  brows  the  water  hung  so  clear. 
As  through  the  drops  the  fair  skin  might  appear. 

And  ciffy  Cynthus  with  a  thousand  birds. 
Whose  fireckled  plumes  adorn  the  bushy  crown, 
Under  whose  shadow  graze  the  straggling  herds. 
Out  of  whose  top  the  fresh  springs  trembling  down. 
Dropping  like  fine  pearl  through  his  shaggy  beards, 
With  moss  and  climbing  ivy  over-grown ; 
The  rock  so  lively  done  in  every  part. 
As  nature  could  be  patterned  by  Art. 

The  naked  nymphs,  some  up  and  down  descending. 
Small  scatt'ring  flowers  at  one  another  flung. 
With  nimble  turns  their  limber  bodies  bending, 
Cropping  the  blooming  branches  lately  sprung, 
(Upon  the  briars  their  colour'd  mantles  rending) 
Which  on  the  rocks  grew  here  and  there  among ; 
Some  comb  their  hair,  some  making  garlands  by. 
As  with  delight  might  satisfy  the  eye. 

There  comes  proud  Phaeton  tumbUng  through  the 

clouds, 
Cast  by  his  palfreys  that  their  reins  had  broke. 
And  setting  fire  upon  the  welked  shrouds. 
Now  through  the  heaven  run  madding  from  the 

yoke. 
The  elements  together  thrust  in  crowds, 
Both  land  and  sea  hid  in  a  reeking  smoke ; 
Drawn  with  such  life,  as  some  did  much  desire 
To  warm  themselves,  some  firighted  with  the  fire. 

The  river  Po,  that  him  receiving  bum'd,  « 

His  seven  sisters  standing  in  degrees, 

Surh  a  poem  is  essentially  designed  to  instruct,  and  speaks 
to  the  understanding  more  than  to  the  fancy.  The  powers 
displayed  in  it  are,  however,  of  a  high  cast.  Yet  perhaps 
no  English  poem,  known  as  well  by  name,  is  so  little 
known  beyond  its  name." — Hallam,  Lit.  Hiii.,  vol.  iV 
p.  -tatt-T.— C.J 


168 


MICHAEL   DRAYTON. 


Trees  into  women  seeming  to  be  tum'd, 
As  the  gods  tum'd  the  women  into  trees, 
Both  which  at  once  so  mutually  that  moum'd, 
Drops  from  their  boughs,  or  tears  fell  from  their  eyes ; 
The  fire  seem'd  to  be  water,  water  flame, 
Such  excellence  in  showing  of  the  same. 

And  to  this  lodging  did  the  light  invent. 
That  it  should  first  a  lateral  course  reflect, 
Through  a  short  room  into  the  window  sent, 
Whence  it  should  come  expressively  direct, 
Holding  just  distance  to  the  lineament, 
And  should  the  beams  proportionably  project, 
And  being  thereby  condensated  and  gfrave,- 
To  every  figure  a  sure  colour  gave. 

In  part  of  which,  under  a  golden  vine, 
Whose  broad-leaved  branches  cov'ring  over  all, 
Stood  a  rich  bed,  spread  with  this  wanton  twine, 
Doubling  themselves  in  their  lascivious  fall, 
Whose  rip'ned  clusters  seeming  to  decline. 
Where,  as  among  the  naked  Cupids  sprawl 
Some  at  the  sundry-colour'd  birds  do  shoot. 
Some  swarming  up  to  pluck  the  purple  fruit- 
On  which  a  tissue  counterpane  was  cast, 
Arachne's  web  the  same  did  not  surpass, 
Wherein  the  story  of  his  fortunes  past 
In  Uvely  pictures  neatly  handled  was ; 
How  he  escaped  the  Tower,  in  France  how  graced. 
With  stones  embroider'd,  of  a  wondrous  mass ; 
About  the  border,  in  a  curious  fret. 
Emblems,  impresas,  hieroglyphics  set. 

This  flatt'ring  sunshine  had  begot  the  shower. 
And  the  black  clouds  with  such  abundance  fed. 
That  for  a  wind  they  waited  but  the  hour. 
With  force  to  let  their  fury  on  his  head : 
Which  when  it  came,  it  came  with  such  a  power. 
As  he  could  hardly  have  imagined. 

But  when  men  think  they  most  in  safety  stand 
Their  greatest  peril  often  is  at  hand. 

For  to  that  largeness  they  increased  were. 
That  Edward  felt  March  heavy  on  his  throne. 
Whose  props  no  longer  both  of  them  could  bear; 
Two  for  one  seat,  that  over-great  were  grown, 
Prepost'rously  that  moved  in  one  sphere. 
And  to  the  like  predominancy  prone, 

That  the  young  king  down  Mortimer  must  cast. 
If  he  himself  would  e'er  hope  to  sit  fast. 
Who  finding  the  necessity  was  such. 
That  urged  him  still  th'  assault  to  undertake. 
And  yet  his  person  it  might  nearly  touch. 
Should  he  too  soon  his  sleeping  power  awake : 
Th'  attempt,  wherein  the  danger  was  so  much, 
Drove  him  at  length  a  secret  means  to  make, 
Whereby  he  might  the  enterprise  effect, 
And  hurt  him  most,  where  he  did  least  suspect 
Without  the  castle,  in  the  earth  is  found 
A  cave,  resembling  sleepy  Morpheus'  cell. 
In  strange  meanders  winding  under  ground, 
Where  darkness  seeks  continually  to  dwell. 
Which  with  such  fear  and  horror  doth  abound, 
^.B  though  it  were  an  entrance  into  hell ; 
By  architects  to  serve  the  castle  made, 
When  as  the  Danes  this  island  did  invade. 


Now  on  along  the  crankling  path  doth  keep, 
Then  by  a  rock  turns  up  another  way, 
Rising  tow'rds  day,  then  falling  tow'rds  the  deep. 
On  a  smooth  level  then  itself  doth  lay, 
Directly  then,  then  obliquely  doth  creep, 
Nor  in  the  course  keeps  any  certain  stay ; 
Till  in  the  castle,  in  an  odd  by-place, 
It  casts  the  foul  mask  from  its  dusky  face. 

By  which  the  king,  with  a  selected  crew 
Of  such  as  he'  with  his  intent  acquainted, 
Which  he  afi'ected  to  the  action  knew. 
And  in  revenge  of  Edward  had  not  fainted, 
That  to  their  utmost  would  the  cause  pursue, 
And  with  those  treasons  that  had  not  been  tainted. 

Adventured  the  labyrinth  t'  assay. 

To  rouse  the  beast  which  kept  them  all  at  bay. 

Long  after  Phojbus  took  his  lab'ring  team. 
To  his  pale  sister  and  resign'd  his  place, 
To  wash  his  cauples  in  the  open  stream, 
And  cool  the  fervour  of  his  glowing  face ; 
And  Phoebe,  scanted  of  her  brother's  beam, 
Into  the  west  went  after  him  apace. 

Leaving  black  darkness  to  possess  the  sky, 
To  fit  the  time  of  that  black  tragedy. 

What  time  by  torch-light  they  attempt  the  cave, 
Which  at  their  entrance  seemed  in  a  fright, 
With  the  reflection  that  their  armour  gave. 
As  it  till  then  had  ne'er  seen  any  light ; 
Which,  striving  there  pre-eminence  to  have, 
Darkness  therewith  so  daringly  doth  fight. 
That  each  confounding  other,  both  appear, 
As  darkness  light,  and  light  but  darkness  were. 

The  craggy  cliffs,  which  cross  them  as  they  go. 
Made  as  their  passage  they  would  have  denied. 
And  threat'ned  them  their  journey  to  foreslow, 
As  angry  with  the  path  that  was  their  guide, 
And  sadly  seem'd  their  discontent  to  show 
To  the  vile  hand  that  did  them  first  divide ; 
Whose  cumbrous  falls  and  risings  seem'd  to  say, 
So  ill  an  action  could  not  brook  the  day. 

And  by  the  lights  as  they  along  were  led. 
Their  shadows  then  them  following  at  their  back, 
Were  like  to  mourners  carrying  forth  their  dead. 
And  as  the  deed,  so  were  they,  ugly,  black. 
Or  like  to  fiends  that  them  had  followed. 
Pricking  them  on  to  bloodshed  and  to  wrack ; 
Whilst  the  light  look'd  as  it  had  been  amazed 
At  their  deformed  shapes,  whereon  it  gazed. 

The  clatt'ring  arms  their  masters  seem'd  to  chide. 
As  they  would  reason  wherefore  they  should  wound, 
And  struck  the  cave  in  passing  on  each  side. 
As  they  were  angry  with  the  hollow  ground. 
That  it  an  act  so  pitiless  should  hide ; 
Whose  stony  "i-oof  lock'd  in  their  angry  souna, 
And  hanging  in  the  creeks,  drew  back  again, 
As  willing  them  from  murder  to  refrain. 

The  night  wax'd  old  (not  dreaming  of  these  things) 
And  to  her  chamber  is  the  queen  withdrawn, 
To  whom  a  choice  musician  plays  and  sings. 
Whilst  she  sat  under  an  estate  of  lawn, 
In  night-attire  more  god-like  glittering. 
Than  any  eye  had  seen  the  cheerfril  dawn. 


MICHAEL   DRAYTON. 


169 


Leaning  upon  her  most-loved  Mortimer, 
Whose  voice,more  than  the  mu8ic,pleased  her  ear. 

Where  her  fair  breasts  at  liberty  were  let, 
Whose  violet  veins  in  branched  riverets  flow, 
And  Venus'  swans  and  milky  doves  were  set 
Upon  those  swelling  mounts  of  driven  snow ; 
Whereon  whilst  Love  to  sport  himself  doth  get, 
He  lost  his  way,  nor  back  again  could  go. 
But  with  those  banks  of  beauty  set  about, 
He  wander'd  still,  yet  never  could  get  out 

Her  loose  hair  look'd  like  gold  (0  word  too  base ! 
Nay,  more  than  sin,  but  so  to  name  her  hair) 
Declining,  as  to  kiss  her  fairer  face, 
No  word  is  fair  enough  for  thing  so  fair, 
Nor  ever  was  there  epithet  could  grace 
That,  by  much  praising  which  we  much  impair ; 
And  where  the  pen  fails,  pencils  cannot  show  it, 
Only  the  soul  may  be  supposed  to  know  it. 

She  laid  her  fingers  on  his  manly  cheek. 
The  gods'  pure  sceptres  and  the  darts  of  Love, 
That  with  their  touch  might  make  a  tiger  meek, 
Or  might  great  Atlas  from  his  seat  remove ; 
So  white,  so  soft,  so  delicate,  so  sleek, 
As  she  had  worn  a  lily  for  a  glove ; 

As  might  beget  life  where  was  never  none, 
And  put  a  spirit  into  the  hardest  stone. 

The  fire  of  precious  wood ;  the  light  perfume, 
Which  left  a  sweetness  on  each  thing  it  shone. 
As  every  thing  did  to  itself  assume 
The  scent  from  them,  and  made  the  same  their  own : 
So  that  the  painted  flowers  within  the  room 
Were  sweet,  as  if  they  naturally  had  grown ; 
The  light  gave  colours,  which  upon  them  fell. 
And  to  the  colours  the  perfume  gave  smell. 

When  on  those  sundry  pictures  they  devise. 
And  from  one  piece  they  to  another  run. 
Commend  that  face,  that  arm,  that  hand,  those  eyes ; 
Show  how  that  bird,  how  well  that  flower  was  done ; 
How  this  part  shadow'd,  and  how  that  did  rise, — 
This  top  was  clouded,  how  that  trail  was  spun,— 
The  landscape,  mixture,  and  delineatings. 
And  in  that  art  a  thousand  curious  things : 

Looking  upon  proud  Phaeton  wrapt  in  fire. 
The  gentle  queen  did  much  bewail  his  fall ; 
But  Mortimer  commended  his  desire, 
To  lose  one  poor  life,  or  to  govern  all : 
"  What  though  (quoth  he)  he  madly  did  aspire. 
And  his  great  mind  made  him  proud  Fortune's 
thraU  ! 
Yet  in  despight,  when  she  her  worst  had  done. 
He  perish'd  in  the  chariot  of  the  sun." 

"  Phoebus  (she  said)  was  over-forced  by  art ; 
Nor  could  she  find  how  that  embrace  could  be." 
But  Mortimer  then  took  the  painter's  part: 
"  Why  thus,  bright  empress,  thus  and  thus,  (quoth 

he:) 
That  hand  doth  hold  his  back,  and  this  his  heart ; 
Thus  their  arms  twine,  and  thus  their  lips,  you  see : 

Now  are  you  Phoebus,  Hyacinthus  I ; 

It  were  a  life,  thus  every  hour  to  die." 
22 


When,  by  that  time,  into  the  castle-hall 
Was  rudely  enter'd  that  well-armed  rout, 
And  they  within  suspecting  nought  at  all, 
Had  then  no  guard  to  watch  for  them  without. 
See  how  mischances  suddenly  do  fall. 
And  steal  upon  us,  being  farth'st  from  doubt ! 
Our  life's  uncertain,  and  our  death  is  sure. 
And  tow'rds  most  peril  man  is  most  secure. 

Whilst  youthful  Nevil  and  brave  Turrington, 
To  the  bright  queen  that  ever  waited  near. 
Two  with  great  March  much  credit  that  had  won 
That  in  the  lobby  with  the  ladies  were, 
Staying  delight,  whilst  time  away  did  run. 
With  such  discourse  as  women  love  to  hear 
Charged  on  the  sudden  by  the  armed  train, 
Were  at  their  entrance  miserably  slain. 

When,  as  from  snow-crown'd  Skidow's  lofty  cliflS, 
Some  fleet-wing'd  haggard,  tow'rds  her  preying 

hour. 
Amongst  the  teal  and  moor-bred  mallard  drives. 
And  th'  air  of  all  her  feather'd  flock  doth  scow'r, 
Whilst  to  regain  her  former  height  she  strives. 
The  fearful  fowl  all  prostrate  to  her  power : 
Such  a  sharp  shriek  did  ring  throughout  the  vault, 
Made  by  the  women  at  the  fierce  assault. 


NYMPmDIA,   THE  COUKT  OF  FAIKT. 

Old  Chaucer  doth  of  Topas  tell. 
Mad  Rab'lais  of  Pantagruel, 
A  later  third  of  Dowsabel, 

With  such  poor  trifles  pla3ring : 
Others  the  like  have  labour'd  at. 
Some  of  this  thing,  and  some  of  that. 
And  many  of  they  know  not  what. 

But  that  they  must  be  saying. 

Another  sort  there  be,  that  will 
Be  talking  of  the  Fairies  still. 
Nor  never  can  they  have  their  fill, 

As  they  were  wedded  to  them : 
No  tales  of  them  their  thirst  can  slake. 
So  much  delight  therein  they  take. 
And  some  strange  thing  they  fain  would  make. 

Knew  they  the  way  to  do  them. 

Then  since  no  muse  hath  been  so  bold. 
Or  of  the  later  or  the  old, 
Those  elvish  secrets  to  unfold. 

Which  lie  from  others'  reading ; 
My  active  muse  to  light  shall  bring 
The  court  of  that  proud  Fairy  King, 
And  tell  there  of  the  revelling : 

Jove  prosper  my  proceeding. 

And  thou  Nymphidia,  gentle  Fay, 
Which  meeting  me  ujwn  the  way. 
These  secrets  didst  to  me  bewray. 

Which  now  I  am  in  telling: 
My  pretty  light  fantastic  maid, 
I  here  invoke  thee  to  my  aid. 
That  I  may  speak  what  thou  hast  said. 

In  numbers  smoothly  bwelling 
P 


This  palace  standeth  in  the  air, 
By  necromancy  placed  there, 
That  it  no  tempests  needs  to  fear, 

Which  way  soe'er  it  blow  it ; 
And  somewhat  southward  tow'rd  the  noon. 
Whence  lies  a  way  up  to  the  moon. 
And  thence  the  Fairy  can  as  soon 
Pass  to  the  earth  below  it. 
The  walls  of  spiders'  legs  are  made. 
Well  mortised  and  finely  laid ; 
He  was  the  master  of  his  trade. 
It  curiously  that  builded : 
The  windows  of  tlie  eyes  of  cats. 
And  for  the  roof,  instead  of  slates. 
Is  cover'd  with  the  skins  of  bats, 

With  moonshine  that  are  gilded. 
Hence  Oberon,  him  sport  to  make, 
(Their  rest  when  weary  mortals  take. 
And  none  but  only  fairies  wake) 

Descendeth  for  his  pleasure : 
And  Mab,  his  merry  queen,  by  night 
Bestrides  young  folks  that  lie  upright, 
(In  elder  times  the  Mare  that  hight) 

Which  plagues  them  out  of  measure. 
Hence  shadows,  seeming  idle  shapes, 
Of  little  frisking  elves  and  apes, 
To  earth  do  make  their  wanton  scapes. 

As  hope  of  pastime  hastes  them : 
Which  maids  think  on  the  hearth  they  see. 
When  fires  well-near  consumed  be. 
There  dancing  hayes  by  two  and  three. 

Just  as  their  fancy  casts  them. 
These  make  our  girls  their  slutt'ry  rue. 
By  pinching  them  both  black  and  blue. 
And  put  a  penny  in  their  shoe, 

The  house  for  cleanly  sweeping : 
And  in  their  courses  make  that  round, 
In  meadows  and  in  marshes  found, 
Of  them  so  call'd  the  Fairy  ground, 

Of  which  they  have  the  keeping. 
These,  when  a  child  haps  to  be  got, 
Which  after  proves  an  idiot, 
When  folk  perceive  it  thriveth  not, 

The  fault  therein  to  smother : 
Some  silly,  doating,  brainless  calf. 
That  understands  things  by  the  half. 
Say,  that  the  Fairy  left  this  aulf. 
And  took  away  the  other. 
But  listen,  and  I  shall  you  tell 
A  chance  in  Fairy  that  befell, 
Which  certainly  may  please  some  well. 

In  love  and  arms  delighting : 
Of  Oberon  that  jealous  grew 
Of  one  of  his  own  Fairy  crew, 
Too  well  (he  fear'd)  his  queen  that  knew, 

His  love  but  ill  requiting. 
Pigwiggen  was  this  Fairy  knight, 
One  wondrous  gracious  in  the  sight 
Of  fair  queen  Mab,  which  day  and  night 

He  amorously  observed : 
Which  made  king  Oberon  suspect 
His  service  took  too  good  effect, 
His  sauciness  and  often  checkt, 

And  could  have  wish'd  him  starved. 


Pigwiggen  gladly  would  commend 
Some  token  to  queen  Mab  to  send, 
If  sea  or  land  him  aught  could  lend. 

Were  worthy  of  her  wearing : 
At  length  this  lover  doth  devise 
A  bracelet  made  of  emmets'  eyes, 
A  thing  he  thought  that  she  would  prize, 

No  whit  her  state  impairing. 
And  to  the  queen  a  letter  writes, 
Which  he  most  curiously  indites, 
Conjuring  her  by  all  the  rites 

Of  love,  she  would  be  pleased 
To  meet  him  her  true  servant,  where 
They  might  without  suspect  or  fear 
Themselves  to  one  another  clear. 

And  have  their  poor  hearts  eeised. 
«  At  midnight  the  appointed  hour, 
And  for  the  queen  a  fitting  bower. 
(Quoth  he)  is  that  fair  cowslip  flower. 

On  Hipcut-hill  that  bloweth : 
In  all  your  train  there's  not  a  Fay, 
That  ever  went  to  gather  May, 
But  she  hath  made  it  in  her  way. 

The  tallest  there  that  groweth." 
When  by  Tom  Thumb,  a  fairy  page. 
He  sent  it,  and  doth  him  engage, 
By  promise  of  a  mighty  wage, 

It  secretly  to  carry : 
Which  done,  the  queen  her  maids  doth  call, 
And  bids  them  to  be  ready  all, 
She  would  go  see  her  summer  hall. 

She  could  no  longer  tarry. 
Her  chariot  ready  straight  is  made. 
Each  thing  therein  is  fitting  laid. 
That  she  by  nothing  might  be  stay'd, 

For  nought  must  her  be  letting: 
Four  nimble  gnats  the  horses  were. 
The  harnesses  of  gossamer. 
Fly  Cranion,  her  charioteer, 

Upon  the  coach-box  getting. 
Her  chariot  of  a  snail's  fine  shell, 
Which  for  the  colours  did  excel ; 
The  fair  queen  Mab  becoming  well. 

So  lively  was  the  limning : 
The  seat  the  soft  wool  of  the  bee. 
The  cover  (gallantly  to  see) 
The  wing  of  a  py'd  butterflee, 

I  trow,  'twas  simple  trimming. 
The  wheels  composed  of  crickets'  bones. 
And  daintily  made  for  the  nonce. 
For  fear  of  rattling  on  the  stones, 

With  thistle-down  they  shod  it : 
For  all  her  maidens  much  did  fear. 
If  Oberon  had  chanced  to  hear. 
That  Mab  his  queen  should  have  been  there, 

He  would  not  have  abode  it. 
She  mounts  her  chariot  with  a  trice. 
Nor  would  she  stay  for  no  advice, 
Until  her  maids,  that  were  so  nice, 
To  wait  on  her  were  fitted. 
But  ran  herself  away  alone  ; 
Which  wiien  they  heard,  there  was  not  one 
But  hasted  after  to  be  gone, 

As  she  had  been  diswitted. 


MICHAEL 

DRAYTON.                                                         171 

Hop,  and  Mop,  and  Drap  so  clear. 

"  Oh !  (quoth  the  glow-worm)  hold  thy  hand, 

Pip,  and  Trip,  and  Skip,  that  were 

Thou  puissant  king  of  Fairy  land. 

To  Mab  their  sovereign  dear. 

Thy  mighty  strokes  who  may  withstand  1 

Her  special  maids  of  honour ; 

Hold,  or  of  life  despair  L" 

Fib,  and  Tib,  and  Pinck,  and  Pin, 

Together  then  herself  doth  roll. 

Tick,  and  Quick,  and  Jill,  and  Jin, 

And  tumbling  down  into  a  hole. 

Tit,  and  Nit,  and  Wap,  and  Win, 

She  seem'd  as  black  as  any  coal, 

The  train  that  wait  upon  her. 

Which  vext  away  the  Fairy. 

Upon  a  grasshopper  they  got. 

From  thence  he  ran  into  a  hive. 

And  what  with  amble  and  with  trot. 

Amongst  the  bees  he  letteth  drive. 

For  hedge  nor  ditch  they  spared  not. 

And  down  their  combs  begins  to  rive, 

But  after  her  they  hie  them. 

All  likely  to  have  spoiled : 

A  cobweb  over  them  they  throw. 

Which  with  their  wax  his  face  besmear'd 

To  shield  the  wind  if  it  should  blow, 

And  with  their  honey  daub'd  his  beard ; 

Themselves  they  wisely  could  bestow, 

It  would  have  made  a  man  aflear'd, 

Lest  any  should  espy  them. 

To  see  how  he  was  moiled. 

'      But  let  us  leave  queen  Mab  a  while. 

A  new  adventure  him  betides : 

Through  many  a  gate,  o'er  many  a  stile. 

He  met  an  ant,  which  he  bestrides, 

That  now  had  gotten  by  this  wile. 

And  post  thereon  away  he  rides, 

Her  dear  Pigwiggen  kissing; 

Which  with  his  haste  doth  stumble. 

And  tell  how  Oberon  doth  fare, 

And  came  full  over  on  her  snout. 

Who  grew  as  mad  as  any  hare. 

Her  heels  so  threw  the  dirt  about. 

When  he  had  sought  each  place  with  care, 

For  she  by  no  means  could  get  out. 

And  found  his  queen  was  missing. 

But  over  him  doth  tumble. 

By  griesly  Pluto  he  doth  swear, 

And  being  in  this  piteous  case, 

He  rent  his  clothes,  and  tore  his  hair. 

And  edl  beslurried  head  and  face, 

And  as  he  runneth  here  and  there. 

On  runs  he  in  this  wild-goose  chase. 

An  acorn-cup  he  getteth ; 

As  here  and  there  he  rambles. 

Which  soon  he  taketh  by  the  stalk. 

Half-blind  against  a  mole-hill  hit. 

About  his  head  he  lets  it  walk, 

And  for  a  mountain  taking  it. 

Nor  doth  he  any  creature  baulk. 

For  all  he  was  out  of  his  wit, 

But  lays  on  all  he  meeteth. 

Yet  to  the  top  he  scrambles. 

The  Tuscan  poet  doth  advance 

And  being  gotten  to  the  top, 

The  frantic  Paladine  of  France, 

Yet  there  himself  he  could  not  stop, 

And  those  more  ancient  do  enhance 

But  down  on  th'  other  side  doth  chop. 

Alcides  in  his  fury, 

And  to  the  foot  came  rumbling : 

And  others  Ajax  Telamon : 

So  that  the  grubs  therein  that  bred. 

But  to  this  time  there  hath  been  none 

Hearing  such  turmoil  over  head. 

So  Bedlam  as  our  Oberon, 

Thought  surely  they  had  all  been  dead. 

Of  which  I  dare  assure  ye. 

So  fearful  was  the  jumbUng. 

And  first  encount'ring  with  a  wasp. 

And  falling  down  into  a  lake. 

He  in  his  arms  the  fly  doth  clasp. 

Which  him  up  to  the  neck  doth  take. 

As  though  his  breath  he  forth  would  grasp. 

His  fury  it  doth  somewhat  slake. 

Him  for  Pigwiggen  taking: 

He  calleth  for  a  ferry : 

"  Where  is  my  wife,  thou  rogue  1  (quoth  he) 

Where  you  may  some  recovery  note, 

Pigwiggen,  she  is  come  to  thee  ; 

What  was  his  club  he  made  his  boat, 

Restore  her,  or  thou  diest  by  me." 

And  in  his  oaken  cup  doth  float. 

Whereat  the  poor  wasp  quaking. 

As  safe  as  in  a  wherry. 

Cries,  «  Oberon,  great  Fairy  king. 

Men  talk  of  the  adventures  strange 

Content  thee,  I  am  no  such  thing ; 

Of  Don  Quishot  and  of  their  change. 

I  am  a  wasp,  behold  my  sting !" 

Through  which  he  armed  oft  did  range. 

At  which  the  Fairy  started. 

Of  Sancha  Pancha's  travel ; 

When  soon  away  the  wasp  doth  go. 

But  should  a  man  tell  every  thing 

Poor  wretch  was  never  frighted  so. 

Done  by  this  frantic  Fairy  king. 

He  thought  his  wings  were  much  too  slow. 

And  them  in  lofty  numbers  sing. 

O'erjoy'd  they  so  were  parted. 

It  well  his  wits  might  gravel. 

He  next  upon  a  glow-worm  light. 

Scarce  set  on  shore,  but  therewithal 

(You  must  suppose  it  now  was  night,) 

He  meeteth  Puck,  which  most  men  call 

Which,  for  her  hinder  part  was  bright. 

Hobgoblin,  and  on  him  doth  fall 

He  took  to  be  a  devil ; 

With  words  from  phrensy  spoken  • 

And  furiously  doth  her  assail 

"  Hoh,  hoh,"  quoth  Hob,  •»  God  save  thy  grace, 

For  carrying  fire  in  her  tail ; 

Who  drest  thee  in  this  piteous  case  1 

He  thrash'd  her  rough  coat  with  his  flail. 

He  thus  that  spoil'd  my  sovereign's  face. 

The  mad  king  fear'd  no  evil. 

I  would  his  neck  were  broken." 

172 


MICHAEL   DRAYTON. 


This  Puck  seems  but  a  dreaming  dolt, 
Still  walking  like  a  ragged  colt, 
\nd  oft  out  of  a  bush  doth  bolt, 
Of  purpose  to  deceive  us ; 
And  leading  us,  makes  us  to  stray 
Long  winter's  nights  out  of  the  way, 
And  when  we  stick  in  mire  and  clay, 

He  doth  with  laughter  leave  us. 
"  Dear  Puck,"  quoth  he,  «  my  wife  is  gone ; 
As  e'er  thou  lovest  king  Oberon, 
Let  every  thing  but  this  alone. 

With  vengeance  and  pursue  her : 
Bring  her  to  me,  alive  or  dead ; 
Or  that  vile  thief  Pigwiggen's  head ; 
That  villain  hath  defiled  my  bed, 
He  to  this  folly  drew  her." 
Quoth  Puck,  "  My  liege,  I'll  never  lin, 
But  I  will  thorough  thick  and  thin. 
Until  at  length  I  bring  her  in. 

My  dearest  lord,  ne'er  doubt  it." 
Thorough  brake,  thorough  brier, 
Thorough  muck,  thorough  mire, 
Thorough  water,  thorough  fire, 

And  thus  goes  Puck  about  it. 
This  thing  Nymphidia  overheard. 
That  on  this  mad  king  had  a  guard, 
Not  doubting  of  a  great  reward, 

For  first  this  bus'ness  broaching ; 
And  through  the  air  away  doth  go 
Swift  as  an  arrow  firom  the  bow. 
To  let  her  sovereign  Mab  to  know 

What  peril  was  approaching. 
The  queen,  bound  with  love's  powerful  charm, 
Sate  with  Pigwiggen  arm  in  arm  ; 
Her  merry  maids,  that  thought  no  harm, 

About  the  room  were  skipping : 
A  bumble-bee,  their  minstrel,  play'd 
Upon  his  hautbois,  every  maid 
Fit  for  this  revel  was  array'd. 

The  hornpipe  neatly  tripping. 
In  comes  Nymphidia,  and  doth  cry, 
"  My  sovereign,  for  your  safety  fly, 
For  there  is  danger  but  too  nigh, 
I  posted  to  forewarn  you. 
The  king  hath  sent  Hobgoblin  out, 
To  seek  you  all  the  fields  about. 
And  of  your  safety  you  may  doubt. 
If  he  but  once  discern  you." 
When  like  an  uproar  in  a  town. 
Before  them  every  thing  went  down ; 
Some  tore  a  rufl*,  and  some  a  gown, 
'Gainst  one  another  justling : 
They  flew  about  like  chaff  i'  th'  wind ; 
For  haste  some  left  their  masks  behind, 
Some  could  not  stay  their  gloves  to  find ; 

There  never  was  such  bustling, 
Forth  ran  they  by  a  secret  way. 
Into  a  brake  that  near  them  lay. 
Yet  much  they  doubted  there  to  stay. 

Lest  Hob  should  hap  to  find  them : 
He  had  a  sharp  and  piercing  sight, 
\11  one  to  him  the  day  and  night. 
And  therefore  were  resolved  by  flight 

To  leave  this  place  behind  them. 


At  length  one  chanced  to  find  a  nut, 
In  th'  end  of  which  a  hole  was  cut, 
Which  lay  upon  a  hazel  root. 

There  scatter'd  by  a  squirrel, 
Which  out  the  kernel  gotten  had : 
When  quoth  this  fay,  "  Dear  queen,  be  glad, 
Let  Oberon  be  ne'er  so  mad, 

I'll  set  you  safe  firom  peril, 
"  Come  all  into  this  nut,  (quoth  she,) 
Come  closely  in,  be  ruled  by  me, 
Each  one  may  here  a  chooser  be, 

For  room  ye  need  not  wrestle. 
Nor  need  ye  be  together  heapt." 
So  one  by  one  therein  they  crept. 
And  lying  down,  they  soundly  slept, 

And  safe  as  in  a  castle. 
Nymphidia,  that  this  while  doth  watch. 
Perceived  if  Puck  the  queen  should  catch. 
That  he  would  be  her  over-match. 

Of  which  she  well  bethought  her ; 
Found  it  must  be  some  powerful  charm. 
The  queen  against  him  that  must  arm. 
Or  surely  he  would  do  her  harm. 

For  throughly  he  had  sought  her. 
And  list'ning  if  she  aught  could  hear, 
That  her  might  hinder,  or  might  fear ; 
But  finding  still  the  coast  was  clear. 

Nor  creature  had  descried  her ; 
Each  circumstance  and  having  scann'd. 
She  came  therelty  to  understand, 
Puck  would  be  with  them  out  of  hand. 

When  to  her  charms  she  hied  her. 
And  first  her  fern-seed  doth  bestow, 
The  kernel  of  the  misletoe ; 
And  here  and  there  as  Puck  should  go. 

With  terror  to  affright  him, 
She  night-shade  straws  to  work  him  ill, 
Therewith  her  vervain  and  her  dill, 
That  hind'reth  witches  of  their  will, 

Of  purpose  to  despight  him. 
Then  sprinkles  she  the  juice  of  rue. 
That  groweth  underneath  the  yew. 
With  nine  drops  of  the  midnight  dew. 

From  lunary  distilling; 
The  molewarp's  brain  mixt  therewithal, 
And  with  the  same  the  pismire's  gall ; 
For  she  in  nothing  short  would  fall. 

The  Fairy  was  so  willing. 
Then  thrice  under  a  brier  doth  creep, 
Which  at  both  ends  was  rooted  deep. 
And  over  it  three  times  she  leapt. 

Her  magic  much  availing: 
Then  on  Proserpina  doth  call. 
And  so  upon  her  spell  doth  fall. 
Which  here  to  you  repeat  I  shall, 

Not  in  one  tittle  failing. 
"  By  the  croaking  of  the  frog ; 
By  the  howling  of  the  dog ; 
By  the  crying  of  the  hog 

Against  the  storm  arising; 
By  the  evening  curfew-bell ; 
By  the  doleful  dying  knell ; 
O  let  this  my  direful  spell. 

Hob,  hinder  thy  surprising. 


MICHAEL 

DRAYTON.                                                     178 

«  By  the  mandrake's  dreadful  groans ; 

And  as  he  runs,  he  still  doth  cry, 

By  the  Lubricans  sad  moans ; 

«  King  Oberon,  I  thee  defy. 

By  the  noise  of  dead  men's  bones, 

And  dare  thee  here  in  arms  to  try, 

In  charnel-houses  rattUng ; 

For  my  dear  lady's  honour : 

By  the  hissing  of  the  snake, 

For  that  she  is  a  queen  right  good, 

The  rustling  of  the  fire-drake, 

In  whose  defence  I'll  shed  my  blood. 

I  charge  thee  this  place  forsake. 

And  that  thou  in  this  jealous  mood 

Nor  of  queen  Mab  be  prattling. 

Hast  laid  this  slander  on  her." 

«  By  the  whirlwind's  hollow  sound. 

And  quickly  arms  him  for  the  field, 

By  the  thunder's  dreadful  stound, 

A  little  cockle-shell  his  shield. 

Yells  of  spirits  under  ground, 

Which  he  could  very  bravely  wield, 

I  charge  thee  not  to  fear  us : 

Yet  could  it  not  be  pierced : 

By  the  screech-owl's  dismal  note, 

His  spear  a  bent  b^th  stift'  and  strong, 

By  the  black  night-raven's  throat. 

And  well  near  of  '>n  inches  long: 

I  charge  thee,  Hob,  to  tear  thy  coat 

The  pile  was  of  ».  hoise-fly's  tongue. 

With  thorns,  if  thou  come  near  us." 

Whose  sharpness  nought  reversed. 

Her  spell  thus  spoke,  she  stept  aside. 

And  puts  him  on  a  coat  of  mail. 

And  in  a  chink  herself  doth  hide. 

Which  was  ol  a  fish's  Bcale, 

To  see  thereof  what  would  betide. 

That  when  his  foe  should  him  assail. 

For  she  doth  only  mind  him : 

No  point  should  le  prevailing. 

When  presently  she  Puck  espies. 

His  rapier  was  a  hornet's  sting. 

And  well  she  markt  his  gloating  eyes, 

It  was  a  very  dangerous  thing ; 

How  under  every  leaf  he  pries. 

For  if  he  chanced  to  hurt  the  king. 

In  seeking  still  to  find  them. 

It  would  be  long  in  healing. 

But  once  the  circle  got  within. 

His  helmet  was  a  beetle's  head. 

The  charms  to  work  do  straight  begin, 

Most  horrible  and  full  of  di  ?ad, 

And  he  was  caught  as  in  a  gin : 

That  able  was  to  strike  one  dead. 

For  as  he  thus  was  busy. 

Yet  it  did  well  become  him : 

A  pain  he  in  his  head-piece  feels. 

And  for  a  plume,  a  horse's  hair. 

Against  a  stubbled  tree  he  reels. 

Which  being  tossed  by  the  air. 

And  up  went  poor  Hobgoblin's  heels , 

Had  force  to  strike  his  foe  with  fear, 

Alas !  his  brain  was  dizzy. 

And  turn  his  weapon  from  him. 

At  length  upon  his  feet  he  gets. 

Himself  he  on  an  earwig  set. 

Hobgoblin  fumes.  Hobgoblin  firets, 

Yet  scarce  he  on  his  back  could  get, 

And  as  again  he  forward  sets. 

So  oft  and  high  he  did  curvet, 

And  through  the  bushes  scrambles. 

Ere  he  himself  could  settle : 

A  stump  doth  trip  him  in  his  pace. 

He  made  him  turn,  and  stop,  and  bound. 

Down  comes  poor  Hob  upon  his  face, 

To  gallop,  and  to  trot  the  round. 

And  lamentably  tore  his  case 

He  scarce  could  stand  on  any  gro  nd. 

Amongst  the  briers  and  brambles. 

He  was  so  full  of  mettle. 

"  Plague  upon  queen  Mab  (quoth  he) 

When  soon  he  met  with  Tomalin, 

And  all  her  maids,  where'er  they  be ! 

One  that  a  valiant  knight  had  been, 

I  think  the  devil  guided  me, 

And  to  great  Oberon  of  kin : 

To  seek  her,  so  provoked." 

Quoth  he,  "Thou  manly  Faiiy, 

When  stumbling  at  a  piece  of  wood, 

Tell  Oberon  I  come  prepared, 

He  fell  into  a  ditch  of  mud. 

Then  bid  him  stand  upon  his  guard: 

Where  to  the  very  chin  he  stood, 

TLis  hand  his  baseness  shall  reward 

In  danger  to  be  choked. 

Let  him  be  ne'er  so  wary. 

Now  worse  than  e'er  he  was  before, 

"  Say  to  him  thus,  That  I  defy 

Poor  Puck  doth  yell,  poor  Puck  doth  roar, 

His  slanders  and  his  infamy, 

That  waked  queen  Mab,  who  doubted  sore 

And  as  a  mortal  enemy 

Some  treason  had  been  wrought  her : 

Do  publicly  proclaim  him : 

Until  Nymphidia  told  the  queen 

Withal,  that  if  I  had  mine  own. 

What  she  had  done,  what  she  had  seen, 

He  should  not  wear  the  Fairy  crown. 

Who  then  had  well-near  crack'd  her  spleen 

But  with  a  vengeance  should  come  down 

With  very  extreme  laughter. 

Nor  we  a  king  should  name  him 

But  leave  we  Hob  to  clamber  out. 

This  Tomalin  could  not  abide, 

Queen  Mab  and  all  her  Fairy  rout, 

To  hear  his  sovereign  vilified ; 

And  come  again  to  have  a  bout 

But  to  the  Fairy  court  him  hied. 

With  Oberon  yet  madding : 

Full  furiously  he  posted. 

AiiJ  with  Pigwiggin  now  distraught. 

With  every  thing  Pigwiggen  said , 

Who  much  was  troubled  in  his  thought, 

How  title  to  the  crown  he  laid. 

Tnat  he  so  long  the  queen  had  sought. 

And  in  what  arms  he  was  array'd, 

And  through  the  fields  was  gadding. 

And  how  himself  he  boasted. 
P2 

174 


MICHAEL   DRAYTON. 


'Twixt  head  and  foot  from  point  to  point, 
He  told  the  arming  of  each  joint, 
In  every  piece  how  neat  and  quaint ; 

For  Tomalin  could  do  it : 
How  fair  he  sat,  how  sure  he  rid ; 
As  of  the  courser  he  bestrid. 
How  managed,  and  how  well  he  did. 

The  king,  which  listen'd  to  it, 
Quoth  he,  "  Go,  Tomalin,  with  speed, 
Provide  me  arms,  provide  my  steed. 
And  every  thing  that  I  shall  need, 

By  thee  I  will  be  guided: 
To  strait  account  call  thou  thy  wit. 
See  there  be  wanting  not  a  whit. 
In  every  thing  see  thou  me  fit, 

Just  as  my  foe's  provided." 
Soon  flew  this  news  through  Fairy-land, 
Which  gave  queen  Mab  to  understand 
The  combat  that  was  then  in  hand 

Betwixt  those  men  so  mighty  : 
Which  greatly  she  began  to  rue, 
Perceiving  that  all  Fairy  knew. 
The  first  occasion  from  her  grew. 

Of  these  affairs  so  weighty. 
Wherefore,  attended  with  her  maids, 
Through  fogs,  and  mists,  and  damps,  she  wades 
To  Proserpine,  the  queen  of  shades. 

To  treat,  that  it  would  please  her 
The  cause  into  her  hands  to  take. 
For  ancient  love  and  friendship's  sake. 
And  soon  thereof  an  end  to  make, 

Which  of  much  care  would  ease  her. 
Awhile  there  let  we  Mab  alone. 
And  come  we  to  king  Oberon, 
Who  arm'd  to  meet  his  foe  is  gone. 

For  proud  Pigwiggen  crying : 
Who  sought  the  Fairy  king  as  fast, 
And  had  so  well  his  journeys  cast. 
That  he  arrived  at  the  last. 

His  puissant  foe  espying. 
Stout  Tomalin  came  with  the  king, 
Tom  Thumb  doth  on  Pigwiggen  bring. 
That  perfect  were  in  every  thing 

To  single  fights  belonging : 
And  therefore  they  themselves  engage, 
To  see  them  exercise  their  rage, 
With  fair  and  comely  equipage. 

Not  one  the  other  wronging. 
So  like  in  arms  these  champions  were. 
As  they  had  been  a  very  pair. 
So  that  a  man  would  almost  swear 

That  either  had  been  either ; 
Theii  furious  steeds  began  to  neigh. 
That  they  were  heard  a  mighty  way  : 
Th«»,ir  staves  upon  their  rests  they  lay ; 

Yet  erte  Jiey  flew  together, 
Theb-  seconds  minister  an  oath. 
Which  was  indifferent  to  them  both. 
That  on  their  knightly  faith  and  troth. 

No  magic  them  supplied ; 
And  sought  them  that  they  had  no  charms. 
Wherewith  to  work  each  other's  harms. 
But  came  with  simple  open  arms, 

To  have  their  causes  tried. 


Together  furiously  they  ran. 

That  to  the  ground  came  horse  and  man ; 

The  blood  out  of  their  helmets  span. 

So  sharp  were  their  encounters ; 
And  though  they  to  the  earth  were  thrown. 
Yet  quickly  they  regain'^  their  own ; 
Such  nimbleness  was  never  shown, 

They  were  two  gallant  mounters. 
When  in  a  second  course  again. 
They  forward  came  with  might  and  main. 
Yet  which  had  better  of  the  twain. 

The  seconds  could  not  judge  yet: 
Their  shields  were  into  pieces  cleft. 
Their  helmets  from  their  heads  were  reft, 
And  to  defend  them  nothing  left, 

These  champions  would  not  budge  yet 
Away  from  them  their  staves  they  threw, 
Their  cruel  swords  they  quickly  drew, 
And  freshly  they  the  fight  renew, 

They  every  stroke  redoubled  : 
Which  made  Proserpina  take  heed. 
And  make  to  them  the  greater  speed. 
For  fear  lest  they  too  much  should  bleed. 

Which  wondrously  her  troubled. 
When  to  th'  infernal  Styx  she  goes. 
She  takes  the  fogs  from  thence  that  rose, 
And  in  a  bag  doth  them  enclose. 

When  well  she  had  them  blended  • 
She  hies  her  then  to  Lethe  spring, 
A  bottle  and  thereof  doth  bring. 
Wherewith  she  meant  to  work  the  thing 

Which  only  she  intended. 
Now  Proserpine  with  Mab  is  gone 
Unto  the  place  where  Oberon 
And  proud  Pigwiggen,  one  to  one. 

Both  to  be  slain  were  likely : 
And  there  themselves  they  closely  hide, 
Because  they  would  not  be  espied ; 
For  Proserpine  meant  to  decide 
The  matter  very  quickly. 
And  suddenly  unties  the  poke. 
Which  out  of  it  sent  such  a  smoke, 
As  ready  was  them  all  to  choke. 

So  grievous  was  the  pother : 
So  that  the  knights  each  other  lost, 
And  stood  as  still  as  any  post, 
Tom  Thumb  nor  Tomalin  could  boast 

Themselves  of  any  other. 
But  when  the  mist  'gan  somewhat  cease, 
Proserpina  commandeth  peace. 
And  that  a  while  they  should  release 

Each  other  of  their  peril: 
"  Which  here,  (quoth  she,)  I  do  proclaim 
To  all,  in  dreadful  Pluto's  name, 
That  as  ye  will  eschew  his  blame. 

You  let  me  hear  the  quarrel. 
"  But  here  yourselves  you  must  engage, 
Somewhat  to  cool  your  spleenish  rage, 
Your  grievous  thirst  and  to  assuage 

That  first  you  drink  this  liquor ; 
Which  shall  your  understandings  clear, 
As  plainly  shall  to  you  appear. 
Those  things  from  me  that  you  shall  hear, 
Conceiving  much  the  quicker." 


MICHAEL   DRAYTON. 


176 


This  Lethe  water,  you  must  know, 
The  memory  destroyeth  so, 
That  of  our  weal,  or  of  our  woe. 

It  all  remembrance  blotted, 
Of  it  nor  can  you  ever  think : 
For  they  no  sooner  took  this  drink, 
But  nought  into  their  brains  could  sink, 

Of  what  had  them  besotted. 

King  Oberon  forgotten  had, 

That  he  for  jealousy  ran  mad  ; 

But  of  his  queen  was  wondrous  glad. 

And  ask'd  how  they  came  thither. 
Pigrwiggen  likewise  doth  forget, 
That  he  queen  Mab  had  ever  met, 
f 'r  that  they  were  so  hard  beset. 

When  they  were  found  together. 

Xor  either  of  'em  both  had  thought. 
That  e'er  they  had  each  other  sought. 
Much  less  that  they  a  combat  fought, 

But  such  a  dream  were  loathing. 
Tom  Thumb  had  got  a  little  sup, 
And  Tomalin  scarce  kiss'd  the  cup. 
Yet  had  their  brains  so  sure  lockt  up, 

That  they  remember'd  nothing. 

Queen  Mab  and  her  light  maids  the  while 
Amongst  themselves  do  closely  smile. 
To  see  the  king  caught  with  this  wile. 

With  one  another  jesting : 
And  to  the  Fairy  court  they  went, 
With  mickle  joy  and  merriment, 
Which  thing  was  done  with  good  intent ; 

And  thus  I  left  them  feasting. 


THE  QUEST  OF  CYNTHIA. 
What  time  the  groves  were  clad  in  green. 

The  fields  drest  all  in  flowers. 
And  that  the  sleek-hair'd  nymphs  were  seen 

To  seek  them  summer  bowers.  •  .  . 

Long  wand'ring  in  the  wood,  said  I, 
"  O  whither's  Cynthia  gonel" 

When  soon  the  echo  doth  reply 
To  my  last  word, "  go  on." 

At  length  upon  a  lofty  fir 

It  was  my  chance  to  find. 
Where  that  dear  name  most  due  to  her. 

Was  carved  upon  the  rind. 

Which  whilst  with  wonder  I  beheld, 
The  bees  their  honey  brought. 

And  up  the  carved  letters  fiU'd, 
As  they  with  gold  were  wrought. 

And  near  that  tree's  more  spacious  root, 

Then  looking  on  the  ground, 
The  shape  of  her  most  dainty  foot 

Imprinted  there  I  found.  .  .  . 

The  yielding  sand,  where  she  had  trod, 

Untoucht  yet  with  the  wind. 
By  the  fair  posture  plainly  show'd 

Where  I  might  (/yrthia  find. 

When  chance  me  to  an  arbour  led, 
Whereas  I  might  behold ; 


Two  blest  elysiums  in  one  sted. 
The  less  the  great  infold. 

The  wealthy  Spring  yet  never  bore 

That  sweet,  nor  dainty  flower. 
That  damask'd  not  the  chequer'd  floor 

Of  Cynthia's  summer  bower. 

The  birch,  the  myrtle,  and  the  bay, 

Like  friends  did  all  embrace ; 
And  their  large  branches  did  display, 

To  cancrpy  the  place. 

Where  she  like  Venus  doth  appear 

Upon  a  rosy  bed ; 
As  lilies  the  soft  pillows  were. 

Whereon  she  laid  her  head. 

The  winds  were  hush'd,  no  leaf  so  small 

At  all  was  seen  to  stir : 
Whilst  tuning  to  the  waters  fall. 

The  small  birds  sang  to  her. 

« Into  these  secret  shades  (quoth  she) 

How  darest  thou  be  so  bold 
To  enter,  consecrate  to  me, 

Or  touch  this  hallow'd  mould  1"  . . . . 

"  Bright  nymph,  again  I  thus  reply, 

This  cannot  me  affright : 
I  had  rather  in  thy  presence  die. 

Than  live  out  of  thy  sight. 

«  I  first  upon  the  mountains  high 

Built  altars  to  thy  name. 
And  graved  it  on  the  rocks  thereby, 

To  propagate  thy  fame."  . . . 

Which  when  she  heard,  full  pearly  floods 

I  in  her  eyes  might  view. 
(Quoth  she)  •'  Most  welcome  to  these  woods, 

Too  mean  for  one  so  true. 

«  Here  from  the  hateful  world  we'll  live 

A  den  of  mere  despight : 
To  idiots  only  that  doth  give. 

Which  be  for  sole  delight. 

"  Whose  vileness  us  shall  never  awe : 

But  here  our  sports  shall  be. 
Such  as  the  golden  world  first  saw, 

Most  innocent  and  free. 

"  Of  simples  in  these  groves  that  grow. 

We'll  learn  the  perfect  skill ; 
The  nature  of  each  herb  to  know. 

Which  cures,  and  which  can  kill. 

«  We'll  suck  the  sweets  out  of  the  comb, 

And  make  the  gods  repine. 
As  they  do  feast  in  Jove's  great  room. 

To  see  with  what  we  dine. 

"  The  nimble  squirrel  noting  here. 

Her  mossy  dray  that  makes ; 
And  laugh  to  see  the  dusty  deer 

Come  bounding  o'er  the  brakes. 

"  Sometime  we'll  angle  at  the  brook. 

The  freckled  trout  to  take, 
With  silken  worms  and  bait  the  hook, 

WHiich  him  our  prey  shall  make. .    . 


176 


MICHAEL  DRAYTON. 


"  And  when  the  moon  doth  once  appear, 
We'll  trace  the  lower  grounds, 

When  fairies  in  their  ringlets  there 
Do  dance  their  nightly  rounds.       * 

=«  And  have  a  flock  of  turtle-doves, 

A  guard  on  us  to  keep, 
As  witness  of  our  honest  loves 
To  watch  us  till  we  sleep." 

Which  spoke,  I  felt  such  holy  fires 

To  overspread  my  breast, 
As  lent  life  to  my  chaste  desires, 

And  gave  me  endless  rest, 

By  Cynthia  thus  do  I  subsist. 
On  earth  heaven's  only  pride ; 

Let  her  be  mine,  and  let  who  list 
Take  all  the  world  beside. 


BALLAD  OV  DOWSABEL. 
Far  in  the  country  of  Arden, 
There  won'd  a  knight,  hight  Cassamen, 

As  bold  as  Isenbras: 
Fell  was  he  and  eager  bent, 
In  battle  and  in  tournament, 

As  was  the  good  Sir  Topas. 

He  had,  as  antique  stories  tell, 
A  daughter  cLeped  Dowsabel, 

A  maiden  fair  and  free. 
And  for  she  was  her  father's  heir, 
Full  well  she  was  ycond  the  leir 

Of  mickle  courtesy. 

The  silk  well  couth  she  twist  and  twine, 
And  make  the  fine  march-pine, 

And  with  the  needle  work : 
And  she  couth  help  the  priest  to  say 
His  mattins  on  a  holy-day. 

And  sing  a  psalm  in  kirk. 

She  wore  a  frock  of  fi-olic  green. 
Might  well  become  a  maiden  queen. 

Which  seemly  was  to  see ; 
A  hood  to  that  so  neat  and  fine. 
In  colour  like  the  columbine, 

Iwrought  full  featously. 

Her  features  all  as  fi-esh  above. 

As  is  the  grass  that  grows  by  Dove, 

And  lythe  as  lass  of  Kent. 
Her  skin  as  soft  as  Lemster  wool. 
As  white  as  snow  on  Peakish  Hull, 

Or  swan  that  swims  in  Trent. 
This  maiden  in  a  morn  betime. 
Went  forth  when  May  was  in  the  prime, 

To  get  sweet  setywall, 
The  honey-suckle,  the  harlock. 
The  lily,  and  the  lady-smock. 

To  deck  her  summer  hall. 

Thus  as  she  wander'd  here  and  there. 
And  picked  off  the  bloomy  brier, 

She  chanced  to  espy 
A  shepherd  sitting  on  a  bank, 
Like  chanticleer  he  crowned  crank. 

And  piped  full  merrily. 


He  learn'd  his  sheep,  as  he  him  list, 
When  he  would  whistle  in  his  fist. 

To  feed  about  him  round. 
Whilst  he  full  many  a  carol  sang. 
Until  the  fields  and  meadows  rang. 

And  all  the  woods  did  sound. 

In  favour  this  same  shepherd  swain 
Was  like  the  bedlam  Tamerlane, 

Which  held  proud  kings  in  awe : 
But  meek  as  any  lamb  might  be ; 
And  innocent  of  ill  as  he 

Whom  his  lewd  brother  slaw. 

The  shepherd  wore  a  sheep-gray  cloak. 
Which  was  of  the  finest  lock. 

That  could  be  cut  with  sheer. 
His  mittens  were  of  bauzons'  skin. 
His  cockers  were  of  cordiwin, 

His  hood  of  miniveer. 

His  awl  and  lingel  in  a  thong. 
His  tar-box  on  his  broad  belt  hung, 

His  breech  of  Cointree  blue. 
Full  crisp  and  curled  were  his  locks, 
His  brows  as  white  as  Albion  rocks. 

So  like  a  lover  true. 

And  piping  still  he  spent  the  day, 
So  merry  as  the  popinjay. 

Which  liked  Dowsabel ; 
That  would  she  ought,  or  would  she  nougat. 
This  lad  would  never  from  her  thought. 

She  in  love-longing  fell. 

At  length  she  tucked  up  her  frock, 
White  as  a  lily  was  her  smock. 

She  drew  the  shepherd  nigh  : 
But  then  the  shepherd  piped  a  good. 
That  all  his  sheep  forsook  their  food. 

To  hear  this  melody. 

Thy  sheep,  quoth  she,  cannot  be  lean, 
That  have  a  jolly  shepherd  swain, 

The  which  can  pipe  so  well : 
Yea  but  (saith  he)  their  shepherd  may, 
If  piping  thus  he  pine  away. 

In  love  of  Dowsabel. 

Of  love,  fond  boy,  take  thou  no  keep. 
Quoth  she,  look  well  unto  thy  sheep. 

Lest  they  should  hap  to  stray. 
Quoth  he.  So  had  I  done  full  well. 
Had  I  not  seen  fair  Dowsabel 

Come  forth  to  gather  May. 

With  that  she  'gan  to  veil  her  head. 
Her  checks  were  like  the  roses  red. 

But  not  a  word  she  said. 
With  that  the  shepherd  'gan  to  frovni. 
He  threw  his  pretty  pipes  adown. 

And  on  the  ground  him  laid. 

Saith  she,  I  may  not  stay  till  night, 
And  leave  my  summer  hall  undight. 

And  all  for  love  of  thee. 
My  cote,  saith  he,  nor  yet  my  fold. 
Shall  neither  sheep  nor  shepherd  hold, 

Except  thou  favour  me 


MICHAEL  DRAYTON'. 


177 


Saith  she,  Yet  lever  I  were  dead, 
I'han  I  should  lose  my  maidenhead. 

And  all  for  love  of  men. 
Saith  he,  Yet  are  you  too  unkind, 
If  in  your  heart  you  cannot  find 

To  love  us  now  and  then. 

And  I  to  thee  will  be  as  kind 
As  Colin  was  to  Rosalind, 

Of  courtesy  the  flower. 
Then  vrill  I  be  as  true,  quoth  she, 
As  ever  maiden  yet  might  be 

Unto  her  paramour. 
With  that  she  bent  her  snow-white  knee, 
Down  by  the  shepherd  kneeled  she, 

And  him  she  sweetly  kist. 
With  that  the  shepherd  whoop'd  for  joy ; 
Quoth  he,  There's  never  shepherd's  boy 

That  ever  was  so  blest. 


TO  HIS  COY  LOVE. 


ntOM   BIS  ODES. 


I  PKAT  thee,  love,  love  me  no  more. 

Call  home  the  heart  you  gave  me ; 
I  but  in  vain  that  saint  adore, 

That  can,  but  will  not  save  me : 
These  poor  half  kisses  kill  me  quite ; 

Was  ever  man  thus  served  1 
Amidst  an  ocean  of  delight. 

For  pleasure  to  be  starved. 

Show  me  no  more  those  snowy  breasts. 

With  8izure  rivers  branched. 
Where  whilst  mine  eye  with  plenty  feasts, 

Yet  is  my  thirst  not  staunched. 
O  Tantalus,  thy  pains  ne'er  tell ! 

By  me  thou  art  prevented ; 
'Tis  nothing  to  be  plagued  in  hell. 

But  thus  in  heaven  tormented. 
Clip  me  no  more  in  those  dear  arms. 

Nor  thy  life's  comfort  call  me ; 
0,  these  are  but  too  powerful  charms. 

And  do  but  more  enthral  me. 
But  see  how  patient  I  am  grown, 

In  all  this  coil  about  thee ; 
Come,  nice  thing,  let  thy  heart  alone, 

I  cannot  live  without  thee. 


SONNET 

TO  HIS  FAIE  IDEl. 

In  pride  of  wit,  when  high  desire  of  fame 
Gave  life  and  courage  to  my  labouring  pen, 
And  first  the  sound  and  virtue  of  my  name 
Won  grace  and  credit  in  the  ears  of  men  ; 
With  those  the  thronged  theatres  that  press, 
I  in  the  circuit  for  the  laurel  strove. 
Where,  the  full  praise,  I  freely  must  confess. 
In  heat  of  blood,  a  modest  mind  might  move. 
With  shouts  and  claps,  at  every  little  pause, 
When  the  proud  round  on  every  side  hath  rung. 
Sadly  I  sit  unmoved  with  the  applause. 
As  though  to  me  it  nothing  did  belong : 
No  public  glory  vainly  I  pursue ; 
The  praise  I  strive,  is  to  eternize  you. 
33 


DESCRIPTION  OF  MORNING,  BIRDS,  AND  HUNTING 
THE  DEER. 

POLT-OLBION.      80N0  Xm. 

When  Phoebus  lifts  his  head  out  of  the  winter's 

wave. 
No  sooner  doth  the  earth  her  flowery  bosom  brave. 
At  such  time  as  the  year  brings  on  the  pleasant 

spring. 
But  hunts-up  to  the  mom  the  feather'd  sylvans 

sings : 
And  in  the  lowAer  grove,  as  pn  the  rising  knoll, 
Upon  the  highest  spray  of  every  mounting  pole. 
Those  quiristers  are  percht  with  many  a  speckled 

breast. 
Then  from  her  bumisht  gate  the  goodly  glitt'ring 

east 
Gilds  every  lofly  top,  which  late  the  humorous  night 
Bespangled  had  with  pearl,  to  please  the  morning's 

sight : 
On  which  the  mirthful  quires,  with  their  clear  open 

throats, 
Unto  the  joyfiil  mom  so  strain  their  warbling  notes, 
That  hills  and  valleys  ring,  and  even  the  echoing  air 
Seems  all  composed  of  sounds,  about  them  every* 

where. 
The  throstel,with  shrill  sharps ;  as  purposelyhe  sung 
T'  awake  the  lustless  sun ;  or  chiding,  that  so  long 
He  was  in  coming  forth,  that  should  the  thickets 

thrill; 
The  woosel  near  at  hand,  that  hath  a  golden  bill ; 
As  nature  him  had  markt  of  purpose,  t'  let  us  see 
That  from  all  other  birds  his  tunes  should  different 

be: 
For,  with  their  vocal  sounds,  they  sing  to  pleasant 

May; 
Upon  his  dulcet  pipe  the  merle  doth  only  play. 
When  in  the  lower  brake,  the  nightingale  hard  by, 
In  such  lamenting  strains  the  joyful  hours  doth  ply, 
As  though  the  other  birds  she  to  her  tunes  would 

draw 
And,  but  that  nature  (by  her  all-constraining  law) 
Each  bird  to  her  own  kind  this  season  doth  invite, 
They  else,  alone  to  hear  that  charmer  of  the  night, 
(The  more  to  use  their  ears)  their  voices  sure  would 

spare. 
That  moduleth  her  tunes  so  admirably  rare. 
As  man  to  set  in  parts  at  first  had  ieam'd  of  h^. 

To  Philomel  the  next,  the  linnet  we  prefer ; 
And  by  that  warbling  bird,  the  wood-lark  ))lace  we 

then. 
The  red-sparrow,  the  nope,  the  red-breast,  and  the 

wren. 
The   yellow-plate;   which  though  she  hurt  the 

blooming  tree, 
Yet  scarce  hath  any  bird  a  finer  pipe  than  she. 
And  of  these  chaunting  fowls,  the  goldfinch  not 

behind. 
That  hath  so  many  sorts  descending  from  her  kind. 
The  tydy  for  her  notes  as  delicate  as  they. 
The  laughing  hecco,  then  the  counterfeiting  jay, 
The  softer  with  the  shrill  (some  hid  among  the 

leaves. 
Some  in  the  taller  trees,  some  in  the  lower  greaves) 
Thus  sing  away  the  morn,  untU  the  mounting  sun 


178 


MICHAEL   DRAYTON. 


Through  thick  exhaled  fogs  his  golden  head  hath 


run, 


And  through  the  twisted  tops  of  our  close  covert 


creeps 


To  kiss  the  gentle  shade,  this  while  that  sweetly 


And  near  to  these  our  thicks,  the  wild  and  fright- 
ful herds, 
Not  hearing  other  noise  but  this  of  chattering  birds, 
Feed  fairly  on  the  lawns ;  both  sorts  of  season'd  deer: 
Here  walk  the  stately  red,  the  freckled  fa.  i  •  w  there : 
The  bucks  and  lusty  stags  amongst  the  rascals 

strew'd, 

As  sometime  gallant  spirits  amongst  the  multitude. 

Of  all  the  beasts  which  we  for  our  venerial  name, 

The  hart  among  the  rest,  the  hunter's  noblest  game : 

Of  which  most  princely  chase  sith  none  did  e'er 

report. 
Or  by  description  touch,  t'  express  that  wondrous 

sport 
(Yet  might  have  well  beseem'd  th'  ancients  nobler 

songs) 
To  our  old  Arden  here,  most  fitly  it  belongs : 
Yet  shall  she  not  invoke  the  muses  to  her  aid ; 
But  thee,  Diana  bright,  a  goddess  and  a  maid : 
In  many  a  huge-grown  wood,  and  many  a  shady 

grove. 
Which  oft  hast  borne  thy  bow  (great  huntress,  used 

to  rove) 
At  many  a  cruel  beast,  and  with  thy  darts  to  pierce 
The  lion,  panther,  ounce,  the  bear,  and  tiger  fierce ; 
And  following  thy  fleet  game,  chaste  mighty  forest's 

queen, 
With  thy  dishevel'd  nymphs  attired  in  youthful 

green. 
About  the  lawns  has  scour'd,  and  wastes  both  far 

and  near, 
Brave  huntress;   but  no  beast  shall  prove  thy 

quarries  here ; 
Save  those  the  best  of  chase,  the  tall  and  lusty  red, 
The  stag  for  goodly  shape,  and  stateliness  of  head. 
Is  fitt'st  to  hunt  at  force.     For  whom,  when  with 

his  hounds 
The  labouring  hunter  tufts  the  thick  unbarbed 

grounds 
Where  harbour'd  is  the  hart;  there  oft«n  from 

his  feed 
The  dogs  of  him  do  find ;  or  thorough  skilful  heed. 
The  huntsman  by  his  slot,  or  breaking  earth, 

perceives, 
On  ent'ring  of  the  thick  by  pressing  of  the  greaves. 
Where  he  had  gone  to  lodge.     Now  when  the  hart 

doth  hear 
The  often-bellowing  hounds  to  vent  his  secret  leir, 
He  rousing  rusheth  out,  and  through  the  brakes 

doth  drive. 
As  though  up  by  the  roota  the  bushes  he  would 

rive. 
And  through  the  cumbrous  thicks,  as  fearfully  he 

makes. 
He  with  his  branched  head  the  tender  saplings 

shakes, 
That  sprinkling  their  moist  pearl  do  seem  for  him 

to  weep; 


When  after  goes  the  cry,  with  yellings  loud  ana 

deep, 
That  all  the  forest  rings,  and  every  neighbouring 

place : 
And  there  is  not  a  hound  but  falleth  to  the  chase. 
Rechating  with  his  horn,  which  then  the  hunter 

cheers, 
Whilst  still  the  lusty  stag  his  high-palm'd  head 

upbears, 
His  body  showing  state,  with  unbent  knees  upright. 
Expressing  from  all  beasts,  his  courage  in  his 

flight. 
But  when  th'  approaching  foes  still  following  he 

perceives, 
That  he  his  speed  must  trust,  his  usual  walk  he 

leaves : 
And  o'er   the  champain  flies:  which  when  th' 

assembly  find, 
Each  follows,  as  his  horse  were  footed  with  the 

wind. 
But  being  then  imbost,  the  noble  stately  deer 
When  he  hath  gotten  ground  (the  kernel  cast 

arrear) 
Doth  beat  the  brooks  and  ponds  for  sweet  refreshing 

soil: 
That  serving  not,  then  proves  if  he  his  scent  can 

foil. 
And  makes  amongfst  the  herds,  and  flocks  of  shag- 

wool'd  sheep, 
Them  frighting  from  the  guard  of  those  who  had 

their  keep. 
But  when  as  all  his  shifts  his  safety  stUl  denies, 
Put  quite  out  of  his  walk,  the  ways  and  fallows 

tries. 
Whom  when  the  ploughman  meets,  his  team  he 

letteth  stand 
T'  assail  him  with  his  goad :  so  with  his  hook  in 

hand. 
The  shepherd  him  pursues,  and  to  his  dog  doth 

hallo: 
When,  with  tempestuous  speed,  the  hounds  and 

huntsmen  follow ; 
Until  the  noble  deer  through  toil  bereaved  of 

strength, 
His  long  and  sinewy  legs  then  failing  him  at  length, 
The  villages  attempts,  enraged,  not  giving  way 
To  any  thing  he  meets  now  at  his  sad  decay. 
The  cruel  ravenous  hounds  and  bloody  hunters 

near. 
This  noblest  beast  of  chase,  that  vainly  doth  but 

fear. 
Some  bank  or  quickset  finds ;  to  which  his  haunch 

opposed, 
He  turns  upon  his  foes,  that  soon  have  him  enclosed. 
The  churlish-throated  hounds  then  holding  him  at 

bay. 
And  as  their  cruel  fangs  on  his  harsh  skin  they  lay, 
With  his  sharp-pointed  head  he  dealeth  deadly 

wounds. 
The  hunter,  coming  in  to  help  his  wearied 

houndh, 
He  desperately  assails ;  until  opprest  by  force. 
He  who  the  mourner  is  to  his  own  dying  corse, 
Upon  the  ruthless  earth  his  precious  tears  lets  fall. 


EDWARD  FAIRFAX. 


[Dial,  1632?] 


Edwaed  Fairfax,  the  truly  poetical  translator 
of  Tasso,  was  the  second  son  of  Sir  Thomas 
Fairfax,  of  Denton,  in  Yorkshire.  His  family 
were  all  soldiers ;  but  the  poet,  while  his  brothers 
were  seeking  military  reputation  abroad,  preferred 
the  quiet  enjoyment  of  letters  at  home.  He  mar- 
ried and  settled  as  a  private  gentleman  at  Fuys- 
ton,  a  place  beautifully  situated  between  the 
family  seat  at  Denton  and  the  forest  of  Knares- 
borough.  Some  of  his  time  was  devoted  to  the 
management  of  his  brother  Lord  Fairfax's  pro- 
perty, and  to  superintending  the  education  of  his 
lordship's  children.  The  prose  MSS.  which  he 
left  in  the  library  of  Denton  sufficiently  attest  his 
literary  industry.  They  have  never  been  pub- 
lished, and,  as  they  relate  chiefly  to  religious  con- 
troversy, are  not  likely  to  be  so ;  although  his 
treatise  on  witchcraft,  recording  its  supposed  ope- 
ration upon  his  own  family,  must  form  a  curious 
relic  of  superstition.  Of  Fairfax  it  might,  there- 
fore, well  be  said — ■ 

"Prevailing  poet,  whose  nndoubting  mind 
Believed  the  magic  powers  which  he  sung." 

Of  his  original  works  in  verse,  his  History  of 
Edward  the  Black  Prince  has  never  been  pub- 


lished; but  Mr.  A.  Chalmers  (Biog.  Diet,  art 
Fairfax)  is,  I  believe,  as  much  mistaken  in  sup- 
posing that  his  Eclogues  have  never  been  collec- 
tively printed,  as  in  pronouncing  them  entitled 
to  high  commendation  for  their  poetry.*  A  more 
obscurely  stupid  allegory  and  fable  can  hardly 
be  imagined  than  the  fourth  eclogue,  preserved 
in  Mrs.  Cooper's  Muse's  Library:  its  being  an 
imitation  of  some  of  the  theological  pastorals  of 
Spenser  is  no  apology  for  its  absurdity.  When 
a  fox  is  described  as  seducing  the  chastity  of 
a  lamb,  and  when  the  eclogue  writer  tells  us 
that 

"  An  hundred  times  her  virgin  lip  he  kiss'd, 
As  oft  her  maiden  finger  gently  wrung," 

who  could  imagine  that  either  poetry,  or  ecclesi- 
astical history,  or  sense  or  meaning  of  any  kind, 
was  ever  meant  to  be  conveyed  under  such  a 
conundrum  1 

The  time  of  Fairfax's  death  has  not  been  dis- 
covered; it  is  known  that  he  was  alive  in  1631 ; 
but  his  translation  of  the  Jerusalem  was  pub- 
lished when  he  was  a  young  man,  was  inscribed 
to  Queen  Elizabeth,  and  forms  one  of  the  glories 
of  her  reign. 


FROM  FAIRFAX'S  TRANSLATION  OF  TASSO'S 
JERUSALEM  DELIVERED, 

BOOK  ZVm.  STANZAS  XH.  TO  XII. 

RlWALDO,  after  offering  his  devotions  on  Mount  Olivet, 
enters  on  the  adventure  of  the  Enchanted  Wood. 

It  was  the  time,  when  'gainst  the  breaking  day, 
Rebellious  night  yet  strove,  and  still  repined  ; 
For  in  the  east  appear'd  the  morning  gray. 
And  yet  some  lamps  in  Jove's  high  palace  shined, 
When  to  Mount  Olivet  he  took  his  way. 
And  saw,  as  round  about  his  eyes  he  twined. 
Night's  shadows  hence,  from  thence  the  morn- 
ing's shine ; 
This  bright,  that  dark ;  that  earthly,  this  divine : 
Thus  to  himself  he  thouglit :  how  many  bright 
And  splendent  lamps  shine  in  heaven's  temple  high! 
Day  hath  his  golden  sun,  her  moon  the  night. 
Her  fix'd  and  wand'ring  stars  the  azure  sky  ; 
So  framed  all  by  their  Creator's  might. 
That  still  they  Hve  and  shine,  and  ne'er  shall  die, 
'Till,  in  a  moment,  with  the  last  day's  brand 
They  bum,  and  with  them  burn  sea,  air,  and  land. 
Thus  as  he  mused,  to  the  top  he  went, 
And  there  kneel'd  down  with  reverence  and  fear ; 
His  eyes  upon  heaven's  eastern  face  he  bent ; 
His  thoughts  above  all  heavens  up-lifted  were — 
The  sins  and  errors,  which  I  now  repent. 
Of  my  unbridled  youth,  O  Father  dear, 
Remember  not,  but  let  thy  mercy  fall. 
And  purge  my  faults  and  my  offences  all. 

[*  The  fourth  eclogue  alone  is  in  print;  nor  is  a  MS. 
copy  of  the  whole  known  to  exist. — C.] 


Thus  prayed  he ;  with  purple  wings  up-flew 
In  golden  weed  the  morning's  lusty  queen, 
Begilding,  with  the  radiant  beams  she  threw. 
His  helm,  his  harness,  and  the  mountain  green : 
Upon  his  breast  and  forehead  gently  blew 
The  air,  that  balm  land  nardus  breathed  unseen ; 
And  o'er  his  head,  let  down  from  clearest  skies, 
A  cloud  of  pure  and  precious  dew  there  flies : 
The  heavenly  dew  was  on  his  garments  spread. 
To  which  compared,  his  clothes  pale  ashes  seem. 
And  sprinkled  so,  that  all  that  paleness  fled. 
And  thence  of  purest  white  bright  rays  outstream : 
So  cheered  are  the  flowers,  late  withered. 
With  the  sweet  comfort  of  the  morning  beam ; 
And  so,  return'd  to  youth,  a  serpent  old 
Adorns  herself  in  new  and  native  gold. 
The  lovely  whiteness  of  his  changed  weed 
The  prince  perceived  well  and  long  admired ; 
Toward  the  forest  march'd  he  on  with  speed. 
Resolved,  as  such  adventures  great  required : 
Thither  he  came,  whence,  shrinking  back  for  dread 
Of  that  strange  desert's  sight,  the  first  retired  ; 
But  not  to  him  fearful  or  loathsome  made 
That  forest  was,  but  sweet  with  pleasant  shade. 
Forward  he  pass'd,  and  in  the  grove  Before 
He  heard  a  80und,that  strange,  sweet,  pleasing  was ; 
There  roll'd  a  crystal  brook  with  gentle  roar. 
There  sigh'd  the  winds,  as  through  the  leaves  they 

pass; 
There  did  the  nightingale  her  wrongs  deplore. 
There  sung  the  swan,  and  singing  died,  alas ! 
There  lute,  harp,  cittern,  human  voice,  he  heard, 
And  all  these  sounds  one  sound  right  well  declared 

17v 


180 


EDWARD   FAIRFAX. 


A  dreadful  thund'»r-clap  at  last  he  heard, 
The  aged  trees  and  plants  well  nigh  that  rent, 
Yet  heard  the  nymphs  and  sirens  afterward, 
Birds,  winds, and  waters,  sing  with  sweet  consent; 
Whereat  amazed,  he  stay'd,  and  well  prepared 
For  his  defence,  heedful  and  slow  forth-went ; 
Nor  in  his  way  his  passage  ought  withstood, 
Except  a  quiet,  stdl,  transparent  flood : 

On  the  green  banks,  which  that  fair  stream  inbound, 
Flowers  and  odours  sweetly  smiled  and  smell'd, 
With  reaching  out  his  stretched  arms  around, 
All  the  large  desert  in  his  bosom  held. 
And  through  the  grove  one  channel  passage  found ; 
This  in  the  wood,  in  that  the  forest  dwell'd : 

Trees  clad  the  streams,  streams  green  those  trees 
aye  made. 

And  so  exchanged  their  moisture  and  their  shade. 

The  knight  some  way  sought  out  the  flood  to  pass, 
And  as  he  sought,  a  wondrous  bridge  appear'd ; 
A  bridge  of  gold,  an  huge  and  mighty  mass, 
On  arches  great  of  that  rich  metal  rear'd : 
When  through  that  golden  way  he  enter'd  was, 
Down  fell  the  bridge ;  swelled  the  stream,and  wear'd 
The  work  away,  nor  sign  left,  where  it  stood, 
And  of  a  river  calm  became  a  flood. 

He  tum'd,  amazed  to  see  it  troubled  so, 
Like  sudden  brooks,  increased  with  molten  snow ; 
The  billows  fierce,  that  tossed  to  and  fi-o. 
The  whirlpools  suck'd  down  to  their  bosoms  low ; 
But  on  he  went  to  search  for  wonders  mo. 
Through  the  thick  trees,  there  high  and  broad 
which  grow ; 
And  in  that  forest  huge,  and  desert  wide. 
The  more  he  sought,  more  wonders  still  he  spied : 

Where'er  he  stepp'd,  it  seem'd  the  joyful  ground 
Renew'd  the  verdure  of  her  flowery  weed ; 
A  fountain  here,  a  well-spring  there  he  found ; 
Here  bud  the  roses,  there  the  lilies  spread ; 
The  aged  wood  o'er  and  about  him  round 
Flourish'd  with  blossoms  new,new  leaves,new  seed; 
And  on  the  boughs  and  branches  of  those  treen 
The  bark  was  soften'd,  and  renew'd  the  green. 

The  manna  on  each  leaf  did  pearled  lie ; 
The  honey  stilled  from  the  tender  rind : 
Again  he  heard  that  wondrous  harmony 
Of  songs  and  sweet  complaints  of  lovers  kind ; 
The  hum^n  voices  sung  a  treble  high. 
To  which  respond  the  birds,  the  streams,  the  wind ; 
But  yet  unseen  those  ny mphs,those  singers  were, 
Unseen  the  lutes,  harps,  viols  which  they  bear. 

He  look'd,  he  listen'd,  yet  his  thoughts  denied 
To  think  that  true,  which  he  did  hear  and  see : 
A  myrtle  in  an  ample  plain  he  spied, 
And  thither  by  a  beaten  path  went  he ; 
The  myrtle  spread  her  mighty  branches  wide. 
Higher  than  pine,  or  palm,  or  cypress  tree. 
And  far  above  all  other  plants  was  seen 
That  forest's  lady,  and  that  desert's  queen. 

Upon  the  tree  his  eyes  Rinaldo  bent. 

And  there  a  marvel  great  and  strange  began ; 

An  aged  oak  beside  him  cleft  and  rent, 


And  from  his  fertile,  hollow  womb,  forth  ran, 
Clad  in  rare  weeds  and  strange  habiliment, 
A  nymph,  for  age  able  to  go  to  man ; 

An  hundred  plants  beside,  even  in  his  sight, 
Childed  an  hundred  nymphs,  so  great,  so  dight. 

Such  as  on  stages  play,  such  as  we  see 
The  dryads  painted,  whom  wild  satyrs  love, 
Whose  arms  half  naked,  locks  untrussed  be, 
With  buskins  laced  on  their  legs  above, 
And  silken  robes  tuck'd  short  above  their  knee, 
Such  seem'd  the  sylvan  daughters  of  this  grove  ; 
Save,  that  instead  of  shafts  and  bows  of  tree. 
She  bore  a  lute,  a  harp  or  cittern  she ; 

And  wantonly  they  cast  them  in  a  ring. 
And  sung  and  danced  to  move  his  weaker  sense, 
Rinaldo  round  about  environing. 
As  does  its  centre  the  circumference ; 
The  tree  they  compass'd  eke,  and  'gan  to  sing, 
That  woods  and  streams  admired  their  excellence — 
Welcome,dear  Lord,welcome  to  this  sweet  grove, 
Welcome,  our  lady's  hope,  welcome,  her  love ! 

Thou  comest  to  cure  our  princess,  faint  and  sick 
For  love,  for  love  of  thee,  faint,  sick,  distress'd ; 
Late  black,  late  dreadful  was  this  forest  thick, 
Fit  dwelling  for  sad  folk,  with  grief  oppress'd ; 
See,  with  thy  coming  how  the  branches  quick 
Revived  are,  and  in  new  blossoms  dress'd ! 
This  was  their  song ;  and  after  from  it  went 
First  a  sweet  sound,  and  then  the  myrtle  rent. 

If  antique  times  admired  Silenus  old, 
Who  oft  appear'd  set  on  his  lazy  ass. 
How  would  they  wonder,  if  they  had  behold 
Such  sights  as  from  the  myrtle  high  did  pass ! 
Thence  came  a  lady  fair  with  locks  of  gold. 
That  like  in  shape,  in  face,  and  beauty  was 
To  fair  Armida ;  Rinald  thinks  he  spies 
Her  gestures,  smiles,  and  glances  of  her  eyes : 

On  him  a  sad  and  smiling  look  she  cast. 
Which  twenty  passions  strange  at  once  bewrays ; 
And  art  thou  come,  quoth  she,  return'd  at  last 
To  her,  from  whom  but  late  thou  ran'st  thy  ways  1 
Comest  thou  to  comfort  me  for  sorrows  past. 
To  ease  my  widow  nights,  and  careful  days  1 
Or  comest  thou  to  work  me  grief  and  harm  1 
Why  nilt  thou  speak,  why  not  thy  face  disarm  ? 

Comest  thou  a  friend  or  foe  1     I  did  not  frame 
That  golden  bridge  to  entertain  my  foe ; 
Nor  open'd  flowers  and  fountains,  as  you  came, 
To  welcome  him  with  joy,  who  brings  me  woe : 
Put  off  thy  helm :  rejoice  me  with  the  flame 
Of  thy  bright  eyes,  whence  first  my  fires  did  grow ; 
Kiss  me,  embrace  me ;  if  you  further  venture. 
Love  keeps  the  gate,  the  fort  is  eath  to  enter. 

Thus  as  she  wooes,  she  rolls  her  rueful  eyes 
With  piteous  look,  and  changeth  oft  her  chear ; 
An  hundred  sighs  from  her  false  heart  up-fly ; 
She  sobs,  she  mourns,  it  is  great  ruth  to  hear : 
The  hardest  breast  sweet  pity  mollifies  ; 
What  stony  heart  resists  a  woman's  tear  1 
But  yet  the  knight,  wise,  wary,  not  unkind. 
Drew  forth  his  sword,  and  from  her  careless 
twined : 


SAMUEL   RO\VLANDS. 


181 


Towards  the  tree  he  march'd ;  she  thither  start, 
Before  him  stepp'd,  embraced  the  plant,  and  cry 'd — 
Ah !  never  do  me  such  a  spiteful  part. 
To  cut  my  tree,  this  forest's  joy  and  pride ; 
Put  up  thy  sword,  else  pierce  therewith  the  heart 
Of  thy  forsaken  and  despised  Armide ;    [unkind, 
For  through  this  breast,  and  through  this  heart, 
To  this  fair  tree  thy  sword  shall  passage  find. 

He  lift  his  brand,  nor  cared,  though  oft  she  pray'd, 
And  she  her  form  to  other  shape  did  change ; 
Such  monsters  huge,  when  men  in  dreams  are  laid. 
Oft  in  their  idle  fancies  roam  and  range : 
Her  body  swell'd,  her  face  obscure  was  made ; 
Vanish'd  her  garments  rich,  and  vestures  strange ; 
A  giantess  before  him  high  she  stands, 
Arm'd,  like  Briareus,  with  an  hundred  hands : 

With  fifty  swords,  and  fifty  targets  bright. 

She  threaten'd  death,  she  roar'd,  she  cry'd  and 

fought ; 
Each  other  nymph,  in  armour  likewise  dight, 
A  Cyclops  great  became ;  he  fear'd  them*  nought, 
But  on  the  myrtle  smote  with  all  his  might. 
Which  groan'd,  like  living  souls,  to  death  nigh 
brought ; 
The  sky  seem'd  Pluto's  court,  the  air  seem'd  hell, 
Therein  such  monsters  roar,  such  spirits  yell : 

Lighten'd  the  heaven  above,  the  earth  below 
Roared  aloud ;  that  thunder'd,  and  this  shook : 
Bluster'd  the   tempests  strong;   the  whirlwinds 
blow; 


The  bitter  storm  drove  hailstones  in  his  look 
But  yet  his  arm  grew  neither  weak  nor  slow, 
Nor  of  that  fiiry  heed  or  care  he  took. 

Till  low  to  earth  the  wounded  tree  down  bended 
Then  fied  the  spirits  all,  the  charms  all  ended. 

The  heavens  grew  clear,  the  air  wax'd  calm  and  still 
The  wood  returned  to  its  wonted  state, 
Of  witchcrafts  free,  quite  void  of  spirits  ill. 
Of  horror  full,  but  horror  there  innate ; 
He  further  tried,  if  ought  withstood  his  wrill 
To  cut  those  trees,  as  did  the  charms  of  late. 
And  finding  nought  to  stop  him,smiled  and  said— • 
O  shadows  vain !  0  fools,  of  shades  afi-aid ! 

From  thence  home  to  the  camp-ward  tum'd  the 

knight ; 
The  hermit  cry'd,  up-starting  from  his  seat. 
Now  of  the  wood  the  charms  have  lost  their  might ; 
The  sprites  are  conquer'd,  ended  is  the  feat ; 
See  where  he  comes ! — Array'd  in  glitt'ring  white 
Appear'd  the  man,  bold,  stately,  high  and  great ; 
His  eagle's  silver  wings  to  shine  begun 
With  wondrous  splendour  'gainst  the  golden  sun 

The  camp  received  him  with  a  joyful  cry, — 
A  cry,  the  hills  and  dales  about  that  fill'd ; 
Then  Godfrey  welcomed  him  with  honours  high 
His  glory  quench'd  all  spite,  alt  envy  kill'd : 
To  yonder  dreadful  grove,  quoth  he,  went  I, 
And  from  the  fearful  wood,  as  me  you  will'd, 
Have  driven  the  sprites  away ;  thither  let  be 
Your  people  sent,  the  way  is  safe  and  fi-ee. 


SAMUEL   ROWLANDS. 


[Died,  1634?] 


The  history  of  this  author  is  quite  unknown, 
except  that  he  was  a  prolific  pamphleteer  in  the 
reigns  of  Elizabeth,  James  I.  and  Charles  I.  Rit- 
son  has  mustered  a  numerous  catalogue  of  his 
works,  to  which  the  compilers  of  the  Censura 
Literaria  have  added  some  articles.  It  has  been 
remarked  by  the  latter,  that  his  muse  is  generally 
found  in  low  company,  from  which  it  is  inferred 
that  he  frequented  the  haunts  of  dissipation. 
The  conclusion  is  unjust — Fielding  was  not  a 
blackguard,  though  he  wrote  the  adventures  o( 


Jonathan  Wild.  His  descriptions  of  contempo- 
rary follies  have  considerable  humour.  I  think  he 
has  afforded  in  the  following  story  of  Smug  the 
Smith  a  hint  to  Butler  for  his  apologue  of  vicari- 
ous justice,  in  the  case  of  the  brethren  who  hanged 
a  "  poor  weaver  that  was  bed-rid,"  instead  of  the 
cobbler  who  had  killed  an  Indian, 

"  Not  ont  of  malice,  but  mere  zeal. 
Because  be  was  an  Infidel." 

HuoiBBAS,  Part  II.  Canto  II.  L  420. 


LIKE  MASTER   LIKE  MAN. 

FROM   "THE   KNAVK  OF   SPADES." 

Two  serving  men,  or  rather  two  men-servers, 
For  unto  God  they  were  but  ill  deservers, 
Conferr'd  together  kindly,  knave  with  knave. 
What  fitting  masters  for  their  turns  they  have. 
"  Mine,"  quoth  the  one,  "is  of  a  bounteous  sprite, 
And  in  the  tavern  will  be  drunk  all  night. 
Spending  most  lavishly  he  knows  not  what, 
But  I  have  wit  to  make  good  use  of  that : 
And  is  for  tavern  and  for  bawdy  house,  .  .  . 
He  hath  some  humours  veiy  strange  and  odd, 
\s  every  day  at  church,  and  not  serve  God ; 
With  secret  hidden  virtues  other  ways, 
As  often  on  his  knees,  yet  never  prays." 


Quoth  t'other,   "How  dost   prove  this   obscure 
talk]" —  [to  walk ; 

"  Why,  man,  he  haunts  the  church  that's  Paul's, 
And  for  his  often  being  on  the  knee, 
'Tis  drinking  healths,  as  drunken  humours  be." 
"  It's  passing  good,  I  do  protest,"  quoth  t'other, 
"  I  think  thy  master  be  my  master's  brother ; 
For  sure  in  qualities  they  may  be  kin. 
Those  very  humours  he  is  daily  in. 
For  drinking  healths,  and  being  churched  so, 
They  cheek-by-jowl  may  with  each  other  go. 
Then,  pray  thee,  let  us  two  in  love  go  drink. 
And  on  these  matters  for  our  profit  think ; 
To  handle  such  two  masters  turn  us  loose ; 
Shear  thou  the  sheep,  and  I  will  pluck  the  goo.se." 
Q 


182 


JOHN   DONNE,  D.  D. 


TRAGKDY  OF  SMUG  THE  SMITH. 

FKOM  "THE  NIQHI  EAVEN." 

A  SMITH  for  felony  was  apprehended, 
And  being  condemn'd  for  having  so  offended, 
The  townsmen,  with  a  general  consent. 
Unto  the  judge  with  a  petition  went. 
Affirming  that  no  smith  did  near  them  dwell. 
And  for  his  art  they  could  not  spare  him  well ; 
For  he  was  good  at  edge-tool,  lock,  and  key. 
And  for  a  farrier  most  rare  man,  quoth  they. 
The  discreet  judge  unto  the  clowns  replied. 
How  shall  the  law  be  justly  satisfied  1 
A  thief  that  steals  must  die  therefore,  that's  flat. 
O  Sir,  said  they,  we  have  a  trick  for  that : 
Two  weavers  dwelUng  in  our  town  there  are, 
And  one  of  them  we  very  well  can  spare ; 
Let  him  be  hang'd,  we  Very  humbly  crave — 
Nay,  hang  them  both,  so  we  the  smith  may  save. 
The  judge  he  smiled  at  their  simple  jest, 
And  said,  the  smith  would  serve  the  hangman  best. 


THE  VICAR. 

FROM   HIS  EPIGRAMS,  IfO.  XXXVH. 

JFn  the  Letting  of  Humour's  Blood,  in  the  Bead  Vein. 
First  published  in  1600. 

An  honest  vicar  and  a  kind  consort. 

That  to  the  ale-house  friendly  would  resort. 

To  have  a  game  at  tables  now  and  then, 

Or  drink  his  pot  as  soon  as  any  man ; 

As  fair  a  gamester,  and  as  free  from  brawl, 

As  ever  man  should  need  to  play  withal ; 

Because  his  hostess  pledged  him  not  carouse. 

Rashly,  in  choler,  did  forswear  her  house : 

Taking  the  glass,  this  was  his  oath  he  swore — 

"  Now,  by  this  drink,  I'll  ne'er  come  hither  more." 

But  mightily  his  hostess  did  repent. 

For  all  her  guests  to  the  next  ale-house  went, 

Following  the  vicar's  steps  in  every  thing. 

He  led  the  parish  even  by  a  string; 

At  length  his  ancient  hostess  did  complain 

She  was  undone,  unless  he  came  again ; 

Desiring  certain  friends  of  hers  and  his, 

To  use  a  policy,  which  should  be  this : 


Because  with  coming  he  should  not  forswear  him, 
To  save  his  oaths  they  on  their  backs  should  bear 

him. 
Of  this  good  course  the  vicar  well  did  think, 
And  so  they  always  carried  him  to  drink. 


FOOLS  AND  BABES  TELL  TRUE. 

FROM    "  THE   KNATE  OF  SPADES." 

Two  friends  that  met  would  give  each  other  wine, 
And  made  their  entrance  at  next  bush  and  sign. 
Calling  for  claret,  which  they  did  agree, 
(The  season  hot)  should  qualified  be 
With  water  and  sugar :  so  the  same  being  brought 
By  a  new  boy,  in  vintners'  tricks  untaught. 
They  bad  him  quickly  bring  fair  water  in. 
Who  look'd  as  strange  as  he  amazed  had  bin. 
"  Why  dost  not  stir,"  quoth  they,  "  with  nimble 
feetl" 
"  'Cause,  gentlemen,"  said  he,  "it  is  not  meet 
To  put  in  too  much  water  in  your  drink. 
For  there's  enough  already,  sure,  I  think ; 
Richard  the  drawer,  by  my  troth  I  vow. 
Put  in  great  store  of  water  even  now." 


THE  MARRIED   SCHOLAR. 
A  SCHOLAR,  newly  enter'd  marriage  life. 
Following  his  study,  did  offend  his  wife. 
Because  when  she  his  company  expected, 
By  bookish  business  she  was  still  neglected  : 
Coming  unto  his  study,  "  Lord,"  quoth  she, 
"  Can  papers  cause  you  love  them  more  than  me  ? 
I  would  I  were  transform'd  into  a  book, 
That  your  affection  might  upon  me  look 
But  in  my  wish  withal  be  it  decreed, 
I  would  be  such  a  book  you  love  to  read,    [take  ?" 
Husband  (quoth  she)  which  book's  form  should  I 
"  Marry,"  said  he,  "  'twere  best  an  almanack : 
The  reason  wherefore  I  do  wish  thee  so. 
Is,  every  year  we  have  a  new,  you  know."* 

[*  Malone  attributes  this  saying  to  Dryden,  but  it  was 
said  b<-fore  Dryden  was  born ;  is  in  Rowlands,  and  among 
the  jests  of  Orummond  of  Uawthornden. — C.j 


JOHN   DONNE,  D.  D. 

Born,  1573.     Died,  I63I.J 


The  life  of  Donne  is  more  interesting  than  his 
poetry.  He  was  descended  from  an  ancient 
family;  his  mother  was  related  to  Sir  Thomas 
More,  and  to  Heywood,  the  epigrammatist.  A 
prodigy  of  youthful  learning,  he  was  entered  of 
Hart  Hall,  now  Hertford  College,  at  the  unpre- 
cedented age  of  eleven;  he  studied  afterwards 
with  an  extraordinary  thirst  for  general  know- 
ledge, and  seems  to  have  consumed  a  consider- 
able patrimony  on  his  education  anu  travels. 
Having  accompanied  the  Earl  of  Essex  in  his 
expedition  to  Cahz,  he  purposed  to  have  set  out 
on  an  extensive  course  of  travels,  and 'to  have 
visited  the  holy  sepulchre  at  Jerusalem.  Though 
compelled  to  give  up  his  design  by  the  insuper- 


able dangers  and  difficulties  of  the  journey,  he 
did  not  come  home  till  his  mind  had  been  stored 
with  an  extensive  knowledge  of  foreign  languages 
and  manners,  by  a  residence  in  the  south  of 
Europe.  On  his  return  to  England,  the  Lord 
Chancellor  EUesmere  made  him  his  secretary, 
and  took  him  to  his  house.  There  he  formed  a 
mutual  attachment  to  the  niece  of  Lady  EUes- 
mere, and  without  the  means  or  prospect  of  sup- 
port, the  lovers  thought  proper  to  marry.  The 
lady's  father.  Sir  George  More,  on  the  declara- 
tion of  this  step,  was  so  transported  with  rage, 
that  he  insisted  on  the  chancellor's  driving  Donne 
from  his  protection,  and  even  got  him  imprisoned, 
together  with  the  witnesses  of  the  marriage.    He 


JOHN  DONNE,  D.  D. 


183 


was  soon  released  from  prison,  but  the  chancellor 
would  not  again  take  him  into  his  service ;  and 
the  brutal  father-in-law  would  not  support  the 
unfortunate  pair.  In  their  distress,  however,  they 
were  sheltered  by  Sir  Francis  WoUey,  a  son  of 
Lady  Ellesmere  by  a  former  marriage,  with  whom 
they  resided  for  several  years,  and  were  treated 
with  a  kindness  that  mitigated  their  sense  of  de- 
pendence. 

Donne  had  been  bred  a  catholic,  but  on  mature 
reflection  had  made  a  conscientious  renuncia- 
tion of  that  faith.  One  of  his  warm  friends,  Dr. 
Morton,  afterwards  bishop  of  Durham,  wished 
to  have  provided  for  him,  by  generoiisly  surren- 
dering one  of  his  benefices :  he  therefore  pressed 
him  to  take  holy  orders,  and  to  return  to  him 
the  third  day  with  his  answer  to  the  proposal. 
"  At  hearing  of  this,"  (says  his  biographer,)  "  Mr. 
Donne's  faint  breath  and  perplexed  countenance 
gave  visible  testimony  of  an  inward  conflict.  He 
did  not  however  return  his  answer  till  the  third 
day ;  when,  with  fervid  thanks,  he  declined  the 
offer,  telling  the  bishop  that  there  were  some 
errors  of  his  life  which,  though  long  repented 
of,  and  pardoned,  as  he  trusted,  by  God,  might 
yet  be  not  forgotten  by  some  men,  and  which 
might  cast  a  dishonour  on  the  sacred  office." 
We  are  not  told  what  those  irregularities  were ; 
but  the  conscience  which  could  dictate  such  an 


answer  was  not  likely  to  require  great  ofience<i 
for  a  stumbling-block.  Thia  occurred  in  the 
poet's  thirty-fourth  year. 

After  the  death  of  Sir  F.  WoUey,  his  next  pro- 
tector was  Sir  Robert  Drury,  whom  he  accompa- 
nied on  an  embassy  to  France.  His  wife,  with  an 
attachment  as  romantic  as  poet  could  wish  for,  had 
formed  the  design  of  accompanying  him  as  a  page. 
It  was  on  this  occasion,  and  to  dissuade  her  from 
the  design,  that  he  addressed  to  her  the  verses,  be- 
ginning, "  By  our  first  strange  and  fatal  interview." 
Isaak  Walton  relates,  with  great  simplicity,  how 
the  poet,  one  evening,  as  he  sat  alone  in  his  cham- 
ber in  Paris,  saw  the  vision  of  his  beloved  wife 
appear  to  him  with  a  dead  infant  in  her  arms,  a 
story  which  wants  only  credibility  to  be  interest- 
ing. He  had  at  last  the  good  fortune  to  attract 
the  regard  of  King  James ;  and,  at  his  majesty's 
instance,  as  he  might  now  consider  that  he  had 
outlived  the  remembrance  of  Tiis  former  follies,  he 
was  persuaded  to  become  a  clergyman.  In  this 
capacity  he  was  successively  appointed  chaplain 
to  the  king,  lecturer  of  Lincoln's  Inn,  vicar  of  St. 
Dunstan's  Fleet  Street,  and  dean  of  St.  Paul's. 
His  death,  at  a  late  age,  was  occasioned  by  con- 
sumption. He  was  buried  in  St  Paul's,  where 
his  figure  yet  remains  in  the  vault  of  St.  Faith's, 
carved  from  a  painting  for  which  he  sat  a  few 
days  before  his  death,  dressed  in  his  winding-sheet. 


THE  BREAK  OF  DAY. 

Stat,  oh  sweet !  and  do  not  rise  : 

The  light  that  shines  comes  from  thine  eyes ; 

The  day  breaks  not — it  is  my  heart. 

Because  that  you  and  I  must  part. 

Stay,  or  else  my  joys  will  die. 

And  perish  in  their  infancy. 

'Tis  true,  it's  day — ^what  though  it  be  ' 

O  wilt  thou  therefore  rise  from  me  1 

Why  should  we  rise  because  'tis  light  1 

Did  we  lie  down  because  'twas  night  ] 

Love,  which  in  spite  of  darkness  brought  us  hither, 

Should,  in  despite  of  light,  keep  us  together. 

Light  hath  no  tongue,  but  is  all  eye ; 

If  it  could  speak  as  well  as  spy, 

This  were  the  worst  that  it  could  say. 

That,  being  well,  I  fain  would  stay. 

And  that  I  loved  my  heart  and  honour  so, 

That  I  would  not  from  her  that  had  them  go. 

Must  business  thee  from  hence  remove  1 

0,  that's  the  worst  disease  of  love ! 

The  poor,  the  foul,  the  false,  love  can 

Admit,  but  not  the  busy  man. 

He  which  hath  business  and  makes  love,  doth  do 

Such  wrong  as  when  a  married  man  doth  woo. 


THE  DREAM. 
iMAaE  of  her  whom  I  love  more  than  she 
Whose  fair  impression  in  my  faithful  heart 
Makes  me  her  medal,  and  makes  her  love  me 
As  kings  do  coins,  to  which  their  stamps  impart 
The  value — go,  and  take  my  heart  from  hence. 
Which  now  is  gprown  too  great  and  good  for  me. 


Honours  oppress  weak  spirits,  and  our  sense 
Strong  objects  dull ;  the  more,  the  less  we  see. 
When  you  are  gone,  and  reason  gone  with  you. 
Then  phantasy  is  queen,  and  soul,  and  all ; 
She  can  present  joys  meaner  than  you  do, 
Convenient,  and  more  proportional. 
So  if  I  dream  I  have  you,  I  have  you, 
For  all  our  joys  are  but  fantastical. 
And  so  I  'scape  the  pain,  for  pain  is  true ; 
And  sleep,  which  locks  up  sense,  doth  lock  out  all. 
After  such  a  fruition  I  shall  wake. 
And,  but  the  waking,  nothing  shall  repent ; 
And  shall  to  love  more  thankful  sonnets  make. 
Than  if  more  honour,  tears,  and  pains,  were  spent. 
But,  dearest  heart,  and  dearer  image,  stay ; 
Alas !  true  joys  at  best  are  dreams  enough. 
Though  you  stay  here  you  pass  too  fast  away, 
For  even  at  first  life's  taper  is  a  snuff*. 
Fill'd  with  her  love,  may  I  be  rather  grown 
Mad  with  much  heart,  than  idiot  with  none. 


ON  THE  LORD  HARRINGTON,  4c 

TO  THE  C0UNTI88  OF  BEDrORD. 

Faib  soul !  which  wast  not  only,  as  all  souls  be, 

Then  when  thou  wast  infused,  harmony. 

But  didst  continue  so,  and  now  dost  bear 

A  part  in  God's  great  organ,  this  whole  sphere ; 

If  looking  up  to  God,  or  down  to  us, 

Thou  find  that  any  way  is  pervious 

'Twixt  heaven  and  earth,  and  that  men's  actions  do 

Come  to  your  knowledge  and  affections  too. 

See,  and  with  joy,  me  to  that  good  degree 

Of  goodness  grown,  that  I  can  study  thee ; 


184 


THOMAS  PICKE.— GEORGE  HERBERT. 


And  by  these  meditations  refined, 
Can  unapparel  and  enlarge  my  mind; 
And  so  can  make,  by  this  soft  ecstasy, 
This  place  a  map  of  heaven,  myself  of  thee- 
Thou  see'st  me  here  at  midnight  now  all  rest, 
Time's  dead  low-water,  when  all  minds  divest 
To-morrow's  business,  when  the  lab'rers  have 
Such  rest  in  bed,  that  their  last  churchyard  grave, 
Subject  to  change,  will  scarce  be  a  type  of  this 
Now,  when  the  client,  whose  last  hearing  is 
To-morrow,  sleeps :  when  the  condemned  man, 
(Who,  when  he  opes  his  eyes,  must  shut  them,  then. 
Again  by  death !)  although  sad  watch  he  keep. 
Doth  practise  dying  by  a  little  sleep. 
Thou  at  this  midnight  seest  me,  and  as  soon 
As  that  sun  rises,  to  me  midnight's  noon ; 
All  the  world  grows  transparent,  and  I  see 
Through  all,  both  church  and  state,  in  seeing  thee. . . 


Sweetest  love,  I  do  not  go 

For  weariness  of  thee, 

Nor  in  hope  the  world  can  show 

A  fitter  love  for  me. 

But  since  that  I 

Must  die  at  last,  'tis  best 

Thus  to  use  myself  in  jest 

By  feigned  death  to  die. 

Yesternight  the  sun  went  hence, 
And  yet  is  here  to-day ; 
He  hath  no  desire  nor  sense. 
Nor  half  so  short  a  way : 
Then  fear  not  me, 
But  believe  that  I  shall  make 
Hastier  journeys,  since  I  take 
More  wings  and  spurs  than  be.  . 


THOMAS  PICKE. 


Of  this  author  I  have  been  able  to  obtain  no 
farther  information,  than  that  he  belonged  to  the 
Inner  Temple,  and  translated  a  great  number  of 
John  Owen's  Latin  epigrams  into  English.     His 


songs,  sonnets,  and  elegies,  bear  the  date  of  1631. 
Indifferent  as  the  collection  is,  entire  pieces  of  it 
are  pilfered. 


?ROM  SONGS,  SONNETS,  AND  ELEGIES,  BY  T.  PICKE. 
The  night,  say  all,  was  made  for  rest ; 
And  so  say  I,  but  not  for  all ; 
To  them  the  darkest  nights  are  best, 
Which  give  them  leave  asleep  to  fall ; 
But  I  that  seek  my  rest  by  light, 
Hate  sleep,  and  praise  the  clearest  night. 
Bright  was  the  moon,  as  bright  as  day. 
And  Venus  glitter'd  in  the  west. 
Whose  light  did  lead  the  ready  way. 
That  led  me  to  my  wished  rest ; 
Then  each  of  them  increased  their  light. 
While  I  enjoy'd  her  heavenly  sight. 


Say,  gentle  dames,  what  moved  your  mind 
To  shine  so  bright  above  your  wont ! 
Would  Phoebe  fair  Endymion  find. 
Would  Venus  see  Adonis  hunt  T 
No,  no,  you  feared  by  her  sight, 
To  lose  the  praise  of  beauty  bright. 

At  last  for  shame  you  shrunk  away, 
And  thought  to  reave  the  world  of  light; 
Then  shone  my  dame  with  brighter  ray, 
Than  that  which  comes  from  Phoebus*  sight ; 
None  other  light  but  hers  I  praise, 
Whose  nights  are  clearer  than  the  days. 


GEORGE  HERBERT. 

[Born,  1590.    Dwd,  1632-3.} 


"Holy  George  Herbert,"  as  he  is  generally 
called,  was  prebendary  of  Leighton  Bcclesia,  a 
village  in  Huntingdonshire.  Though  Bacon  is 
said  to  have  consulted  him  about  some  of  his 
writings,  his  memory  is  chiefly  indebted  to  the 
affectionate  mention  of  old  Isaak  Walton. 

[In  saying  but  thus  much  of  George  Herbert, 
it  seems  to  me  that  Campbell  did  him  less  than 
justice.  He  was  a  younger  brother  of  Lord  Her- 
ber,  of  Cherbm^,  and  was  educated  at  Westmin- 
ster and  Cambridge.  He  was  a  favourite  with 
Bishop  Andrews  as  well  as  with  Bacon,  and  he 
would  probably  have  risen  at  court  but  for  the 
death  of  James,  after  which,  having  no  more  hopes 
in  that  quarter,  he  retired  into  Kent,  where  he 
lived  with  great  privacy,  and  taking  a  survey  of 


his  past  life  determined  to  devote  his  remaining 
years  to  religion ;  in  his  own  words, « to  consecrate 
all  my  learning  and  all  my  abilities  to  advance 
the  glory  of  that  God  which  gave  them,  know- 
ing that  I  can  never  do  too  much  for  Him  that 
hath  done  so  much  for  me  as  to  make  me  a  Chris- 
tian." He  took  orders,  was  married,  and  after  a 
few  years  was  presented  with  the  living  of  Bemer- 
ton,  near  Salisbury,  into  which  he  was  inducted 
in  1630.  Here  he  passed  the  remainder  of  his 
days  in  the  faithful  discharge  of  the  duties  of  a 
parish  minister,  as  delineated  by  himself  in  «  The 
Country  Parson,"  and  by  Isaak  Walton  in  hia 
pleasant  biography.  He  died,  of  consumption,  in 
February,  1632.  Herbert's  "Temple,  or  Sabred 
Poems,"  have  been  many  times  reprinted  in  Eng- 


GEORGE   HERBERT. 


185 


land  and  in  this  country.  Its  popularity  when 
first  published  was  so  great  that  when  Walton 
wrote,  more  than  twenty  thousand  copies  of  it 
had  been  sold.  Baxter  says:  "I  must  confess 
that  next  the  Scripture  Poems,  there  are  none  so 
savory  to  me  as  our  George  Herbert's.  I  know 
that  Cowley  and  others  far  excel  Herbert  in  wit 
and  accurate  composure ;  but  as  Seneca  takes 
with  me  above  all  his  contemporaries,  because  he 
speaketh  by  words  feelingly  and  seriously,  like  a 
man  that  is  past  jest,  so  Herbert  speaks  to  God, 


like  a  man  that  really  believeth  in  God,  and  whose 
business  in  the  world  is  most  with  God :  heart- 
work  and  heaven-work  make  up  his  books." 
Coleridge,  the  best  of  critics,  alludes  to  Herbert 
as  "the  model  of  a  man,  a  gentleman,  and  a 
clergyman,"  and  adds,  « that  the  quaintness  of 
some  of  his  thoughts  (not  of  his  diction,  than 
which  nothing  could  be  more  pure,  manly,  and 
unaffected)  has  blinded  modem  readers  to  the 
great  general  merit  of  his  poems,  which  are  for 
the  most  part  excellent  in  their  kind." — G.] 


FROM  HIS  POBMS,  ENTITLED   "THE  TEMPLE,  8A. 
CBED  POEMS,  AHV  PRIVATE  EJACULATIONS." 

8vo,  1633. 

Sweet  day !  so  cool,  so  calm,  so  bright. 
The  bridal  of  the  earth  and  sky, 
Sweet  dews  shall  weep  thy  fall  to-night, 
For  thou  must  die. 

Sweet  rose !  whose  hue,  angry  and  brave, 
Bids  the  rash  gazer  wipe  his  eye. 
Thy  root  is  ever  in  its  grave, 

And  thou  must  die. 

Sweet  spring  !  full  of  sweet  days  and  roses, 
A  box  where  sweets  compacted  lie ; 
My  music  shows  you  have  your  closes, 
And  all  must  die. 

Only  a  sweet  and  virtuous  soul, 
Like  season'd  timber,  never  gives, 
But  when  the  whole  world  turns  to  coal. 
Then  chiefly  lives. 


THE  QUIP. 
The  merry  world  did  on  a  day 

With  his  train-bands  and  mates  agree 
To  meet  together  where  I  lay. 

And  all  in  sport  to  jeer  at  me. 

First  Beauty  crept  into  a  rose, 

Which  when  I  pluck'd  not,  "  Sir,"  said  she, 
"  Tell  me,  I  pray,  whose  hands  are  those  1" 

But  thou  shalt  answer.  Lord,  for  me. 

Then  Money  came :  and,  chinking  still, 
"  What  tune  is  this,  poor  man  1"  said  he ; 

"  I  heard  in  music  you  had  skill :" 
But  Thou  shalt  answer.  Lord,  for  me. 

Then  came  brave  Glory  puflling  by. 
In  silks  that  whistled  "who  but  he!" 

He  scarce  allow'd  me  half  an  eye; 
But  Thou  shalt  answer,  Lord,  for  me 

Then  came  quick  Wit  and  Conversation, 
And  he  would  needs  a  comfort  be ; 

And,  to  be  short,  make  an  oration : 
But  Thou  shalt  answer.  Lord,  for  me. 

Yet  when  the  hour  of  thy  design 

To  answer  these  fine  things  shall  come. 

Speak  not  at  large ;  say,  I  am  thine  ; 
And  then  they  have  their  answer  home. 
24 


GRACE. 

Mt  stock  lies  dead,  and  no  increase 
Doth  my  dull  husl)andry  improve ; 
O,  let  Thy  graces,  without  cease, 
Drop  from  above ! 

If  still  the  sun  should  hide  his  face. 
Thy  house  would  but  a  dungeon  prove, 
Thy  works  night's  captives ;  O,  let  grace 
Drop  from  above! 

The  dew  doth  every  morning  faH, 
And  shall  the  dew  outstrip  Thy  dove  1 
The  dew  for  which  grass  cannot  call 
Drop  from  above ! 

0  come,  for  Thou  dost  know  the  way. 
Or,  if  to  me  Thou  will  not  move. 
Remove  me  where  I  need  not  say. 
Drop  from  above ! 


BUSINESS. 

Canst  be  idle,  canst  thou  play 
Foolish  soul,  who  sinned  to-day  ' 
Rivers  run,  and  springs  each  one 
Know  their  home,  and  get  them  gone : 
Hast  thou  tears,  or  hast  thou  none  1 

If,  poor  soul,  thou  hast  no  tears, 
Wouldst  thou  had  no  fault  or  fears ! 
Who  hath  those,  those  ills  forbears ! 

Winds  still  work,  it  is  their  plot 

Be  the  season  cold  or  hot : 

Hast  thou  sighs,  or  hast  thou  not  t 

If  thou  hast  no  sighs  or  groans. 
Would  thou  hadst  no  flesh  and  bones : 
Lesser  pains  'scape  greater  ones. 

But  if  yet  thou  idle  be. 
Foolish  soul,  who  died  for  thee  1 
Who  did  leave  his  Father's  throne. 
To  assume  thy  flesh  and  bone  1 
Had  He  hfe,  or  had  He  none  1 

If  He  had  not  lived  for  Uiee 
Thou  hadst  died  most  wretchedly; 
And  two  deaths  had  been  thy  fee. 

He  so  far  thy  good  did  plot, 
That  his  own  self  He  forgot — 
Did  He  die,  or  did  He  not  1 
02 


186 


GEORGE   HERBERT. 


If  He  had  not  died  for  thee 

Thou  hadst  lived  in  misery — 

Two  lives  worse  than  two  deaths  be. 

And  hath  any  space  of  breath 
'Twixt  his  sins  and  Saviour's  death  1 
He  that  loseth  gold,  though  dross, 
Tells  to  all  he  meets,  his  cross — 
He  that  hath  sins,  hath  he  no  loss  1 

He  that  finds  a  silver  vein 
Thinks  on  it,  and  thinks  again — 
Brings  thy  Saviour's  death  no  gain  1 
Who  in  heart  not  ever  kneels, 
Neither  sin  nor  Saviour's  feels. 


PEACE. 

Sweet  Peace,  where  dost  thou  dwell  1    I  humbly 
crave 
Let  me  once  know. 
I  sought  thee  in  a  secret  cave, 

And  ask'd  if  peace  were  there, 
A  hollow  wind  did  seem  to  answer,  "  No ! 
Go  seek  elsewhere." 

I  did ; — and  going,  did  a  rainbow  note : 

Surely,  thought  I, 
This  is  the  lace  of  Peace's  coat : 
I  will  search  out  the  matter. 
But  while  I  look'd,  the  clouds  immediately 
Did  break  and  scatter. 

Then  went  I  to  a  garden,  and  did  spy 

A  gallant  flower, 
The  crown  imperial.     «  Sure,"  said  I, 
"  Peace  at  the  root  must  dwell." 
But  when  I  digg'd  I  saw  a  worm  devour 
What  show'd  so  well. 

At  length  I  met  a  reverend  good  old  man ; 

Whom  when  for  peace 
I  did  demand,  he  thus  began : 
"  There  was  a  prince  of  old 
At  Salem  dwelt,  who  lived  with  good  increase 
Of  flock  and  fold. 

"  He  sweetly  lived ;  yet  sweetness  did  not  save 

His  life  from  foes. 
But  after  death  out  of  his  grave 

There  sprang  twelve  stalks  of  wheat: 
Which  many  wond'ring  at,  got  some  of  those 
To  plant  and  set. 

« It  prosper'd  strangely,  and  did  soon  disperse 

Through  all  the  earth ; 
For  they  that  taste  it  do  rehearse. 
That  virtues  lie  therein ; 
A  secret  virtue,  bringing  peace  and  mirth, 
By  flight  of  sin. 

«  Take  of  this  grain  which  in  my  garden  grows, 

And  grows  for  you : 
Make  bread  of  it ;  and  that  repose. 
And  peace  which  everywhere 
With  so  much  earnestness  you  do  pursue, 
Is  only  there  " 


MATTENS. 
I  CANNOT  ope  mine  eyes, 
But  thou  art  ready  there  to  catch 
My  morning-soul  and  sacrifice : 
Then  we  must  needs  for  that  day  make  a  match. 

My  God,  what  is  a  heart  1 
Silver,  or  gold,  or  precious  stone. 
Or  star,  or  rainbow,  or  a  part 
Of  all  these  things,  or  all  of  them  in  one  1 

My  God,  what  is  a  heart  1 
That  thou  shouldst  it  so  eye  and  woo, 
Pouring  upon  it  all  thy  art, 
As  if  that  thou  hadst  nothing  else  to  do  ? 

Indeed,  man's  whole  estate 
Amounts  (and  richly)  to  ser\'e  thee : 
He  did  not  heaven  and  earth  create. 
Yet  studies  them,  not  him  by  whom  they  be. 

Teach  me  thy  love  to  know  ; 
That  this  new  light,  which  now  I  see 
May  both  the  work  and  workman  show : 
Then  by  a  sunbeam  I  will  climb  to  thee. 


THE   COLLAR. 
I  STRUCK  the  board,  and  cried,  «  No  more ! 

I  will  abroad. 
What !  shall  I  ever  sigh  and  pine  1 
My  lines  and  life  are  free — free  as  the  road. 
Loose  as  the  wind,  as  large  as  store ; 
Shall  I  be  still  in  suit  1 
Have  I  no  harvest,  but  a  thorn 
To  let  my  blood ;  and  not  restore 
What  I  have  lost  with  cordial  fruit  1 

Sure  there  was  wine 
Before  my  sighs  did  dry  it;  there  was  ctm 
Before  my  tears  did  drown  it ; 
Is  the  year  only  lost  to  me  ] 
Have  I  no  bays  to  crown  it? 
No  flowers,  no  garlands  gay  1  all  blasted  1 

All  wasted] 
Not  so,  my  heart !  but  there  is  fruit 

And  thou  hast  hands. 
Recover  all  thy  sigh-flown  age 
On  double  pleasures ;  leave  thy  cold  dispute 
Of  what  is  fit  and  not :  forsake  thy  cage. 

Thy  rope  of  sands. 
Which  petty  thoughts  have  made,  and  made  to  thee 
Good  cable  to  enforce  and  draw. 

And  be  thy  law. 
While  thou  didst  wink  and  wouldst  not  see : 

Away  !  take  heed  ! 

I  will  abroad. 
Call  in  thy  death's  head  there :  tie  up  thy  fears. 
He  that  forbears 
To  suit  and  serve  his  need. 

Deserves  his  load." 
But  as  I  raved,  and  grew  more  fierce  and  wild 

At  evei-y  word, 
Methought  I  heard  one  calling,  "  Child !" 

And  I  replied,  "  Mv  Lord !" 


4) 


JOHN  MARSTON. 


[Died,  1634.] 


Thi8  writer  was  the  antagonist  of  Jonson  in 
the  drama,  and  the  rival  of  Bishop  Hall  in  satire,* 
though  confessedly  inferior  to  tljem  both  in  their 
espective  walks  of  poetry.  While  none  of  his 
biographers  seem  to  know  any  thing  about  him, 
Mr.  GiiTord  (in  his  Memoirs  of  Ben  Jonson)  con- 
ceives that  Wood  has  unconsciously  noticed  him 
as  a  gentleman  of  CAentry,  who  married  Mary, 
the  daughter  of  the  Rev.  W.  Wilkes,  chaplain  to 
King  James,  and  rector  of  St.  Martin,  in  Wilt- 
shire. According  to  this  notice,  our  poet  died  at 
London,  in  1634,  and  was  buried  in  the  church 
belonging  to  the  Temple.  These  particulars 
agree  with  what  Jonson  said  to  Drummond  re- 
specting this  dramatic  opponent  of  his,  in  his  con- 
versation at  Hawthornden,  viz.  that  Marston  wrote 
his  father-in-law's  preachings,  and  his  father-in- 
law  Marst/»n's  comedies.  Marston's  comedies 
are  somewhat  dull ;  and  it  is  not  difficult  to  con- 
ceive a  witty  sermon  of  those  days,  when  puns 


were  scattered  from  the  pulpit,  to  have  been  as 
lively  as  an  indifferent  comedy.  Marston  is  the 
Crispinus  of  Jonson's  Poetaster,  where  he  is 
treated  somewhat  less  contemptuously  than  hi& 
companion  Demetrius,  (Dekker;)  an  allusion  i» 
even  made  to  the  respectability  of  his  birth. 
Both  he  and  Dekker  were  afterwards  reconciled 
to  Jonson ;  but  Marston's  reconcilement,  though 
he  dedicated  his  Malcontent  to  his  propitiated 
enemy,  seems  to  have  been  subject  to  relapses. 
It  is  amusing  to  find  Langbaine  descanting  on 
the  chaste  purity  of  Marston  as  a  writer,  and  the 
author  of  the  Biographia  Dramatica  transcribing 
the  compUment  immediately  before  the  enumera- 
tion of  his  plays,  which  are  stuffed  with  ob- 
scenity. To  this  disgraceful  characteristic  of 
Marston  an  allusion  is  made  in  "  The  Return 
from  Parnassus,"  where  it  is  said, 

"  Oive  bim  plain  naked  words  stript  from  their  shirts. 
That  mitcht  beseem  plain-dealing  Aretine." 


FBOM  SOPHONISBA,  A  TEAGEDY. 

ACT  V.  scEicB  ra. 

SoFRONlSBA,  the  daughter  of  Asdrubal,  has  been  wooed 
by  Syphax  and  Massinissa,  riyal  kings  of  Africa,  and  both 
the  allies  of  Carthage.  She  prefers  Massinissa;  and  Sy- 
phax, indignant  at  her  refusal,  revolts  to  the  Romans. 
Massinissa,  on  the  night  of  his  marriage,  is  summoned 
to  the  assistance  of  the  Carthaginians,  on  the  alarm  of 
Scipio's  invasion.  The  senate  of  Carthage,  notwithstand- 
ing Massinissa's  fidelity,  decree  that  Syphax  shall  be 
tempted  bwk  to  them  by  the  offer  of  Sophonisba  in  mar- 
riage. Sophonisba  is  on  the  point  of  biding  sacrificed  to 
the  enforci-d  nuptials,  when  Massinissa,  who  had  been 
apprized  of  the  treachery  of  Carthage,  attacks  the  troops 
of  Syphax.  joins  the  Romans,  and  brings  Syphax  a  cap- 
tive to  Scipio's  feet.  Syphax,  in  his  justification  to  Scipio, 
pleads,  that  his  love  fur  Sophonisba  alone  had  tempted 
him  to  revolt  from  Rome.  Scipio  therefore  orders  that 
the  daughter  of  Asdrubal,  when  taken  pri.soner,  shall 
belong  to  the  Romans  alone.  Lelius  and  Massinissa 
march  on  to  Cirta,  and  storm  the  palace  of  Syphax, 
where  they  find  Sophonisba. 

Tlie  comets  sounding  a  march,  Massinissa  enters  with  his 
beaver  up. 

Mass.  March  to  the  palace  ! 

Soph.  Whate'er  man  thou  art. 
Of  Lybia  thy  fair  arms  speak,  give  heart 
To  amazed  weakness :  hear  her  that  for  long  time 
Hath  seen  no  wished  light     Sophonisba, 
A  name  for  misery  much  known,  'tis  she 
Intreata  of  thy  graced  sword  this  only  boon : 
Let  me  not  kneel  to  Rome ;  for  though  no  cause 
Of  mine  deserves  their  hate,  though  Massinissa 
Be  ours  to  heart,  yet  Roman  generals 
Make  proud  their  triumphs  with  whatever  captives. 
O  'tis  a  nation  which  from  soul  I  fear, 
As  one  well  knowing  the  much-grounded  hate 
They  bear  to  Asdrubal  and  Carthage  blood ! 

*  He  wrote  the  Scourge  of  Villany;  three  books  of 
satires,  159!t.  He  was  also  author  of  tin"  Metamorphosis 
of  l>ii;mHlion°8  Image,  and  certain  Satires,  published  159S, 
which  makes  his  date  as  satirist  nearly  coeval  with  that 
of  Bishop  Uall. 


Therefore,  with  tears  that  wash  thy  feet,  with  hands 
Unused  to  beg,  I  clasp  thy  manly  knees. 
O  save  me  from  their  fetters  and  contempt. 
Their  proud  insults,  and  more  than  insolence  ! 
Or  if  it  rest  not  in  thy  grace  of  breath 
To  grant  such  freedom,  give  me  long-wish'd  death ; 
For  'tis  not  much-loathed  life  that  now  we  crave — 
Only  an  unshamed  death  and  silent  grave, 
We  will  now  deign  to  bend  for. 

Mass.  Rarity ! 
By  thee  and  this  right  hand,  thou  shalt  live  free ! 

Soph.  We  cannot  now  be  wretched. 

Mass.  Stay  the  sword  ! 
liCt  slaughter  cease !  sounds,  sofl  as  Leda's  breast, 

[Soft  music 
Slide  through  all  ears!  this  night  be  love's  high  feast 

Soph.  O'erwhelm  me  not  with  sweets ;  let  me 
not  drink 
Till  my  breast  burst !  0  Jove !  thy  nectar,  think — 
[She  sinks  into  Massinissa'b  arms. 

Mass.  She  is  o'ercome  with  joy. 

Soph,  Help,  help  to  bear 
Some  happiness,  ye  powers !  I've  joy  to  spare 
Enough  to  make  a  god !  0  Massinissa ! 

Mass.  Peace: 
A  silent  thinking  makes  full  joys  increase. 
Unter  Lelics. 

Lei.  Massinissa! 

Mass.  Lelius! 

Lei.  Thine  ear. 

Muss.  Stand  off! 

Lei.  From  Scipio  thus :  by  thy  late  vow  of  faith, 
And  mutual  league  of  endless  amity, 
As  thou  respect'st  his  virtue  or  Rome's  force, 
Deliver  Sophonisba  to  our  hand. 

Mass.  Sophonisba! 

Lei.  Sophonisba 

ICT 


188 


JOHN   MARSTON. 


Soph.  My  lord 
Looks  pale,  and  from  his  half-burst  eyes  a  flame 
Of  deep  disquiet  breaks !  the  gods  turn  false 
My  sad  presage. 

Muss.  Sophonisba! 

Lei.  Even  she. 

Muss.  She  kill'd  not  Scipio's  father,  nor  his  uncle, 
Great  Cneius. 

LeL  Carthage  did. 

Mass.  To  her  what's  Carthage  1 

Lei.  Know  'twas  her  father  Asdrubal,  struck  off 
His  father's  head.     Give  place  to  faith  and  fate. 

Mass.  'Tis  cross  to  honour. 

Lei.  But  'tis  just  to  state. 
So  speaketh  Scipio  :  do  not  thou  detain 
A  Roman  prisoner  due  to  this  great  triumph, 
As  thou  shalt  answer  Rome  and  him. 

Mass.  Lelius, 
We  are  now  in  Rome's  power.     Lelius, 
View  Massinissa  do  a  loathed  act 
Most  sinking  from  that  state  his  heart  did  keep. 
Look,  Lelius,  look,  see  Massinissa  weep ! 
Know  I  have  made  a  vow  more  dear  to  me 
Than  my  soul's  endless  being.     She  shall  rest 
Free  from  Rome's  bondage ! 

LeL  But  thou  dost  forget 
Thy  vow,  yet  fresh  thus  breathed.  When  I  desist 
To  be  commanded  by  thy  virtue,  Scipio, 
Or  fall  from  friend  of  Rome,  revenging  gods 
Afflict  me  with  your  tortures ! 

Mass.  Lelius,  enough : 
Salute  the  Roman — tell  him  we  will  act 
What  shall  amaze  him. 

Lei.  Wilt  thou  yield  her,  then  1 

Mus.  She  shall  arrive  there  straight. 

Lei.  Best  fate  of  men 
To  thee ! 

Mass.  And,  Scipio,  have  I  lived,  0  Heavens ! 
To  be  enforcedly  perfidious ! 

Soph.  What  unjust  grief  afflicts  my  worthy  lord  1 

Mass.  Thank  mo,  ye  gods,  with  much  behold- 
ingness ; 
For,  mark,  I  do  not  curse  you. 

Soph.  Tell  me,  sweet, 
The  cause  of  thy  much  anguish. 

Mass.  Ha !  the  cause — 
Let's  see — wreathe  back  thine  arms,  bend  down 

thy  neck. 
Practise  base  prayers,  make  fit  thyself  for  bondage. 

S(iph.  Bondage ! 

Muss.  Bondage  !  Roman  bondage ! 

Soph.  No,  no ! 

Muss.  How,  then,  have  I  vow'd  well  to  Scipio  1 

Soph.  How,  th^n,  to  Sophonisba  1 

Mass.  Right :  which  way  1 
Run  mad  ! — impossible — distraction  !        [power, 

S<rph.  Dear  lord,  thy  patience :  let  it  'maze  all 
And  list  to  her  in  whose  sole  heart  it  rests, 
To  keep  thy  faith  upright. 

Mass.  Wilt  thou  be  slaved  1 

Soph.  No,  free. 

Mum.  How,  then,  keep  I  my  faith  1 

Soph.  My  death 
Gives  help  to  all !     From  Rome  so  rest  we  free ; 
So  brought  to  Scipio,  faith  is  kept  in  thee. 


Enter  Page  witJi  a  howl  of  wine. 

Mass.  Thou  darest  not  die — some  wine — thou 
darest  not  die ! 

Soph 

IShe  takes  a  bowl,  into  which  Massinissa  puts  poison.] 
Behold  me,  Massinissa,  like  thyself, 
A  king  and  soldier ;  and,  I  pray  thee,  keep 
My  last  command. 

Mass.  Speak,  sweet. 

Soph.  Dear !  do  not  weep. 
And  now  with  undismay'd  resolve  behold, 
To  save  you — ^you — (for  honour  and  just  faith 
Are  most  true  gods,  which  we  should  much  adore) 
With  even  disdainful  vigoiff  I  give  up         [to  me, 
An  abhorr'd  life !  (She  drinks.)  You  have  been  good 
And  I  do  thank  thee.  Heaven.     O  my  stars ! 
I  bless  your  goodness,  that,  with  breast  unstain'd. 
Faith  pure,  a  virgin  wife,  tied  to  my  glory, 
I  die,  of  female  faith  the  long-lived  story ; 
Secure  from  bondage  and  all  servile  harms. 
But  more,  most  happy  in  my  husband's  arms. 


FKOM  ANTONIO  AND  MELLIDA. 

ACT  m.   SCENE  I. 

Representing  the  afBiction  of  fallen  greatness  in  Andkuoio, 
Duke  of  Genoa,  after  he  has  been  defeated  by  the  Vene- 
tians, proscribed  by  his  countrymen,  and  left  with  only 
two  attendants  in  his  flight. 

Unter  Andruoio  in  armour,  Lucio  with  a  shepherd's  gown 
in  his  hand,  and  a  Page. 

Jlnd.  Is  not  yon  gleam  the  shuddering  morn, 
that  flakes 
With  silver  tincture  the  east  verge  of  heaven  1 

Xmc.  I  think  it  is,  so  please  your  excellence. 

And.  Away  !  I  have  no  excellence  to  please. 
Prithee  observe  the  custom  of  the  world, 
That  only  flatters  greatness,  states  exalts ; 
And  please  my  excellence !  Oh,  Lucio, 
Thou  hast  been  ever  held  respected,  dear. 
Even  precious  to  Andrugio's  inmost  love. 
Good,  flatter  not.     Nay,  if  thou  givest  not  faith 
That  I  am  wretched ;  oh,  read  that,  read  that. . . . 
My  thoughts  are  fix'd  in  contemplation 
Why  this  huge  earth,  this  monstrous  animal. 
That  eats  her  children,  should  not  have  eyes  and 

ears. 
Philosophy  maintains  that  Nature's  wise. 
And  forms  no  useless  or  imperfect  thing. 
Did  nature  make  the  earth,  or  the  earth  nature ': 
For  earthly  dirt  makes  all  things,  makes  the  man 
Moulds  me  up  honour ;  and,  like  a  cunning  Dutch- 
man, 
Paints  me  a  puppet  even  with  seeming  breath. 
And  gives  a  sot  appearance  of  a  soul. 
Go  to,  go  to ;  thou  liest,  philosophy  ; 
Nature  forms  things  imperfect,  useless,  vain. 
Why  made  she  not  the  earth  with  eyes  and  ears  1 
That  she  might  see  desert,  and  hear  men's  plaints : 
That  when  a  soul  is  splitted,  sunk  with  grief. 
He  might  fall  thus  upon  the  breast  of  earth, 

[He  throws  himself  on  Oie  ground. 
And  in  her  ear,  hallow  his  misery. 
Exclaiming  thus :  Oh,  thou  all-bearing  earth, 
Which  men  do  gape  for,  till  thou  cramm'st  theii 
mouths. 


JOHN   MARSTON. 


189 


And  choak'st  their  throats  with  dust :  open  thy 

breast. 
And  let  me  sink  into  thee.     Look  who  knocks ; 
Andrugio  calls.     But,  oh  !  she's  deaf  and  blind. 
A  wretch  but  Jean  relief  on  earth  can  find. 

Lur.  Sweet  lord,  abandon  passion,  and  disarm. 
Since  by  the  fortune  of  the  tumbling  sea, 
We  are  roU'd  up  upon  the  Venice  marsh, 
Let's  clip  all  fortune,  lest  more  low'ring  fate 

^iid.  More  low'ring  fate  1     Oh,  Lucio,  choke 
that  breath. 
Now  I  defy  chance.    Fortune's  brow  hath  frown'd, 
Even  to  the  utmost  wrinkle  it  can  bend : 
Her  venom's  spit.     Alas,  what  country  rests, 
What  son,  what  comfort  that  she  can  deprive  1 
Triumphs  not  Venice  in  my  overthrow  ] 
Gapes  not  my  native  country  for  my  blood  1 
Lies  not  my  son  tomb'd  in  the  swelling  main  ? 
And  is  more  low'ring  fate  1     There's  nothing  left 
Unto  Andrugio,  but  Andrugio : 
And  that  nor  mischief,  force,  distress,  nor  hell,  can 

take. 
Fortune  my  fortunes,  not  my  mind  shall  shake. 

Luc.  Spoke  like  yourself:  but  give  me  leave, 
my  lord, 
To  wish  your  safety.     If  you  are  but  seen. 
Your  arms  display  you ;  therefore  put  them  off) 
And  take 

jind.  Wouldst  have  me  go   unarm'd   among 
my  foes  1 
Being  besieged  by  passion^  entering  lists, 
To  combat  with  despair  and  mighty  grief; 
My  soul  beleagur'd  with  the  crushing  strength 
Of  sharp  impatience.     Ah,  Lucio,  go  unarm'd  1 
Come  soul,  resume  the  valour  of  thy  birth ; 
Myself,  myself,  will  dare  all  opposites: 
I'll  muster  forces,  an  unvanquish'd  power ; 
Cornets  of  horse  shall  press  th'  ungrateful  earth, 
This  hollow  wombed  mass  shall  inly  groan. 
And  murmur  to  sustain  the  weight  of  arms: 
Ghastly  amazement,  with  upstarted  hair. 
Shall  hurry  on  before,  and  usher  us. 
Whilst  trumpets  clamour  with  a  sound  of  death. 

Luc.  Peace,  good  my  lord,  your  speech  is  all 
too  light. 
Alas  !  survey  your  fortunes,  look  what's  left 
Of  all  your  forces,  and  your  utmost  hopes, 
A  weak  old  man,  a  page,  and  your  poor  self. 

.And.  Andrugio  lives,  and  a  fair  cause  of  arms ; 
Why  that's  an  army  all  invincible. 
He,  who  hath  that,  hath  a  battalion  royal. 
Armour  of  proof,  huge  troops  of  barbed  steeds, 
Main  squares  of  pikes,  millions  of  arquebuse. 
Oh,  a  fair  cause  stands  firm  and  will  abide ; 
Legions  of  angels  fight  upon  her  side. 

Luc.  Then,  noble  spirit,  slide  in  strange  disguise 


Unto  some  gracious  prince,  and  sojourn  there. 
Till  time  and  fortune  give  revenge  firm  means. 

.dnd.  No,  I'll  not  trust  the  honour  of  a  man : 
Gold  is  grown  great,  and  makes  perfidiousness 
A  common  waiter  in  most  princes'  courts : 
He's  in  the  check-roll :  I'll  not  trust  my  -blood : 
I  know  none  breathing  but  will  cog  a  dye 
For  twenty  thousand  double  pistolets. 
How  goes  the  time  T 

Ltic.  I  saw  no  sun  to-day. 

^nd.  No  sun  will  shine  where  poor  Andrugio 
breathes : 
My  soul  grows  heavy :  boy,  let's  have  a  song ; 
We'll  sing  yet,  faith,  even  in  despite  of  fate. 


FBOM  THK  SAME. 
ACT  nr. 

jlndr.  Come,  Lucio,  let's  go  eat — ^what  hast 
thou  goti 
Roots,  roots  1    Alas !  they're  seeded,  new  cut  up. 
O  thou  hast  wronged  nature,  Lucio ; 
But  boots  not  much,  thou  but  pursu'st  the  world, 
That  cuts  oft'  virtue  'fore  it  comes  to  growth. 
Lest  it  should  seed,  and  so  o'errun  her  son. 
Dull,  pore-blind  error.     Give  me  water,  boy ; 
There  is  no  poison  in't,  I  hope  1  they  say 
That  lurks  in  massy  plate ;  and  yet  the  earth 
Is  so  infected  with  a  general  plague. 
That  he's  most  wise  that  thinks  there's  no  man  fool, 
Right  prudent  that  esteems  no  creature  just : 
Great  policy  the  least  things  to  mistrust. 
Give  me  assay.     How  we  mock  greatness  now ! 

Luc  A  strong  conceit  is  rich,  so  most  men  deem ; 
If  not  to  be,  'tis  comfort  yet  to  seem. 

Andr.  Why,  man,  I  never  was  a  prince  till  now ! 
'Tis  not  the  bared  pate,  the  bended  knees. 
Gilt  tipstaves,  Tyrian  purple,  chairs  of  state, 
Troops  of  pied  butterflies,  that  flutter  still 
In  greatness'  siunmer,  that  confirm  a  prince ; 
'Tis  not  th'  unsavoury  breath  of  multitudes, 
Shouting  and  clapping  with  confused  din. 
That  makes  a  prince.     No,  Lucio,  he's  a  king, 
A  true  right  king,  that  dares  do  ought  save  wrong. 
Fears  nothing  mortal  but  to  be  unjust ; 
Who  is  not  blown  up  with  the  flattering  pulls 
Of  spungy  sycophants ;  who  stands  unmoved, 
Despite  the  justling  of  opinion ; 
Who  can  enjoy  himself)  maugre  the  throng 
That  strive  to  press  his  quiet  out  of  him ; 
M^ho  sits  upon  Jove's  footstool,  as  I  do. 
Adoring,  not  affecting  majesty ; 
Whose  brow  is  wreathed  with  the  silver  crown 
Of  clear  content:  this,  Lucio,  is  a  king. 
And  of  this  empire  every  man's  posses»d 
That's  worth  hu  soul. 


GEORGE  CHAPMAN. 


[Bora,  1557.     Died,  1634.J 


Georok  Chapman  was  born  at  Hitching-hill,* 
in  the  county  of  Hertford,  and  studied  at  Oxford. 
From  thence  he  repaired  to  London,  and  became 
the  friend  of  Shakspeare,  Spenser,  Daniel,  Mar- 
lowe, and  other  contemporary  men  of  genius. 
He  was  patronized  by  Prince  Henry,  and  Carr 
Earl  of  Somerset.  The  death  of  the  one,  and 
the  disgrace  of  the  other,  must  have  injured  his 
prospects ;  but  he  is  supposed  to  have  had  some 
place  at  court,  either  under  King  James  or  his 
consort  Anne.  He  lived  to  an  advanced  age ;  and, 
according  to  Wood,  was  a  person  of  reverend 
aspect,  religious,  and  temperate.  Inigo  Jones, 
with  whom  he  lived  on  terms  of  intimate  friend- 
ship, planned  and  erected  a  monument  to  his 
memory  over  his  burid-place,  on  the  south  side 
of  St.  Giles's  church  in  the  fields :  but  it  was  un- 
fortunately destroyed  with  the  ancient  church. 


Chapman  seems  to  have  been  a  favourite  of  his 
own  times ;  and  in  a  subsequent  age,  his  version 
of  Homer  excited  the  raptures  of  Waller,  and  was 
diligently  consulted  by  Pope.  The  latter  speaks 
of  its  daring  fire,  though  he  owns  that  it  is  clouded 
by  fustian.  Webster,  his  fellow  dramatist,  praises 
his  "  full  and  heightened  style,"  a  character  which 
he  does  not  deserve  in  any  favourable  sense ;  for 
his  diction  is  chiefly  marked  by  barbarous  rugged- 
ness,  false  elevation,  and  extravagant  metaphor. 
The  drama  owes  him  very  little ;  his  Bussy  D' Am- 
bois  is  a  piece  of  frigid  atrocity,  and  in  the  Widow's 
Tears,  where  his  heroine  Cynthia  falls  in  love 
with  a  sentinel  guarding  the  corps  of  her  husband, 
whom  she  was  bitterly  lamenting,  he  has  drama- 
tized one  of  the  most  puerile  and  disgusting  legends 
ever  fabricated  for  the  disparagement  of  female 
constancy.f 


FROM  THE  COMEDY  OF  ALL  FOOLS. 

A  Son  appeasino  his  Father  bt  Submission,  afteb  a 
Stolen  Marriaoe. 

Persons — Gostanzo,  the  father ;  Valerio,  the  son ;  Maro- 
AxTONio  and  RiskLDO,  friends:  and  Oratiana,  the  bride 
of  Valerio. 

Ryn.  Come  on,  I  say ; 
Your  father  with  submission  will  be  calm'd ! 
Come  on,  down  on  your  knees. 

Gost.  Villain,  durst  thou 
Presume  to  gull  thy  father  1  dost  thou  not 
Tremble  to  see  my  bent  and  cloudy  brows 
Ready  to  thunder  on  thy  graceless  head, 
And  with  the  bolt  of  my  displeasure  cut 
The  thread  of  all  my  living  from  thy  life, 
For  taking  thus  a  beggar  to  thy  wife  1 

Vul.  Father,  if  that  part  I  have  in  your  blood, 
If  tears,  which  so  abundantly  distil 
Out  of  my  inward  eyes ;  and  for  a  need 
Can  drown  these  outward  (lend  me  thy  handker- 
chief,) 
And  being  indeed  as  many  drops  of  blood, 
Issuing  from  the  creator  of  my  heart, 
Be  able  to  beget  so  much  compassion. 
Not  on  my  life,  but  on  this  lovely  dame, 
Whom  I  hold  dearer 

Gost.  Out  upon  thee,  villain. 

Marc.  Jut.  Nay,  good  Gostanzo,  think  you  are 
a  father. 

Gost.  I  will  not  hear  a  word ;  out,  out  upon  thee : 
Wed  without  my  advice,  my  love,  my  knowledge, 
Ay,  and  a  beggar  too,  a  trull,  a  blowze  1 

*  William  Browne,  the  pastoral  poet,  calls  him  "the 
learned  Shepherd  of  fair  Hitching-hill." 

[t  "Chapman,  who  assisted  Ben  Jon»on  and  some  others 
in  comedy,  de.ierves  no  great  praise  for  his  Bus.'^y  D'Am- 
hois.  The  style  in  this,  and  in  all  his  tragedies,  is  extrava- 
gantly hyperbolical ;  he  is  not  very  dramatic,  nor  has  any 
power  of  exciting  etnot'on  exc--p-  in  those  who  sympathize 
with  a  tumid  pride  auU  .<elf-cuufidence.  Yet  he  has  more 
190 


Byn.  You  thought  not  so  last  day,  when  you 
ofler'd  her 
A  twelvemonth's  board  for  one  night's  lodging 
with  her. 

Gost.  Go   to,  no  more  of  that!    peace,  good 
Rynaldo, 
It  is  a  fault  that  only  she  and  you  know. 

Ryn.  Well,  sir,  go  on,  I  pray. 

Grost.  Have  I,  fond  wretch. 
With  utmost  care  and  labour  brought  thee  up. 
Ever  instructing  thee,  omitting  never 
The  office  of  a  kind  and  careful  father. 
To  make  thee  wise  and  virtuous  like  thy  father ' 
And  hast  thou  in  one  act  everted  all  1 
Proclaim'd  thyself  to  all  the  world  a  fool  1 
To  wed  a  beggar  1 

Val.  Father,  say  not  so. 

Gost.  Nay,  she's  thy  own ;  here,  rise  fool,  take 
her  to  thee, 
Live  with  her  still,  I  know  thou  count'st  thyself 
Happy  in  soul,  only  in  winning  her : 
Be  happy  still,  here,  take  her  hand,  enjoy  her. 
Would  not  a  son  hazard  his  father's  wrath. 
His  reputation  in  the  world,  his  birthright, 
To  have  but  such  a  mess  of  broth  as  this  1 

Marc,  Ant.  Be  not  so  violent,  I  pray  you,  good 
Gostanzo, 
Take  truce  with  passion,  license  your  sad  son. 
To  speak  in  his  excuse  ] 

Gost.  What  T  what  excuse  ? 
Can  any  orator  in  this  case  excuse  him  ? 
What  can  he  say  1  what  can  be  said  of  any  1 

thinking  than  many  of  the  old  dramatists.  His  tragi- 
comedies All  Fools  and  TheUentleman-Usher,  are  perhaps 
superior  to  his  tragedies." — Hall.am,  Lit.  Hist.,  vol.  iii. 
p.  621. 

'•  Chapman  would  have  made  a  great  Epic  Poet,  if  indeed 
he  has  not  abundantly  shown  himself  to  be  one;  for  hi» 
Homer  is  not  so  properly  a  Translation  as  the  stories  of 
Achilleg  and  Ulysses  re-written." — Lamb. — C] 


THOMAS   RANDOLPH. 


191 


Val.  Alas,  sir,  hear  me !  all  that  I  can  say 
In  my  excuse,  is  but  to  show  love's  warrant. 

Gost.  Notable  wag. 

Val.  I  know  I  have  committed 
A  great  impiety,  not  to  move  you  first 
Before  the  dame,  I  meant  to  make  my  wife. 
Consider  what  I  am,  yet  young,  and  green, 
Behold  what  she  is ;  is  there  not  in  her 
Ay,  in  her  very  eye,  a  power  to  conquer 
Even  age  itself  and  wisdom  1     Call  to  mind, 
Sweet  father,  what  yourself  being  young  have  been, 
Think  what  you  may  be ;  for  I  do  not  think 
The  world  so  far  spent  with  you,  but  you  may 
Look  back  on  such  a  beauty,  and  I  hope 
To  see  you  young  again,  and  to  live  long 
With  young  affections ;  wisdom  makes  a  man 
Live  young  for  ever :  and  where  is  this  wisdom 
If  not  in  you  ?  alas,  I  know  not  what 
Rest  in  your  wisdom  to  subdue  affections ; 
But  I  protest  it  wrought  with  me  so  strongly, 
That  I  had  quite  been  drown'd  in  seas  of  tears, 
Had  I  not  taken  hold  in  happy  time 
Of  this  sweet  hand ;  my  heart  had  been  consumed 
T'  a  heap  of  ashes  with  the  flames  of  love. 
Had  it  not  sweetly  been  assuaged  and  cool'd 
With  the  moist  kisses  of  these  sugar'd  lips. 

Gost.  O  puissant  wag,  what  huge  large  thongs 
he  cuts 
Out  of  his  friend  Fortunio's  stretching  leather. 

Marc.  Ant.  He  knows  he  docs  it  but  to  blind 
my  eyes. 

Gosl.  O  excellent !  these  men  will  put  up  any- 
thing. 

Val.  Had  I  not  had  her,  I  had  lost  my  life: 
Which  life  indeed  I  would  have  lost  before 
I  had  displeased  you,  had  I  not  received  it 
From  such  a  kind,  a  wise,  and  honour'd  father. 

Gost.  Notable  boy. 

Val.  Yet  do  I  here  renounce 
Love,  life  and  all,  rather  than  one  hour  longer 
Endure  to  have  your  love  eclipsed  from  me. 

GraJ.  O,  I  can  hold  no  longer,  if  thy  words 
Be  used  in  earnest,  my  Valerio, 
Thou  wound'st  my  heart,  but  I  know  'tis  in  jest. 

Gost.  No,  I'll  be  sworn  she  has  her  liripoop  too. 


Grot.  Didst  thou  not  swear  to  love  me,  spite 
of  father  and  all  the  world  1 
That  nought  should  sever  us  but  death  itself  1 

Val.  I  did  ;  but  if  my  father 
Will  have  his  son  forsworn,  upon  his  soul 
The  blood  of  my  black  perjury  shall  lie, 
For  I  will  seek  ais  favour  though  I  die.      [know 

Gost.  No,  no,  live  still  my  son,  thou  well  shalt 
I  have  a  father's  heart :  come,  join  your  hands^ 
Still  keep  thy  vow3,  and  live  together  still, 
Till  cruel  death  set  foot  betwixt  you  both. 

Val.  O  speak  you  this  in  earnest  1 

Gost.  Ay,  by  heaven  ! 

Val.  And  never  to  recall  it  1 

Gost.  Not  till  death. 


Speech  op  Valerio  to  Rtnaldo,  in  answeb  io  his  BiTm 

INTECTIVE  AOAMST  THE   SEX. 

I  TELL  thee  love  is  nature's  second  sun. 
Causing  a  spring  of  virtues  where  he  shines. 
And  as  without  the  sun,  the  world's  great  eye, 
All  colours,  beauties,  both  of  art  and  nature, 
Are  given  in  vain  to  men  ;  so  without  love 
All  beauties  bred  in  women  are  in  vain. 
All  virtues  born  in  men  lie  buried. 
For  love  informs  them  as  the  sun  doth  colours. 
And  as  the  sun,  reflecting  his  warm  beams 
Against  the  earth,  begets  all  fruits  and  flowers. 
So  love,  fair  shining  in  the  inward  man. 
Brings  forth  in  him  the  honourable  fruits 
Of  valour,  wit,  virtue,  and  haughty  thoughts. 
Brave  resolution,  and  divine  discourse. 
O  'tis  the  paradise  !  the  heaven  of  earth  ! 
And  didst  thou  know  the  comfort  of  two  hearts 
In  one  delicious  hanpony  united. 
As  to  joy  one  joy,  and  think  both  one  thought, 
Live  both  one  hfe,  and  there  in  double  hfe,  .... 
Thou  wouldst  abhor  thy  tongue  for  blasphemy. 

Pride. 

0,  the  good  gods, 
How  blind  is  pride !     What  eagles  are  we  still 
In  matters  that  belong  to  other  men  ' 
What  beetles  in  our  own ! 


THOMAS  RANDOLPH. 


[Bora,  1605.     Died,  1634.] 


Thom.\8  Randolph  was  the  son  of  a  steward 
to  Lord  Zouch.  He  was  a  king's  scholar  at  West- 
minster, and  obtained  a  fellowship  at  Cambridge. 
His  wit  and  learning  endeared  him  to  Ben  Jon- 
son,  who  owne<l  him,  like  Cartwright,  as  his 
adopted  son  in  the  Muses.  Unhappily  he  fol- 
lowed the  taste  of  Ben  not  only  at  the  pen,  but 
at  the  bottle ;  and  he  closed  his  life  in  poverty, 
at  the  age  of  twenty-nine, — a  date  lamentably 
premature,  when  we  consider  the  promises  of  his 
genius.  His  wit  and  humour  are  very  conspicu- 
ous in  the  Puritan  characters,  whom  he  supposes 
the  spectators  of  his  scenes  in  the  Muse's  Look- 
ing-Glass.    Throughout  the  rest  of  that  drama 


(though  it  is  on  the  whole  his  best  performance) 
he  unfortunately  prescribed  to  himself  too  hard 
and  confined  a  system  of  dramatic  effect.  Pro- 
fessing simply, 

"in  single  ocenes  to  show, 
How  comedy  presents  each  single  vice, 
Kidiculoua — " 

he  introduces  the  vices  and  contrasted  humours 
of  human  nature  in  a  tissue  of  unconnected  per- 
sonifications, and  even  refines  his  representations 
of  abstract  character  into  conflicts  of  speculative 
opinion. 

For  his  skill  in  this  philosophical  pageantry  the 
poet  speaks  of  being  indebted  to  Aristotle,  and 


192 


THOMAS   RANDOLPH, 


probably  thought  of  his  play  what  Voltaire  said 
of  one  of  his  own,  "  This  would  please  you,  if  you 
ipeie  Greeks."  The  female  critic's  reply  to  Vol- 
taire was  very  reasonable, "  But  toe  are  not  Greeks." 
Judging  of  Randolph,  however,  by  the  plan  which 
he  professed  to  follow,  his  execution  is  vigorous : 
his  ideal  characters  are  at  once  distinct  and  vari- 
ous, and  compact  with  the  expression  which  he 


purposes  to  give  them.  He  was  author  of  five 
other  dramatic  pieces,  besides  miscellaneous 
poems.* 

He  died  at  the  house  of  his  friend,  W.  Stafford, 
Esq.  of  Blatherwyke,  in  his  native  county,  and 
was  buried  in  the  adjacent  church,  where  an  ap- 
propriate monument  was  erected  to  him  by  Sir 
Christopher,  afterwards  Lord  Hatton. 


INTRODUCTORY  SCENE  OF  "THE  MUSES  LOOK- 
ING-GLASS." 

EInter  Bibd,  a  feather^man,  and  Mbs.  Flowebbew,  wife  to  a 
haberdasher  of  small  wares — the  one  having  brmtght  few- 
thers  to  the  playhnuse,  tite  other  pins  and  looHng-glassei — 
two  of  lite  sanctified  fraUmity  of  Blackfriars. 

Mrs.  Floweidew.  See,  brother,  how  the  wicked 
throng  and  crowd 
To  works  of  vanity !  not  a  nook  or  comer 
In  all  this  house  of  sin,  this  cave  of  filthiness, 
This  den  of  spiritual  thieves,  but  it  is  stuff  d, 
StulTd,  and  stuff'd  full,  as  is  a  cushion. 
With  the  lewd  reprobate. 

Bird.  Sister,  were  there  not  before  inns — 
Yes,  I  will  say  inns  (for  my  zeal  bids  me 
Say  filthy  inns)  enough  to  harbour  such 
As  travell'd  to  destruction  the  broad  way, 
But  they  build  more  and  more — more  shops  of 
Satan? 

Mrs.  F.  Iniquity  aboundeth,  though  pure  zeal 
Teach,  preach,  huflf,  puflf,  and  snuff  at  it ;  yet  still, 
Still  it  aboundeth !     Had  we  seen  a  church, 
A  new-built  church,  erected  north  and  south, 
It  had  been  something  worth  the  wondering  at. 

Bird.  Good  works  are  donf. 

Mrs.  F.  I  say  no  works  are  good ; 
Good  works  are  merely  popish  and  apocryphal. 

Bird,  fiut  the  bad  abound,  surround,  yea,  and 
confound  us. 
No  marvel  now  if  playhouses  increase. 
For  they  are  all  grown  so  obscene  of  late, 
That  one  begets  another. 

Mrs.  F.  Flat  fornication ! 
I  wonder  anybody  takes  delight 
To  hear  them  prattle. 

Bird.  Nay,  and  I  have  heard. 
That  in  a — tragedy,  I  think  they  call  it. 
They  make  no  more  of  killing  one  another, 
Than  you  sell  pins. 

Mrs.  F.  Or  you  sell  feathers,  brother ; 
But  are  they  not  hang'd  for  it  1 

Bird.  Law  grows  partial, 
And  finds  it  but  chance-medley :  and  their  comedies 
Will  abuse  you,  or  me,  oir  anybody  ; 
We  cannot  put  our  moneys  to  increase 
By  lawful  usury,  nor  break  in  quiet. 
Nor  put  off  our  false  wares,  nor  keep  our  wives 
Finer  than  others,  but  our  ghosts  must  walk 
Upon  their  stages. 

Mrs.  F.  Is  not  this  flat  conjuring. 
To  make  our  ghosts  to  walk  ere  we  be  dead  1 

•  1.  AriKtippus,  or  the  Jovial  Philosopher. — 2.  The  Con- 
ceited Pedlar. — 3.  The  Jealous  LoTers,  a  comedy. — 1.  Amyn- 
Tas,  or  the  Impossible  Dowry,  a  pastoral. — 5.  Hey  for 
lIoncstT  Down  with  Knavery,  a  comedy. 


Bird.  That's  nothing,  Mrs.  Flowerdew !  they 
will  play 
The  knave,  the  fool,  the  devil  and  all,  for  money. 

Mrs.  F.  Impiety !    0,  that  men  endued  with 
Should  have  no  more  grace  in  them !         [reason 

Bird.  Be  there  not  other 
Vocations  as  thriving,  and  more  honest? 
Bailiffs,  promoters,  jailers,  and  apparitours. 
Beadles  and  martials-men,  the  needful  instruments 
Of  the  republic ;  but  to  make  themselves 
Such  monsters !  for  they  are  monsters — ^th*  are 

monsters — 
Base,  sinful,  shameless,  ugly,  vile,  deform'd, 
Pernicious  monsters ! 

Mrs.  F.  I  have  heard  our  vicar 
Call  play-houses  the  colleges  of  transgression, 
Wherein  the  seven  deadly  sins  are  studied. 

Bird.  Why  then  the  city  will  in  time  be  made 
An  university  of  iniquity. 

We  dwell  by  Black-Friars  college,  where  I  wonder 
How  that  profane  nest  of  pernicious  birds 
Dare  roost  themselves  there  in  the  midst  of  us, 
So  many  good  and  well-disposed  persons. 

0  impudence ! 

Mrs.  F.  It  was  a  zealous  prayer 

1  heard  a  brother  make  concerning  play-housea. 

Bird.  For  charity,  what  is't  T 

Mrs.  F.  That  the  Globef 
Wherein  (quoth  he)  reigns  a  whole  world  of  vice. 
Had  been  consumed ;  the  Phoenix  burnt  to  ashes ; 
The  Fortune  whipt  for  a  blind  whore ;  Blackfriars 
He  wonders  how  it  'scaped  demolishing 
r  th'  time  of  reformation :  lastly,  he  wish'd 
The  Bull  might  cross  the  1'hames  to  the  Bear- 
And  there  be  soundly  baited.  [garden, 

Bird.  A  good  prayer !  [science, 

Mrs.  F.  Indeed,  it  something  pricks  my  con- 
I  come  to  sell  'em  pins  and  looking-glasses. 

Bird.  I  have  their  custom,  too,  for  all  their 
feathers ; 
'Tis  fit  that  we,  which  are  sincere  professors, 
Should  gain  by  infidels. 


SPEECH  OF  ACOLASTUS  THE  EPIOURB. 

FROM   THE   SAME. 

0  !  NOW  for  an  eternity  of  eating ! 

1  would  have 

My  senses  feast  together;  Nature  envied  us 

In  giving  single  pleasures.     Let  me  have 

My  ears,  eyes,  palate,  nose,  and  touch,  at  once 

t  That  the  Globe,  Ac— The  Globe,  the  Phoenix,  the  For- 
tune, the  Blackfriars,  the  Red  Bull,  and  Bi-ar  Garden, 
were  names  of  several  play-houses  then  in  being. 


Enjoy  their  happiness.     Lay  me  in  a  bed 
Made  of  a  summer's  cloud  ;  to  my  embraces 
Give  me  a  Venus  hardly  yet  fifteen, 
Fresh,  plump,  and  active — she  that  Mars  enjoy'd 
Is  grown  too  stale ;  and  then  at  the  same  instant 
My  touch  is  pleased,  I  would  delight  my  sight 
With  pictures  of  Diana  and  her  nymphs 
Naked  and  bathing,  drawn  by  some  Apelles; 
By  them  some  of  our  fairest  virgins  stand, 
That  I  may  see  whether  'tis  art  or  nature 
Which  heightens  most  my  blood  and  appetite. 
Nor  cease  I  here :  give  me  the  seven  orbs. 
To  charm  my  ears  with  their  celestial  lutes. 
To  which  the  angels  that  do  move  those  spheres 
Shall  sing  some  am'rous  ditty.     Nor  yet  here 
Fix  I  my  bounds  :  the  sun  himself  shall  fire 
The  phoenix  nest  to  make  me  a  perfume, 
While  I  do  eat  the  bird,  and  eternally 
Quaff  off  eternal  nectar !     These,  single,  are 
But  torments ;  but  together,  O  together, 
Each  is  a  paradise !     Having  got  such  objects 
To  please  the  senses,  give  me  senses  too 
Fit  to  receive  those  objects ;  give  me,  therefore, 
An  eagle's  eye,  a  blood-hound's  curious  smell, 
A  stag's  quick  heanng ;  let  my  feeling  be 
As  subtle  as  the  spider's,  and  my  taste 
Sharp  as  a  squirrel's — then  I'll  read  the  Alcoran, 
And  what  delights  that  promises  in  future, 
I'll  practise  in  the  present. 


COLAX,  THE  FLATTEKER, 

tfETWIEN  THE    DISMAL    PHnOSOPHER  ANAISTBETTS    AND    THE 
EPICCRE  AOOLASTUS,  ACCOMXODATIKO  HIS  OPINIOKS  TO  BOTH. 

FKOM  THE  SAME. 

Aedatltu.  Then  let's  go  drink  a  while. 

Anaislhelut.  'Tis   too   much   labour.      Happy 
That  never  drinks  !  .  .  .  [Tantalus, 

Colax.  Sir,  I  commend  this  temperance.     Your 
Is  able  to  contemn  these  petty  baits,      [arm'd  soul 
These  slight  temptations,  which  we  title  pleasures. 
That  are  indeed  but  names.     Heaven  itself  knows 
No  such  like  thing.     The  stars  nor  eat,  nor  drink, 
Nor  lie  with  one  another,  and  you  imitate 
Those  glorious  bodies ;  by  which  noble  abstinence 
You  gain  the  name  of  moderate,  chaste,  and  sober, 
While  this  effeminate  gets  the  infamous  terms 
Of  glutton,  drunkard,  and  adulterer ; 
Pleasures  that  are  not  man's,  as  man  is  man, 
But  as  his  nature  sympathies  with  beasts. 
You  shall  be  the  third  Cato — this  grave  look 

And  rigid  eyebrow  will  become  a  censor 

But  I  will  fit  you  with  an  object.  Sir, 

My  noble  Anaisthetus,  that  will  please  you ; 

It  is  a  looking-glass,  wherein  at  once 

You  may  see  all  the  dismal  groves  and  caves, 

The  horrid  vaults,  dark  cells,  and  barren  deserts. 

With  what  in  hell  itself  can  dismal  be  ! 

Anuistki  This  is,  indeed,  a  prospect  fit  for  me. 

lExU. 

Arolas.  He  cannot  see  a  stock  or  stone,  but  pre- 
He  wishes  to  be  turn'd  to  one  of  those.         [sently 
I  have  another  humour — I  cannot  see 
A  fat  voluptuous  sow  with  full  delight 
Wallow  in  dirt,  but  I  do  wish  myself 
26 


Transform'd  into  that  blessed  epicure  ; 

Or  when  I  view  the  hot  salacious  sparrow,  . . . 

I  wish  myself  that  little  bird  of  love. 

Colax.  It  shows  you  a  man  of  soft  moving  clay 
Not  made  of  flint     Nature  has  been  bountifii\ 
To  provide  pleasures,  and  shall  we  be  niggards 
At  plentiful  boards  ?     He's  a  discourteous  guest 
That  will  observe  a  diet  at  a  feast. 
When  Nature  thought  the  earth  alone  too  little 
To  find  us  meat,  and  therefore  stored  the  air 
With  V  aged  creatures;  not  contented  yet. 
She  made  the  water  fruitful  to  delight  us ! 
Nay,  I  believe  the  other  element  too 
Doth  nurse  some  curious  dainty  for  man's  food, 
If  we  would  use  the  skill  to  catch  the  salamander. 
Did  she  do  this  to  have  us  eat  with  temperance  1 
Or  when  she  gave  so  many  different  odours 
Of  spices,  unguents,  and  all  sorts  of  flowers, 
She  cried  not,  "  Stop  your  noses."     Would  she 
So  sweet  a  choir  of  wing'd  musicians,        [give  us 
To  have  us  deaf  7  or  when  she  placed  us  here — 
Here  in  a  paradise,  where  such  pleasing  prospects, 
So  many  ravishing  colours,  entice  the  eye. 
Was  it  to  have  us  wink  ]     When  she  bestow'd 
So  powerful  faces,  such  commanding  beauties. 
On  many  glorious  nymphs,  was  it  to  say. 
Be  chaste  and  continent  1     Not  to  enjoy 
All  pleasures,  and  at  full,  were  to  make  Nature 
Guilty  of  that  she  ne'er  was  guilty  ot^ — 
A  vanity  in  her  works. 


COLAX  TO  PHILOTIMIA,  OR  THE  PROUD  LADY. 


FBOX  THE  SAME. 


Colax.  Madam  Superbia, 
You're  studying  the  lady's  library. 
The  looking-glass :  'tis  well,  so  great  a  beauty 
Must  have  her  ornaments ;  nature  adorns 
The  peacock's  tail  with  stars ;  'tis  she  arrays 
The  bird  of  paradise  in  all  her  plumes. 
She  decks  the  fields  with  various  flowers ;  'tis  she 
Spangled  the  heavens  with  all  their  glorious  lights ; 
She  spotted  th'  ermine's  skin,  and  arm'd  the  fish 
In  silver  mail :  but  man  she  sent  forth  naked — 
Not  that  he  should  remain  so — but  that  he. 
Endued  with  reason,  should  adorn  himself 
With  every  one  of  these.     To  silk-worm  is 
Only  man's  spinster,  else  we  might  suspect 
That  she  esteem'd  the  painted  butterfly 
Above  her  master-piece ;  you  are  the  image 
Of  that  bright  goddess,  therefore  wear  the  jewels 
Of  all  the  East — let  the  Red  Sea  be  ransack'd 
To  make  you  glitter ! 


THE  PRAISE  OF  WOMAN. 

FROM  HIB  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

He  is  a  parricide  to  his  mother's  name. 
And  with  an  impious  hand  murders  her  fame. 
That  wrongs  the  praise  of  women ;  that  dares  write 
Libels  on  saints,  or  with  foul  ink  requite 
The  milk  they  lent  us !     Better  sex !  comniaod 
To  your  defence  my  more  rehgious  hand. 
At  sword  or  pen ;  yours  was  the  nobler  birtlv 
For  you  of  man  were  made,  man  but  of  ear^hr^ 
K 


194 


RICHARD   CORBET. 


The  sun  of  dust ;  and  though  your  sin  did  breed 
His  fall,  again  you  raised  him  in  your  seed. 
Adam,  in  's  sleep,  again  full  loss  sustain'd, 
That  for  one  rib  a  better  half  regain'd, 
Who,  had  he  not  your  blest  creation  seen 
In  Paradise  an  anchorite  had  been. 
Why  in  this  work  did  the  creation  rest, 
But  that  Eternal  Providence  thought  you  best 
Of  all  his  six  days'  labour  1     Beasts  should  do 
Homage  to  man,  but  man  shall  wait  on  you ; 
You  are  of  comelier  sight,  of  daintier  touch, 
A  tender  fiesh,  and  colour  bright,  and  such 
As  Parians  see  in  marble ;  skin  more  fair. 
More  glorious  head,  and  far  more  glorious  hair ; 
Eyes  full  of  grace  and  quickness ;  purer  roses 
Blush  in  your  cheeks,  a  milder  white  composes 
Your  stately  fronts;  yourbreath,more  sweet  than  his, 
Breathes  spice,  and  nectar  drops  at  every  kiss.  . . . 


If,  then,  in  bodies  where  the  souls  do  dwell. 
You  better  us,  do  then  our  souls  excel  1 

No 

Boast  we  of  knowledge,  you  are  more  than  we. 
You  were  the  first  ventured  to  pluck  the  tree ; 
And   that   more    rhetoric   in   your   tongues    do 

lie. 
Let  him  dispute  against  that  dares  deny 
Your  least  commands ;  and  not  persuaded  be 
With  Samson's  strength  and  David's  piety. 

To  be  your  willing  captives 

Thus,  perfect  creatures,  if  detraction  rise 
Against  your  sex,  dispute  but  with  your  eyes. 
Your  hand,  your  lip,  your  brow,  there  will  be 

sent 
So  subtle  and  so  strong  an  argument. 
Will  teach  the  stoic  his  affections  too. 
And  call  the  cynic  from  his  tub  to  woo. 


RICHARD  CORBET. 


[Born,  1582.    Died,  1633.] 

Thk  anecdotes  of  this  facetious  bishop,  quoted 
by  Headley  firom  the  Aubrey  MSS.  would  fill 
several  pages  of  a  jest-book.  It  is  more  to  his 
honour  to  be  told,  that  though  entirely  hostile  in 
his  principles  to  the  Puritans,  he  frequently  soft- 
ened, with  his  humane  and  characteristic  plea- 


santry, the  furious  orders  against  them  which 
Laud  enjoined  him  to  execute.  On  the  whole 
he  does  credit  to  the  literary  patronage  of  James, 
who  made  him  dean  of  Christ's  Church,  and  suc- 
cessively bishop  of  Oxford  and  Norwich. 


DR.  CORBET'S  JOURNEY  INTO  FRANCE. 
I  WENT  from  England  into  France, 
Nor  yet  to  learn  to  cringe  nor  dance. 
Nor  yet  to  ride  nor  fence ; 
Nor  did  I  go  like  one  of  those 
That  do  return  with  half  a  nose, 
They  carried  from  hence. 

But  I  to  Paris  rode  along. 

Much  like  John  Dory  in  the  song, 

Upon  a  holy  tide ; 

I  on  an  ambling  nag  did  jet, 

(I  trust  he  is  not  paid  for  yet,) 

And  spurr'd  him  on  each  side. 

And  to  St.  Denis  fast  we  came. 
To  see  the  sights  of  Notre  Dame, 
(The  man  that  shows  them  snaffles,) 
Where  who  is  apt  for  to  believe, 
May  see  our  Lady's  right-arm  sleeve. 
And  eke  her  old  pantoffles ; 

Her  breast,  her  milk,  her  very  gown 
That  she  did  wear  in  Bethlehem  town, 
When  in  the  inn  she  lay ; 
Yet  all  the  world  knows  that's  a  fable. 
For  so  good  clothes  ne'er  lay  in  stable. 
Upon  a  lock  of  hay. 

No  carpenter  could  by  his  trade 

Gain  so  much  coin  as  to  have  made 

A  gown  of  so  rich  stuff; 

Yet  they,  poor  souls,  think  for  their  credit. 

That  they  believe  old  Joseph  did  it, 

'Cause  he  deserv'd  enough. 


There  is  one  of  the  cross's  nails. 
Which  whoso  sees  his  bonnet  vails. 
And,  if  he  will,  may  kneel ; 
Some  say  'twas  false,  'twas  never  so. 
Yet,  feeling  it,  thus  much  I  know. 
It  is  as  true  as  steel. 

There  is  a  lantern  which  the  Jews, 
When  Judas  led  them  forth,  did  use. 
It  weighs  my  weight  down  right ; 
But  to  believe  it,  you  must  think 
The  Jews  did  put  a  candle  in't. 
And  then  'twas  very  hght. 

There's  one  saint  there  hath  lost  his  nose, 

Another  's  head,  but  not  his  toes. 

His  elbow  and  his  thumb ; 

But  when  that  we  had  seen  the  rags. 

We  went  to  th'  inn  and  took  our  nags. 

And  so  away  did  come. 

We  came  to  Paris,  on  the  Seine, 
'Tis  wondrous  fair,  'tis  nothing  clean, 
'Tis  Europe's  greatest  town ; 
How  slrong  it  is  I  need  not  tell  it, 
For  all  the  world  may  easily  smell  it. 
That  walk  it  up  and  down. 

There  many  strange  things  are  to  see, 

The  palace  and  great  gallery. 

The  Place  Royal  doth  excel, 

The  New  Bridge,  and  the  statues  there, 

At  Notre  Dame  St.  Q.  Pater, 

The  steeple  bears  the  bell. 


RICHARD  CORBET. 


1J5 


For  learning  the  University, 
And  for  old  clothes  the  Frippery, 
The  house  the  queen  did  build. 
St.  Innocence,  whose  earth  devours 
Dead  corpse  in  four  and  twenty  hours, 
And  there  the  king  was  kill'd. 

The  Bastile  and  St  Denis  street. 
The  Shafflenist  like  London  Fleet, 
The  Arsenal  no  toy  ; 
But  if  you'll  see  the  prettiest  thing. 
Go  to  the  court  and  see  the  king, 
O  'tis  a  hopeful  boy  ! 

He  is,  of  all  his  dukes  and  peers. 
Reverenced  for  much  wit  at  's  years, 
Nor  must  you  think  it  much ; 
For  he  with  little  switch  doth  play. 
And  make  fine  dirty  pies  of  clay, 
O,  never  king  made  such ! 

A  bird  that  can  but  kill  a  fly. 

Or  prate,  doth  please  his  majesty, 

'Tis  known  to  every  one ; 

The  Duke  of  Guise  gave  him  a  parrot. 

And  he  had  twenty  cannons  for  it. 

For  his  new  galleon. 

0  that  I  e'er  might  have  the  hap 
To  get  the  bird  which  in  the  map 
Is  call'd  the  Indian  ruck ! 

I'd  give  it  him,  and  hope  to  be 
As  rich  as  Guise  or  Living, 
Or  else  I  had  ill-luck. 

Birds  round  about  his  chamber  stand, 
And  he  them  feeds  with  his  own  hand, 
'Tis  his  humility ; 
And  if  they  do  want  any  thing. 
They  need  but  whistle  for  their  king. 
And  he  comes  presently. 

But  now,  then,  for  these  parts  he  must 

Be  enstiled  Lewis  the  Just, 

Great  Henry's  lawful  heir; 

When  to  his  stile  to  add  more  words. 

They'd  better  call  him  King  of  Birds, 

Than  of  the  great  Navarre. 

He  hath  besides  a  pretty  quirk. 
Taught  him  by  nature,  how  to  work 
In  iron  with  much  ease ; 
Sometimes  to  the  forge  he  goes. 
There  he  knocks  and  there  he  blows. 
And  makes  both  locks  and  keys ; 

Which  puts  a  doubt  in  every  one. 
Whether  he  be  Mars  or  Vulcan's  son. 
Some  few  believe  his  mother ; 
But  let  them  all  say  what  they  will, 

1  came  resolved,  and  so  think  still. 
As  much  th'  one  as  th'  other. 

The  people  too  dislike  the  youth, 
Alleging  reasons,  for,  in  truth. 
Mothers  should  honour'd  be  ; 
Yet  others  say,  he  loves  her  rather 
As  well  as  ere  she  loved  his  father, 
And  tliat's  notoriously 


His  queen,*  a  pretty  little  wench. 
Was  born  in  Spain,  speaks  little  French, 
She's  ne'er  like  to  be  mother; 
For  her  incestuous  house  could  not 
Have  children  which  were  not  begot 
By  uncle  or  by  brother. 

Nor  why  should  Lewis,  being  so  just. 
Content  himself  to  take  his  lust 
With  his  Lucina's  mate, 
And  suflier  his  little  pretty  queen. 
From  all  her  race  that  yet  hath  been. 
So  to  degenerate  1 

'Twere  charity  for  to  be  known 
To  love  others'  children  as  his  own, 
And  why  1  it  is  no  shame. 
Unless  that  he  would  greater  be 
Than  was  his  father  Henery, 
Who,  men  thought,  did  the  same. 


THE  FAIRIES'   FAREWELL. 
Farewell,  rewards  and  Fairies ! 
Good  housewives  now  you  may  say ; 
For  now  foul  sluts  in  dairies, 
Do  fare  as  well  as  they : 
And  though  they  sweep  their  hearths  no  less 
Than  maids  were  wont  to  do. 
Yet  who  of  late  for  cleanliness 
Finds  sixpence  in  her  shoe  1 

Lament,  lament,  old  abbeys. 

The  fairies  lost  command ; 

They  did  but  change  priests'  babies. 

But  some  have  changed  your  land : 

And  all  your  children  stol'n  from  thence 

Are  now  grown  Puritans, 

Who  live  as  changelings  ever  since. 

For  love  of  your  domains. 

At  morning  and  at  evening  both 

You  merry  were  and  glad. 

So  little  care  of  sleep  and  sloth. 

These  pretty  ladies  had. 

When  Tom  came  home  from  labour, . 

Or  Ciss  to  milking  rose. 

Then  merrily  went  their  tabor. 

And  nimbly  went  their  toes. 

Witness  those  rings  and  roundelays . 
Of  theirs,  which  yet  remain; 
Were  footed  in  Queen  Mary's  days. 
On  many  a  grassy  plain. 
But  since  of  late  Elizabeth 
And  later  James  came  in; 
They  never  danced  on  any  heath. 
As  when  the  time  hath  bin. 

By  which  we  note  the  fairies 
Were  of  the  old  profession: 
Their  songs  were  Ave  Maries, 
Their  dances  were  procession. 
But  now,  alas!  they  all  are  dead, 
Or  gone  beyond  the  seas, 
Or  larther  for  religion  fled. 
Or  else  they  take  their  ease 


[*  Anne  of  Austria^— C.] 


THOMAS  MIDDLETON. 

[Born,  1570.     Buried,  4th  July,  1627?] 


The  dates  of  this  author's  birth  and  death  are 
both  unknown,  though  his  Uving  reputation,  as 
the  literary  associate  of  Jonson,  Fletcher,  Mas- 
singer,  Dekker,  and  Rowley,  must  have  been  con- 
siderable. If  Oldys  be  correct,*  he  W£is  alive 
alter  November,  1627.  Middleton  was  appointed 
chronologer  to  the  city  of  Londonf  in  1620,  and 
in  1624  was  cited  before  the  privy-council,  as 
author  of  The  Game  of  Chess.  The  verses  of 
Sir  W.  Lower,  quoted  by  Oldys,  allude  to  the 
poet's  white  locks,  so  that  he  was  probably  born 
as  early  as  the  middle  of  the  sixteenth  century  .J 
His  tragicomedy,  "  The  Witch,"  according  to  Mr. 
Malone,  was  written  anterior  to  Macbeth,  and 
suggested  to  Shakspeare  the  vntchcraft  scenery  in 


the  latter  play.  The  songs  beginning  "  Come 
away,"  &c.,  and  "  Black  Spirits,"  &c.,  of  which 
only  the  first  two  words  are  printed  in  Macbeth, 
are  found  in  the  Witch.  Independent  of  having 
afforded  a  hint  to  Shakspeare,  Middleton's  repu- 
tation cannot  be  rated  highly  for  the  pieces  to 
which  his  name  is  exclusively  attached.  His 
principal  efforts  were  in  comedy,  where  he  deals 
profusely  in  grossness  and  buffoonery.  The 
cheats  and  debaucheries  of  the  town  are  his 
favourite  sources  of  comic  intrigue.  With  a  sin- 
gular effort  at  the  union  of  the  sublime  and  fami- 
liar, he  introduces,  in  one  of  his  coarse  drafts  of 
London  vice,  an  infernal  spirit  prompting  a  coun- 
try gentleman  to  the  seduction  of  a  citizen's  wife.§ 


LEANTIO  APPROACHING   HIS   HOME. 

FROM   THB  TEAOEDT  OP   "  WOMEJf  BEWARE  WOMEN." 

How  near  I  am  now  to  a  happiness 
That  earth  exceeds  not !  not  another  like  it. 
The  treasures  of  the  deep  are  not  so  precious 
As  are  the  conceal'd  comforts  of  a  man 
Lock'd  up  in  woman's  love.     I  scent  the  air 
Of  blessings,  when  I  come  but  near  the  house. 
What  a  delicious  breath  marriage  sends  forth, 
The  violet  bed's  not  sweeter !     Honest  wedlock 
Is  like  a  banqueting  house  built  in  a  garden. 
On  which  the  spring's  chaste  flowers  take  delight 
To  cast  their  modest  odours ;  when  base  lust. 
With  all  her  powders,  paintings,  and  best  pride, 
Is  but  a  fair  house  built  by  a  ditch  side. 

Now  for  a  welcome 

Able  to  draw  men's  envies  upon  man ; 
A  kiss,  now,  that  will  hang  upon  my  lip 
As  sweet  as  morning  dew  upon  a  rose, 
And  fiill  as  long. 


LEANTICS  AGONY  FOR  THE  DESERTION  OF  HIS 
WIFE. 

FROM  THE  SAME. 

Leantio,  a  man  of  humble  fortune,  has  married  a  beauti- 
ful wife,  who  in  basely  seduced  by  the  Duke  of  Florence. 
The  duke,  with  refined  cruelty,  invites  them  both  to  a 
feast,  where  he  lavishes  his  undisguised  admiration  on 
his  mistress.  The  scene  displays  the  feelings  of  I^antio, 
restrained  by  ceremony  and  fear,  under  the  insulting 
hospitality,  at  the  conclusion  of  which  he  is  left  alone 
with  Livia,  a  lady  of  the  court,  who  has  fallen  in  love 
with  him,  and  wishes  to  attach  his  affections. 

Leantio.  (  Without  noticing  Livia.)  O  hast  thou 
left  me  then,  Bianca,  utterly  1 
0  Bianca,  now  I  miss  thee !     Oh  !  return. 
And  save  the  faith  of  woman.     I  ne'er  feJt 
The  loss  of  thee  till  now :  'tis  an  affliction 
Of  greater  weight  than  youth  was  made  to  bear ; 
As  if  a  punishment  of  after  life 


*  MS.  notes  on  Langbaine. 

ft  Or  city  poet.    Jonson  and  Quarles  filled  the  ofl^ce  after 
Middleton.  which  expired  with  Elkanah  Settle,  1723-4.— C.l 

[J  The  verseg  in  question  1  believe  to  be  a  forgery  of 
Chetwood.— Dtcs's  MiddleUm,  vol.  i.  p.  xiji.— C  1 
196 


Were  fall'n  upon  man  here,  so  new  it  is 
To  flesh  and  blood  ;  so  strange,  so  insupportable ; 
A  torment  even  mistook,  as  if  a  body 
Whose  death  were  drowning,  must  needs  there- 
fore suffer  it 
In  scalding  oil. 

Livia.  Sweet  sir ! 

Lean.  (  Without  noticing  her.)    As  long  as  mine 
I  half  enjoy'd  thee.  [eye  saw  thee, 

Liv.  Sir! 

Lean.  (  Without  noticing  her.)    Canst  thou  forget 
The  dear  pains  my  love  took  1  how  it  has  watch'd 
Whole  nights  together,  in  all  weathers,  for  thee. 
Yet  stood  in  heart  more  merry  than  the  tempest 
That  suBg  about  mine  ears,like  dangerous  flatterers, 
That  can  set  all  their  mischiefs  to  sweet  tunes, 
And  then  received  thee  from  thy  father's  window, 
Into  these  arms,  at  midnight ;  when  we  embraced 
As  if  we  had  been  statues  only  made  for't. 
To  show  art's  life,  so  silent  were  our  comforts ; 
And  kiss'd  as  if  our  lips  had  grown  together. 

Iav.  This  makes  me  madder  to  enjoy  him  now. 

Lean.  (  Without  noticing  her.)    Canst  thou  forget 
all  this,  and  better  joys 
That  we  met  after  this,  which  then  new  kisses 
Took  pride  to  praise  ] 

Liv.  I  shall  grow  madder  yet : — Sir ! 

Lean.  (  Without  noticing  her.)     This  cannot  be 
but  of  some  close  bawd's  working  : — 
Cry  mercy,  lady  !     What  would  you  say  to  me  1 
My  sorrow  makes  me  so  unmannerly, 
So  comfort  bless  me,  I  had  quite  forgot  you. 

Liv.  Nothing,  but  e'en  in  pity  to  that  passion 
Would  give  your  grief  good  counsel. 

Lean.  Marry,  and  welcome,  lady, 
It  never  could  come  better. 

Liv.  Then  first,  sir, 
Tomake  away  allyour  good  thoughts  stonce  of  her. 
Know,  most  assuredly,  she  is  a  strumpet. 


[g  Middleton's  dramatic  works,  since  this  was  written, 
have  been  collected  by  Rev.  A.  Dyce.  whose  contributions 
to  English  literary  history  ase  frequently  quoted  in  this 
volume. — G.] 


THOMAS   MIDDLETON. 


197 


Lean,  Ha !  most  assuredly  ?    Speak  not  a  thing 
So  vile  80  certainly,  leave  it  more  doubtful. 

Liv.  Then  I  must  leave  all  truth,  and  spare  my 
knowledge, 
A  sin  which  I  too  lately  found  and  wept  for. 

Lean.  Found  you  it  1 

Liv.  Ay,  with  wet  eyes. 

Lean.  Oh,  perjurious  friendship ! 

Lw.  You  miss'd  your  fortunes  when  you  met 
with  her,  sir. 
Young  gentlemen,  that  only  love  for  beauty, 
They  love  not  wisely ;  such  a  marriage  rather 
Proves  the  destruction  of  affection  ; 
It  brings  on  want,  and  want's  the  key  of  whoredom. 
I  think  you'd  small  means  with  her  1 

Lean.  Oh,  not  any,  lady.  [sir, 

Liv.  Alas,  poor  gentleman  !  what  mean'st  thou. 
Quite  to  undo  thyself  with  thine  own  kind  heart? 
Thou  art  too  good  and  pitiful  to  woman : 
Marry,  sir,  thank  thy  stars  for  this  bless'd  fortune. 
That  rids  the  summer  of  thy  youth  so  well 
From  many  beggars,  that  had  lain  a  sunning 
In  thy  beams  only  else,  till  thou  hadst  wasted 
The  whole  days  of  thy  life  in  heat  and  labour. 
What  would  you  say  now  to  a  creature  found 
As  pitiful  to  you,  and  as  it  were 
E'en  sent  on  purpose  from  the  whole  sex  general. 
To  requite  all  that  kindness  you  have  shown  to't  1 

Lean.  What's  that,  madam  1 

Liv.  Nay,  a  gentlewoman,  and  one  able 
To  reward  good  things;  ay,  and  bears  a  con- 
science to't : 
Couldst  thou  love  such  a  one,that  (blow  all  fortunes) 
Would  never  see  thee  want  1 
Nay  more,  maintain  thee  to  thine  enemy's  envy, 
And  shalt  not  spend  a  care  for't,  stir  a  thought, 
Kor  break  a  sleep  1  unless  love's  music  waked  thee, 
Nor  storm  of  fortune  should :  look  upon  me, 
And  know  that  woman. 

Lean.  Oh,  my  life's  wealth,  Bianca!  [out  1 

Liv.  Still  with  her  name  1  will  nothing  wear  it 
That  deep  sigh  went  but  for  a  strumpet,  sir. 

Lean,  It  can  go  for  no  other  that  loves  me. 

Liv.  (Aside)  He's  vex'd  in  mind ;  I  came  too 
soon  to  him : 
Where's  my  discretion  now,  my  skill,my  judgment? 
I'm  cunning  in  all  arts  but  my  own,  love. 
'Tis  as  unseasonable  to  tempt  him  now 
So  soon,  as  [for]  a  widow  to  be  courted 
Following  her  husband's  corse;  or  to  make  bargain 
By  the  grave  side,  and  take  a  young  man  there : 
Her  strange  departure  stands  like  a  hearse  yet 
Before  his  eyes ;  which  time  will  take  down  shortly. 

Lean.  Is  she  my  wife  till  death,  yet  no  more 
mine  1  [for  \ 

That's  a  hard  measure :  then  what's  marriage  good 
Methinks  by  right  I  should  not  now  be  living, 
And  then  'twere  all  well.     What  a  happiness 
Had  I  been  made  of  had  I  never  seen  her; 
For  nothing  makes  man's  loss  g^evous  to  him, 
But  knowledge  of  the  worth  of  what  he  loses; 
For  what  he  never  had,  he  never  misses : 
She's  gone  tor  ever,  utterly ;  there  is 
48  much  redemption  of  a  soul  from  hell, 


As  a  fair  woman's  body  from  his  palace. 

Why  should  my  love  last  longer  than  her  truth  ! 

What  is  there  good  in  woman  to  be  loved. 

When  only  that  which  makes  her  so  has  left  her'' 

I  cannot  love  her  now,  but  I  must  like 

Her  sin,  and  my  own  shame  too,  and  be  guilty 

Of  law's  breach  with  her,  and  mine  own  abusing ; 

All  which  were  monstrous !  then  my  safest  course 

For  health  of  mind  and  body,  is  to  turn 

My  heart,  and  hate  her,  most  extremely  hate  her ; 

I  have  no  other  way  :  those  virtuous  powers 

Which  were  chaste  witnesses  of  both  our  troths, 

Can  witness  she  breaks  first ! 


SCENE   FROM  "THE  ROARING  GIRL." 

Mrs.  Gallipot,  the  apothecary's  wife,  having  received  alet- 
ter  from  her  friend  Laxton  that  he  is  in  want  of  money, 
thus  bethinks  her  how  to  raise  it. 

Alas,  poor  gentleman !  troth,  I  pity  him. 
How  shall  I  raise  this  money  ?  thirty  pound  1 
'Tis  30,  sure,  a  3  before  an  0 ; 
I  know  his  3's  too  well.     My  childbed  linen. 
Shall  I  pawn  that  for  him  ]  then,  if  my  mark 
Be  known,  I  am  undone ;  it  may  be  thought 
My  husband's  bankrupt :  which  way  shall  I  turn? 
Laxton,  betwixt  my  own  fears  and  thy  wants 
I'm  like  a  needle  'twixt  two  adamants. 
Enter  Mr.  Gauipot  fuutily. 

Mr.  G.  What  letter's  that!     I'll  see't 

[She  tears  the  letter. 

Mrs.  G.  Oh !  would  thou  hadst  no  eyes  to  see 
the  downfall 
Of  me  and  of  thyself — I'm  for  ever,  ever  undone ! 

Mr.  G.  What  ails  my  Prue  1     What  paper's 
that  thou  tear'st ! 

Mrs.  G.  Would  I  could  tear 
My  very  heart  in  pieces !  for  my  soul 
Lies  on  the  rack  of  shame,  that  tortures  me 
Beyond  a  woman's  suHering. 

Mr.  G.  What  means  this  1  [down, 

Mrs.  G.  Had  you  no  other  vengeance  to  throw 
But  even  in  height  of  all  my  joys 

Mr,  G.  Dear  woman  ! 

Mrs.  G.  When  the  full  sea  ofpleasure  and  delight 
Seem'd  to  flow  over  me — 

iUr.  G.  As  thou  desirest 
To  keep  me  out  of  Bedlam.tell  what  troubles  thee. — 
Is  not  thy  child  at  nurse  fall'n  sick  or  dead  1 

Mrs.  G.  Oh,  no  !  [houses, 

Mr.  G.  Heavens  bless  me ! — Are  my  barns  and 
Yonder  at  Hockley  Hole,  consumed  with  fire  ? — 
I  can  build  more,  sweet  Prue. 

Mrs.  G.  'Tis  worse !  'tis  worse  ! 

Mr.  G.  My  factor  broke?  or  is  the  Jonas  sunk? 

Mrs.  G.  Would  all  we  had  were  swallow'd  ii: 
the  waves. 
Rather  than  both  should  be  the  scorn  of  slaves ! 

Mr.  G.  I'm  at  my  wit's  end. 

Mrs.  G.  O,  my  dear  husband  ! 
Where  once  I  thought  myself  a  fixed  star, 
Placed  only  in  the  heaven  of  thine  arms, 
I  fear  now  I  shall  prove  a  wanderer 
O  Laxton  !  Laxton  !  is  it  then  my  fa»« 
To  be  by  thee  o'erthrown  ! 


198 


THOMAS   MIDDLETON. 


Mr.  G.  Defend  me,  wisdom, 
From  falling  into  phrensy  !     On  my  knees, 
Sweet  Prue,  speak — ^what's  that  Laxton,  who  so 
Lies  on  thy  bosom  1  [heavy 

Mrs.  G.  I  shall  sure  run  mad  ! 

Mr.  G.  I  shall  run  mad  for  company  then: 
speak  to  me — 
I'm  Gallipot,  thy  husband.     Prue — why,  Prue, 
Art  sick  in  conscience  for  some  villanous  deed 
Thou  wert  about  to  act]— ^idst  mean  to  rob  me  I 
Tush,  I  forgive  thee. — Hast  thou  on  my  bed 
Thrust  my  soft  pillow  under  another's  head  1 — 
I'll  wink  at  all  faults,  Prue — 'Las !  that's  no  more 
Than  what  some  neighbours  near  thee  have  done 

before. 
Sweet  honey — Prue — what's  that  Laxton  1 

Mrs.  G.  Oh! 

Mr.  G.  Out  with  him. 

Mrs.  G.  Oh !  he — he's  bom  to  be  my  undoer ! 
This  hand.which  thou  call'st  thine,to  himwas  given; 
To  him  was  I  made  sure  i'  the  sight  of  heaven. 

Mr.  G.  I  never  heard  this — thunder ! 

Mrs.  G.  .Yes,  yes — before 
I  was  to  thee  contracted,  to  him  I  swore. 
Since  last  I  saw  him  twelve  months  three  times  old 
The  moon  hath  drawn  through  her  light  silver  bow ; 
But  o'er  the  seas  he  went,  and  it  was  said — 
But  rumours  lies — that  he  in  France  was  dead : 
But  he's  alive — oh,  he's  alive ! — he  sent 
That  letter  to  me,  which  in  rage  I  rent, 
Swearing,  with  oaths  most  damnably,  to  have  me. 
Or  tear  me  from  this  bosom. — Oh,  heavens  save  me ! 

Mr.  G.  My  heart  will  break — Shamed  and  un- 
done for  ever ! 

Mrs.  G.  So  black  a  day,  poor  wretch,  went  o'er 
thee  never. 

Mr.  G.  If  thou  shouldst  wrestle  with  him  at 
the  law, 
Thou'rt  sure  to  fall ;  no  odd  slight,  no  prevention. 
I'll  ^ell  him  th'  art  with  child. 

M  s.  G.  Umph. 

Mr.  G.  Or  give  out,  that  one  of  my  men  was 
ta'en  abed  with  thee. 

Mrs.  G.  Worse  and  worse  still ; 
You  embrace  a  mischief  to  prevent  an  ill. 

Mr.  G.  I'll  buy  thee  of  him — stop  his  mouth 
with  gold-  - 
Think  %t  thou  'twiU  dol 

Mrs,  G.  Oh  me     heavens  grant  it  would ! 
Yet  now  my  senses  are  set  more  in  tune ; 
He  writ,  as  I  remember  in  his  letter. 
That  he,  in  riding  up  and  down,  had  spent. 
Ere  he  could  find  me,  thirty  pound.— Send  that; 
Stand  not  on  thirty  with  him. 

Mr.  G.  Forty,  Prue — say  thou  the  word  'tis  done. 
We  venture  lives  for  wealth,  hut  must  do  more 
To  keep  our  wives. — Thirty  or  forty,  Prue  ] 

Mrs.  G.  Thirty,  good  sweet ! 
Of  an  ill  bargain  let's  save  what  we  can ; 
I'll  pay  it  him  with  tears.     He  was  a  man, 
When  first  I  knew  him, of  a  meek  spirit; 
All  goodness  is  not  yet  dried  up,  I  hope.        [all ; 

Mr.  G.  He  shall  have  thirty  pound,  let  that  stop 
Love's  sweets  taste  best  when  we  have  drunk 
down  gall. 


FATHERS  COMPARING   SONS. 
BENEFIT  OF  IMPRISONMENT  TO  A  WILD  YOUTH. 

FROM   THE   SAME. 

Persons. — Sir  Davy  Dapper,  Sir  Alex.  Wengeave,  and  Sib 
Adam  Appleton. 

Sir  Dav.  My  son  Jack  Dapper,  then,  shall  run 
All  in  one  pasture.  [with  him, 

Sir  JlUx.  Proves  your  son  bad  too,  sir  ]      [tian 

Sir  Dav.  As  villany  can  make  him  :  your  Sebas- 
Dotes  but  on  one  drab,  mine  on  a  thousand. 

A  noise  of  fiddlers,  tobacco,  wine,  and  a , 

A  mercer,  that  will  let  him  take  up  more 

Dice,  and  a  water-spaniel  with  a  duck. — Oh, 
Bring  him  a  bed  with  these  when  his  purse  guigles 
Roaring  boys  follow  at  his  tail,  fencers  and  ningles, 
(Beasts  Adam  ne'er  gave  name  to ;)  these  horse- 
leeches suck 
My  son,  till  he  being  drawn  dry,  they  all  live  on 

Sir  jjlex.  Tobacco  ]  [smoke. 

Sir  Dav.  Right  sir ;  but  I  have  in  my  brain 
A  windmill  going  that  shall  grind  to  dust 
The  follies  of  my  son,  and  make  him  wise 
Or  a  stark  fool. — Pray  lend  me  your  advice. 

Both.  That  shall  you,  good  Sir  Davy. 

Sir  Dav.  Here's  the  springe 
That's  set  to  catch  this  woodcock  in — An  action, 
In  a  false  name,  unknown  to  him.  is  enter'd 
r  the  Counter  to  arrest  Jack  Dapper. 

Boh.  Ha,  ha,  he  !  [him  1 

Sir  Dav.  Think  you  the  Counter  cannot  break 

Sir  Alex.  Break  him  1  yes,  and  break  his  heart 
too,  if  he  lie  there  long. 

Sir  Dav.  I'll  make  him  sing  a  counter-tenor,  sure. 

Sir  Mex.  No  way  to  tame  him  like  it :  there 
shall  he  learn 
What  money  is  indeed,  and  how  to  spend  it. 

Sir  Dav.  He's  bridled  there. 

Sir  Jilex.  Ay,  yet  knows  not  how  to  mend  it. 
Bedlam  cures  not  more  madmen  in  a  year 
Than  one  of  the  Counters  does.  Men  pay  more  dear 
There  for  their  wit  than  anywhere.     A  Counter ! 
Why,  'tis  an  university. — Who  not  sees  1 
As  scholars  there,  so  here  men  take  degrees, 
And  follow  the  same  studies,  all  alike. 
Scholars  learn  first  logic  and  rhetoric. 
So  does  a  prisoner ;  with  fine  honied  speech 
At  his  first  coming  in,  he  doth  persuade,  beseech 
He  may  be  lodged —  .... 

To  lie  in  a  clean  chamber 

But  when  he  has  no  money,  then  does  he  by. 
By  subtle  logic  and  quaint  sophistry. 
To  make  the  keepers  trust  him. 

Sir  Adam.  Say  they  do. 

Sir  Alex.  Then  he's  a  graduate. 

Sir  Dav.  Say  they  trust  him  not. 

Sir  Alex.  Then  is  he  held  a  freshman  and  a  sot, 
And  never  shall  commence,  but  being  still  barr'd, 
Be  expulsed  from  the  master's  side  to  the  Two- 
Or  else  i'  the  Holebeg  placed.  [penny  ward. 

Sir  Ad.  When  then,  I  pray,  proceeds  a  prisoner  1 

Sir  Alex.  W  hen,  money  being  the  theme, 
He  can  dispute  with  his  hard  creditors'  hearts. 
And  get  out  clear,  he's  then  a  master  of  arts. 
Sir  Davy,  send  your  son  to  Wood-street  college ; 
A  gentleman  can  nowhere  get  more  knowledge. 


CHARLES   FITZGEFFREY. 


19Q 


Sir  Dav.  These  gallants  study  hard. 
Sir  Mex.  True,  to  get  money. 
Sir  Dav.  Lies  by  the  heels,  i'faith !  thanks — 
thanks — I  ha'  sent 
For  a  couple  of  bears  shall  paw  him. 


DEVOTION  TO  LOVE. 

FBOM  THE  PLAY  OF  "BLUBT,  MASTER-CONSTABLE." 

0,  HAPPY  persecution,  I  embrace  thee 

With  an  unfetter'd  soul ;  so  sweet  a  thing 

It  is  to  sigh  upon  the  rack  of  love, 

Where  each  calamity  is  groaning  witness 

Of  the  poor  martyr's  faith.     I  never  heard 

Of  any  true  affection  but  'twas  nipt 

With  care,  that,  like  the  caterpillar,  eats 

The  leaves  of  the  spring's  sweetest  book,  the  rose. 

Love,  bred  on  earth,  is  often  nursed  in  hell ; 

By  rote  it  reads  woe  ere  it  learn  to  spell 

When  I  call  back  my  vows  to  Violetta, 
May  I  then  slip  into  an  6bscure  grave. 
Whose  mould,  unpress'd  with  stony  monument 
Dwelling  in  open  air,  may  drink  the  tears 
Of  the  inconstant  clouds  to  rot  me  soon !  .  .  . . 

He  that  truly  loves, 
Burns  out  the  day  in  idle  fantasies ; 
And  when  the  lamb,  bleating,  doth  bid  good  night 
Unto  the  closing  day,  then  tears  begin 
To  keep  quick  time  unto  the  owl,  whose  voice 
Shrieks  like  the  bell-man  in  the  lover's  ear. 
Love's  eye  the  jewel  of  sleep,  oh,  seldom  wears  ! 
The  early  lark  is  waken'd  from  her  bed, 
Being  only  by  love's  pains  disquieted ; 
But,  singing  in  the  morning's  ear,  she  weeps. 
Being  deep  in  love,  at  lovers'  broken  sleeps : 
But  say,  a  golden  slumber  chance  to  tie. 
With  silken  strings,  the  cover  of  love's  eye, 
Then  dreams,  magician-like,  mocking  present 
Pleasures,  whose  fading,  leaves  more  discontent. 


INDIGNATION  AT  THE  SALE   OF  A  WIFE'S 
HONOUR. 

PKOM   "THE  PHfflSIX." 

Of  all  the. deeds  yet  this  strikes  the  deepest  wound 
Into  my  apprehension, 

Reverend  and  honourable  matrimony,  ' 

Mother  of  lawful  sweets,  unshamed  mornings, 
Both  pleasant  and  legitimately  fruitful, without  thee 


All  the  whole  world  were  soiled  bastardy  : 
Thou  art  the  only  and  the  greatest  form 
That  put'st  a  difference  betwixt  our  desires 
And  the  disorder'd  appetites  of  beasts. 

But,  if  chaste  and  honest, 

There  is  another  devil  that  haunts  marriage, 
(None  fondly  loves  but  knows  it,)  jealousy. 
That  wedlock's  yellow  sickness,  • 

That  whispering  separation  every  minute. 
And  thus  the  curse  takes  his  effect  or  progress 
The  most  of  men,  in  their  first  sudden  fiuries, 
Rail  at  the  narrow  bounds  of  marriage. 
And  call't  a  prison ;  then  it  is  most  just 
That  the  disease  of  the  prison,  jealousy. 
Should  thus  affect  'em — but,  oh  !  here  I'm  fix'd 
To  make  sale  of  a  wife !  monstrous  and  foul ! 
An  act  abhorr'd  in  nature,  cold  in  soul ! 


LAW. 


FROM  THE  8AMX. 

Thou  angel  sent  amongst  us,  sober  Law, 

Made  with  meek  eyes,  persuading  action ; 

No  loud  immodest  tongue — voiced  like  a  virgin, 

And  as  chaste  from  sale, 

Save  only  to  be  heard,  but  not  to  rail-^ 

How  has  abuse  deform'd  thee  to  all  eyes ! 

Yet  why  so  rashly  for  one's  villain's  fault 

Do  I  arraign  whole  man  ■?     Admired  Law ! 

Thy  upper  parts  must  needs  be  wholly  pure 

And  incorruptible — th'  are  grave  and  wise ; 

'Tis  but  the  dross  beneath  them,  and  the  clouds 

That  get  between  thy  glory  and  their  praise, 

That  make  the  visible  and  foul  eclipse ; 

For  those  that  are  neai"  to  thee  are  upright, 

As  noble  in  their  conscience  as  their  birih ; 

Know  that  damnation  is  in  every  bribe. 

And  rarely  put  it  from  them — rate  the  presenters 

And  scourge  'em  with  five  years'  imprisonment 

For  offering  but  to  tempt  'em : 

This  is  true  justice,  exercised  and  used  ; 

Woe  to  the  giver,  when  the  bribe's  refused. 

'Tis  not  their  will  to  have  law  worse  than  war, 

Where  still  the  poorest  die  first. 

To  send  a  man  without  a  sheet  to  his  grave. 

Or  bury  him  in  his  papers ; 

'Tis  not  their  mind  it  should  be,  nor  to  have 

A  suit  hang  longer  than  a  man  in  chains, 

Let  him  be  ne'er  so  fasteu'd. 


CHARLES   FITZGEFFREY, 

[DM,  1636.] 

Chaeles  Fitzoeffbbt  was  rector  of  the  parish  of  St.  Dominic,  in  Cornwall. 

Always  to  come,  yet  always  present  here. 
Whom  all  run  after,  none  come  after  near. 
Unpartial  judge  of  all,  save  present  state. 
Truth's  idioma  of  the  things  are  past, 
But  still  pursuing  present  things  with  hate, 
And  more  injurious  at  the  first  than  last, 
Preserving  others,  while  thine  own  do  waste  , 
True  treasurer  of  all  antiquity, 
Whom  all  desire,  yet  never  one  could  see. 


TO  POSTERITY. 

FROM  ENOLAND'S  PARNASSUS.  1600. 

Dauohter  of  Time,  sincere  Posterity, 
Always  new-born,  yet  no  man  knows  thy  birth, 
The  arbitress  of  pure  sincerity, 
Yet  changeable  (like  Proteus)  on  the  earth. 
Sometime    in     plenty,    sometime    join'd    with 
dearth : 


200 


RICHARD   NICCOLS. 


FROM  FITZGEFFRKY'S  LIFE  OF  SIR  FRANCIS 
DRAKE.  1596. 

Look  how  the  industrious  bee  in  fragrant  May, 
When  Flora  gilds  the  earth  with  golden  flowers, 
Inveloped  in  her  sweet  perfumed  array, 
Doth  leave  his  honey-limed  delicious  bowers, 
More^chly  wrought  than  prince's  stately  towers, 
Waving  his  silken  wings  amid  the  air. 
And  to  the  verdant  gardens  makes  repair. 

First  falls  he  on  a  branch  of  sugar'd  thyme. 
Then  from  the  marygold  he  sucks  the  sweet. 


And  then  the  mint,  and  then  the  rose  doth  climb, 
Then  on  the  budding  rosemary  doth  light. 
Till  with  sweet  treasure  having  charged  his  feet, 
Late  in  the  evening  home  he  turns  again. 
Thus  profit  is  the  guerdon  of  his  pain. 
So  in  the  May-tide  of  his  summer  age 
Valour  enmoved  the  mind  of  vent'rous  Drake 
To  lay  his  life  with  winds  and  waves  in  gage. 
And  bold  and  hard  adventures  t'  undertake, 
Leaving  his  country  for  his  country's  sake ; 
Loathing  the  life  that  cowardice  doth  stain. 
Preferring  death,  if  death  might  honour  gain. . . . 


RICHARD  NICCOLS. 


[Died,  I5S4.] 


The  plan  of  the  Mirror  for  Magistrates,  begun 
by  Ferrers  and  Sackville,  was  followed  up  by 
Churchyard,  Phayer,  Higgins,  Drayton,  and  many 
others.  The  last  contributor  of  any  note  was 
Niccols,  in  1610,  in  his  Winter  Night's  Vision. 
Niccols  was  the  author  of  the  "  Cuckow,"  written 


in  imitation  of  Drayton's  « Owl,"  and  several 
poems  of  temporary  popularity,  and  of  a  drama, 
entitled  The  Twynne's  Tragedy.  He  was  a  Lon- 
doner, and  having  studied  (says  Wood)  at  Oxford, 
obtained  some  employment  worthy  of  his  faculties ; 
but  of  what  kind,  we  are  left  to  conjecture. 


FROM  THE  LEGEND  OF  ROBERT  DUKE  OP 
NORMANDY. 

Rol)ert,  Duke  of  Normandy,  eldest  son  of  William  the 
Conqueror,  on  his  return  from  the  Crusades  was  im- 
prisoned by  Henry  I.  in  Cardiff  Castle.  He  thus  de- 
scribes a  walk  with  his  keeper,  previous  to  his  eyes 
being  put  out. 

As  bird  in  cage  debarr'd  the  use  of  wings, 
Her  captived  life  as  nature's  chiefest  wrong, 
In  doleful  ditty  sadly  sits  and  sings. 
And  mourns  her  thralled  liberty  so  long. 
Till  breath  be  spent  in  many  a  sithful  song : 
So  here  captived  I  many  days  did  spend 
In  sorrow's  plaint,  till  death  my  days  did  end. 

Where  as  a  prisoner  though  I  did  remain ; 
Yet  did  my  brother  grant  this  liberty. 
To  quell  the  common  speech,  which  did  complain 
On  my  distress,  and  on  his  tyranny, 
That  in  his  parks  and  forests  joining  by. 
When  I  did  please  I  to  and  fro  might  go. 
Which  in  the  end  was  cause  of  all  my  woe. 

For  on  a  time,  when  as  Aurora  bright 
Began  to  scale  heaven's  steepy  battlement. 
And  to  the  world  disclose  her  cheerful  light, 
As  was  my  wont,  I  with  my  keeper  went 
To  put  away  my  sorrow's  discontent : 
Thereby  to  ease  me  of  my  captive  care. 
And  solace  my  sad  thoughts  in  th'  open  air. 

Wand'ring  through  forest  wide,  at  length  we  gain 
A  steep  cloud-kissing  rock,  whose  horned  crown 
With  proud  imperial  look  beholds  the  main. 
Where  Severn's  dangerous  waves  run  rolling  down. 
From  th'  Holmes  into  the  seas,  by  Cardiff  town. 
Whose  quick-devouring  sands  so  dangerous  been 
To  those  that  wander  Amphitrite's  green  : 

As  there  we  stood,  the  country  round  we  eyed 
To  view  the  workmanship  of  nature's  hand, 
There  stood  a  mountain,  from  whose  weeping  side 


A  brook  breaks  forth  into  the  low-lying  land. 
Here  lies  a  plain,  and  there  a  wood  doth  stand, 

Here  pastures,meads,corn-fields,  a  vale  do  cro-^n. 

A  castle  here  shoots  up,  and  there  a  town. 

Here  one  with  angle  o'er  a  silver  stream 
With  baneful  bait  the  nibbling  fish  doth  feed ; 
There  in  a  plough' d-land,  with  his  painfiil  team, 
The  ploughman  sweats^n  hope  for  labour's  meed . . 
Here  sits  a  goatherd  on  a  craggy  rock, 
And  there  in  shade  a  shepherd  with  his  flock 

The  sweet  delight  of  such  a  rare  prospect 
Might  yield  content  unto  a  careful  eye ; 
Yet  down  the  rock  descending  in  neglect 
Of  such  delight,  the  sun  now  mounting  high, 
I  sought  the  shade  in  vale,  which  low  did  lie. 

Where  we  reposed  us  on  a  green-wood  side. 

A'front  the  which  a  silver  stream  did  glide. 

There  dwelt  sweet  Philomel,  who  never  more 
May  bide  the  abode  of  man's  society. 
Lest  that  some  sterner  Tereus  than  before, 
>  Who  cropt  the  flower  of  her  virginity, 
'Gainst  her  should  plot  some  second  villany ; 
Whose  doleful  tunes  to  mind  did  cause  me  call 
The  woful  story  of  her  former  fall. 

The  redbreast,  who  in  bush  fast  by  did  stand 
As  partner  of  her  woes,  his  part  did  ply. 
For  that  the  gifts,  with  which  Autumnus'  hand 
Had  graced  the  earth,  by  winter's  wrath  should  die, 
From  whose  cold  cheeks  bleak  blasts  began  to  fly. 
Which  made  me  think  upon  my  summer  past 
And  winter's  woes,  which  all  my  life  should  last. 

My  keeper,  with  compassion  moved  to  see 
How  grief's  impulsions  in  my  breast  did  beat,     [he. 
Thus  silence  broke:  "Would  God  (my  Lord,)  quoth 
This  pleasant  land,  which  nature's  hand  hath  s«>t 
Before  your  eyes,  might  cause  you  to  forget 
Your  discontent,  the  object  of  the  eye 
Ofltimes  gives  ease  to  woes  which  inwaid  Ve. 


BEN  JONSON. 


201 


«  Behold  upon  that  mountain's  top  so  steep, 
Which  seems  to  pierce  the  clouds  and  kiss  tlie  sky, 
How   the    gray   shepherd   drives    his   flock    of 

sheep 
Down  to  the  vale,  and  how  on  rocks  fast  by 
The  goats  frisk  to  and  fro  for  jollity ; 

Give  ear  likewise  unto  these  birds'  sweet  songs, 
And  let  them  cause  you  to  forget  your  wrongs." 

To  this  I  made  reply  :  "  Fond  man,"  said  I, 
"What  under  heaven  can  slack  th'  increasing 

woe. 
Which  in  my  grieved  heart  doth  hidden  lie  1 
Of  choice  delight  what  object  canst  thou  show, 
But  from  the  sight  of  it  fresh  grief  doth  growl 
What  thou  didst  whilome  point  at  to  behold, 
The  same  the  sum  of  sorrow  doth  enfold, 

"That  gray-coat  shepherd,  whom  from  far  we 

see, 
I  liken  unto  thee,  and  those  his  sheep 
Uato  my  wretched  self  compared  may  be : 


And  though  that  careful  pastor  will  not  sleep, 
When  he  from  ravenous  wolves  his  flock  should 
keep; 
Yet  here,  alas !  in  thrall  thou  keepest  me, 
Until  that  wolf,  ray  brother,  hungry  be. 

"  Those  shag-hair'd  goats  upon  the  craggy  hill, 
Which  thou  didstshow,see  how  they  frisk  and  play. 
And  everywhere  do  run  about  at  will  : 
Yea,  when  the  lion  marks  them  for  his  prey. 
They  over  hills  and  rocks  can  fly  away  : 
But  when  that  lion  fell  shall  follow  me 
To  shed  my  blood,  0  whither  shall  I  flee? 

"Those  sweet-voiced  birds,  whose  airs  thou  dost 

commend, 
To  which  the  echoing  woods  return  reply. 
Though  thee  they  please,  yet  me  they  do  offend : 
For  when  I  see  how  they  do  mount  on  high. 
Waving  their  outstretch'd  wings  at  liberty, 
Then  do  I  think  how  bird-like  in  a  cage 
My  life  I  lead,  and  grief  can  never  suage." 


BEN  JONSON. 

[Bom,  1574.     Died,  1637.] 


TuL  Mr.  Gilchrist  and  Mr.  Gifford  stood  for- 
ward in  defence  of  this  poet's  memory,  it  had  be- 
come an  established  article  of  literary  faith  that 
his  personal  character  was  a  comjtound  of  spleen, 
surhness,  and  ingratitude.  The  proofs  of  this 
have  been  weighed  and  found  wanting.  It  is 
true  that  he  had  lofty  notions  of  himself,  was 
proud  even  to  arrogance  in  his  defiance  of  cen- 
sure, and  in  the  warmth  of  his  own  praises  of 
himself  was  scarcely  surpassed  by  his  most  zealous 
admirers ;  but  many  fine  traits  of  honour  and  af- 
fection are  likewise  observable  in  the  portrait  of 
his  character,  and  the  charges  of  malice  and  jea- 
lousy that  have  been  heaped  on  his  name  for  a 
hundred  years  turn  out  to  be  without  foundation. 
In  the  quarrel  with  Marston  and  Dekker  his  cul- 
pability is  by  no  means  evident.  He  did  not  re- 
ceive benefits  from  Shakspeare,  and  did  not  sneer 
at  him  in  the  passages  that  have  been  taken  to 
prove  his  ingratitude;  and  instead  of  envying 
that  great  poet,  he  gave  him  his  noblest  praise ; 
nor  did  he  trample  on  his  contemporaries,  but 
liberally  commended  them.*  With  regard  to 
Inigo  Jones,  with  whom  he  quarrelled,  it  appears 
to  have  been  Jonson's  intention  to  have  con- 
signed his  satires  on  that  eminent  man  to  ob- 
livion; but  their  enmity,  as  his  editor  has  shown, 
begam  upon  the  part  of  the  architect,  who,  when 
the  poet  was  poor  and  bedridden,  meanly  re- 
sented the  fancied  affront  of  Jonson's  name  being 
put  before  his  own  to  a  masque  which  they  had 
jointly  prepared,  and  used  his  influence  to  do  him 
an  injury  at  court.t     As  to  Jonson's  envying 

•  The  names  of  Shukspeare,  Drayton,  Donne,  Chapman, 
Fletcher,  Beaumont,  May,  and  Browne,  which  almost  ex- 
haust the  poetical  catalogue  of  the  time,  are  the  separate 
«iid  distiurt  subjects  of  his  praise.  Uis  uukiudness  to 
Dauiel  seem.*  to  be  the  only  exception. 

t  [Their  enmity  tM^an  in  the  very  early  part  of  their 

eouuuction;  for  in  the  compUtf.  copy  ot  Duunmoai'aJfoUt 

•M 


Shakspeare,  men,  otherwise  candid  and  laborious 
in  the  search  of  truth,  seem  to  have  had  the  curse 
of  the  Philistines  imposed  on  their  understand- 
ings and  charities  the  moment  they  approached 
the  subject.  The  fame  of  Shakspeare  himself 
became  an  heirloom  of  traditionary  calumnies 
against  the  memory  of  Jonson ;  the  fancied  relics 
of  his  envy  were  regarded  as  so  many  pious  do- 
nations at  the  shrine  of  the  greater  poet,  whose 
admirers  thought  they  could  not  dig  too  deeply 
for  trophies  of  his  glory  among  the  ruins  of  his 
imaginary  rival's  reputation.  If  such  inquirers 
as  Reed  and  Malone  went  wrong  upon  this  sub- 
ject, it  is  too  severe  to  blame  the  herd  of  literary 
labourers  for  plodding  in  their  footsteps ;  but  it 
must  excite  regret  as  well  as  wonder  that  a  man 
of  pre-eminent  living  genius  J  should  have  been 
one  of  those 

quos  de  tramiU  recta 
Impia  sacriUya  JUxU  contagio  turbce, 

and  should  have  gravely  drawn  down  Jonson  to 
a  parallel  with  Shadwell,  for  their  common  traits 
of  low  society,  vulgar  dialect,  and  intemperance. 
Jonson's  low  society  comprehended  such  men  as 
Selden,  Camden,  and  Gary.  Shadwell  (if  we 
may  trust  to  Rochester's  account  of  him)  was 
probably  rather  profligate  than  vulgar;  while 
either  of  Jonson's  vulgarity  or  uidecency  in  his 
recorded  conversations  there  is  not  a  trace.  But 
they  both  wore  great-coats — Jonson  drank  canary, 
and  Shadwell  swallowed  opium.  "  There  is  a  nvit 
in  MiuedoH,  and  lliere  is,  moreover,  a  river  at  Muii- 
mouih." 

there  are  several  allusions  to  this  hostility.  Inigo  had 
the  best  retaliation  in  life;  but  Jonson  has  it  now,  and 
for  ever. — C.] 

J  [Sir  Walter  Scott  See  Oifford's  Ben  Jonson,  vol.  i.  p. 
clxxxi.,  and  Scott's  replies  in  Misc.  I'fose  Work»,  ro<  i 
p.  227,  and  vol.  vu.  p.  374—382.— C.] 


202 


BEN  JONSON. 


The  grandfather  of  Ben  Jonson  was  originally 
of  Annandale,  in  Scotland,  tirom  whence  he  re- 
moved to  Carlisle,  and  was  subsequently  in  the 
service  of  Henry  VIII.  The  poet's  father,  who 
lost  his  estate  under  the  persecution  of  Queen 
Mary,  and  was  afterwards  a  preacher,  died  a 
month  before  Benjamin's  birth,  and  his  widow 
married  a  master  bricklayer  of  the  name  of  Fow- 
ler. Benjamin,  through  the  kindness  of  a  friend, 
was  educated  at  Westminster,  and  obtained  an 
exhibition  to  Cambridge;  but  it  proved  insuffi- 
cient for  his  support.  He  therefore  returned  from 
the  university  to  his  father-in-law's  house  and 
humble  occupation;  but  disliking  the  latter,  as 
may  be  well  conceived,  he  repaired  as  a  volunteer 
to  the  army  in  Flanders,  and  in  the  campaign 
which  he  served  there  distinguished  himself, 
though  yet  a  stripUng,  by  killing  an  enemy  in 
single  combat,  in  the  presence  of  both  armies. 
From  thence  he  came  back  to  England,  and  betook 
himself  to  the  stage  for  support ;  at  first,  probably, 
as  an  actor,  though  undoubtedly  very  early  as  a 
writer.  At  this  period  he  was  engaged  in  a  second 
single  combat,  which  threatened  to  terminate  more 
disastrously  than  the  former ;  for  having  been  chal- 
lenged by  somq  player  to  fight  a  duel  with  the 
sword,  he  killed  his  adversary  indeed,  but  was 
severely  wounded  in  the  encounter,  and  thrown 
into  prison  for  murder.  There  the  assiduities  of 
a  catholic  priest  made  him  a  convert  to  popery, 
and  the  miseries  of  a  jail  were  increased  to  him 
by  the  visitation  of  spies ;  sent,  no  doubt,  in  con- 
sequence of  his  change  to  a  faith  of  which  the 
bare  name  was  at  that  time  nearly  synonymous 
with  the  suspicion  of  treason.  He  was  liberated 
however,  after  a  short  imprisonment,  without  a 
•rial.  At  the  distance  of  twelve  years,  he  was 
restored  to  the  bosom  of  his  mother  church. 
Soon  after  his  release,  he  thought  proper  to  marry, 
iilthough  his  circumstances  were  far  from  promis- 
ing, and  he  was  only  in  his  twentieth  year.  In 
his  two-and-twentieth  year  he  rose  to  considerable 
popularity,  by  the  comedy  of  "  Every  Man  in  his 
Humour,"  which,  two  years  after,  bei^ame  a  still 
higher  favourite  with  the  public,  when  the  scene 
and  names  were  shifted  from  Italy  to  England,  in 
order  to  suit  the  manners  of  the  piece,  which  had 
all  along  been  native.  It  is  at  this  renovated  ap- 
l>earance  of  his  play  (1598)  that  his  fancied  obli- 
gations to  Shakspeare  for  drawing  him  out  of 
obscurity  have  been  dated ;  but  it  is  at  this  time 
that  he  is  pointed  out  by  Meres  as  one  of  the  most 
distinguished  writers  of  the  age. 

The  fame  of  his*'  Every  Man  out  of  his  Humour" 
drew  Queen  Elizabeth  to  its  representation,  whose 
early  encouragement  of  his  genius  is  commemo- 
rated by  Lord  Falkland.  It  was  a  fame,  however, 
which,  according  to  his  own  account,  had  already 
exposed  him  to  envy — Marston  and  Dekker  did 
him  this  homage.  He  lashed  them  in  his  Cyn- 
thia's Revels,  apt'  anticipated  their  revenge  in  the 
Poetaster.  Jonson's  superiority  in  the  contest 
can  scarcely  be  questioned ;  but  the  Poetaster 
drew  down  other  enemies  on  its  author  than  those 
with  whom  he  was  at  war.     His  satire  alluded  to 


the  follies  of  soldiers  and  the  faults  of  lawyers. 
The  former  were  easily  pacified,  but  the  lawyers 
adhered  to  him  with  their  wonted  tenacity ;  and 
it  became  necessary  for  the  poet  to  clear  himself 
before  the  lord  chief  justice.  In  our  own  days, 
the  fretfulness  of  resenting  professional  derision 
has  been  deemed  unbecoming  even  the  magna- 
nimity of  tailors. 

Another  proof  of  the  slavish  subjection  of  the 
stage  in  those  times  is  to  be  found  soon  aftei  the 
accession  of  King  James,  when  the  authors  of 
Eastward  Hoe  were  committed  to  prison  for  some 
satirical  reflections  on  the  Scotch  nation,  which 
that  comedy  contained.  Only  Marston  and  Chap- 
man, who  had  framed  the  offensive  passages,  were 
seized;  but  Jonson,  who  had  taken  a  share  in 
some  other  part  of  the  composition,  conceived 
himself  bound  in  honour  to  participate  their  fate, 
and  voluntarily  accompanied  them  to  prison.  It 
was  on  this  occasion  that  his  mother,  deceived  -by 
the  rumour  of  a  barbarous  punishment  being  in- 
tended for  her  son,  prepared  a  lusty  poison,  which 
she  meant  to  have  given  him,  and  to  have  drunk 
along  with  him.  This  was  maintaining  in  earn- 
est the  consanguinity  of  heroism  and  genius. 

The  imagined  insult  to  the  sovereign  being 
appeased,  James's  accession  proved,  altogether,  a 
fortunate  epoch  in  Jonson's  history.  A  peaceable 
reign  gave  encouragement  to  the  arts  and  festivi- 
ties of  peace ;  and  in  those  festivities,  not  yet  de- 
graded to  mere  sound  and  show,  poetry  still  main- 
tained the  honours  of  her  primogeniture  among 
the  arts.  Jonson  was  therefore  congenially  em- 
ployed, and  liberally  rewarded,  in  the  preparation 
of  those  masques  for  the  court  which  filled  up  the 
intervals  of  his  more  properly  dramatic  labours, 
and  which  allowed  him  room  for  classical  imper- 
sonations, and  lyrical  trances  of  fancy,  that  would 
not  have  suited  the  business  of  the  ordinary  stage. 
The  reception  of  his  Sejanus,  in  1603,  was  at  first 
unfavourable ;  but  it  was  remodelled,  and  again 
presented  with  better  success,  and  kept  possession 
of  the  theatre  for  a  considerable  time.  Whatever 
this  tragedy  may  want  in  the  agitating  power  of 
poetry,  it  has  a  strength  and  dramatic  skill  that 
might  have  secured  it,  at  least,  from  the  petulant 
contempt  with  which  it  has  been  too  often  spoken 
of.  Though  collected  from  the  dead  languages, 
it  is  not  a  lifeless  mass  of  antiquity,  but  the  work 
of  a  severe  and  strong  imagination,  compelling 
shapes  of  truth  and  consistency  to  rise  in  dra- 
matic order  from  the  fragments  of  Roman  elo- 
quence and  history ;  and  an  air  not  only  of  life 
but  of  grandeur  is  given  to  those  curiously  ad- 
justed materials.  The  arraignment  of  Caius  Silius 
before  Tiberius  is  a  great  and  poetical  cartoon  of 
Roman  characters;  and  if  Jonson  has  translated 
from  Tacitus,  who  would  not  thank  him  for  em- 
bodying the  pathos  of  history  in  such  lines  as 
these,  descriptive  of  Germanicus  1 

0  that  man  ! 
If  there  were  seeds  of  the  old  virtue  left. 

They  lived  in  him 

What  his  funerals  lack'd 
In  images  and  pomp,  they  had  supplied 
With  honourable  sorrow.    Soldiers'  sadness^ 


BEN  JONSON. 


208 


A  kind  of  silent  mourning  such  as  men 

Who  know  no  tears,  but  from  their  captiTeSi  um 

I'o  show  in  so  great  losses. 

By  his  three  succeeding  plays,  Volpone,  (in 
1606,)  the  Silent  Woman,  (in  1609,)  and  the 
Alchemist,  (in  1610,)  Jonson's  reputation  in  the 
comic  drama  rose  to  a  pitch  which  neither  his 
own  or  any  other  pen  could  well  be  expected  to 
surpass.  The  tragedy  of  Catiline  appeared  in 
1611,  prefaced  by  an  address  to  the  Ordinary 
Reader,  as  remarkable  for  the  strength  of  its 
style  as  for  the  contempt  of  popular  judgments 
which  it  breathes.  Such  an  appeal  from  ordinary 
to  extraordinary  readers  ought  at  least  to  have 
been  made  without  insolence;  as  the  diflerence 
between  the  few  and  the  many,  in  matters  of  criti- 
cism, lies  more  in  the  power  of  explaining  their 
sources  of  pleasure  than  in  enjoying  them.  Cati- 
line, it  is  true,  from  its  classical  sources,  was 
•chiefly  to  be  judged  of  by  classical  readers ;  but 
its  author  should  have  still  remembered,  that  po- 
pular lieeling  is  the  great  basis  of  dramatic  fame. 
Jonson  lived  to  alter  his  tone  to  the  pubUc,  and 
the  lateness  of  his  humility  must  have  made  it 
more  mortitying.  The  haughty  preface,  however, 
disappeared  from  later  editions  of  the  play,  while 
its  better  apology  remained  in  the  high  delinea- 
tion of  Cicero's  character,  and  in  passages  of 
Roman  eloquence  which  it  contains ;  above  all,  in 
the  concluding  speech  of  Petreius.  It  is  said,  on 
Lord  Dorset's  authority,  to  have  been  Jonson's 
favourite  production. 

In  1613  he  made  a  short  trip  to  the  Continent, 
and,  being  in  Paris,  was  introduced  to  the  Cardi- 
nal du  Perron,  who,  in  compliment  to  his  learn- 
ing, showed  him  his  translation  of  Virgil.  Ben, 
according  to  Drummond's  anecdotes,  told  the  car- 
dinal that  it  was  nought:  a  criticism,  by  all  ac- 
a)unts,  as  just  as  it  was  brief. 

Of  his  two  next  pieces,  Bartholomew  Fair,  (in 
1614,)  and  the  DevU  is  an  Ass,  (in  1616,)  the 
former  was  scarcely  a  decUne  from  the  zenith  of 
his  comic  excellence,  the  latter  certainly  was :  if 
it  was  meant  to  ridicule  superstition,  it  eflected 
its  object  by  a  singular  process  of  introducing  a 
devil  upon  the  stage.  After  this  he  made  a  long 
secession  of  nine  years  from  the  theatre,  during 
which  he  composed  some  of  his  tinest  masques 
for  the  court,  and  some  of  those  works  which  were 
irrecoverably  lost  in  the  fire  that  consumed  his 
study.  Meanwhile  he  received  from  his  sovereign 
a  pension  of  one  hundred  marks,  which,  in  cour- 
tesy, has  been  called  making  him  poet  laureat 
The  title,  till  then  gratuitously  assumed,  has  been 
since  appropriated  to  his  successors  in  the  pension. 

The  poet's  journey  to  Scotland  (1619)  awakens 
many  pleasing  recollections,  when  we  conceive 
huu  anticipating  his  welcome  among  a  people  who 
might  be  proud  of  a  share  in  his  ancestry,  and 
selling  out,  with  manly  strength,  on  a  journey  of 

[*  ''Tlie  furious  invective  of  Uiffurd  against  Drummond 
for  having  written  private  meuioranila  uf  his  coiiver»a- 
tiuiis  wllh  lieu  Jonsuu,  which  he  did  not  publish,  and 
whicli,  for  aught  we  know,  were  pi-rl't  ctly  failhful,  i.s  ali- 
surd.  Any  oue  aim  would  huve  been  Uiaukful  for  fO  much 
Uleriir>'  auecdotu." — Uallam,  Lit.  UiiC^  vol.  iii.  p.  5U5. — C.J 


four  hundred  miles,  on  foot.  We  are  assured, 
by  one  who  saw  him  in  Scotland,  that  he  was 
treated  with  respect  and  affection  among  the  no- 
biUty  and  gentry ;  nor  was  the  romantic  scenery 
of  Scotland  lost  upon  his  fancy.  From  the  poem 
which  he  meditated  on  Lochlomond,  it  is  seen  that 
he  looked  on  it  with  a  poet's  eye.  But,  unhap- 
pily, the  meagre  anecdotes  of  Drummond  have 
made  this  event  of  his  life  too  prominent  by  the 
over-importance  which  have  been  attached  to  Uiem. 
Drummond,  a  smooth  and  sober  gentleman,  seems 
to  have  disliked  Jonson's  indulgence  in  that  con- 
viviality which  Ben  had  shared  with  his  Fletcher 
and  Shakspeare  at  the  Mermaid.  In  consequence 
of  those  anecdotes,  Jonson's  memory  has  been 
damned  for  brutality,  and  Drummond's  for  per- 
fidy. Jonson  drank  freely  at  Hawthomden,  and 
talked  big — things  neither  incredible  nor  unpar- 
donable. Drummond's  perfidy  amounted  to  writ- 
ing a  letter,  beginning  "  Sir,"  with  one  very  kind 
sentence  in  it,  to  the  man  whom  he  had  described 
unfavourably  in  a  private  memorandum,  which 
he  never  meant  for  publication.  As  to  Drum- 
mond's decoying  Jonson  under  his  roof  with  any 
premeditated  design  on  his  reputation,  no  one 
can  seriously  believe  it.* 

By  the  continued  kindness  of  King  James,  our 
poet  was,  some  years  after,  [Sept.  1621,]  pre- 
sented with  the  reversionary  grant  of  the  master- 
ship of  the  revels,  but  from  which  he  derived  no 
advantage,  as  the  incumbent.  Sir  John  Astley, 
survived  him.  It  fell,  however,  to  the  poet's  son, 
by  the  permission  of  Charles  I.f  King  James, 
in  the  contemplation  of  his  laureat's  speedy  ac- 
cession to  this  office,  was  desirous  of  conferring 
on  him  the  rank  of  knighthood ;  but  Jonson  was 
unwilling  to  accept  the  distinction,  and  prevailed 
on  some  of  his  firiends  about  the  court  to  dissuade 
the  monarch  from  his  purpose.  After  the  death 
of  his  patron  James,  necessity  brought  him  again 
upon  the  theatre,  and  he  produced  the  Staple  of 
News,  a  comedy  of  no  ordinary  merit.  Two 
evils  were  at  this  time  rapidly  gaining  on  him, 
"  Disease  and  poverty,  fell  pair. 

He  was  attacked  by  the  palsy  in  1625,  and  had 
also  a  tendency  to  dropsy,  together  with  a  scor- 
butic ailection  inherent  from  his  youth,  which 
pressed  upon  the  decaying  powers  of  his  consti- 
tution. From  the  first  stroke  of  the  palsy  he 
gradually  recovered  so  far  as  to  be  able  to  write, 
in  the  following  year,  the  antimasque  of  Sophiel. 
For  the  three  succeeding  years  his  biographer 
suspects  that  the  court  had  ceased  to  call  upon 
him  for  his  customary  contributions,  a  circum- 
stance which  must  have  aggravated  his  poverty ; 
and  his  salary,  it  appears,  was  irregularly  paid. 
Meanwhile  his  infirmities  increased,  and  he  was 
unable  to  leave  his  room.  In  these  circumstances 
he  produced  his  New  inn,  a  comedy  that  was 

[t  This  is  not  quite  norrect:  the  son  died  in  1635,  Ken 
himself  in  IW",  and  .\stli;y  a  year  or  so  after.  A.^tley 
thus  survived  the  father,  to  whom  the  reversion  had  lieeu 
granted,  and  the  son,  to  whom  the  transfer  had  been  made. 
S<-e  UlFFuHS,  p.  cxiiv.  and  Colu^k's  Annans,  vol.  ii.  p.  89. 
Sir  Ueury  Herbert  was  Astley's  succeaacr  — C.) 


204 


BEN  JONSON. 


driven  from  the  stage  with  violent  hostility.* 
The  epilogue  to  this  piece  forms  a  melancholy 
contrsist  to  the  tone  of  his  former  addresses  to  the 
audience.  He  "  whom  the  morning  saw  so  great 
and  high,"t  was  now  so  humble  as  to  speak  of 
his  "  faint  and  faultering  tongue,  and  of  his  brain 
set  round  with  pain."  An  allusion  to  the  king 
and  queen  in  the  same  epilogue  awoke  the  slum- 
bering kindness  of  Charles,  who  instantly  sent 
him  100/.  and,  in  compliance  with  the  poet's  re- 
quest, also  converted  the  100  marks  of  his  salary 
into  pounds,  and  added,  of  his  own  accord,  a 
yearly  tierce  of  canary,  Jonson's  favourite  wine. 
His  majesty's  injunctions  for  the  preparation  of 
masques  for  the  court  were  also  renewed  till  they 
were  discontinued  at  the  suggestion  of  Inigo 
Jones,  who  preferred  the  assistance  of  one  Aure- 
lian  Townsend  to  that  of  Jonson,  in  the  furnish- 
ing of  those  entertauiments.  His  means  of  sub- 
sistence were  now,  perhaps,  both  precariously 
supplied  and  imprudently  expended.  The  city, 
in  1631,  from  whom  he  had  always  received  a 
yearly  allowance  of  100  nobles,  by  way  of  secur- 
ing his  assistance  in  their  pageants,  withdrew 
their  pension.J  He  was  compelled  by  poverty 
to  supplicate  the  Lord  Treasurer  Weston  for  re- 
lief. On  the  rumour  of  his  necessities,  assistance 
came  to  him  from  various  quarters,  and  from  none 
more  liberally  than  from  the  Earl  of  Newcastle. 
On  these  and  other  timely  bounties  his  sickly 
existence  was  propped  up  to  accomplish  two 
more  comedies,  the  Magnetic  Lady,  which  ap- 
peared in  1632,  and  the  Tale  of  a  Tub,  which 
came  out  in  the  following  year.  In  the  last  of 
these,  the  last,  indeed,  of  his  dramatic  career,  he 


endeavoured  to  introduce  some  ridicule  on  Inigo 
Jones,  through  the  machinery  of  a  puppet-show. 
Jones  had  distinguished  himself  at  the  represen- 
tation of  the  Magnetic  Lady,  by  his  boisterous 
derision.  The  attempt  at  retaliation  was  more 
natural  than  dignified ;  but  the  court  prevented 
it,  and  witnessed  the  representation  of  the  play 
at  Whitehall  with  coldness.  Whatever  humour 
its  manners  contain,  was  such  as  courtiers  were 
not  likely  to  understand. 

In  the  spring  of  1633  Charles  visited  Scotland, 
and  on  the  road  was  entertained  by  the  Earl  of 
Newcastle  with  all  the  luxury  and  pageantry  of 
loyal  hospitality.  To  grace  the  entertainment, 
Jonson  sent,  in  grateful  obedience  to  his  bene- 
factor the  Earl,  a  little  interlude,  entitled  Love's 
Welcome  at  Welbeck,  and  another  of  the  same 
kind  for  the  king  and  queen's  reception  at  Bol- 
sover.  In  despatching  the  former  of  these  to  his 
noble  patron,  the  poet  alludes  to  his  past  boun- 
ties, which  had  »  fallen,  like  the  dew  of  heaven, 
on  his  necessities." 

In  his  unfinished  pastoral  drama  of  the  Sad 
Shepherd,  his  biographer  traces  one  bright  and 
sunny  ray  that  broke  through  the  gloom  of  his 
setting  days.  Amongst  his  papers  were  found 
the  plot  and  opening  of  a  domestic  tragedy  on  the 
story  of  Mortimer,  Earl  of  March,  together  with 
the  Discoveries,  and  Grammar  of  the  English 
Tongue ;  works  containing,  no  doubt,  the  philo- 
logical and  critical  reflections  of  more  vigorous 
years,  but  which,  it  is  probable  that  he  must 
have  continued  to  write  till  he  was  near  his  dis- 
solution. That  event  took  place  on  the  6th  of 
August,  1637. 


SPEECH  OF   MAIA. 

IN   "THE   PESATES." 

Maia.  If  all  the  pleasures  were  distill'd 
Of  every  flower  in  every  field. 
And  all  that  Hybla's  hives  do  yield. 
Were  into  one  broad  mazer  fill'd ; 
If,  thereto,  added  all  the  gums. 
And  spice  that  from  Panchaia  comes, 
The  odour  that  Hydaspes  lends. 
Or  Phoenix  proves  before  she  ends  ; 
If  all  the  air  my  Flora  drew, 
Or  spirit  that  Zephyre  ever  blew  ; 
Were  put  therein ;  and  all  the  dew 
That  every  rosy  morning  knew  ; 
Yet  idl  dilfused  upon  this  bower. 
To  make  one  sweet  detaining  hour, 

[*  Jonson  took  his  revenge  upon  the  town,  in  his  well- 
known  o«le  upon  this  occasion,  which  showed  that  the  fires 
of  poetic  passion  were  by  no  uieau^  dead  in  him : 

Come,  leave  the  loathed  stage, 

And  the  more  h«ith.-ome  age  I 
Where  I'ride  and  Impudence,  in  faction  knit, 

Usurp  the  chair  of  witi 
Indicting  and  arraigning  every  day 

ijomt'thing  they  caill  a  piay. 
Let  their  fastidious,  vaiu 
Commission  of  the  brain 
Burn  on  and  rage,  sweat,  censure  and  condemn ; 
T/iey  twre  nut  made/or  Ucu,  Ua  thoufm-  them.. . . 


Were  much  too  little  for  the  grace. 
And  honour,  you  vouchsafe  the  place. 
But  if  you  please  to  come  again. 
We  vow,  we  will  not  then  with  vain 
And  empty  pastimes  entertain 
Your  so  desired,  though  grieved  pain. 
For  we  will  have  the  wanton  fawns. 
That  frisking  skip  about  the  lawns, 
The  Panisks,  and  the  Sy Ivans  rude. 
Satyrs,  and  all  that  multitude. 
To  dance  their  wilder  rounds  about. 
And  cleave  the  air,  with  many  a  shout, 
As  they  would  hunt  poor  Echo  out 
Of  yonder  valley,  who  doth  flout 
Their  rustic  noise.     To  visit  whom 
You  shall  behold  whole  bevies  come 


Leave  things  so  prostitute. 
And  take  the  Alcaic  lute; 
Or  tliinu  own  Horace,  or  Anacreou'g  lyre; 

Warm  thee  by  Pindar's  fire  : 
And  though  thy  nerve.-;  be  stirunk,  and  blood  be  cold. 

Kre  years  have  made  thee  old. 
Strike  that  di.<daiuful  heat 
Throughout,  to  their  defeat 
As  curious  fools,  and  envious  of  thy  strain. 
May,  blushiug,  swear,  no  palsy's  in  thy  brainl—4i.\ 
t  Sejanus. 

[J  ••  Yesterday  the  barbarous  Court  of  Aldermen  have 
withdrawn  their  cbandlerly  pension  for  verjuice  and 
mustard,  £33.  6.  S.'—J<msou  to  the  EMuf  Newcaatte,  20th 
Dec  IbSi.    It  was,  however,  soon  restored. — C.J 


^d^ 


Cc^zy 


JB.Lippmcott  iCoHolai* 


BEN  JONSON. 


207 


A  NYMPH'S  PASSION. 

I  loVE,  and  he  loves  me  again, 

Yet  dare  I  not  tell  who ; 
For  if  the  nymphs  should  know  my  swain, 
I  fear  they'd  love  him  too ; 
Yet  if  he  be  not  known, 
The  pleasure  is  as  good  as  none, 
For  that's  a  narrow  joy  is  but  our  own. 

I'll  tell,  that  if  they  be  not  glad. 

They  yet  may  envy  me  ; 
But  then  if  I  grow  jealous  mad. 
And  of  them  pitied  be, 
It  were  a  plague  'hove  scorn : 
And  yet  it  cannot  be  forbom. 
Unless  my  heart  would,  as  my  thought,  be  torn. 

He  is,  if  they  can  find  him,  fair. 

And  fresh  and  fragrant  too, 
As  summer's  sky,  or  purged  air, 
And  looks  as  lilies  do 

That  are  this  morning  blown ; 
Yet,  yet  I  doubt  he  is  not  known. 
And  fear  much  more,  that  more  of  him  be  shown. 

But  he  hath  eyes  so  round,  and  bright. 

As  make  away  my  doubt, 
Where  Love  may  all  his  torches  light. 
Though  hate  had  put  them  out : 
But  then,  t'  increase  my  fears. 
What  nymph  soe'er  his  voice  but  hears, 
Will  be  my  rival,  though  she  have  but  ears. 

ril  tell  no  more,  and  yet  I  love. 

And  he  loves  me ;  yet  no 
One  unbecoming  thought  doth  move 
From  either  heart,  I  know ; 
But  so  exempt  from  blame. 
As  it  would  be  to  each  a  fame. 
If  love  or  fear  would  let  me  tell  his  name. 


THE  PICTURE  OF  THE  BODY. 
Sitting,  and  ready  to  be  drawn. 
What  makes  these  velvets,  silks,  and  lawn. 
Embroideries,  feathers,  fringes,  lace. 
Where  every  limb  takes  like  a  face  1 

Send  these  suspected  helps  to  aid 
Some  form  defective,  or  decay'd ; 
This  beauty,  without  falsehood  fair, 
Needs  nought  to  clothe  it  but  the  air. 

Yet  something  to  the  painter's  view, 
Were  fitly  interposed ;  so  new : 
Ele  shall,  if  he  can  understand. 
Work  by  my  fancy,  with  his  hand. 

Draw  first  a  cloud,  all  save  her  neck. 
And,  out  of  that,  make  day  to  break ; 
Till  like  her  face  it  do  appear, 
\nd  men  may  think  all  light  rose  there. 

Then  let  the  beams  of  that  disperse   . 
The  cloud,  and  show  the  universe : 
But  at  such  distance,  as  the  eye 
May  rathe  yet  adore,  than  spy. 


ON  LUCY,  COUNTESS  OP   BEDFORD. 

FBOM   HIS  EPIORAMS. 

This  morning,  timely  rapt  with  holy  fire, 

I  thought  to  form  unto  my  zealous  Muse, 
What  kind  of  creature  I  could  most  desire. 

To  honour,  serve,  and  love;  as  poets  use. 
I  meant  to  make  her  fair,  and  free,  and  wise, 

Of  greatest  blood,  and  yet  more  good  than  great; 
I  meant  the  day-star  should  not  brighter  rise, 

Nor  lend  like  influence  from  his  lucent  seat. 
I  meant  she  should  be  courteous,  facile,  sweet, 

Hating  that  solemn  vice  of  greatness,  pride ; 
I  meant  each  soflest^virtue  there  should  meet. 

Fit  in  that  softer  bosom  to  reside. 
Only  a  learned,  and  a  manly  soul 

I  purposed  her ;  that  should,  with  even  powers. 
The  rock,  the  spindle,  and  the  sheers  control 

Of  Destiny,  and  spin  her  own  free  hours. 
Such  when  I  meant  to  feign,  and  wish'd  to  see. 
My  Muse  bade,  Bedford  write,  and  that  was  she ! 


FROM   "THE   FOX." 

YoLPONE,  aided  by  bis  serrant  Mosoa,  cbeating  the  risit. 
ants  who  bring  him  presents,  each  iu  the  hope  of  being 
his  heir. 

Volp.  Good  morning  to  the  day ;  and  next,  my 

gold  !— 

Open  the  shrine,  that  I  may  see  my  saint. 

[MoscA  vnOidraws  the  curtain,  and,  ditooven 
pUes  of  gold,  pltite,  jeweU,  (tc. 

Hail  the  world's  soul,  and  mine !  more  glad  than  is 

The  teeming  earth  to  see  the  long'd-for  sun 

Peep  through  the  horns  of  the  celestial  Ram, 

Am  I,  to  view  thy  splendour  darkening  his ; 

That  lying  here,  amongst  my  other  hoards, 

Show'st  like  a  flame  by  night,  or  like  the  day 

Struck  out  of  chaos,  when  all  darkness  fled 

Unto  the  centre.     O  thou  son  of  Sol, 

But  brighter  than  thy  father,  let  me  kiss. 

With  adoration,  thee,  and  every  relic 

Of  sacred  treasure  in  this  blessed  room. 

Well  did  wise  poets,  by  thy  glorious  name, 

Title  that  age  which  they  would  have  the  best ; 

Thou  being  the  best  of  things,  and  far  transcending 

All  style  of  joy,  in  children,  parents,  friends, 

Or  any  other  waking  dream  on  earth  : 

Thy  looks  when  they  to  Venus  did  ascribe, 

They  should  have  given  her  twenty  thousand 

Cupids ; 
Such  are  thy  beauties  and  our  loves !  Dear  saint, 
Riches,  the  dumb  god,  that  givest  all  men  tongues. 
That  canst  do  nought,  and  yet  makest  men  do  all 

things ; 
The  price  of  souls ;  even  hell,  with  thee  to  boot. 
Is  made  worth  heaven.     Thou  art  virtue,  fame. 
Honour,  and  all  things  else.     Who  can  get  theo, 

He  shall  be  noble,  valiant,  honest,  wise — 

Mos.  And  what  he  will,  sir.  Riches  are  in  fortune 
A  greater  good  than  wisdom  is  in  nature. 

Volp.  True,  my  beloved  Mosca.     Yet  1  glory 
More  in  the  cunning  purchase  of  my  wealth, 
Than  in  the  glad  possession,  since  I  gain 
No  common  way ;  I  use  no  trade,  no  venture . 
I  wound  no  earth  with  ploughshares,  fat  no  bean* 


208 


BEN  JONSON. 


To  feed  the  shambles ;  have  no  mills  for  iron, 
Oil,  corn,  or  men,  to  grind  them  into  powder : 
I  blow  no  subtle  glass,  expose  no  ships 
To  threat'nings  of  the  furrow-faced  sea : 
I  turn  no  moneys  in  the  public  bank, 
Nor  usure  private. 

Mos.  No,  sir,  nor  devour 
Soft  prodigals.     You  shall  have  some  will  swallow 
A  melting  heir  as  glibly  as  your  Dutch 
Will  pills  of  butter,  and  ne'er  purge  for  it ; 
Tear  forth  the  fathers  of  poor  families 
Out  of  their  beds,  and  coffin  them  alive 
In  some  kind  clasping  prison,  where  their  bones 
May  be  forth-coming,  when  the  flesh  is  rotten : 
But  your  sweet  nature  doth  abhor  these  courses: 
You  lothe  the  widow's  or  the  orphan's  tears 
Should  wash  your  pavements,  or  their  piteous  cries 
Ring  in  your  roofs,  and  beat  the  air  for  vengeance. 
Volp.  Right,  Mosca ;  I  do  lothe  it. 
Mos.  And  besides,  sir. 
You  are  not  like  the  thresher  that  doth  stand 
"With  a  huge  flail,  watching  a  heap  of  corn, 
And,  hungry,  dares  not  taste  the  smallest  grain, 
But  feeds  on  mallows,  and  such  bitter  herbs; 
Nor  like  the  merchant,  who  hath  fiU'd  his  vaults 
With  Romagnia,  and  rich  Candian  wines, 
Yet  drinks  the  lees  of  Lombard's  vinegar ; 
You  will  lie  not  in  straw,  whilst  moths  and  worms 
Feed  on  your  sumptuous  hangings  and  soft  beds ; 
You  know  the  use  of  riches,  and  dare  give  now 
From  that  bright  heap,  to  me,  your  poor  observer, 
Or  to  your  dwarf,  or  your  hermaphrodite. 
Your  eunuch,  or  what  other  household  trifle 

Your  pleasure  allows  maintenance 

Volp,  Hold  thee,  Mosca,  [Gives  him  money. 

Take  of  my  hand ;  thou  strikest  on  truth  in  all, 
And  they  are  envious  term  thee  parasite. 
Call  forth  my  ("warf,  my  eunuch,  and  my  fool. 
And  let  them  make  me  sport  [JExii  Mos.]  What 

should  I  do. 
But  cocker  up  my  genius,  and  live  free 
To  all  delights  my  fortune  calls  me  to  ] 
I  have  no  wife,  no  parent,  child,  ally. 
To  give  my  substance  to ;  but  whom  I  make 
Must  he  my  heir ;  and  this  makes  men  observe  me : 
This  draws  new  clients  daily  to  my  house, 
Women  and  men  of  every  sex  and  age. 
That  bring  me  presents,  send  me  plate,  coin,  jewels. 
With  hope  that  when  I  die  (which  they  expect 
Each  greedy  minute)  it  shall  then  return 
Ten-fold  upon  them ;  whilst  some,  covetous 
Above  the  rest,  seek  to  engross  me  whole, 
And  counterwork  the  one  unto  the  other. 
Contend  in  gifts,  as  they  would  seem  in  love  : 
All  which  I  suffer,  playing  with  their  hopes. 
And  am  content  to  coin  them  into  profit. 
And  look  upon  their  kindness,  and  take  more. 
And  look  on  that ;  still  bearing  them  in  hand,  * 
Letting  the  cherry  knock  against  their  lips, 
\nd  draw  it  by  their  moutiis,  and  back  again. — 
How  now  !  .  .  .  . 

Mos.  'Tis  signior  Voltore,  the  advocate ; 
I  know  him  by  his  knock. 

Volp.  Fetch  me  my  gown, 
Mv  fur8,and  night-caps ;  8ay,my  couch  is  changing ; 


And  let  them  entertain  himself  awhile 
Without  i' the  gallery.  [£ari/ Mosca.]  Now,  now, 

my  clients 
Begin  their  visitation  !     Vulture,  kite. 
Raven,  and  gorcrow,  all  my  birds  of  prey. 
That  think  me  turning  carcass,  now  they  come ; 
I  am  not  for  them  yet. — 

He-enter  Mosca,  vrith  the  goum,  tfc. 

How  now,  the  news  1 

Mos.  A  pibce  of  plate,  sir. 

Volp.  Of  what  bigness  1 

Mos.  Huge, 
Massy,  and  antique,  with  your  name  inscribed, 
And  arms  engraven. 

Volp.  Good  !  and  not  a  fox 
Stretch'd  on  the  earth,  with  fine  delusive  sleights, 
Mocking  a  gaping  crow  1  ha,  Mosca ! 

Mos.  Sharp,  sir. 

Volp.  Give  me  my  furs.        [Puts  on  his  sick  dress.] 
Why  dost  thou  laugh  so,  man  1 

Mos.  I  cannot  choose,  sir,  when  I  apprehend 
What  thoughts  he  has  without  now,  as  he  walks : 
That  this  might  be  the  last  gift  he  should  give ; 
That  this  would  fetch  you ;  if  you  died  to-day. 
And  gave  him. all,  what  he  should  be  to-morrow; 
What  large  return  would  come  of  all  his  ventures ; 
How  he  should  worship'd  be,  and  reverenced ; 
Ride  with  his  furs,  and  foot-cloths;  waited  on 
By  herds  of  fools,  and  clients ;  have  clear  way 
Made  for  his  mule,  as  letter'd  as  himself; 
Be  call'd  the  great  and  learned  advocate : 
And  then  concludes,  there's  nought  impossible. 

Volp.  Yes,  to  be  learned,  Mosca. 

Mos.  O,  no:  rich 
Implies  it.     Hood  an  ass  with  reverend  purple, 
So  you  can  hide  his  two  ambitious  ears. 
And  he  shall  pass  for  a  cathedral  doctor. 

Volp.  My  caps,  my  caps,  good  Mosca.     Fetch 
him  in. 

Mos.  Stay,  sir ;  your  ointment  for  your  eyes. 

J'olp.  That's  true ; 
Despatch,  despatch :  I  long  to  have  possession 
Of  my  new  present. 

Mos.  That,  and  thousands  more, 
I  hope  to  see  you  lord  of. 

Volp.  'I'hanks,  kind  Mosca. 

Mos.  And  that,  when  I  am  lost  in  blended  dust, 
And  hundred  such  as  I  am,  in  succession 

Volp.  Nay,  that  were  too  much,  Mosca. 

Mos.  You  shall  live. 
Still,  to  delude  these  harpies. 

Volp.  Loving  Mosca ! 
'Tis  well :  my  pillow  now,  and  let  him  enter. 

[Exa  MosOA. 
Now,  my  feign'd  cough,  my  phthisic,  and  my  gout. 
My  apoplexy,  palsy,  and  catarrhs. 
Help,  with  your  forced  functions,  this  my  posture, 
Wherein,  this  three  year,  I  have  milk'd  their  hopes. 
He  comes ;  I  hear  him — Uh  !  [wugAjng.]  uh !  uh! 

uh!  O— 
He-enter  Mosca,  introducing  Voltore,  with  a  piece  of  Plate. 

Mos.  You  still  are  what  you  were,  sir.  Only  you. 
Of  all  the  rest,  are  he  commands  his  love, 
And  you  do  wisely  to  preserve  it  thus. 
With  early  visitation,  and  kind  notes 


Of  your  good  meaning  to  him,  which,  I  know, 
Cannot  but  come  most  grateful.  Patron !  sir ! 
Here's  signior  Voltore  is  come 

Volp.  [fainllyj]     What  say  you  1 

Mos.  Sir,  signior  Voltore  is  come  this  morning 
To  visit  you. 

Volp.  I  thank  him. 

Mos.  And  hath  brought 
A  piece  of  antique  plate,  bought  of  St.  Mark, 
With  which  he  here  presents  you. 

Volp.  He  is  welcome. 
Pray  him  to  come  more  often. 

Mos.  Yes. 

Volt.  What  says  he  1 

Mos.  He  thanks  you,  and  desires  you  see  him 
often. 

Volp.  Mosca. 

Mos.  My  patron ! 

Volp.  Bring  him  near,  where  is  he  1 
I  long  to  feel  his  hand. 

Mos.  The  plate  is  here,  sir. 

Volt.  How  fare  you,  sir  1 

Volp.  I  thank  you,  signior  Voltore ; 
Where  is  the  plate  ]  mine  eyes  are  bad. 

Volt.  ^pnJting  it  into  his  hands.Ji     I'm  sorry, 
To  see  you  still  thus  weak. 

Mos.  That  he's  not  weaker.  [Aside. 

Volp.  You  are  too  munificent. 

Volt.  No,  sir ;  would  to  heaven, 
I  could  as  well  give  health  to  you,  as  that  plate ! 

Volp.  You  give,  sir,  what  you  can;  I  thank 
you.     Your  love 
Hath  taste  in  this,  and  shall  not  be  unanswer'd : 
I  pray  you  see  me  often. 

Volt.  Yes,  I  shall,  sir. 

Volp.  Be  not  far  from  me. 

Mos.  Do  you  observe  that,  sir  1 

Volp.  Hearken  unto  me  still ;  it  will  concern  you. 

Mos.  You  are  a  happy  man,  sir ;  know  your  good. 

Volp.  I  cannot  now  last  long 

Mos.  You  are  his  heir,  sir. 

VoU.  Am  1 1 

Volp.  I  feel  me  going ;  Uh !  uh !  uh  !  uh ! 
I'm  sailing  to  my  port,  Uh !  uh !  uh  !  uh ! 
And  I  am  glad  I  am  so  near  my  haven. 

Mos.  Alas,  kind  gentleman  !   Well,  we  must  all 

go 

Volt.  But,  Mosca 

Mos.  Age  will  conquer. 

Volt.  'Pray  thee,  hear  me : 
Am  I  inscribed  hb  heir  for  certain  1 

Mos.  Are  you ! 
I  do  beseech  you,  sir,  you  will  vouchsafe 
To  write  me  in  your  family.     All  my  hopes 
Depend  upon  your  worship :  I  am  lost. 
Except  the  rising  sun  do  shine  on  me. 

Volt.  It  shall  both  shine,  and  warm  thee,  Mosca. 

Mos.  Sir, 
1  am  a  man,  that  hath  not  done  your  love 
All  the  worst  offices :  here  I  wear  your  keys, 
See  all  your  coffers  and  your  caskets  lock'd^ 
Keep  the  poor  inventory  of  your  jewels. 
Your  plate  and  moneys ;  am  your  steward,  sir, 
Husband  your  goods  here. 

VoU.  But  am  I  sole  heir  1 
27 


Mos.  Without  a  partner,  sir;   confirm'd  this 
morning : 
The  wax  is  warm  yet,  and  the  ink  scarce  dry 
Upon  the  parchment 

Volt.  Happy,  happy  me ! 
By  what  good  chance,  sweet  Mosca  ^ 

Mos.  Your  desert,  sir ; 
I  know  no  second  cause. 

Volt.  Thy  modesty 
Is  not  to  know  it ;  well,  we  shall  requite  it    [him. 

Mos.  iie  ever  liked  your  course,  sir;  that  first  took 
I  oft  have  heard  him  say,  how  he  admired 
Men  of  your  large  profession,  that  could  speak 
To  every  cause,  and  things  mere  contraries. 
Till  they  were  hoarse  again,  yet  all  be  law ; 
That,  with  most  quick  agility,  could  turn. 
And  return ;  make  knots,  and  undo  them  ; 
Give  forked  counsel ;  take  provoking  gold 
On  either  hand,  and  put  it  up :  these  men. 
He  knew,  would  thrive  with  their  humility. 
And,  for  his  part,  he  thought  he  should  be  blest 
To  have  his  heir  of  such  a  suffering  spirit. 
So  wise,  so  grave,  of  so  perplex'd  a  tongue. 
And  loud  withal,  that  would  not  wag,  nor  scarce 
Lie  still,  without  a  fee ;  when  every  word 
Your  worship  but  lets  fall,  is  a  chequin ! — 

[Knocking  without. 
Who's  that  1  one  knocks ;  I  would  not  have  you 

seen,  sir. 
And  yet — pretend  you  came,  and  went  in  haste ; 

I'll  fashion  an  excuse and,  gentle  sir. 

When  you  do  come  to  swim  in  golden  lard. 
Up  to  the^arms  in  honey,  that  your  chin 
Is  born  up  stiff,  with  fatness  of  the  flood. 
Think  on  your  vassal ;  but  remember  me  : 
I  have  not  been  your  worst  of  clients. 

Volt.  Mosca! 

Mos.  W  hen  will  you  have  your  inventory  brought, 

Or  see  a  copy  of  the  will  1 Anon  ! —  [sir ; 

I'll  bring  them  to  you,  sir.     Away,  be  gone. 
Put  business  in  your  face.  [Exit  Voltoeb. 

Volp.  [springiug  wp.]     Excellent  Mosca ! 
Come  hither,  let  me  kiss  thee. 

Mos.  Keep  you  still,  sir. 
Here  is  Corbaccio. 

Volp.  Set  the  plate  away : 
The  vulture's  gone,  and  the  old  raven's  come ! 

Mos.  Betake  you  to  your  silence,  and  your  sleep. 
Stand  there  ^d  multiply.  [Pulling  the  plate  to  tht 

rest.']     Now  shall  we  see 
A  wretch,  who  is  indeed  more  impotent 
Than  this  can  feign  to  be ;  yet  hopes  to  hop 
Over  his  grave — 

Enter  Corbaooio. 
Signior  Corbaccio ! 
You're  very  welcome,  sir. 

Corb.  How  does  your  patron  t, 

Mot.  Troth,  as  he  did,  sir ;  no  amends. 

Corb.  What !  mends  he  1 

Mos.  No,  sir :  he's  rather  worse. 

Corb.  That's  well.     Where  is  he  1 

Mos.  Upon  his  couch,  sir,  newly  fall'n  asleep. 

Corb.  Does  he  sleep  well  ] 

Mos.  No  wink,  sir,  all  this  night, 
Nor  yesterday ;  but  slumbers. 

82 


210 


BEN   JONSON. 


Corb.  Good  !  he  should  take 
Some  counsel  of  physicians :  I  have  brought  him 
An  opiate  here,  from  mine  own  doctor. 
Mos.  He  will  not  hear  of  drugs. 
Corb.  Why  1  I  myself 
Stood  by  while  it  was  made,  saw  all  the  ingredients 
And  know,  it  cannot  but  most  gently  work : 
My  life  for  his,  'tis  but  to  make  him  sleep. 
Volp.  Ay,  his  last  sleep,  if  he  would  take  it. 

\Aride. 
Mos.  Sir, 
He  has  no  faith  in  physic 
Corb.  Say  you,  say  you  1 
Mos.  He   has   no   faith   in   physic:    he   does 
think 
Most  of  your  doctors  are  the  greater  danger 
And  worse  disease,  to  escape.     I  often  have 
Heard  him  protest,  that  your  physician 
Should  never  be  his  heir. 
Corb.  Not  I  his  heir  1 
Mos.  Not  your  physician,  sir. 
Corb.  O,  no,  no,  no ; 
I  do  not  mean  it. 

Mos.  No,  sir,  nor  their  fees 
He  cannot  brook :  he  says,  they  flay  a  man, 
Before  they  kill  him. 

Corb.  Right,  I  do  conceive  you. 
Mos.  And  then  they  do  it  by  experiment ; 
For  which  the  law  not  only  doth  absolve  them. 
But  gives  them  great  reward :  and  he  is  loth 
To  hire  his  death,  so. 

Corb.  It  is  true,  they  kill 
With  as  much  license  as  a  judge. 

Mos.  Nay,  more ; 
For  he  but  kills,  sir,  where  the  law  condemns, 
And  these  can  kill  him  too. 

Corb.  Ay,  or  me ; 
Or  any  man.     How  does  his  apoplex  1 
Is  that  strong  on  him  still  1 

Mos.  Most  violent. 
His  speech  is  broken,  and  his  eyes  are  set. 

His  face  drawn  longer  than  'twas  wont 

Corb.  How !  how  ! 
Stronger  than  he  was  wontl 

Mos.  No,  sir :  his  face 
Drawn  longer  than  'twas  wont. 
Corb.  O  good ! 
Mos.  His  mouth 
Is  ever  gaping,  and  his  eyelids  hang. 
Corb.  Good. 

Mos.  A  freezing  numbness  stiffens  all  his  joints, 
And  makes  the  colour  of  his  flesh  like  lead. 
Corb.  'Tis  good. 

Mos.  His  pulse  beats  slow,  and  dull. 
Corb.  Good  symptoms  still. 

Mos.  And  from  his  brain 

Corb.  I  conceive  you ;  good. 
Mos.  Flows   a  cold  sweat,  with  a  continual 
rheum. 
Forth  the  resolved  comers  of  his  eyes. 

Corb.  Is't  possible  1     Yet  I  am  better*  ha ! 
How  does  he,  with  the  swimming  of  his  head  1 

Mos.  O,  sir,  'tis  past  the  scotomy  ;  he  now 
Hath  lost  his  feeling,  and  hath  left  to  snort : 
You  hardly  can  perceive  him,  that  he  breathes 


Coib.  Excellent,  excellent !  sure  I  shall  outlast 
him: 
This  makes  me  young  again,  a  score  of  years. 

Mos.  I  was  coming  for  you,  sir. 

Corb.  Has  he  made  his  will  1 
What  has  he  given  mel  ■ 

Mos.  No,  sir. 

Corb.  Nothing!  ha 7 

Mos.  He  has  not  made  his  will,  sir. 

Corb.  Oh,  oh,  oh ! 
What  then  did  Voltore,  the  lawyer,  here  1 

Mos.  He  smelt  a  carcass,  sir,  when  he  but  heard 
My  master  was  about  his  testament ; 
As  I  did  urge  him  to  it  for  your  good 

Corb.  He  came  unto  him,  did  he  1  I  thought  so. 

Mos.  Yes,  and  presented  him  this  piece  of  plate. 

Corb.  To  be  his  heir  ] 

Mos.  I  do  not  know,  sir. 

Corb.  True: 
I  know  it  too. 

Mos.  By  your  own  scale,  sir.  [Axide 

Corb.  Well, 
I  shall  prevent  him,  yet.     See,  Mosca,  look, 
Here,  I  have  brought  a  bag  of  bright  chequines, 
Will  quite  weigh  down  his  plate. 

Mos.  [taking  the  bag."]     Yea,  marry,  sir, 
This  is  true  physic,  this  your  sacred  medicine ; 
No  talk  of  opiates,  to  this  great  elixir ! 

Corb.  'Tis  aurum  palpabile,  if  not  potabile. 

Mos.  It  shall  be  minister'd  to  him,  in  his  bowL 

Corb.  Ay,  do,  do,  do. 

Mos.  Most  blessed  cordial ! 
This  will  recover  him. 

Corb.  Yes,  do,  do,  do. 

Mos.  I  think  it  were  not  best,  sir. 

Corb.  What  J 

Mos.  To  recover  him. 

Corb.  O,  no,  no,  no ;  by  no  means. 

Mos.  Why,  sir,  this 
Will  work  some  strange  effect,  if  he  but  feel  it. 

Corb.  'Tis  true,  therefore  forbear ;  I'll  take  my 
Give  me  it  again.  [venture : 

Mos.  At  no  hand ;  pardon  me  : 
You  shall  not  do  yourself  that  wrong,  sir.     I 
Will  so  advise  you,  you  shall  have  it  all. 

Corb.  Howl 

Mos.  All,  sir ;  'tis  your  right,  your  own ;  no  man 
Can  claim  a  part :  'tis  yours  without  a  rival. 
Decreed  by  destiny. 

Corb.  How,  how,  good  Mosca  ? 

Mos.  I'll  tell  you,  sir.   This  fit  he  shall  recover. 

Corb.  I  do  conceive  you. 

Mos.  And,  on  first  advantage 
Of  his  gain'd  sense,  will  I  re-importune  him 
Unto  the  making  of  his  testament: 
And  show  him  this.  {Pointing  to  the  money. 

Corb.  Good,  good. 

Mos.  'Tis  better  yet, 
If  you  will  hear,  sir. 

Corb.  Yes,  with  all  my  heart.        [wdth  speed ; 

Mos.  Now,  would  I  counsel  you,  make  home 
There,  frame  a  will ;  whereto  you  shall  inscribe 
My  master  your  sole  heir. 

Corb.  And  disinherit 
My  son ! 


BEN  JONSON. 


211 


Mot.  O,  sir,  the  better :  for  that  colour 
Shall  make  it  much  more  taking. 
Corb.  O,  but  colour  1 

Mus.  This  will,  sir,  you  shall  send  it  unto  me. 
Now,  when  I  come  to  enforce,  as  I  will  do, 
Your  cares,y  our  watchings,  and  your  many  prayers, 
Your  more  than  many  gifts,  your  this  day's  present. 
And   last,   produce   your   will;   where,    without 

thought. 
Or  least  regard,  unto  your  proper  issue, 
A  son  so  brave,  and  highly  meriting. 
The  stream  of  your  diverted  love  hath  thrown  you 
Upon  my  master,  and  made  him  your  heir : 
He  cannot  be  so  stupid  or  stone  dead, 

But  out  of  conscience,  and  mere  gratitude 

Coib.  He  must  pronounce  me  his  1 
Mos.  'Tis  true. 
Corb.  Tlys  plot 
Did  I  think  on  before. 
Mos.  I  do  believe  it. 
Corb.  Do  you  not  believe  iti 
Mos.  Yes,  sir. 
Corb.  Mine  own  project. 

Mos.  Which,  when  he  hath  done,  sir 

Corb.  Publish'd  me  his  heir  1 

Mos.  And  you  so  certain  to  survive  him 

Corb.  Ay. 

Mos.  Being  so  lusty  a  man 

Corb.  'Tis  true. 

Mos,  Yes,  sir 

Corb.  I  thought  on  that  too.     See,  how  he 
should  be 
The  very  organ  to  express  my  thoughts ! 

Mos.  You  have  not  only  done  yourself  a  good — 
Corb.  But  multiplied  it  on  my  son. 
Mos.  'Tis  right,  sir. 
Corb.  Still,  my  invention. 
Mos.  'Las,  sir !  heaven  knows, 
It  hath  been  all  my  study,  all  my  care, 

(I  e'en  grow  gray  withftl,)  how  to  work  things 

Corb.  I  do  conceive,  sweet  Mosca. 
Mos.  You  are  he. 
For  whom  I  labour,  here. 

Corb.  Ay,  do,  do,  do : 
ri    straight  about  it.  {doing. 

Mos.  Rook  go  with  you,  raven ! 
Corb.  I  know  thee  honest. 
Mos.  You  do  lie,  sir !  \_AsidA. 

Corb.  And •         [sir. 

Mos.  Your  knowledge  is  no  better  than  your  ears, 
Corb.  I  do  not  doubt,  to  be  a  father  to  thee. 
Mos.  Nor  I  to  gull  my  brother  of  his  blessing. 
Corb.  I  may  have  my  youth  restored  to  me,  why 
Mos.  Your  worship  is  a  precious  ass!       [not] 
Corb.  What  say 'st  thou  1 
Mos.  I  do  desire  your  worship  to  make  haste,  sir. 
Corb.  'Tis  done,  'tis  done ;  I  go.  [ExU. 

Volp.  [^leaping  from  hts  touch.]  O,  I  shall  burst! 
Let  out  my  sides,  let  out  my  sides — 

Mos.  Contain 
Your  flux  of  laughter,  sir :  you  know  this  hope 
Is  such  a  bait,  it  covers  any  hook. 

Volp.  O,  but  thy  working,  and  thy  placing  it ! 
I  cannot  hold ;  good  rascal,  let  me  kiss  thee : 
I  never  knew  thee  in  so  rare  a  humour. 


Mos.  Alas,  sir,  I  but  do  as  I  am  taught ; 
Follow  your  grave  instructions ;  give  them  words 
Pour  oil  into  their  ears,  and  send  them  hence. 

Volp.  'Tis  true,  'tis  true.     What  a  rare  pun 
ishment 
Is  avarice  to  itself! 

Mos.  Ay,  with  our  help,  sir. 

Volp.  So  many  cares,  so  many  maladies, 
So  many  fears  attending  on  old  age. 
Yea,  death  so  often  call'd  on,  as  no  wish 
Can  be  more  frequent  with  them,  their  limbs  faint. 
Their  senses  dull,  their  seeing,  hearing,  going, 
All  dead  before  them ;  yea,  their  very  teeth, 
Their  instruments  of  eating,  failing  them : 
Yet  this  is  reckon'd  life !  nay,  here  was  one. 
Is  now  gone  home,  that  wishes  to  live  longer ! 
Feels  not  his  gout,  nor  palsy  ;  feigns  himself 
Younger  by  scores  of  years,  flatters  his  age 
With  confident  belying  it,  hopes  he  may. 
With  charms,  like  ^son,  have  his  youth  restored: 
And  with  these  thoughts  so  battens,  as  if  fate 
Would  be  as  easily  cheated  on,  as  he. 
And  all  turns  air  1     [^Knocking  within.']    Who's 
that  there,  now  1  a  third ! 

Mos.  Close,  to  your  couch  again ;  I  hear  his 
voice : 
It  is  Corvino,  our  spruce  merchant 

Voip.  [/ies  down  as  before.]     Dead. 

Mos.  Another  bout,  sir,  with  your  eyes,    [^n 
ointing  ihern.] — Who's  there  1 


FROM  THB  CELEBKATION  OF  CHARIS. 
See  the  chariot  at  hand  here  of  Love, 

Wherein  my  lady  rideth  ! 
Each  that  draws  is  a  swan  or  a  dove. 

And  well  the  car  Love  guideth. 
As  she  goes,  all  hearts  do  duty 

Unto  her  beauty. 
And  enamour'd,  do  wish  so  they  might 

But  enjoy  such  a  sight. 
That  they  still  were  to  run  by  her  side. 
Thorough   swords,  thorough  seas,  whither  she 
would  ride. 

Do  but  look  on  her  eyes,  they  do  light 
All  that  Love's  world  compriseth  ! 

Do  but  look  on  her  hair,  it  is  bright 
As  Love's  star  when  it  riseth ! 

Do  but  mark,  her  forehead's  smoother 

Than  words  that  soothe  her ! 

And  from  her  arch'd  brows,  such  a  grace 
Sheds  itself  through  the  face. 

As  alone  there  triumphs  to  the  life 

All  the  gain,  all  the  good  of  the  elements'  strife 

Have  you  seen  but  a  bright  lily  grow. 
Before  rude  hands  have  touch'd  it  1 

Ha'  you  mark'd  but  the  fall  o'  the  snow 
Belbrc  the  soil  hath  smutch'd  it  1 

Ha'  you  felt  the  wool  of  beaver  1 
Or  swan's  down  ever  1 

Or  have  smelt  o'  the  bud  o'  the  brier  1 
Or  the  nard  in  the  fire  1 

Or  have  tasted  the  bag  of  the  bee  1 

O  so  white !  O  so  soft !  0  so  sweet  is  she  ! 


THOMAS  CAREW. 


[Born,  ISS9.    Died,  1639.] 


When  Mr.  Ellis  pronounced  that  Carew  cer- 
tainly died  in  1634,  he  had  probably  some  rea- 
sons for  setting  aside  the  date  of  the  poet's  birth 
assigned  by  Lord  Clarendon ;  but  as  he  has  not 
given  them,  the  authority  of  a  contemporary  must 
be  allowed  to  stand.  He  was  of  the  Carews  of 
Gloucestershire,  a  family  descended  from  the 
elder  stock  of  that  name  in  Devonshire,  and  a 
younger  brother  of  Sir  Matthew  Carew,  who  was 
a  zealous  adherent  of  the  fortunes  of  Charles  I. 
He  was  educated  at  Oxford,  but  was  neither 
matriculated  nor  took  any  degree.  After  return- 
ing from  his  travels,  he  was  received  with  distinc- 
tion at  the  court  of  Charles  I.  for  his  elegant 
manners  and  accomplishments,  and  was  ap- 
pointed gentleman  of  the  privy  chamber,  and 
sewer  in  ordinary  to  his  majesty.  The  rest  of 
his  days  seem  to  have  passed  in  affluence  and 
ease,  and  he  died  just  in  time  to  save  him  from 
witnessing  the  gay  and  gallant  court,  to  which 
he  had  contributed  more  than  the  ordinary  litera- 
ture of  a  courtier,  dispersed  by  the  storm  of  civil 
war  that  was  already  gathering.* 

The  want  of  boldness  and  expansion  in  Carew's 
thoughts  and  subjects,  excludes  him  from  rival- 


ship  with  great  poetical  names ;  nor  is  it  difficult, 
even  within  the  narrow  pale  of  his  works,  to  dis- 
cover some  faults  of  affectation,  and  of  still  more 
objectionable  indelicacy.  But  among  the  poets 
who  have  walked  in  the  same  limited  path,  he 
is  pre-eminently  beautiful,  and  deservedly  ranks 
among  the  earliest  of  those  who  gave  a  cultivated 
grace  to  our  lyrical  strains.  His  slowness  in 
conjposition  was  evidently  that  sort  of  care  in 
the  poet,  which  saves  trouble  to  his  reader.  His 
poems  have  touches  of  elegance  and  refinement, 
which  their  trifling  subjects  could  not  have 
yielded  without  a  delicate  and  deliberate  exer- 
cise of  the  fancy ;  and  he  unites  the  point  and 
polish  of  later  times  with  many  of  the  genial  and 
warm  tints  of  the  elder  muse.  Like  Waller,  he 
is  by  no  means  free  from  conceit ;  and  one  re- 
grets to  find  him  addressing  the  surgeon  bleeding 
Celia,  in  order  to  tell  him  that  the  blood  which 
he  draws  proceeds  not  from  the  fair  one's  arm, 
but  from  the  lover's  heart.  But  of  such  frigid 
thoughts  he  is  more  sparing  than  Waller;  and 
his  conceptions,  compared  to  that  poet's,  are  like 
fruits  of  a  richer  flavour,  that  have  been  cultured 
with  the  same  assiduity .f 


PERSUASIONS  TO  LOVE. 

Thikk  not,  'cause  men  flattering  say, 
Y'  are  fresh  as  April,  sweet  as  May, 
Bright  as  is  the  morning-star, 
That  you  are  so ; — or  though  you  are, 
Be  not  therefore  proud,  and  deem 
All  men  unworthy  your  esteem :  . .  .  . 
Starve  not  yourself,  because  you  may 
Thereby  make  me  pine  away; 
Nor  let  brittle  beauty  make 
You  your  wiser  thoughts  forsake : 
For  that  lovely  face  will  fail ; 
Beauty's  sweet,  but  beauty's  frail; 
'Tis  sooner  past,  'tis  sooner  done, 
Than  summer's  rain,  or  winter's  sun 
Most  fleeting,  when  it  is  most  dear ; 
'Tis  gone,  while  we  but  say  'tis  here. 
These  curious  locks  so  aptly  twined, 
Whose  every  hair  a  soul  doth  bind. 
Will  change  their  auburn  hue,  and  grow 
White,  and  cold  as  winter's  snow. 
That  eye  which  now  is  Cupid's  nest 
Will  prove  his  grave,  and  all  the  rest 
Will  follow ;  in  the  cheek,  chin,  nose, 
Nor  lily  shall  be  found,  nor  rose ; 
And  what  will  then  become  of  all 
Those,  whom  now  you  servants  call  1 
Like  swallows,  when  your  summer's  done 
They'll  fly,  and  seek  some  warmer  sun.  .  . 


The  snake  each  year  fresh  skin  resumes, 
And  eagles  change  their  aged  plumes ; 
The  faded  rose  each  spring  receives 
A  fresh  red  tincture  on  her  leaves: 
But  if  your  beauties  once  decay, 
You  never  know  a  second  May. 
Oh,  then  be  wise,  and  whilst  your  season 
Affords  you  days  for  sport,  do  reason ; 
Spend  not  in  vain  your  life's  short  hour, 
But  crop  in  time  your  beauty's  flower : 
Which  will  away,  and  doth  together 
Both  bud  and  fade,  both  blow  and  wither. 


[♦  He  is  mentioned  as  alive  in  1638  in  Lord  Falkland's 
Terseg  on  JonHin's  death;  and  as  there  is  no  poem  of 
Carew's  in  the  Jonsionu.%  Virbiui,  it  is  not  unliliely  that  he 
was  dead  Ix-fore  its  publication. — C.] 

[t  "Few  will  hesitate  to  acknowledge  that  he  has  more 
fenny  and  more  tenderness  dian  Waller:  but  less  choice, 
212 


SONG. 

MEDIOCRITY   IN   LOVE   REJECTED. 

Give  me  more  love,  or  more  disdain, 

The  torrid  or  the  frozen  zone 
Brings  equal  ease  unto  my  pain ; 

The  .temperate  affords  me  none; 
Either  extreme,  of  love  or  hate, 
Is  sweeter  than  a  calm  estate. 
Give  me  a  storm ;  if  it  be  love. 

Like  Danae  in  a  golden  shower, 
I  swim  in  pleasure  ;  if  it  prove 

Disdain,  that  torrent  will  devour 
My  vulture-hopes ;  and  he's  possess'd 
Of  heaven  that's  but  from  hell  released : 
Then  crown  my  joys,  or  cure  my  pain ; 
Give  me  more  love,  or  more  disdain. 


les.<i  judgment  and  knowledge  where  to  stop,  less  of  the 
equability  which  never  offends.  Ie8.>i  attention  to  the  unity 
and  thread  of  his  little  pieces.  1  should  he.'itate  to  give 
him,  on  the  whole,  the  preferi-nce  as  a  poet,  taking  colle<y 
tively  the  attributes  of  that  character." — liALLAM,  Lii 
HUl^  vol.  iii.  p.  607. — CI 


THOMAS  CAREW. 


218 


TO  MY  MISTRESS  SITTING  BY  A  EIVEE'S  SIDE. 

AS  EDDT. 

Mark  how  yon  eddy  steals  away 
From  the  rude  stream  into  the  bay ; 
There  lock'd  up  safe,  she  doth  divorce 
Her  waters  from  the  channel's  course, 
And  scorns  the  torrent  that  did  bring 
Her  headlong  from  her  native  spring. 
Now  doth  she  with  her  new  love  play, 
Whilst  he  runs  murmuring  away. 
Mark  how  she  courts  the  banks,  whilst  they 
As  amorously  their  arms  display, 
T'  embrace  and  clip  their  silver  waves : 
See  how  she  strokes  their  sides,  and  craves 
An  entrance  there,  which  they  deny ; 
Whereat  she  frowns,  threatening  to  fly 
Home  to  her  stream,  and  'gins  to  swim 
Backward,  but  from  the  channel's  brim 
Smiling  returns  into  the  creek, 
With  thousand  dimples  on  her  cheek. 

Be  thou  this  eddy,  and  I'll  make 
My  breast  thy  shore,  where  thou  shalt  take 
Secure  repose,  and  never  dream 
Of  the  quite  forsaken  stream : 
Let  him  to  the  wide  ocean  haste. 
There  lose  his  colour,  name,  and  taste  ; 
Thou  shalt  save  all,  and,  safe  from  him,- 
Within  these  arms  for  ever  swim. 


EPITAPH  ON  THE  LADY  MARY   VILLIKRS. 
The  Lady  Mary  Villiers  lies 
Under  this  stone :  With  weeping  eyes 
The  parents  that  first  gave  her  breath, 
And  their  sad  friends,  laid  her  in  earth. 
If  any  of  them,  reader,  were 
Known  unto  thee,  shed  a  tear : 
Or  if  thyself  possess  a  gem, 
As  dear  to  thee  as  this  to  them ; 
Though  a  stranger  to  this  place, 
Bewail  in  their's  thine  own  hard  case ; 
For  thou  perhaps  at  thy  return 
May'st  find  thy  darhng  in  an  urn. 


INQRATEFUL  BEAUTY  THREATENED. 
Know,  Celia,  since  thou  art  so  proud, 

'Twas  I  that  gave  thee  thy  renown : 
Thou  hadst,  in  the  forgotten  crowd 

Of  common  beauties,  lived  unknown, 
Had  not  my  verse  exhaled  thy  name, 
And  with  it  impt  the  wings  of  Fame. 
That  killing  power  is  none  of  thine, 

I  gave  it  to  thy  voice  and  eyes : 
Thy  sweets,  thy  graces,  all  are  mine : 

Thou  art  my  star,  shinest  in  my  skies ; 
Then  dart  not  from  thy  borrow'd  sphere 
Lightning  on  him  that  fix'd  thee  there. 
Tempt  me  with  such  aflrights  no  more, 

Lest  what  I  made  I  uncreate : 
Let  fools  thy  mystic  forms  adore, 

I'll  know  thee  in  thy  mortal  state. 
Wise  poets,  that  wrap  truth  in  tales. 
Knew  her  themselves  through  all  her  veils. 


DISDAIN  RETURNED. 

He  that  loves  a  rosy  cheek. 

Or  a  coral  lip  admires. 
Or  from  star-like  eyes  doth  seek 

Fuel  to  mauitain  his  fires ; 
As  old  Time  makes  these  decay, 
So  his  flames  must  waste  away. 

But  a  smooth  and  steadfast  mind. 
Gentle  thoughts  and  calm  desires, 

Hearts  with  equal  love  combined, 
Kindle  never-dying  fires. 

Where  these  are  not,  I  despise 

Lovely  cheeks,  or  lips  or  eyes. 

No  tears,  Celia,  now  shall  win 
My  resolved  heart  to  return ; 

I  have  search'd  thy  soul  within. 

And  find  nought  but  pride  and  scorn ; 

I  have  leam'd  thy  arts,  and  now 

Can  disdain  as  much  as  thou. 

Some  power,  in  my  revenge,  convey 

That  love  to  her  I  cast  away. 


SONG. 

PEBSDASI0N8  TO  ENJOT. 

If  the  quick  spirits  in  your  eye 
Now  languish,  and  anon  must  die ; 
If  ev'ry  sweet,  and  ev'ry  grace 
Must  fly  from  that  forsaken  face : 
Then,  CeUa,  let  us  reap  our  joys. 
Ere  time  such  goodly  fruit  destroys. 

Or,  if  that  golden  fleece  must  grow 
For  ever,  free  from  aged  snow ; 
If  those  bright  suns  must  know  no  shade. 
Nor  your  fresh  beauties  ever  fade ; 
Then  fear  not,  Celia,  to  bestow 
What  still  being  gather'd  still  must  grow. 
Thus,  either  Time  his  sickle  brings 
In  vain,  or  else  in  vain  his  wings. 


SONG. 
Ask  me  no  more  where  Jove  bestows, 
When  June  is  past,  the  fading  rose ; 
For  in  your  beauties  orient  deep 
These  flow'rs,  as  in  their  causes,  sleep. 

Ask  me  no  more,  whither  do  stray 
The  golden  atoms  of  the  day  ; 
For,  in  pure  love,  heaven  did  prepare 
Those  powders  to  enrich  your  hair. 

Ask  me  no  more,  whither  doth  haste 
The  nightingale,  when  May  is  past ; 
For  in  your  sweet  dividing  throat 
She  winters,  and  keeps  warm  her  note. 

Ask  me  no  more,  where  those  stars  light 
That  downards  fall  in  dead  of  night ; 
For  in  your  eyes  they  sit,  and  there 
Fixed  become,  as  in  their  sphere. 

Ask  me  no  more,  if  east  or  west. 
The  phuenix  builds  her  spicy  nest; 
For  unto  you  at  last  she  flies, 
And  in  your  fragrant  bosom  dies. 


SONG. 

THE  WILLING  PRISONER  TO  HIS  MISTRESS. 

liKT  fools  great  Cupid's  yoke  disdain, 
Loving  their  own  wild  freedom  better; 

Whilst,  proud  of  my  triumphEint  chain, 
I  sit  and  court  my  beauteous  fetter. 

Her  murdering  glances,  snaring  hairs. 
And  her  bewitching  smiles,  so  please  me. 

As  he  brings  ruin,  that  repairs 

The  sweet  afflictions  that  disease  me. 

Hide  not  those  panting  balls  of  snow 
With  envious  veils  from  my  beholding ; 

Unlock  those  lips,  their  pearly  row 
In  a  sweet  smile  of  love  unfolding. 

And  let  those  eyes,  whose  motion  wheels 

The  restless  fate  of  every  lover. 
Survey  the  pains  my  sick  heart  feels. 

And  wounds,  themselves  have  made,  discover. 


A  PASTORAL   DIALOGUE. 

Shepherd,  Ntmph,  Chorus. 
Shep.  This  mossy  bank  they  prest.    Nym.  That 
aged  oak 
Did  canopy  the  happy  pair 
All  night  from  the  damp  air. 
Cho.  Here  let  us  sit,  and  sing  the  words  they  spoke. 
Till  the  day-breaking  their  embraces  broke. 

Shep.  See,  love,  the  blushes  of  the  morn  appear : 
And  now  she  hangs  her  pearly  store 
(Robb'd  from  the  eastern  shore) 

I'  th'  cowslip's  bell  and  rose's  ear; 

Sweet,  I  must  stay  no  longer  here. 

Nym.  Those  streaks  of  doubtful  light  usher  not  day. 
But  show  my  sun  must  set;  no  morn 
Shall  shine  till  thou  return  : 

The  yellow  planets,  and  the  gray 

Dawn,  shall  attend  thee  on  thy  way. 

Shep.  If  thiiie  eyes  gild  my  paths,  they  may  forbear 
Their  useless  shine.     Aym.  My  tears  will  quite 
Extinguish  their  faint  light. 
Shep.  Those  drops  will  make  their  beams  more  clear. 
Love's  flames  will  shine  in  every  tear. 

Cho.  They  kiss'd,  and  wept ;  and  from  their  lips 
and  eyes, 

In  a  mix'd  dew  of  briny  sweet. 

Their  joys  and  sorrows  meet ; 
But  she  cries  out.     Nym.  Shepherd,  arise, 
The  sun  betrays  us  else  to  spies. 

Shep.  The  winged  hours  fly  fast  whilst  we  embrace ; 

But  when  we  want  their  help  to  meet, 

They  move  with  leaden  feet. 
Nym.  Then  let  us  pinion  time,  and  chase 
The  day  for  ever  from  this  place. 

Shep.  Hark !  Nym.  Ah  me,  stay  !  Shep.  For  ever. 
Nym.  No,  arise ; 

Wo  must  be  gone.     Shep.  My  nest  of  spice. 

Nym.  My  soul.     Shep.  My  paradise.  [eyes 

Cho.  Neither  ciuld  say  farewell,  but  through  their 
Grief  interrupted  speech  with  tears  suppUes. 


UPON   MR.  W.  MONTAGUE'S  RETURN  FROM 
TRAVEL. 
Lead  the  black  bull  to  slaughter,  with  the  boar 
And  lamb :  then  purple  with  their  mingled  gore 
The  ocean's  curled  brow,  that  so  we  may 
The  sea-gods  for  their  careful  waftage  pay : 
Send  grateful  incense  up  in  pious  smoke 
To  those  mild  spirits  that  cast  a  curbing  yoke 
Upon  the  stubborn  winds,  that  calmly  blew 
To  the  wish'd  shore  our  long'd-for  Montague : 
Then,  whilst  the  aromatic  odours  burn 
In  honour  of  their  darling's  safe  return. 
The  Muse's  quire  shall  thus,  with  voice  and  hand, 
Bless  the  fair  gale  that  drove  his  ship  to  land. 

Sweetly-breathing  vernal  air, 

That  with  kind  warmth  dost  repair 

Winter's  ruins;  from  whose  breast 

All  the  gums  and  spice  of  th'  East 

Borrow  their  perfiimes ;  whose  eye 

Gilds  the  morn,  and  clears  the  sky  ; 

Whose  dishevel'd  tresses  shed 

Pearls  upon  the  violet  bed  ; 

On  whose  brow,  with  calm  smiles  dress'd. 

The  halycon  sits  and  builds  her  nest ; 

Beauty,  youth,  and  endless  spring. 

Dwell  upon  thy  rosy  wing; 

Thou,  if  stormy  Boreas  throws 

Down  whole  forests  when  he  blows, 

With  a  pregnant  flow'ry  birth 

Canst  refresh  the  teeming  earth: 

If  he  nip  the  early  bud. 

If  he  blast  what's  fair  or  good, 

If  he  scatter  our  choice  flowers, 

If  he  shake  our  hills  or  bowers. 

If  his  rude  breath  threaten  us ; 

Thou  canst  stroke  g^eat  Eolus, 

And  from  him  the  grace  obtain 

To  bind  him  in  an  iron  chain. 


FEMININE  HONOUR. 
In  what  esteem  did  the  gods  hold 

Fair  innocence  and  the  chaste  bed, 
When  scandal'd  virtue  might  be  bold. 

Bare-foot  upon  sharp  culters,  spread 
O'er  burning  coals,  to  march  ;  yet  feel 
Nor  scorching  fire  nor  piercing  steel ! 
Why,  when  the  hard-edged  iron  did  turn 

Soft  as  a  bed  of  roses  blown. 
When  cruel  flames  forgot  to  burn 

Their  chaste,  pure  limbs,  should  man  alone 
'Gain.st  female  innocence  conspire. 
Harder  than  steel,  fiercer  than  fire  1 
Oh  hapless  sex  !  unequal  sway 

Of  partial  honour !  who  may  know 
Rebels  from  subjects  that  obey. 

When  malice  can  on  vestsds  throw 
Disgrace,  and  fame  fix  high  repute 
On  the  loose  shameless  prostitute  ] 
Vain  Honour !  thou  art  but  disguise, 

A  cheating  voice,  a  juggling  a)t; 
No  judge  of  Virtue,  whose  pure  eyes 

Court  her  own  image  in  the  heart. 
More  pleased  with  her  true  figure  tliere. 
Than  her  false  echo  in  the  ear. 


SIR   HENRY   WOTTON. 


215 


THE  MISTAKE. 
When  on  fair  Celia  I  did  spy 

A  wounded  heart  of  stone, 
The  wound  had  almost  made  me  cry, 

Sure  this  heart  was  my  own : 

But  when  I  saw  it  was  enthroned 

In  her  celestial  breast, 
O  then !  I  it  no  longer  own'd. 

For  mine  was  ne'er  so  blest. 

Yet  if  in  highest  heavens  do  shine 
Each  constant  martyr's  heart ; 

Then  she  may  well  give  rest  to  mine. 
That  for  her  sake  doth  smart : 

Where,  seated  in  so  high  a  bliss. 
Though  wounded  it  shall  live : 

Death  enters  not  in  Paradise ; 
The  place  free  life  doth  give. 

Or,  if  the  place  less  sacred  were. 

Did  but  her  saving  eye 
Bathe  my  kind  heart  in  one  kind  tear. 

Then  should  I  never  die. 


Slight  balms  may  heal  a  slighter  sore ; 

No  med'cine  less  divine 
Can  ever  hope  for  to  restore 

A  wounded  heart  like  mine. 


GOOD  COUNSEL  TO  A  YOUNG   MAID. 
When  you  the  sun-burnt  pilgrim  see, 

Fainting  with  thirst,  haste  to  the  springs  , 
Mark  how  at  first  with  bended  knee 

He  courts  the  crystal  nymphs,  and  flings 
His  body  to  the  earth,  where  he 
Prostrate  adores  the  flowing  deity. 
But  when  his  sweaty  face  is  drench'd 

In  her  cool  waves,  when  from  her  sweet 
Bosom  his  burning  thirst  is  quench'd ; 

Then  mark  how  with  disdainful  feet 
He  kicks  her  banks,  and  from  the  place 
That  thus  refresh'd  him,  moves  with  sullen  pace. 
So  shalt  thou  be  despised,  fair  maid. 

When  by  the  sated  lover  tasted ; 
What  first  he  did  with  tears  invade. 

Shall  afterwards  with  scorn  be  wasted ; 
When  all  the  virgin  springs  grow  dry. 
When  no  streams  shall  be  left  but  in  thine  eye. 


SIR  HENRY   WOTTON. 


[Born,  1668. 

Sir  Henry  Wotton  was  born  at  Bocton-Mal- 
herbe  in  Kent.  Foreseeing  the  fall  of  the  Earl 
of  Essex,  to  whom  he  was  secretary,  he  left  the 
kingdom,  but  returned  upon   the   accession  of 


Dial,  1639.] 

James,  and  was  appointed  ambassador  to  the  court 
of  Venice.  Towards  the  close  of  his  life  he 
took  deacon's  orders,  and  was  nominated  provost 
of  Eton. 


FAREWELL  TO  THE  VANITIES  OF  THE  WORLD. 
Farewell,  ye  gilded  follies !  pleasing  troubles ; 
Farewell,  ye  honour'd  rags,  ye  glorious  bubbles ; 
Fame's  but  a  hollow  echo,  gold  pure  clay, 
Honour  the  darling  but  of  one  short  day. 
Beauty,  th'  eye's  idol,  but  a  damask'd  skin. 
State  but  a  golden  prison  to  live  in  * 

And  torture  free-born  minds ;  embroider'd  trains 
Merely  but  pageants  for  proud  swelling  veins ; 
And  blood,  allied  to  greatness,  is  alone 
Inherited,  not  purchased,  nor  our  own. 
Fame,  honour,  beauty,  state,  train,  blood,  and  birth, 
Are  but  the  fading  blossoms  of  the  earth. 

I  would  be  great,  but  that  the  sun  doth  still 
Level  his  rays  against  the  rising  hill ; 
I  would  be  high,  but  see  the  proudest  oak 
Most  subject  to  the  rending  thunder-stroke ; 
I  would  be  rich,  but  see  men  too  unkind 
Dig  in  the  bowels  of  the  richest  mind ; 
I  would  be  wise,  but  that  I  often  see 
The  fox  suspected  while  the  ass  goes  free ; 
I  would  be  fair,  but  see  the  fair  and  proud 
Like  the  bright  sun  oft  setting  in  a  cloud  ; 
I  would  be  poor,  but  know  the  humble  grass 
Still  trampled  on  by  each  unworthy  ass ; 
Rich,  hated ;  wise,  suspected ;  scom'd  if  poor ; 
Great,  fear'd ;  fair,  tempted ;  high,  still  envied  more. 
I  have  wish'd  all,  but  now  I  wish  for  neither 
fireat,  high,  rich,  wise,  nor  fair — poor  I'll  be  rather. 


Would  the  world  now  adopt  me  for  her  heir. 
Would  beauty's  queen  entitle  me  "  the  fair," 
Fame  speak  me  fortune's  minion,  could  I  vie 
Angels*  with  India ;  with  a  speaking  eye 
Command  bare  heads,  bow'd  knees,  strike  justice 

dumbr 
As  well  as  blind  and  lame,  or  give  a  tongue 
To  stones  by  epitaphs ;  be  call'd  great  master 
In  the  loose  rhymes  of  every  poetaster ; 
Could  I  be  more  than  any  man  that  lives, 
Great,  fair,  rich,  wise,  all  in  superlatives : 
Yet  I  more  freely  would  these  gifts  resign. 
Than  ever  fortune  would  have  made  them  mine. 
And  hold  one  minute  of  this  holy  leisure 
Beyond  the  riches  of  this  empty  pleasure. 
Welcome,   pure   thoughts!    welcome,  ye  silent 

groves !  [loves. 

These  guests,  these  courts,  my  soul  most  dearly 
Now  the  wing'd  people  of  the  sky  shall  sing 
My  cheerful  anthems  to  the  gladsome  spring ; 
A  prayer-book  now  shall  be  my  looking-glass. 
In  which  I  will  adore  sweet  virtue's  face ; 
Here  dwell  no  hateful  looks,  no  palace  cares. 
No  broken  vows  dwell  here,  nor  pale-faced  fears 
Then  here  I'll  sit,  and  sigh  my  hot  love's  follv. 
And  learn  to  aflect  a  holy  melancholy ; 
And  if  Contentment  be  a  stranger  then, 
I'll  ne'er  look  for  it  but  in  heav'n  again. 

*  Atifftl* — pieces  of  money. 


216 


NATHANIEL   FIELD. 


ON  THK  SUDDEN  RESTRAINT  OF  THE  EARL  OF 
SOMERSET  (THE  FAVOURITE  OF  JAMES  I.)  THEN 
FALLING  FROM  FAVOUR. 

Dazzled  thus  with  height  of  place, 
Whilst  our  hopes  our  wits  beguile, 

No  man  marks  the  narrow  space 
'Twixt  a  prison  and  a  smile. 

Yet  since  Fortune's  favours  fade, 

You  that  in  arms  do  sleep 
Learn  to  swim  and  not  to  wade. 

For  the  hearts  of  kings  are  deep. 

But  if  greatness  be  so  blind 

As  to  trust  in  towers  of  air. 
Let  it  be  with  goodness  lined, 

That  at  least  the  fall  be  fair. 

Then  though  dark  and  you  shall  say, 
When  friends  fail  and  princes  frown. 

Virtue  is  the  roughest  way, 

But  proves  at  night  a  bed  of  dowa. 


THE  HAPPY  LIFE. 

How  happy  is  he  bom  and  taught 
That  serveth  not  another's  will, 

Whose  armour  is  his  honest  thought, 
And  simple  truth  his  utmost  skill ! 

Whose  passions  not  his  masters  are. 
Whose  soul  is  still  prepared  for  death, 

Untied  unto  the  worldly  care 
Of  public  fame  or  private  breath. 

Who  envies  none  that  chance  doth  raise. 
Or  vice ;  who  never  understood 

How  deepest  wounds  are  given  by  praise, 
Nor  rules  of  state,  but  rules  of  good. 


Who  hath  his  life  from  rumours  freed. 
Whose  conscience  is  his  strong  retreat, 

Whose  state  can  neither  flatterers  feed. 
Nor  ruin  make  oppressors  great. 

Who  God  doth  late  and  early  pray 
More  of  his  grace  than  gifts  to  lend. 

And  entertains  the  harmless  day 
With  a  religious  book  or  friend. 

This  man  is  freed  from  servile  bands 
Of  hope  to  rise,  or  fear  to  fall ; 

Lord  of  himself,  though  not  of  lands ; 
And  having  nothing,  yet  hath  all. 


A  MEDITATION. 

FROM  SANSCROFT'S  COLLECTION. 

[Mr.  Malone,  from  whose  handwriting  I  copy  this,  BSja, 
"not,  I  think,  printed."] 

O,  THOU  great  Power !  in  whom  we  move. 
By  whom  we  Uve,  to  whom  we  die. 

Behold  me  through  thy  beams  of  love. 
Whilst  on  this  couch  of  tears  I  lie. 

And  cleanse  my  sordid  soul  within 

By  thy  Christ's  blood,  the  bath  of  sin. 

No  hallow'd  oils,  no  gums  I  need. 

No  new-bom  drams  of  purging  fire ; 
One  rosy  drop  from  David's  seed 

Was  worlds  of  seas  to  quench  thine  ire: 
0,  precious  ransom !  which  once  paid. 
That  Consummulum  est  was  said. 
And  said  by  him,  that  said  no  more. 

But  seal'd  it  with  his  sacred  breath : 
Thou  then,  that  has  dispurged  our  score. 

And  dying  wert  the  death  of  death. 
But  now,  whilst  on  thy  name  we  call. 
Our  life,  our  strength,  our  joy,  our  all ! 


NATHANIEL   FIELD. 

[Died  abont  1638.] 


Nathakiel  Field  had  the  honour  of  being 
»«nnected  with  Massinger  in  the  Fatal  Dowry, 
the  play  from  which  Rowe  stole  the  plot  of  his 
Fair  Penitent.     [As  one  of  the  Children  of  the 


Chapel,  Field  played  a  part  in  Jonson's  Poetaster, 
1601 ;  and  Mr.  Collier  has  conjectured  that  he 
could  have  hardly  begun  to  write  before  1609  or 
1610.    In  1612  he  was  an  author  in  print. — C.J 


SONG. 

FROM   "AMENDS  FOB  LADIES."     1018. 


Rise,  lady  !  mistress,  rise ! 

The  night  hath  tedious  been. 
No  sleep  hath  fallen  into  my  eyes. 

Nor  slumbers  made  me  sin : 
18  not  she  a  saint,  then,  say, 
Thought  of  VI  \om  keeps  sin  away  1 


Rise,  madam  !  rise,  and  g^ve  me  light. 

Whom  darkness  still  will  cover. 
And  ignorance,  darker  than  night. 

Till  thou  smile  on  thy  lover : 
All  want  day  till  thy  beauty  rise. 
For  the  gray  mom  breaks  from  thine  eyes. 


L 


THOMAS  DEKKER. 


(Diad  about  l£38.] 


At  the  close  of  the  sixteenth  century  we  find 
that  the  theatres,  conducted  by  Henslowe  and 
Alleyn,  chiefly  depended  on  Jonson,  Heywood, 
Chettle,  and  this  poet,  for  composing  or  re- 
touching their  pieces.  Marston  and  Dekker  had 
laboured  frequently  in  conjunction  with  Jonson, 
when  their  well-known  hostility  with  him  com- 
menced. What  grounds  of  offence  Marston  and 
Dekker  alleged,  cannot  now  be  told  ;  but  Jonson 
affirms,  that  after  the  appearance  of  his  comedy, 
« Every  Man  in  his  Humour,"  they  began  to 
provoke  him  on  every  stage  with  their  "petulant 
ttyUs,"  as  if  they  wished  to  single  him  out  for 
their  adversary.  When  Jonson's  Cynthia's  Revels 
appeared,  they  appropriated  the  two  characters  of 


Hedon  and  Anaides  to  themselves,  and  were  hrood 
ing  over  their  revenge  when  the  Poetaster  came 
forth,  in  which  Dekker  was  recognised  as  Deme- 
trius. Either  that  his  wrath  made  him  more  will- 
ing, or  that  he  was  chosen  the  champion  of  the 
offended  host,  for  his  rapid  powers  and  popularity, 
he  furnished  the  Satiromastix  ;  not  indeed  a  des- 
picable reply  to  Jonson,  but  more  full  of  rage  than 
of  ridicule.  The  little  that  is  known  of  Dekker's 
history,  independent  of  his  quarrel  with  Jonson, 
is  unfortunate.  His  talents  were  prolific,  and  not 
contemptible ;  but  he  was  goaded  on  by  want  to 
hasty  productions — acquainted  with  spunging- 
houses,  and  an  inmate  of  the  King's  Bench  pri- 
son.*    Oldys  thinks  that  he  was  alive  in  1638. 


FORTDNE  GIVING  FORTUNATUS   HIS   CHOICK  OF 
GOODS. 

For.  Six  gifts  I  spend  upon  mortality, 
Wisdom,  strength,  health,  beauty,  long  life,  and 
Out  of  my  bounty,  one  of  these  is  thine,     [riches ; 
Choose  then  which  likes  thee  best.      • 

Fort.  Oh,  most  divine ! 
Give  me  but  leave  to  borrow  wonder's  eye, 
To  look  (amazed)  at  thy  bright  majesty. 
Wisdom,  strength,  health,  beauty,  long  life,  and 
riches  ? 

For.  Before  thy  soul  (at  this  deep  lottery) 
Draw  forth  her  prize,  ordain'd  by  destiny. 
Know  that  here's  no  recanting  a  first  choice : 
Choose  then  discreetly,  (for  the  laws  of  fate 
Being  graven  in  steel,  must  stand  inviolate.) 

Fort.  Daughters  of  Jove  and  the  unblemish'd 
Night, 
Most  rigliteous  Parc«,  guide  my  genius  right ! 
Wisdom,  strength,  health,  beauty,  long  life, -and 
riches  1 

For.  Stay,  FortunatU8,once  more  hear  me  speak. 
If  thou  kiss  wisdom's  cheek  and  make  her  thine, 
She'll  breathe  into  thy  lips  divinity. 
And  thou  (like  Phoebus)  shalt  speak  oracle ; 
Thy  heaven-inspired  soul,  on  wisdom's  wings, 
Shall  fly  up  to  the  parliament  of  Jove, 
And  read  the  statutes  of  eternity. 
And  see  what's  past,  and  learn  what  is  to  come : 
If  thou  lay  claim  to  strength,  armies  shall  quake 
To  see  thee  frown ;  as  kings  at  mine  do  lie. 
So  shall  thy  feet  trample  on  empery : 
Make  health  thine  object,  thou  shalt  be  strong  proof, 
'Gainst  the  deep  searching  darts  of  surfeiting ; 
Be  ever  merry,  ever  revelling : 
Wish  but  for  beauty,  and  within  thine  eyes 

♦  He  was  there  at  one  time  for  three  years,  according  to 
01(1)'8.     No  wonder  poor  Dt-ltker  could  rise  a  dejrree  above 
the  level  of  hi8  ordinary  geuiu>^  in  describing  the  blesMugs 
of  Kortuuatus'g  inexbauxtibJe  purse :  he  had  probably  felt 
but  too  keenly  the  force  of  what  he  uxpregseit  in  the  mis- 
anthropy of  Ampedo. 
I'm  not  enamour'd  of  this  painted  idol. 
This  strumpet  world ;  for  her  most  beauteous  looks 
28 


Two  naked  Cupids  amorously  shall  swim. 
And  on  thy  cheeks  I'll  mix  such  white  and  red, 
That  Jove  shall  turn  away  young  Ganymede, 
And  with  immortal  arms  shall  circle  thee : 
Are  thy  desires  long  life  1  thy  vital  thread 
Shall  be  stretch'd  out ;  thou  shalt  behold  the  change 
Of  monarchies ;  and  see  those  children  die 
Whose  great-great-grandsires  now  in  cradles  lie  : 
If  through  gold's  sacred  hunger  thou  dost  pine, 
Those  gilded  wantons  which  in  swarms  do  run. 
To  warm  their  slender  bodies  in  the  sun. 
Shall  stand  for  number  of  those  golden  piles. 
Which  in  rich  pride  shall  swell  before  thy  feet ; 
As  those  are,  so  shall  these  be,  infinite. 
Awaken  then  thy  soul's  best  faculties. 
And  gladly  kiss  this  bounteous  hand  of  fate. 
Which  strives  to  bless  thy  name  of  Fortunate. 
Fori.  Oh,  whither  am  I  rapt  beyond  myself  1 
More  violent  conflicts  fight  in  every  thought. 
Than  his   whose  fatal  choice  Troy's   downfall 

wrought. 
Shall  I  contract  myself  to  wisdom's  love  1 
Then  I  lose  riches ;  and  a  wise  man  poor 
Is  like  a  sacred  book  that's  never  read. 
To  himself  he  lives,  and  to  all  else  seems  dead : 
This  age  thinks  better  of  a  gilded  fool. 
Than  of  a  thread-bare  saint  in  wisdom's  school. 
I  will  be  strong :  then  I  refuse-long  life ; 
And  though  my  arm  should  conquer  twenty  worlds, 
There's  a  lean  fellow  beats  all  conquerors : 
The  greatest  strength  expires  with  loss  of  breath  • 
The  mightiest  (in  one  minute)  stoop  to  death. 
Then  take  long  life,  or  health :  should  I  do  so, 
I  might  grow  ugly ;  and  that  tedious  scroll 
Of  months  and  years,  much  misery  may  inroll; 
Therefore  I'll  beg  for  beauty ;  yet  I  will  not. 

Are  poison'd  baits,  bung  upon  golden  hooks. 
AVlien  fools  do  swim  in  wealth,  her  Cynthian  beams 
\Vill  wantonly  dance  on  the  silvei>streams; 
But  when  this  squint^yed  age  sees  virtue  poor, 
And  by  a  little  spark  set  shivering. 
Begging  of  all,  relieved  at  no  man's  door, 
She  smiles  on  her  as  the  sun  shines  on  fire. 
To  kill  that  little  heaU 


218 


WILLIAM   ALEXANDER,  EARL   OF   STERLINE. 


The  fairest  cheek  hath  oftentimes  a  soul 
Lep'rous  as  sin  itself,  than  hell  more  foul. 
The  wisdom  of  this  world  is  idiotism ; 
Strength  a  weak  reed ;  health  sickness'  enemy, 
(And  it  at  length  will  have  the  victory ;) 
Beauty  is  but  a  painting ;  and  long  life 
Is  a  long  journey  in  Dec«mber  gone, 
Tedious  and  full  of  tribulation. 
Therefore,  dread  sacred  empress,  make  me  rich ; 

[Kneels  doom. 
My  choice  is  store  of  gold ;  the  rich  are  wise : 
He  that  upon  his  back  rich  garments  wears, 
Is  wise,  though  on  his  head  grow  Midas'  ears : 
Gold  is  the  strength,  the  sinews  of  the  world ; 
The  health,  the  soul,  the  beauty  most  divine ; 
A  mask  of  gold  hides  all  deformities; 
Gold  is  heaven's  physic,  life's  restorative ; 
Oh,  therefore,  make  me  rich !  not  as  the  wretch 
That  only  serves  lean  banquets  to  his  eye, 
Has  gold,  yet  starves ;  is  faraish'd  in  his  store ; 
No,  let  me  ever  spend,  be  never  poor. 

For.  Thy  latest  words  confine  thy  destiny ; 
Thou  shalt  spend  ever,  and  be  never  poor : 
For  proof  receive  this  purse ;  with  it  this  virtue ; 
Still  when  thou  thrust'st  thy  hand  into  the  same, 
Thou  shalt  draw  forth  ten  pieces  of  bright  gold. 
Current  in  any  realm  where  then  thou  breathest: 
If  thou  canst  dribble  out  the  sea  by  drops, 
Then  shalt  thou  want ;  but  that  can  ne'er  be  done, 
Nor  this  grow  empty. 

Fort.  Thanks,  great  deity  ! 

For.  The  virtue  ends  when  thou  and  thy  sons  end. 
This  path  leads  thee  to  Cyprus,  get  thee  hence : 


Farewell,  vain  covetous  fool,  thou  wilt  repent. 
That  for  the  love  of  dross  thou  hast  despised 
Wisdom's  divine  embrace ;  she  would  have  borne 

thee 
On  the  rich  wings  of  immortaUty ; 
But  now  go  dwell  with  cares,  and  quickly  die. 


FROM  "THE  HONEST  WHORE." 

Hipolito's  thoughts  on  bis  mistress's  pieturp,  from  which  he 
turns  to  looli  on  a  scull  that  lies  before  him  on  a  table. 

My  Infelice's  face,  her  brow,  her  eye. 

The  dimple  on  her  cheek :  and  such  sweet  skill 

Hath  from  the  cunning  workman's  pencil  flown, 

These  lips  look  fresh  and  lively  as  her  own ; 

Seeming  to  move  and  speak.     'Las !  now  I  see 

The  reason  why  fond  women  love  to  buy 

Adulterate  complexion ;  here  'tis  read ; 

False  colours  last  after  the  true  be  dead. 

Of  all  the  roses  grafted  on  her  cheeks. 

Of  all  the  graces  dancing  in  her  eyes. 

Of  all  the  music  set  upon  her  tongue. 

Of  all  that  was  past  woman's  excellence 

In  her  white  bosom ;  look,  a  painted  board 

Circumscribes  all !     Earth  can  no  bliss  afford : 

Nothing  of  her,  but  this !     This  cannot  speak ; 

It  has  no  lap  for  me  to  rest  upon ; 

No  lip  worth  tasting.     Here  the  worms  will  feed  ! 

As  in  her  coffin.     Hence  then,  idle  art ! 

True  love's  best  pictured  in  a  true-love's  heart. 

Here  art  thou  drawn,  sweet  maid,  till  this  be  dead ! 

Bo  that  thou  livest  twice,  twice  art,  buried. 

Thou  figure  of  my  firiend,  lie  there. 


WILLIAM  ALEXANDER,  EARL  OF   STERLINE. 


[Bora,  1580.     Died,  1640.] 


William  Alexander,*  of  Menstrie,  travelled 
on  the  Continent  as  tutor  to  the  Earl  of  Argyll ; 
and  after  his  return  to  his  native  country,  (Scot- 
land,) having  in  vain  solicited  a  mistress,  whom 
he  celebrates  in  his  poetry  by  the  name  of  Aurora, 
he  married  the  daughter  of  Sir  William  Erskine. 
Having  repaired  to  the  court  of  James  the  First, 
he  obtained  the  notice  of  the  monarch,  was  ap- 
pointed gentlemen  usher  to  Prince  Charles,  and 
was  knighted  by  James.     Both  of  those  sove- 


I  reigns  patronized  his  scheme  for  colonizing  Nova 
Scotia,  of  which  the  latter  made  him  lord  Heute- 
nant.  Charles  the  First  created  him  Earl  of  Ster- 
line  in  1633,  and  for  ten  years  he  held  the  office  of 
secretary  of  state  for  Scotland,  with  the  praise  of 
moderation,  in  times  that  were  rendered  pecu- 
liarly trying  by  the  struggles  of  Laud  against  the 
Scottish  Presbyterians. — He  wrote  some  very 
heavy  tragedies ;  but  there  is  elegance  of  expres- 
sion in  a  few  of  his  shorter  pieces.f 


SONNETa 

FROM  HIS   "AOTORA." 

Some  men  delight  huge  buildings  to  behold, 
Some   theatres,   mountains,  floods,  and  famous 

springs. 
Some  monuments  of  monarchs,  and  such  things 
As  in  the  books  of  fame  have  been  enroll'd, 
Those  stately  towns  that  to  the  stars  were  raised ; 


»  [Notices  of  Alexander,  Lord  Stirling,  may  be  found 
in  the  various  books  and  tracts  upon  the  Life  of  M^jor- 
general  William  Alexander.  Earl  of  Stirling,  who  was  so 
conspicuous  in  the  American  Revolution.  A  more  ex- 
tended biography  than  is  given  by  Mr.  Campbell,  is  in  the 
Bi'vrraphical  CycJoDedia,  vol.  L — G.J 


Some  would  their  ruins  see  (their  beauty's  gone,) 
Of  which  the  world's  three  parts  each  boasts  of  one : 
Though  none  of  those,  I  love  a  sight  as  rare. 
Even  her  that  o'er  my  life  as  queen  doth  sit ; 
Juno  in  majesty,  Pallas  in  wit, 
As  Phoebe  chaste,  than  Venus  far  more  fair ; 
And  though  her  looks  even  threaten  death  to  mo, 
Their  threatenings  are  so  sweet  I  cannot  flee. 


t  ["  Lord  Sterline  is  rather  monotonous,  as  sonneteeri 
usually  are.  and  he  aiJdresses  his  mistress  by  the  appella- 
tion, 'fc'air  tvfiress.'  Campbell  ob.«erve.s  that  there  is  ele- 
gance of  expression  in  a  fow  of  his  shorter  pieces." — JLUr 
LAM,  Lit.  UUl.  vol.  iii.  p.  505. — C] 


JOHN  WEBSTER. 


219 


I  CHANCED,  my  dear,  to  come  upon  a  day 
Whilst  thou  wast  but  arising  from  thy  bed, 
And  the  warm  snows,  with  comely  garments  cled, 
More  rich  than  glorious,  and  more  fine  than  gay. 
Then,  blushing  to  be  seen  in  such  a  case, 
O  how  thy  curled  locks  mine  eyes  did  please ; 
And  well  become  those  waves  thy  beauty's  seas. 
Which  by  thy  hairs  were  framed  upon  thy  face ; 
Such  was  Diana  once,  when  being  spied 
By  rash  Actaeon,  she  was  much  commoved : 
Yet,  more  discreet  than  th'  angry  goddess  proved, 
Thou  knew'st  I  came  through  error,  not  of  pride, 
And  thought  the  wounds  I  got  by  thy  sweet  sight 
Were  too  great  scourges  for  a  fault  so  light. 


AwAKB,  my  muse,  and  leave  to  dream  of  loves. 

Shake  off  soft  fancy's  chains — I  must  be  free ; 

I'll  perch  no  more  upon  the  myrtle  tree,     [doves ; 

Nor  glide  through  th'  air  with  beauty's  sacred 

But  with  Jove's  stately  bird  I'll  leave  my  nest. 

And  try  my  sight  against  Apollo's  rays. 

Then,  if  that  ought  my  vent'rous  course  dismays, 

Upon  th'  olive's  boughs  I'll  hght  and  rest ; 

I'll  tune  my  accents  to  a  trumpet  now, 

And  seek  the  laurel  in  another  field. 

Thus  I  that  once  (as  Beauty's  means  did  yield) 

Did  divers  garments  on  my  thoughts  bestow, 

Like  Icarus,  I  fear,  unwisely  bold. 

Am  purposed  other's  passions  now  t'  unfold. 


JOHN   WEBSTER. 


[DM  abmtt  1*88.] 


Langbaine  only  informs  us  of  this  writer,  that 
he  was  clerk  of  St.  Andrew's  parish,  Holborn,* 
and  esteemed  by  his  contemporaries.  He  wrote, 
in  conjunction  with  Rowley,  Dekker,  and  Marston.  * 
Among  the  pieces,  entirely  his  own,  are  The 
White  Devil,  or  Vittoria  Corombona,  the  tragedy 
of  Appius  and  Virginia,  the  Devil's  Law  Case,  and 
the  Duchess  of  Malfi.  From  the  advertisement 
prefixed  to  Vittoria  Corombona,  the  piece  seems 
not  to  have  been  successful  in  the  representation. 
The  author  says,  "  that  it  wanted  that  which  is 
the  only  grace  and  setting  out  of  a  tragedy,  a 
full  and  understanding  auditory."     The  auditory, 


it  may  be  suspected,  were  not  quite  so  much  struck 
with  the  beauty  of  Webster's  horrors,  as  Mr. 
Lamb  seems  to  have  been  in  writing  the  notes 
to  his  Specimens  of  our  old  Dramatic  Poetry. 
In  the  same  preface  Webster  deprives  himself  of 
the  only  apology  that  could  be  offered  for  his  ab- 
surdities as  a  dramatist,  by  acknowledging  that 
he  wrote  slowly ;  a  circumstance  in  which  he 
modestly  compares  himself  to  Euripides.  In  his 
tragedy  of  the  Duchess  of  Malfi,  the  duchess  is 
married  and  delivered  of  several  children  in  the 
course  of  the  five  acts. 


VITTORIA,  THE  MISTRESS  OF  BRACHIANO,  RELAT- 
ING HER  DREAM  TO  HIM. 

niOM  VITTORIA  COROMBONA,  THE   VENETIAN   COURTESAN. 

Pir.ions. — Vittoria  Corombona;  Duke  op  Brachiano;  Co- 
rombona, the  motlvr,  and  Flamineo,  tfie  brother  of  Vit- 
torla. 

Vittoria.  To  pass  away  the  time,  I'll  tell  your 
grace 
A  dream  I  had  last  night. 

hrorhiaiio.  Most  wishedly. 

Vil.  A  foolish  idle  dream  : 
Methought  I  walk'd,  about  the  mid  of  night. 
Into  a  churchyard,  where  a  goodly  yew  tree 
Spread  her  large  root  in  ground ;  under  that  yew, 
As  I  sat  sadly  leaning  on  a  grave, 
Chcquer'd  with  cross  sticks,  there  came  steading  in 
Your  duchess  and  my  husband ;  one  of  them 
A  pick-axe  bore,  th'  other  a  rusty  spade. 
And  in  rough  terms  they  'gan  to  challenge  me 
About  this  yew. 

bra.  That  tree  1 

Vu.  This  harmless  yew. 
They  told  me  my  intent  was  to  root  up 
Tliat  well-grown  yew,  and  plant  i'the  stead  of  it 
A  wither'd  black-thorn,  and  for  that  they  vow'd 
To  bury  me  alive :  my  husband  straight 
With  pick-axe  'gan  to  dig,  and  your  fell  duchess, 

l"  "Gildon,  I  belifve,  was  the  first  who  asserted  that 
our  HUlhur  was  clerk  of  St.  Andrew's.  I  searched  the 
regUttirs  of  that  church,  but  the  n^mu  of  Webster  did  not 


With  shovel,  like  a  fury,  voided  out 
The  earth,  and  scatter'd  bones:  Lord,  how  me- 
thought 
I  trembled,  and  yet  for  all  this  terror 
I  could  not  pray. 

Fla.  No,  the  devil  was  in  your  dream. 

Vit.  When  to  my  rescue  there  arose  methought 
A  whirlwind,  which  let  fall  a  massy  arm 
From  that  strong  plant. 

And  both  were  struck  dead  by  that  sacred  yew. 
In  that  base  shallow  grave  that  was  their  due. 

Fla.  Excellent  devil !  she  hath  taught  him,  in 
a  dream. 
To  make  away  his  duchess,  and  her  husband. 

Bra.  Sweetly  shall  I  interpret  this  your  dream. 
You  are  lodged  within  bis  arms  who  shall  protect 

you 
From  all  the  fevers  of  a  jealous  husband. 
From  the  poor  envy  of  our  phlegmatic  duchess ; 
I'll  scat  you  above  law  and  above  scandal. 
Give  to  your  thoughts  the  invention  of  delight 
And  the  fruition,  nor  shall  government 
Divide  me  from  you  longer  than  a  care 
To  keep  you  great :  you  shall  to  me  at  once 
Be  dukedom,  health,  wife,  children,  friends  and  all. 

Cor.  Woe  to  light  hearts,  they  still  forerun  our 
fall. 


occur  in  them;  and  I  examined  the  MSS. belonging  to  the 
Parish  Clerks'  Hall,  in  Wixxl  Street,  with  as  little  sur 
ce88." — Dice's  WtbUer,  vol.  i.  p.  1. — C.] 


220 


JOHN   WEBSTER. 


FROM  THK  DUCHESS  OF  MALFI. 


The  Ducliess  of  Molfi  having  privately  married  Antonio, 
her  own  steward,  is  inhumanly  persecuted  by  her  bro- 
ther Ferdinand,  who  eonliues  her  in  a  house  of  mad- 
men, and  iu  eoncert  with  his  creature  Bosola  murders 
her  and  her  attendant  Cariola. 

Scene. — A  Madhouse. 

Person*.— DCCHB88  of  Maui;  Cariola,  her  faithful  attend- 
ant ;  i'ERDiNANo,  her  cruel  broUier ;  Bosola,  his  creature 
and  instrument  qf  Cruelty ;  Madmen,  Executioners,  Ser- 
vant. 

Duch.  What  hideous  noise  was  that  1 
Curi.  'Tis  the  wild  conceit 
Of  madmen,  lady,  which  your  tyrant  brother 
Hath  placed  about  your  lodging :  this  tyranny 
I  think  was  never  practised  till  this  hour. 

Diuh.  Indeed  I  thank  him :  nothing  but  noise 
and  folly 
Can  keep  me  in  my  right  wits,  whereas  reason 
And  silence  make  me  stark  mad.     Sit  down ; 
Discourse  to  me  some  dismal  tragedy. 

Can.  Oh,  'twill  increase  your  melancholy. 
Duck.  Thou  art  decei\  ed ; 
To  hear  of  greater  grief  would  lessen  mine. 
This  is  a  prison  1 

Cari.  Yes,  but  you  shall  live 
To  shake  this  durance  off. 
Uucli.  Thou  art  a  fool : 
The  robin-redbreast  and  the  nightingale 
Never  live  long  in  cages.  ^ 

Can.  Pray  dry  your  eyes.  C'^ 

What  think  you  of,  madam  1 

Duch.  Of  nothing: 
When  I  muse  thus,  I  sleep. 

Carl.  Like  a  madman,  with  your  eyes  open. 
Duciu  Dost  thou  think  we  shall  know  one  another 
In  th'  other  world. 

Curi.  Yes ;  out  of  question. 
Duch.  0  that  it  were  possible  we  might 
But  hold  some  two  days'  conference  with  the  dead ! 
From  them  I  should  learn  somewhat,  I  am  sure 
I  never  shall  know  here.     I'll  tell  thee  a  miracle: 
I  am  not  mad  yet,  to  my  cause  of  sorrow. 
The  heaven  o'er  my  head  seems  made  of  molten 

brass, 
The  earth  of  flaming  sulphur ;  yet  I  am  not  mad. 
I  am  acquainted  with  sad  misery, 
As  the  tann'd  galley-slave  is  with  his  oar : 
Necessity  makes  me  suffer  constantly, 
And  custom  makes  it  easy.  Who  do  I  look  like  now  1 

Cari.  Like  to  your  picture  in  the  gallery. 
A  deal  of  life  in  show,  but  none  in  practice ; 
Or  rather  like  some  reverend  monument, 
Whose  ruins  are  even  pitied. 

Duch.  Very  proper; 
And  fortune  seems  only  to  have  her  eye-sight 
To  behold  my  tragedy.     How  now, 
What  noise  is  that  ] 

ikrv.  I  am  come  to  tell  you 
Your  brother  hath  intended  you  some  sport : 
A  great  physician,  when  the  pope  was  sick 
Of  a  deep  melancholy,  presented  him 
With  several  sorts  of  mad-men,  which  wild  object 
(Being  full  of  change  and  sport)  forced  him  to  laugh, 
And  so  th'  imposthume  broke :  the  self-same  cure 
1'he  Duke  intends  on  you. 


[The  Mad-men  enter,  and  tohiht  they  dance 
to  suitable  viusic,  the  Duchess,  perceiving 
BOiiOLA  among  them,  says, 

Duch.  Is  he  mad  too  1 
Sew.  Pray  question  him.     I'll  leave  you. 
Lot.  I  am  come  to  make  thy  tomb. 
Duch.  Ha !  my  tomb  ] 
Thou  speak'st  as  if  I  lay  upon  my  death-bed 
Gasping  for  breath.    Dost  thou  perceive  me  sick  1 
Bos.  Yes,  and  the  more  dangerously,  since  thy 

sickness  is  insensible. 
DucL  Thou  art  not  mad  sure !  Dost  know  me ' 
Bos.  Yes. 
Duch.  Who  am  11 

Bos.  Thou  art  a  box  of  worm-seed. . . . 
Duch.  I  am  Duchess  of  Malfi  still. 
Bos.  That  makes  thy  sleeps  so  broken : 
Glories,  like  glow-worms,  afar  off  shine  bright, 
But  look'd  to  near,  have  neither  heat  nor  light. 
Duch.  Thou  art  very  plain. 
Bos.  My  trade  is  to  flatter  the  dead,  not  the 
I  am  a  tomb-maker.  [living : 

Duch.  And  thou  comest  to  make  my  tomb  1 
Bos.  Yes. 

Duch.  Let  me  be  a  little  merry— 
Of  what  stuff  wilt  thou  make  it  1 

Bos.  Nay,  resolve  me  first  of  what  fashion  1 
Duch.  Why.  do   we   grow  fantastical  on  our 
death-bed  1 
Do  we  affect  fashion  in  the  grave  1 

Bos.  Most  ambitiously :  princes'  images  on  their 
tombs 
Do  not  lie,  as  they  were  wont,  seeming  to  pray, 
Up  to  heaven ;  but  with  their  hands  under  their 
cheeks  [carved 

(As  if  they  died  of  the  toothache ;)  they  are  noi 
With  their  eyes  fix'd  upon  the  stars :  but  as 
Their  minds  were  wholly  bent  upon  the  world, 
The  self-same  way  they  seem  to  turn  their  faces. 
Duth.  Let  me  know  fully,  therefore,  the  effect 
Of  this  thy  dismal  preparation. 
This  talk,  fit  for  a  charnel ! 

Bos.  Now  I  shall. 
Here  is  a  present  firom  your  princely  brothers, 

[A  coffin,  cord.x,  and  a  beH 
And  may  it  arrive  welcome,  for  it  brings 
Last  benefit,  last  sorrow. 
Duch.  Let  me  see  it : 
I  have  so  much  obedience  in  my  blood, 
I  wish  it  in  their  veins  to  do  them  good. 
Bos.  This  is  your  last  presence  chamber. 
Cari.  O  my  sweet  lady  ! 
Duch.  Peace,  it  affrights  not  me. 
Bos.  I  am  the  common  bellman, 
That  usually  is  sent  to  condemn'd  persons 
The  night  before  they  suffer. 

Du^h.  Even  now  thou  said'st 
Thou  wast  a  tomb-maker  1 
Bos.  'Twas  to  bring  you 
By  degrees  to  mortification.     Listen  : 
"  Hark,  now  every  thing  is  still. 
The  screech-owl  and  the  whistler  shrill, 
Call  upon  our  dame  aloud, 
And  bid  her  quickly  don  her  shroud. 
Much  you  had  of  land  and  rent. 
Your  length  in  clay's  now  competent  • 


JOHN  WEBSTER. 


221 


A  long  war  disturb'd  your  mind, 

Here  your  perfect  peace  is  sign'd ; 

Of  what  is't  fools  make  such  vain  keeping  1 

Sin  their  conception,  their  birth  weeping : 

Their  life  a  general  mist  of  error ; 

Their  death  a  hideous  storm  of  terror. 

Strew  your  hair  with  powder  sweet, 

Don  clean  linen,  bathe  your  feet ; 

And  (the  foul  fiend  more  to  check) 

A  crucifix  let  bless  your  neck : 

'Tis  now  full  tide  'tween  night  and  day. 

End  your  groan  and  come  away." 

Cari.  Hence  villains,  tyrants,  murderers!   Alas! 
What  will  you  do  with  my  lady  1  call  for  help. 

Durh.  To  whom,  to  our  next  neighbours]  they 

Bo$.  Remove  that  noise.  [are  mad  folks. 

Duch.  Farewell,  Cariola; 
In  my  last  will  I  have  not  much  to  give — 
A  many  hungry  guests  have  fed  upon  me — 
Thine  will  be  a  poor  reversion. 

Cari.  I  will  die  with  her. 

Duih.  I  pray  thee  look  thou  givest  my  little  boy 
Some  syrup  for  his  cold,  and  let  the  girl  • 
Say  her  prayers  ere  she  sleep.  Now  whatyou  please. 
What  death  1 

Eos.  Strangling :  here  are  your  executioners. 

Dxich.  I  forgive  them  : 
The  apoplexy,  catarrh,  or  cough  o'  th'  lungs. 
Would  do  as  much  as  they  do. 

Bos.  Doth  not  death  fright  you  1 

Duch.  Who  would  be  afiraid  on't, 
Knowing  to  meet  such  excellent  company 
In  th'  other  world  ! 

Bos.  Yet,  methinks, 
The  manner  of  your  death  should  much  afflict  you  ] 
This  cord  should  terrify  you. 

Duch.  Not  a  whit: 
What  would  it  pleasure  me  to  have  my  throat  cut 
With  diamonds  1  or  to  be  smother'd 
With  cassia  1  or  to  be  shot  to  death  with  pearls? 
I  know  death  hath  ten  thousand  several  doors 
For  men  to  take  their  exits ;  and  'tis  found 
They  go  on  such  strange  geometrical  hinges. 
You  may  open  them  both  ways :  any  Way,  (for 

heaven's  sake,) 
So  I  were  out  of  your  whispering.    Tell  my  brothers 
That  I  perceive  death  (now  I  am  well  awake) 
Best  gift  is  they  can  give,  or  I  can  take. 
I  would  fain  put  off  my  last  woman's  fault: 
I'll  not  be  tedious  to  you. 

Exec,  We  are  ready. 

Duch.  Dispose  my  breath  how  please  you  ;  but 
Bestow  upon  my  women,  will  you  1         [my  body 

Exec.  Yes. 

Duch.  Pull,  and  pull  strongly ;  for  your  able 
Must  pull  down  heaven  upon  me  : —         [strength 
Yet  stay,  heaven's  gates  are  not  so  highly  arch'd 
As  princes'  palaces;  they  that  enter  there 
Must  go  upon  their  knees.     Come,  violent  death, 
Serve  for  mandragora  to  make  me  sleep. 
Go  tell  my  brothers,  wlien  I  am  laid  out, 
I'hey  then  may  feed  in  quiet.        [They  strangle,  her. 

bos.  Where's  the  waiting-woman  1 
Fetch  her :  some  other  strangle  the  children. 
Look  you,  there  sleeps  your  mistress. 


Caru  Oh,  you  are  damn'd 
Perpetually  for  this.     My  turn  is  next, 
Is't  not  so  order'd  ? 

Bos.  Yes ;  and  I  am  glad 
You  are  so  well  prepared  for't. 

Cari.  You  are  deceived,  sir, 
I  am  not  prepared  for't ;  I  will  not  die ; 
I  will  first  come  to  my  answer,  and  know 
How  1  have  offended. 

Bos.  Come,  despatch  her ! 
You  kept  her  counsel,  now  you  shall  keep  ours. 

Cari.  I  will  not  die ;  I  must  not;  I  am  contracted 
To  a  young  gentleman. 

Exec.  Here's  your  wedding  ring. 

Can.  Let  me  but  speak  with  the  duke:  I'll 
Treason  to  his  person.  [discover 

Bos.  Delays  1  throttle  her ! 

Exec.  She  bites  and  scratches. 

Cari.  If  you  kill  me  now, 
I  am  damn'd ;  I  have  not  been  at  confession 
This  two  years. 

Bos.  Wheni 

Cari.  I  am  quick  with  child. 

Bos.  Why  then 
Your  credit's  saved ;  bear  her  into  th*  next  room. 
Let  this  lie  still.  [Titty  strangU  her. 

Ferd.  Is  she  dead  1 

Bos.  She  is  what 
You'll  have  her.     But  here  begin  your  pity : 

{Shmos  the  children  ttrangltA, 
Alas,  how  have  these  offended  1 

Ferd.  The  death 
Of  young  wolves  is  never  to  be  pitied. 

Bos.  Fix  your  eye  here. 

Ferd.  Constantly. 

Bos.  Do  you  not  weep  ? 
Other  sins  only  speak,  murder  shrieks  out, 
The  element  of  water  moistens  the  earth. 
But  blood  flies  upwards,  and  bedews  the  heavens. 

Ferd.  Cover  her  face ;  mine  eyes  dazzle.     She 
died  young. 

Bos.  I  think  not  so ;  her  infelicity 
Seem'd  to  have  years  too  many. 

Ferd.  She  and  I  were  twins ; 
And  should  I  die  this  instant,  I  had  lived 
Her  time  to  a  minute. 

Bos.  It  seems  she  was  bom  first. 
You  have  bloodily  approved  the  ancient  truth. 
That  kindred  commonly  do  worse  agree 
Than  remote  strangers. 

Ferd.  Let  me  see  her  face  again. 
Why  didst  not  thou  pity  her  1  what 
An  excellent  honest  man  might'st  thou  have  been, 
If  thou  hadst  borne  her  to  some  sanctuary. 
Or,  bold  in  a  good  cause,  opposed  thyself. 
With  thy  advanced  sword  above  thy  head. 
Between  her  innocence  and  my  revenge ! 
I  bade  thee,  when  I  was  distracted  of  my  wits. 
Go  kill  my  dearest  fi-icnd,  and  thou  hast  done'l. 
For  let  me  but  examine  well  the  cause : 
What  was  the  meanness  of  her  match  to  me  1 
Only  I  must  confess  I  had  a  hope, 
Had  she  continued  widow,  to  have  gain'd 
An  infinite  mass  of  treasure  by  her  death ; 
And  what  was  the  main  cause  1     Her  marriage ! 
t2 


222 


JOHN  WEBSTER. 


That  drew  a  stream  of  gall  quite  through  my  heart. 

For  thee,  (as  we  observe  in  tragedies, 

That  a  good  actor  many  times  is  cursed 

For  playing  a  villain's  part,)  I  hate  thee  for't : 

And,  for  my  sake,  say  thou  hast  done  much  ill  well. 

Los.  Letme  quicken  your  memory,  for  I  perceive 
Your  are  falling  into  ingratitude ;  I  challenge 
The  reward  due  to  my  service. 

Ferd.  I'll  tell  thee 
What  I'll  give  thee. 

Los.  Do. 

Ferd.  I'll  give  thee  a  pardon 
For  this  murder. 

Los.  Ha! 

Ferd.  Yes;  and  'tis 
The  largest  bounty  I  can  study  to  do  thee. 
By  what  authority  didst  thou  execute 
I'his  bloody  sentence  1 

Bos.  By  yours. 

Ferd.  Mine  ?  was  I  her  judge  ? 
Did  any  ceremonial  form  of  law 
Doom  her  to  not-being  1  did  a  complete  jury 
Deliver  her  conviction  up  i'  th'  court  1 
W  here  shalt  thou  find  this  judgment  register'd, 
Unless  in  hell  ?     See  :  like  a  bloody  fool, 
Thou  hast  forfeited  thy  hfe,  and  thou  shalt  die  for't 

Bos.  The  office  of  justice  is  perverted  quite, 
When  one  thief  hangs  another:  who  shall  dare 
To  reveal  this  1 

Ferd.  Oh,  I'll  tell  thee : 
The  wolf  shall  find  her  grave  and  scrape  it  up : 
Not  to  devour  the  corse,  but  to  discover 
The  horrid  murder. 

Los,  You,  not  I,  shall  quake  for't 

Ferd.  Leave  me! 

Los.  I  will  first  receive  my  pension. 

Ferd.  You  are  a  villain  ! 

Los.  When  your  ingratitude 
Is  judge,  I  am  so. 

Ferd.  O  horror ! 
That  not  the  fear  of  Him  which  binds  the  devils 
Can  prescribe  man  obedience  ! 
JN'ever  look  upon  me  more. 

Los.  Why,  fare  thee  well : 
\  our  brother  and  yourself  are  worthy  men : 
You  have  a  pair  of  hearts  are  hollow  graves, 
Rotten,  and  rotting  others ;  and  your  vengeance, 
Like  two  chain'd  bullets,  still  goes  arm  in  arm. 
You  may  be  brothers:  lor  treason,  like  the  plague, 
Doth  take  much  in  a  blood.     I  stand  like  one 
That  long  hath  ta'en  a  sweet  and  golden  dream. 
I  am  angry  with  myself,  now  that  I  wake. 

Ferd.  Get  thee  into  some  unknown  part  o'  th' 
That  I  may  never  see  thee.  [world, 

Los.  Let  me  know 
Wherefore  I  should  be  thus  neglected  1    Sir, 
I  served  your  tyranny,  and  rather  strove 
To  satisly  yourself  than  all  the  world ; 
And  though  I  loathed  the  evil,  yet  I  loved 
You  that  did  counsel  it,  and  rather  sought 
To  appear  a  true  servant  than  an  honest  man. 

berd.  I'll  go  hunt  the  badger  by  owl-light: 
Tis  a  deed  of  darkness.  [Exit. 

Los.  He's  mucli  distracted.     Off,  my  painted 
honour 


While  with  vain  hopes  our  faculties  we  tire. 
We  seem  to  sweat  in  ice,  and  freeze  in  fire ; 
What  would  I  do,  were  this  to  do  again  1 
I  would  not  change  my  peace  of  conscience 
Forall  the  wealth  of  Europe.    Shestirs!  here'slife! 
Return,  fair  soul,  from  darkness,  and  lead  mine 
Out  of  this  sensible  hell.    She's  warm,  she  breathes. 
Upon  thy  pale  lips  I  will  melt  my  heart. 
To  store  them  with  fresh  colour.    Who's  there  1 
Some  cordial  drink !     Alas,  I  dare  not  call : 
So  pity  would  destroy  pity.     Her  eye  opes, 
And  heaven  in  it  seems  to  ope,  that  late  was  shut, 
To  take  me  up  to  mercy. 

Duch.  Antonio ! 

Bos.  Yes,  madam,  he  is  living  : 
The  dead  bodies  you  saw  were  but  feign'd  statues ; 
He's  reconciled  to  your  brother ;  the  Pope  hath 
The  atonement.  [wrought 

Duch.  Mercy.  [She  dies. 

Bos.  Oh,  she's  gone  again :  there  the  cords  of 
life  broke. 
Oh,  sacred  innocence !  that  sweetly  sleeps 
On  turtfes'  feathers,  whilst  a  guilty  conscience 
Is  a  black  register,  wherein  is  writ 
All  our  good  deeds,  and  bad ;  a  perspective 
That  shows  us  hell,  that  we  cannot  be  suffer  d 
To  do  good  when  we  have  a  mind  to  it ! 
This  is  manly  sorrow  ; 
These  tears,  I  am  very  certain,  never  grew  , 
In  my  mother's  milk.     My  estate  is  sunk 
Below  the  degree  of  fear :  where  were 
These  penitent  fountains  while  she  was  living  1 
Oh,  they  were  frozen  up.     Here  is  a  sight 
As  direful  to  my  soul  as  is  the  sword 
Unto  a  wretch  hath  slain  his  father.     Come,  I'll 

bear  thee  hence, 
And  execute  thy  last  will ;  that's  deliver 
Thy  body  to  the  reverend  dispose 
Of  some  good  women ;  that  the  cruel  tyrant 
Shall  not  deny  me :  then  I'll  post  to  Milan, 
Where  somewhat  I  will  speedily  enact 
Worth  my  dejection. 


FROM  THE  SAME. 

ACT  V.   SCENE  m. 

Persons. — Aktonio,  Delio,  Echo  from  the  Duchess's  grave, 

Delia.   Yond's    the  cardinal's  window.     This 
fortification 
Grew  from  the  ruins  of  an  ancient  abbey ; 
And  to  yond  side  o'  th'  river  lies  a  wall, 
Piece  of  a  cloister,  which  in  my  opinion 
Gives  the  best  echo  that  you  ever  heard ; 
So  hollow  and  so  dismal,  and  withal 
So  plain  in  the  distinction  of  our  words. 
That  many  have  supposed  it  is  a  spirit 
That  answers. 

.A.aonio.  I  do  loye  these  ancient  ruins, 
We  never  tread  upon  them  but  we  set 
Our  foot  upon  some  reverend  history ; 
And,  questionless,  here  in  this  open  court, 
Which  now  lies  naked  to  the  injuries 
Of  stormy  weather,  some  men  lie  interr'd 
Loved  the  church  so  well,  and  gave  so  largely  to't, 
They  thought  it  should  have  canopied  their  bonea 


WILLIAM   ROWLEY.                                                         223 

Till  doomsday.     But  all  things  have  their  end: 
Churches  and  cities,  which  have  diseases  like  to 
Must  have  like  death  that  we  have.              [men, 

Echo.  Like  death  that  we  have. 

Del.  Now  the  echo  hath  caught  you. 

.4;^^  It  groan'd,  methought,  and  gave 
A  very  deadly  accent. 

Echo.  Deadly  accent. 

Del.  I  told  you  'twas  a  pretty  one.     You  may 
make  it 
A  huntsman,  or  a  falconer,  a  musician, 
Or  a  thing  of  sorrow. 

Echo.  A  thing  of  sorrow. 

.^lU.  Ay,  sure  :  that  suits  it  best 

Echo.  That  suits  it  best 

jint.  'Tis  very  like  my  wife's  voice. 

Echo.  Ay,  wife's  voice. 

Del.  Come,  let's  walk  farther  from't: 
I  would  not  have  you  go  to  th'  cardinal's  to-night: 
Do  not 

Echo.  Do  not.                                           [sorrow 

Del.  Wisdom  doth  not  more  moderate  wasting 
Than  time ;  take  time  for't :  be  mindful  of  thy  safety. 

Echo.  Be  mindful  of  thy  safety. 

.^iit.  Necessity  compels  me : 
Make  scrutiny  throughout  the  passes 
Of  your  own  life ;  you'll  find  it  impossible 
To  fly  your  fate. 

Echo.  Oh,  fly  your  fate. 

Del.  Hark :  the  dead  stones  seem  to  have  pity 
And  give  you  good  counsel.                      [on  you, 

Jul.  Echo,  I  will  not  talk  with  thee, 
For  thou  art  a  dead  thing. 

Echo.  Thou  art  a  dead  thing. 

Jnt.  My  duchess  is  asleep  now, 
And  her  little  ones,  I  hope  sweetly :  Oh,  heaven ! 
Shall  I  never  see  her  more  ? 

Echo.  Never  see  her  more. 

Jnl.  I  mark'd  not  one  repetition  of  the  Echo 
But  that,  and  on  the  sudden  a  clear  light 
Presented  me  a  face  folded  in  sorrow. 

Del.  Your  fancy,  merely, 

Jnt.  Come,  I'll  be  out  of  this  ague ; 
For  to  live  thus,  is  not  indeed  to  live ; 
It  is  a  mockery  and  abuse  of  Ufe : 
I  will  not  henceforth  save  myself  by  halves, 
Lose  all  or  nothing. 

Del.  Your  own  virtue  save  you. 
I'll  fetch  your  eldest  son,  and  second  you, 
It  may  be  that  the  sight  of  his  own  blood, 
Spread  in  so  sweet  a  figure,  may  beget 
The  more  compassion! 
However,  fare  you  well ! 
Though  in  our  miseries  Fortune  have  a  part. 
Yet,  in  our  noble  suflT' rings,  she  hath  none ; 
Contempt  of  pain,  that  we  may  call  our  own. 

WILLIAM 

[Born,  IS— . 

Of  William  Rowley  nothing  more  is  known 
than  that  he  was  a  player  by  profession,  and  for 
several  years  at  the  head  of  the  Prince's*  com- 
pany of  comedians.     Though  his  name  is  found 
in  one  instance  affixed  to  a  piece  conjointly  with 
Shakspeare's,  he  is  generally  classed  only  in  the 
third  rank  of  our  dramatists.     His  Muse  is  evi- 
dently a  plebeian  nymph,  and  had  not  been  edu- 
cated in  the   school  of  the  Graces.     His  most 
tolerable  production  is  the  "New  Wonder,  or 

ROWLEY. 

Died,  1640  ?] 

a  Woman  never  vext."     Its  drafts  of  citizen  life 
and  manners  have  an  air  of  reality  and  honest 
truth — the  situations  and  characters  are  forcible, 
and  the  sentiments  earnest  and  unaflected.     The 
author  seems  to  move  in  the  sphere  of  life  which 
he  imitates,  with  no  false  fears  about  its  dignity, 
and  is  not  ashamed  to  exhibit  his  broken  mer- 
chant hanging  out  the  bag  for  charity  among  the 
debtors  of  a  prison-house. 

SCENE  FROM  THE  COMEDY  OF  "A   NEW  WON- 

UEK,   OR   A  WOMAN   NEVER  VEXT." 

JPersom. — The  Wuww  and  Doctor. 

Docf.  You  sent  for  me,  gentlewoman  ! 

Wid.  Sir,  I  did  ;  and  to  this  end  : 
I  have  scruples  in  my  conscience ; 
Borne  doubtful  problems  which  I  cannot  answer 
Nor  reconcile ;  I'd  have  you  make  them  plain. 

Doct.  This  is  my  duty :  pray  speak  your  mind. 

Wid.  And  as  I  speak,  I  must  remember  heaven. 
That  gave  those  blessings  which  I  must  relate  : 
Sir,  you  now  behold  a  wondrous  woman ; 
You  only  wonder  at  the  epithet ; 
I  can  approve  it  good  ;  guess  at  mine  age. 

Doct.  At  the  half-way  'twixt  thirty  and  forty. 

•  Prince  Charles,  afterwards  Charles  I.    The  play  ia 
which  bis  name  is  printed  conjointly  with  Shakspeare's  is 
called  Tfie  Birth  qf  M-.rlin. 

Wid.  'Twas  not  much  amiss ;  yet  nearest  to  the 
How  think  you  then,  is  rtot  this  a  wonder  1       [last 
That  a  woman  lives  full  scven-and-thirty  years 
Maid  to  a  wife,  and  wife  unto  a  widow. 
Now  widow'd,  and  mine  own,  yet  all  this  while 
From  the  extremes!  verge  of  my  remembrance. 
Even  from  my  weaning  hour  unto  this  minute. 
Did  never  taste  what  was  calamity  1 
I  know  not  yet  what  grief  is,  yet  have  sought 
An  hundred  ways  for  its  acquaintance :  with  me 
Prosperity  hath  kept  so  close  a  watch, 
That  even  those  things  that  I  have  meant  a  cross, 
Have  that  way  turn'd  a  blessing.   Is  it  not  strange' 

Doct.  Unparallel'd ;  this  gift  is  singular. 
And  to  you  alone  belonging :  you  are  the  moon. 
For  there's  but  one,  all  women  else  are  stars, 
For  there  are  none  of  like  condition. 
Full  oft,  and  many,  have  I  heard  complain 
Of  discontents,  thwarts,  and  adversities, 

• 

224 


WILLIAM   ROWLEY. 


But  a  second  to  yourself  I  never  knew : 
To  groan  under  the  superflux  of  blessings, 
To  have  ever  been  aUen  unto  sorrow. 
No  trip  of  fate  1  Sure  it  is  wonderful. 

Wid.  Ay,  sir,  'tis  wonderful :  but  is  it  well  ] 
For  it  is  now  my  chief  affliction. 
I  have  heard  you  say,  that  the  child  of  heaven 
Shall  suffer  many  tribulations ;  [subjects : 

Nay,  kings  and  princes  share  them  with  their 
Then  I  that  know  not  any  chastisement, 
How  may  I  know  my  part  of  childhood  ? 

Doa.  'Tis  a  good  doubt ;  but  make  it  not  extreme. 
'Tis  some  affliction,  that  you  are  afflicted 
For  want  of  affliction ;  cherish  that : 
Yet  wrest  it  not  to  misconstruction ; 
For  all  your  blessings  are  free  gifts  from  heaven ; 
Health,  wealth,  and  peace ;  nor  can  they  turn  to 
But  by  abuse.  Pray,  let  me  question  you  :  [curses, 
You  lost  a  husband,  was  it  no  grief  to  you  1 

Wid,  It  was ;  but  very  small :  no  sooner  I 
Had  given  it  entertainment  as  a  sorrow. 
But  straight  it  turn'd  unto  my  treble  joy  : 
A  comfortable  revelation  prompts  me  then, 
That  husband  (whom  in  life  I  held  so  dear) 
Had  changed  a  frailty  to  unchanging  joys ; 
Methought  I  saw  him  stellified  in  heaven, 
And  singing  hallelujahs  'mongst  a  quire 
Of  white-sainted  souls :  then  ageiin  it  spake, 
And  said ;  it  was  a  sin  for  me  to  grieve 
At  his  best  good,  that  I  esteemed  best : 
And  thus  this  slender  shadow  of  a  grief 
Vanish'd  again.  [from 

DocL  All  this  was  happy ;  nor  can  you  wrest  it 
A  heavenly  blessing :  do  not  appoint  the  rod ; 
Leave  still  the  stroke  unto  the  magistrate : 
The  time  is  not  past,  but  you  may  feel  enough. 

Wid.  One  taste  more  I  had,  although  but  little, 
Yet  I  would  aggravate  to  make  the  most  on't ; 
Thus  'twas :  the  other  day  it  was  my  hap. 
In  crossing  of  the  Thames, 
To  drop  that  wedlock  ring  from  off  my  finger, 
That  once  conjoined  me  and  my  dead  husband, 
It  sunk ;  I  prized  it  dear ;  the  dearer,  'cause  it  kept 
Still  in  mine  eye  the  memory  of  my  loss ; 
Yet  I  grieved  the  loss ;  and  did  joy  withal, 
That  I  had  found  a  grief:  and  this  is  all 
The  sorrow  I  can  boast  of. 

Doct.  This  is  but  small.« 

Wid,  Nay,  sure  I  am  of  this  opinion, 
That  had  I  sufler'd  a  draught  to  be  made  for  it, 
The  bottom  would  have  sent  it  up  again, 
I  am  so  wondrously  fortunate. 

Dort.  You  would  not  suiier  it  1 

STEPHEN,  A  RECLAIMED  GAMESTER,  NEWLY  MAR- 

RIED  TO  THE  OVER-FORTUNATE  WIDOW. 

i'ersons.— Stephen,  Robert  ki$  nephew,  and  Wmow. 

Enter  Stephen  wU/i  billii  and  h-mds. 

Wife.  How  now,  sweetheart  1  what  hast  thou 
there  ] 

Sleph.  I  find  much  debts  belonging  to  you,  sweet ; 
And  my  care  must  be  now  to  fetch  them  in. 

Wife.  Ha !  ha  !  prithee  do  not  mistake  thyself. 
Nor  my  true  purpose ;  I  did  not  wed  to  thrall, 


Or  bind  thy  large  expense,  but  rather  to  add 
A  plenty  to  that  liberty  ;  I  thought  by  this. 
Thou  wouldst  have  stuff'd  thy  pockets  full  of  gold. 
And  thrown  it  at  a  hazard ;  made  ducks  and  draked, 
And  baited  fishes  with  thy  silver  flies ; 
Lost,  and  fetch'd  more  ;  why,  this  had  been  my  joy, 
Perhaps  at  length  thou  wouldst  have  wasted  my 

store ; 
Why,  this  had  been  a  blessing  too  good  for  me. 

Sleph.  Content  thee,  sweet,  those  days  are  gone, 
Ay,  even  from  my  memory ; 
I  have  forgot  that  e'er  I  had  such  follies. 
And  I'll  not  call  'em  back :  my  cares  are  bent 
To  keep  your  state,  and  give  you  all  content. 
Roger,  go,  call  your  fellow-servants  up  to  me, 
And  to  my  chamber  bring  all  books  of  debt ; 
I  will  o'erlook,  and  cast  up  all  accounts. 
That  I  may  know  the  weight  of  all  my  cares, 

And  once  a  year  give  up  my  stewardship 

Enter  Robert. 

Steph.  Oh,  nephew,  are  you  come !    the  wel- 
comest  wish 
That  my  heart  has ;  this  is  my  kinsman,  sweet. 

Wife.  Let  him  be  largely  texted  in  your  love. 
That  all  the  city  may  read  it  fairly : 
You  cannot  remember  me,  and  him  forget ; 
We  were  alike  to  you  in  poverty.  [love, 

Steph.  1  should  have  begg'd  that  bounty  of  your 
Though  you  had  scanted  me  to  have  given't  him ; 
For  we  are  one,  I  an  uncle  nephew, 
He  a  nephew  uncle.     But,  my  sweet  self. 
My  slow  request  you  have  anticipated 
With  profier'd  kindness ;  and  I  thank  you  for  it. 
But  how,  kind  cousin,  does  your  father  use  you  1 
Is  your  name  found  again  within  his  books  1 
Can  he  read  son  there  1 

Rob.  'Tis  now  blotted  quite : 
For  by  the  violent  instigation 
Of  my  cruel  step-mother,  his  vows  and  oaths 
Are  stamp'd  against  me,  ne'er  to  acknowledge  me 
Never  to  call,  or  bless  me  as  a  child ; 
But  in  his  brow,  his  bounty  and  behaviour 
I  read  it  all  most  plainly. 

Steph.  Cousin,  grieve  not  at  it ;  that  father  lost 
at  home. 
You  shall  find  here ;  and  with  the  loss  of  his 

inheritance, 
You  meet  another  amply  proffer  'd  you  ; 
Be  my  adopted  son,  no  more  my  kinsman : 
(To  his  Wife.)  So  that  this  borrow'd  bounty  do 

not  stray 
From  your  consent. 

Wife.  Call  it  not  borrow'd,  sir;  'tis  all  your  own; 
Here  'fore  this  reverend  man  I  make  it  known. 
Thou  art  our  child  as  free  by  adoption 
As  derived  from  us  by  conception. 
Birth,  and  propinquity ;  uiheritor 
To  our  full  substance. 

Rob.  You  were  bom  to  bless  us  both ; 
My  knee  shall  practise  a  son's  duty 
Even  beneath  a  son's;  giving  you  all 
The  comely  dues  of  parents ;  yet  not 
Forgetting  my  duty  to  my  father : 
Where'er  I  meet  him  he  shall  have  my  knee. 
Although  his  blessing  ne'er  return  to  me. 


JOHN   FORD. 


22* 


Sleph,  Come  then,  my  clearest  son,  I'll  now  give 

thee 
A  taste  of  my  love  to  thee :  be  thou  my  deputy, 
The  factor  and  disposer  of  my  business ; 
Keep  my  accounts,  and  order  my  affairs ; 
They  must  be  all  your  own :  for  you,  dear  sweet, 
Be  merry,  take  your  pleasure  at  home,  abroad ; 
Visit   your  neighbours;    aught   that  may  seem 

good 
To  your  own  will ;  down  to  the  country  ride ; 
For  cares  and  troubles  lay  them  all  aside. 
And  I  will  take  them  up ;  it's  fit  that  weight 
Should  now  lie  all  on  me :  take  thou  the  height 


Of  quiet  and  content,  let  nothing  grieve  thee ; 
I  brought  thee  nothing  else,  and  that  I'll  give  thee. 
[Exit  Stephe!?  and  Robert. 

Wt/e.  Will  the  tide  never  turn?  was  ever  woman 
Thus  burden'd  with  unhappy  happiness  ? 
Did  I  from  riot  take  him,  to  waste  my  gootls. 
And  he  strives  to  augment  iti  I  did  mistake  him. 

Doct,  Spoil  not  a  good  text  with  a  false  comment ; 
All  these  are  blessings,  and  from  heaven  sent ; 
It  is  your  husband's  good,  he's  now  transform'd 
To  a  beiier  shade,  the  prodigal's  retum'd. 
Come,  come,  know  joy,  make  not  abundance  scant ; 
You  'plain  of  that  which  thousand  women  want 


JOHN   FORD. 

[Bora,  1586.     Died,  1640?] 


It  is  painful  to  find  the  name  of  Ford  a  barren 
spot  in  our  poetical  biography,  marked  by  nothing 
but  a  few  dates  and  conjectures,  chiefly  drawn 
from  his  own  dedications.  He  was  bom  of  a 
respectable  family  in  Devonshire;  was  bred  to 
the  law,  and  entered  of  the  Middle  Temple  at 
the  age  of  seventeen.  At  the  age  of  twenty,  he 
published  a  poem,  entitled  Fame's  Memorial,  in 
honour  of  the  deceased  Earl  of  Devonshire;  and 
from  the  dedication  of  that  piece  it  appears  that 
he  chiefly  subsisted  upon  his  professional  labours, 
making  poetry  the  solace  of  his  leisure  hours. 
All  his  plays  were  published  between  the  year 
1629  and  1639 ;  but  before  the  former  period  he 


had  for  some  time  been  known  as  a  dramatic 
writer,  his  works  having  been  printed  a  consider- 
able time  after  their  appearance  on  the  stage ; 
and,  according  to  the  custom  of  the  age,  had  been 
associated  in  several  works  with  other  composers. 
With  Dekker  he  joined  in  dramatizing  a  story, 
which  reflects  more  disgrace  upon  the  age  than 
all  its  genius  could  redeem ;  namely,  the  fate  of 
Mother  Sav?yer,  the  Witch  of  Edmonton,  an  aged 
woman,  who  had  been  recently  the  victim  of  legal 
and  superstitious  murder — 

KU  adeofoedum  quod  rum  acada  vetuxtat 
Ediderit. 

The  time  of  his  death  is  unknown. 


FROM  "THE  LOVER'S  MELANCHOLY."* 

ACT  rV.  8CESE  m. 

Palador,  Prince  of  Cyprug,  having  fallen  into  melancholy 
from  the  disappointment  of  losing  Eroclea,  to  whom  he 
was  attached,  a  majKque  is  prepared  to  divert  bis  thoughts, 
at  the  representation  of  which  he  sees  a  youth,  passing 
by  the  name  of  Parthenophill,  whose  resemblance  to  his 
mistress  strikes  him. 

Scene — A  Ronm  at  the  Palace, 

Persons — Palador,  Prince  ofCyprvx;  Arettjs,  Mi  tutor; 
SopHRONOS,  unde  to  Kroclea;  Pcuas,  o  courtirr;  Mexa- 
PHON,  son  of  SoPHRONOs;  Amethds,  cousin  to  the  Prince  ; 
BUETIAS,  servant  to  Kroclea. 

Enter  Aretub  and  Sophronos. 

Are.  The  prince  is  thoroughly  moved. 

Soph.  I  never  saw  him 
So  much  distemper'd. 

Are.  What  should  this  young  man  be. 
Or  whither  can  he  be  convey'd  T 

Suph.  'Tis  to  me 
A  mystery ;  I  understand  it  not 

Are.  Nor  I. 

Enter  Palador,  Aketbcs  and  Pelias. 

Pal.  You  have  consented  ail  to  work  upon 
The  softness  of  my  nature ;  but  take  heed : 


•  I  have  declined  obtruding  on  the  reader  some  passages 
In  Ford's  plays  which  possess  a  superior  power  to  the  pre- 
sent scene,  because  they  have  been  anticipated  by  Mr. 
Lamb  in  bis  Dramatic  Specimens.  Even  if  this  had  not 
been  the  case,  I  should  have  felt  reluctant  to  give  a  place 
to  one  dreadfully  beautiful  specimen  of  his  affecting 
powers,  in  the  tragedy  of  the  Brother  and  Sister.  Better 
that  poetry  should  cease,  than  have  to  do  with  such  sub- 
28 


Though  I  can  sleep  in  silence,  and  look  on 
The  mockery  you  make  of  my  dull  patience  ; 
Yet  you  shall  know,  the  best  of  ye,  that  in  me 
There  is  a  masculine,  a  stirring  spirit. 
Which  [once]  provoked,  shall,  like  a  bearded  comet, 
Set  ye  at  gaze,  and  threaten  horror. 

Pel.  Good  sir.  [guage. 

Pal.  Good  sir  !  'tis  not  your  active  wit  or  lan- 
Nor  your  grave  politic  wisdoms,  lords,  shall  dare 
To  check-mate  and  control  my  just  demands. 

Enter  Menapho.'J. 
Where  is  the  youth,  your  friend  1  Is  he  found  yet ! 

Men.  Not  to  be  heard  of. 

PaL  Fly  then  to  the  desert, 
Where  thou  didst  first  encounter  this  fantastic, 
This  airy  apparition :  come  no  more 
In  sight !  Get  ye  all  from  me !  He  that  stays 
Is  not  my  friend. 

Amet.  'Tis  strange. 

Are.  and  Soph.  We  must  obey. 

[Exetint  all  hut  Palador. 

Pal.  Some  angry  power  cheats,  with  rare  delu- 
sions. 
My  credulous  sense :  the  very  soul  of  reason 

jects.  The  Lover's  Melancholy  has  much  of  the  grace  and 
sweetness  that  distinguishes  the  genius  of  Ford.  ["  Mr. 
Campbell  speaks  favourably  of  the  poetic  portion  of  thii 
play;  he  thinks,  and  1  fully  agree  with  him,  that  it  has 
much  of  the  grace  and  sweetness  which  distinguish  the 
genius  of  Ford.  It  has  also  somewhat  more  of  the  spright- 
liness  in  the  language  of  the  secondary  characters,  than 
U  commonly  found  in  his  plavs." — Giftord.— C.l 
U 


226 


JOHN  FORD. 


Is  troubled  in  me. — The  physician 
Presented  a  strange  mask,  the  view  of  it 

Puzzled  my  understanding :  but  the  boy 

Enter  Rbbtias. 
Rhetias,  thou  art  acquainted  with  my  griefs ; 
Parthenophill  is  lost,  and  I  would  see  him : 
For  he  is  like  to  something  I  remember 
A  great  while  since,  a  long,  long  time  ago. 

Jihe.  I  have  been  diligent,  sir,  to  pry  into  every 
comer  for  discovery,  but  cannot  meet  with  him. 
There  is  some  trick,  I  am  confident. 

Pal.  There  is,  there  is  some  practice,  slight,  or 

plot. 
Rhe.  I  have  apprehended  a  fair  wench,  in  an 
odd  private  lodging  in  the  city,  as  like  the  youth 
in  face  as  can  by  possibility  be  discerned. 
Fal.  How,  Rhetias  1 

Rhe.  If  it  be  not  Parthenophill  in  long  coats, 
'tis  a  spirit  in  his  likeness ;  answer  I  can  get  none 
from  her :  you  shall  see  her. 

Pal.  The  young  man  in  disguise,  upon  my  life, 
To  steal  out  of  the  land. 

Rhe.  I'll  send  him  to  you. 

[Exti  Rhetus. 
EnUr  behind  Eroclea  (Parthenophill)  in  female  attire. 

PaL  Do,  do,  my  Rhetias.   As  there  is  by  nature. 
In  every  thing  created,  contrariety : 
So  likewise  is  there  unity  and  league 
Between  them  in  their  kind ;  but  man,  the  abstract 
Of  all  perfection,  which  the  workmanship 
Of  heaven  hath  modell'd,  in  himself  contains 
Passions  of  sev'ral  qualities ;  the  music 
Of  man's  fair  composition  best  accords 
When  'tis  in  concert,  not  in  single  strains. 
My  heart  hath  been  untuned  these  many  months, 
Wanting  her  presence,  in  whose  equal  love 
True  harmony  consisted ;  living  here. 
We  are  heav'n's  bounty  all,  but  fortune's  exercise. 
Ero.  Minutes  are  number'd  by  the  fall  of  sands, 
As  by  an  hour-glass ;  the  span  of  time 
Doth  waste  us  to  our  graves,  and  we  look  on  it. 
An  age  of  pleasures,  revell'd  out,  comes  home 
At  last,  and  ends  in  sorrow :  but  the  life. 
Weary  of  riot,  numbers  every  sand, 
Wailing  in  sighs,  until  the  last  drop  down ; 
So  to  conclude  calamity  in  rest. 

Pal.  What  echo  yields  a  voice  to  my  complaints  1 
Can  I  be  nowhere  private  1 

Ero.  Let  the  substance 
As  suddenly  be  hurried  from  your  eyes, 
As  the  vain  sound  can  pass  your  ear. 
If  no  impression  of  a  troth  vow'd  yours 
Retain  a  constant  memory.  [Kneelt. 

Pal.  Stand  up ! 
'Tis  not  the  figure,  stamp'd  upon  thy  cheeks, 
The  cozenage  of  thy  beauty,  grace,  or  tongue, 
Can  draw  from  me  a  secret,  that  hath  been 
The  only  jewel  of  my  speechless  thoughts. 

Ero.  I  am  so  worn  away  with  fears  and  sorrows, 
So  vnnter'd  with  the  tempests  of  affliction. 
That  the  bright  sun  of  your  life-quickening  pre- 
sence 
Hath  scarce  one  beam  of  force  to  warm  again 
That  spring  of  cheerful  comfort,  which  youth  once 
Apparel'd  in  fresh  looks. 


Pal.  Cunning  impostor ! 
Untruth  hath  made  thee  subtle  in  thy  trade : 
If  any  neighb'ring  greatness  hath  seduced 
A  free-bom  resolution,  to  attempt 
Some  bolder  act  of  treachery,  by  cutting 
My  weary  days  off;  wherefore,  (cruel  mercy  !) 
Hast  thou  assumed  a  shape,  that  would  make 
A  piety,  guilt  pardonable,  bloodshed         [treason 
As  holy  as  the  sacrifice  of  peace  1 

Era.  The  incense  of  my  love-desires  is  flamed 
Upon  an  altar  of  more  constant  proof. 
Sir,  O  sir !  turn  me  back  into  the  world, 
Command  me  to  forget  my  name,  my  birth, 
My  father's  sadness,  and  my  death  alive. 
If  all  remembrance  of  my  faith  hath  found 
A  burial,  without  pity,  in  your  scorn. 

Pal.  My  scom,disdainful  boy, shall  soon  unweave 
The  web  thy  art  hath  twisted.     Cast  thy  shape  off; 
Disrobe  the  mantle  of  a  feigned  sex. 
And  so  I  may  be  gentle :  as  thou  art, 
There's  witchcraft  in  thy  language,  in  thy  face, 
In  thy  demeanours.  Turn !  turn  from  me,  pr'y  thee : 
For  my  belief  is  arm'd  else.     Yet,  fair  subtilty, 
Before  we  part  (for  part  we  must,)  be  true ; 
Tell  me  thy  country. 

Ero.  Cyprus. 

Pal.  Ha  !  thy  father  1 

Ero.  Meleander. 

Pal.  Hast  a  name  1 

Ero.  A  name  of  misery; 
Th'  unfortunate  Eroclea. 

Pal.  There  is  danger 
In  this  seducing  counterfeit.     Great  Goodness  ! 
Hath  honesty  and  virtue  left  the  timel 
Are  we  become  so  impious,  that  to  tread 
The  path  of  impudence,  is  law  and  justice  ? 
Thou  vizard  of  a  beauty  ever  sacred, 
Give  me  thy  name  ! 

Ero.  Whilst  I  was  lost  to  memory, 
Parthenophill  did  shroud  my  shame  in  change 
Of  sundry  rare  misfortunes :  but,  since  now 
I  am,  before  I  die,  return'd  to  claim 
A  convoy  to  my  grave,  I  must  not  blush 
To  let  prince  Palador,  if  I  offend, 
Know,  when  he  dooms  me,  that  he  dooms  Eroclea. 
I  am  that  woful  maid. 

Pal.  Join  not  too  fast 
Thy  penance  with  the  story  of  my  sufferings  : — 
So  dwelt  simplicity  with  virgin  truth ; 
So  martyrdom  and  holiness  are  twins. 
As  innocence  and  sweetness  on  thy  tongue ; 
But,  let  me  by  degrees  collect  my  senses ; 
I  may  abuse  my  trust.     Tell  me,  what  air 
Hast  thou  perfumed,  since  tyranny  first  ravish'd 
The  contract  of  our  hearts. 

Ero.  Dear  sir,  in  Athens 
Have  I  been  buried. 

Pal.  Buried  1     Right,  as  I 
In  Cyprus. — Come !  to  trial,  if  thou  beest 
Eroclea ;  in  my  bosom  I  can  find  thee. 

Ero.  As  I,  prince  Palador,  in  mine :  this  gift 
[She  ihmoi  him  a  UMet. 
His  bounty  bless'd  me  with,  the  only  physic 
My  solitary  cares  have  hourly  took 
To  keep  me  from  despair. 


PHILIP   MASSINGER. 


227 


PaL  We  are  but  fools 
To  trifle  in  disputes,  or  vainly  struggle 
With  that  eternal  mercy  which  protects  us. 
Come  home,  home  to  my  heart,  thou  banish'd 

peace  I 
My  ecstasy  of  joys  would  speak  in  passion, 


But  that  I  would  not  lose  that  part  of  man, 
Which  is  reserved  to  entertain  content. 
Eroclea,  I  am  thine :  0,  let  me  seize  thee 
As  my  inheritance.     Hymen  shall  now 
Set  all  his  torches  burning,  to  give  light 
Throughout  this  land,  new-settled  in  thy  welcome. 


PHILIP   MASSINGER. 


[Born,  1584.    Died,  1640.] 


The  father  of  this  dramatic  poet  was  attached 
to  the  family  of  Henry,  the  second  Earl  of  Pem- 
broke, and  died  in  the  service  of  that  honourable 
house.  The  name  of  a  servant  carried  with  it 
no  sense  of  degradation  in  those  times,  when  the 
great  lords  and  officers  of  the  court  numbered 
inferior  nobles  among  their  followers.  On  one 
occasion  the  poet's  father  was  the  bearer  of  let- 
ters from  the  Earl  of  Pembroke  to  Queen  Eliza- 
beth ;  a  circumstance  which  has  been  justly  ob- 
served to  indicate  that  he  could  be  no  mean  person, 
considering  the  punctilious  respect  which  Eliza- 
beth exacted  from  her  courtiers. 

Massinger  was  bom  at  Salisbury,  or  probably 
at  Wilton,  in  its  neighbourhood,  the  seat  of  the 
Earl  of  Pembroke,  in  whose  family  he  also  appears 
to  have  been  educated.  That  nobleman  died  in  the 
poet's  sixteenth  year,  who  thus  unfortunately  lost 
whatever  chance  he  ever  had  of  his  protecting  kind- 
ness. His  father  continued  indeed  in  the  service  of 
the  succeeding  earl,*  who  was  an  accomplished 
man,  a  votary  of  the  muses,  and  one  of  the  bright- 
est ornaments  of  the  court  of  Elizabeth  and  James ; 
but  he  withheld  his  patronage  from  a  man  of  ge- 
nius, who  had  claims  to  it,  and  would  have  done 
it  honour,  for  reasons  that  have  not  been  distinctly 
explained  in  the  scanty  and  sorrowful  history  of 
the  poet.  Mr.  Gilford,  dissatisfied  with  former 
reasons  alleged  for  this  neglect,  and  convinced, 
from  the  perusal  of  his  writings,  that  Massinger  was 
a  Catholic,  conjectures  that  it  may  be  attributed 
to  his  having  offended  the  earl  by  having  aposta- 
tized while  at  the  university  to  that  obnoxious 
faith.  He  was  entered  as  a  commoner  of  St. 
Alban's  Hall,  Oxford,  in  his  eighteenth  year, 
where  he  continued  only  four  years.  Wood  and 
Davies  conclude  that  he  missed  a  degree,  and  was 
suddenly  withdrawn  from  the  university,  in  con- 
sequence of  Pembroke's  disapprobation  of  his 
attachment  to  poetry  and  romances,  instead  of 
logic  and  philosophy.  Mr.  Giflbrd  prefers  the 
authority  of  Langbaine,  that  he  was  not  sup- 
ported at  all  at  Oxford  by  the  Earl  of  Pembroke,  but 
by  his  own  father,  and  concludes  that  he  was  with- 
drawn from  it  solely  by  the  calamitous  event  of 
his  death.  Whatever  was  the  cause,  he  left  the 
university  abruptly,  and  coming  to  London,  with- 
out friends,  or  fortune,  or  profession,  was,  as  he 
informs  us  himself,  driven  by  his  necessities  to  the 
stage  for  support. 

From  the  period  of  his  arrival  in  London  in 


1606  till  the  year  1622,  when  his  Virgin  Martyr 
appeared  in  print,  it  is  sufficiently  singular  that  we 
should  have  no  notice  of  Massinger,  except  in  one 
melancholy  relic  that  was  discovered  by  Mr.  Ma- 
lone  in  Dulwich  college,  namely,  a  letter  sub- 
scribed by  him  and  two  other  dramatic  poets,t 
in  which  they  solicit  the  advance  of  five  pounds 
from  the  theatrical  manager,  to  save  them  from 
the  horrors  of  a  jail.  The  distressful  document 
accidentally  discovers  the  fact  of  Massinger  hav- 
ing assisted  Fletcher  in  one  of  his  dramas,  and 
thus  entitles  Sir  Aston  Cokayne's  assertion  to  be- 
lief, that  he  assisted  him  in  more  than  one.  Though 
Massinger  therefore  did  not  appear  in  print  dur- 
ing the  long  period  already  mentioned,  his  time 
may  be  supposed  to  have  been  partly  employed 
in  those  confederate  undertakings  which  were  so 
common  during  the  early  vigour  of  our  stage ;  and 
there  is  the  strongest  presumptive  evidence  that 
he  was  also  engaged  in  plays  of  his  own  compo- 
sition, which  have  been  lost  to  the  world  among 
those  literary  treasures  that  perished  by  the  neg- 
lect of  Warburton,  the  Somerset  herald,  and  the 
unconscious  sacrilege  of  his  cook.  Of  M  assinger's 
fame  for  rapidity  in  composition,  Langbaine  has 
preserved  a  testimony  in  the  lines  of  a  contem- 
porary poet :  after  the  date  of  his  first  printed  per- 
formance, those  of  his  subsequent  works  come  in 
thick  succession,  and  there  can  be  little  doubt  that 
the  period  preceding  it  was  equally  prolific 

Of  his  private  life  literally  nothing  can  be  said 
to  be  known,  except  that  his  dedications  bespeak 
incessant  distress  and  dependence,  while  the  re- 
commendatory poems  prefixed  to  his  plays  address 
him  with  attributes  of  virtue,  which  are  seldom 
lavished  with  flattery  or  falsehood  on  those  who 
sire  poor.  In  one  of  his  dedications  he  acknow- 
ledges the  bounty  of  Philip,  Earl  of  Montgomery, 
the  brother  to  that  Earl  of  Pembroke  who  so  un- 
accountably neglected  him;  but  warm  as  Mas- 
singer's  acknowledgments  are,  the  assistance  ap- 
pears to  have  been  but  transitory.  On  the  17th 
of  March,  1640,  having  gone  to  bed  in  apparent 
health  the  precedmg  night,  he  was  found  dead  in 
the  mornmg,  in  his  own  house,  in  the  Bank-side. 
He  was  buried  in  the  church-yard  of  St.  Saviour's, 
and  his  fellow-comedians  attended  him  to  the 
grave ;  but  it  does  not  appear  from  the  strictest 
search  that  a  stone  or  inscription  of  any  kind 
marked  the  place  where  his  dust  was  deposited ; 
even  the  memorial  of  his  mortality  b  given  wiih 


*  William,  the  third  £arl  of  Pembroke. 


t  Nathaniel  Field  and  Robert  Dabome. 


228 


PHILIP  MASSINGER. 


a  pathetic  brevity,  which  accords  but  too  well  with 
the  obscure  and  humble  circumstances  of  his  life — ■ 
•♦March  20,  1639-40,  buried  Philip  Massinger,  a 
stranger  ;"*  and  of  all  his  admirers  only  Sir  Aston 
Cokayne  dedicated  a  line  to  his  memory.  Even 
posterity  did  him  long  injustice :  Rowe,  who  had 
discovered  his  merits  in  the  depth  of  their  neglect, 


forbore  to  be  his  editor,  in  the  hopes  of  concealing 
his  plagiarism  from  the  Fatal  Dowry  ;t  and  he 
seemed  on  the  eve  of  oblivion,  when  Dodsley'a 
reprint  of  our  old  plays  brought  him  faintly  into 
that  light  of  reputation,  which  has  been  made 
perfectly  distinct  by  Mr.  Giflford's  edition  of  his 
works. 


MARCELIA  TEMPTED  BY  FRANCISCO. 

mOM    "THK  DUKE  OP   mLAV,"   A   TRAGEDY. 

Sforzfi,  Duke  of  Milan,  in  his  pawionate  attachment  to  his 
wife  Marcelia,  cannot  endure  the  idea  of  her  surviving 
him,  and  being  called  out  to  war,  leaves  an  order  to  his 
fevourite  Francisco,  that  in  the  event  of  his  falling  in 
the  contest  he  should  put  the  duchess  to  death.  Mar- 
oelia's  discovery  of  this  frantic  order  brin<iB  on  the  jea- 
lousy and  deaths  that  form  the  catastrophe  of  the  piece. 

Fran.  Let  them  first  know  themselves,  and 
how  you  are  [confess, 

Tl  be  served  and  honour'd ;  which,  when  they 
You  may  again  receive  them  to  your  favour : 
And  then  it  will  show  nobly. 

Marc.  With  my  thanks 
The  duke  shall  pay  you  his,  if  he  return 
To  bless  us  with  his  presence. 

Fran.  There  is  nothing 
That  can  be  added  to  your  fair  acceptance ; 
That  is  the  prize,  indeed ;  all  else  are  blanks, 
And  of  no  value.     As,  in  virtuous  actions, 
The  undertaker  finds  a  full  reward. 
Although  conferr'd  upon  unthankfiil  men ; 
So,  any  service  done  to  so  much  sweetness, 
However  dangerous,  and  subject  to 
An  ill  construction,  in  your  favour  finds 
A  wish'd,  and  glorious  end. 

Marc.  From  you,  I  take  this 
As  loyal  duty ;  but,  in  any  other, 
It  would  appear  gross  flattery. 

Fran.  Flattery,  madam ! 
You  are  so  rare  and  excellent  in  all  things. 
And  raised  so  high  upon  a  rock  of  goodness. 
As  that  vice  cannot  reach  you ;  who  but  looks  on 
This  temple,  built  by  nature  to  perfection. 
But  must  bow  to  it ;  and  out  of  that  zeal, 
Not  only  learn  to  adore  it,  but  to  love  it  1 
Marc.  Whither  will  this  fellow  1 
Fran.  Pardon,  therefore,  madam, 
If  an  excess  in  me  of  humble  duty 
Teach  me  to  hope,  and  though  it  be  not  in 
The  power  of  man  to  merit  such  a  blessing, 
My  piety,  for  it  is  more  than  love, 
May  find  reward. 

Marc.  You  have  it  in  my  thanks ; 
And,  on  my  hand,  I  am  pleased  that  you  shall  take 
A  full  possession  of  it :  but,  take  heed 
That  you  fix  here,  and  feed  no  hope  beyond  it ; 
If  you  do,  it  will  prove  fatal. 

Fran.  Be  it  death, 
And  death  with  torments  tyrants  ne'er  found  out, 
Yet  I  must  say,  I  love  you. 

Marc.  As  a  subject ; 
And  'twill  become  you. 

•  [The  real  entry  is  "1639.  March  18.  PhiUp  Matsinger, 
ttranger^ — that  is,  a  non-parishioner;  but  it  has  hitherto 
tieen  quoted  as  Mr.  Campbell  haa  quoted  it— C.J 


Fran.  Farewell  circumstance ! 
And  since  you  are  not  pleased  to  understand  me, 
But  by  a  plain  and  usual  form  of  speech; 
All  superstitious  reverence  laid  by, 
I  love  you  as  a  man,  and,  as  a  man, 
I  would  enjoy  you.  Why  do  you  start,  and  fly  me  1 
I  am  no  monster,  and  you  but  a  woman, 
A  woman  made  to  yield,  and  by  example 
Told  it  is  lawful :  favours  of  this  nature, 
Are,  in  our  age,  no  miracle  in  the  greatest ; 

And,  therefore,  lady 

Marc.  Keep  off.     0  you  Powers ! 

Libidinous  beast !  and,  add  to  that,  unthankful ! 
A  crime  which  creatures  wanting  reason  fly  from ; 
Are  all  the  princely  bounties,  favours,  honours, 
Which,  with  some  prejudice  to  his  own  wisdom. 
Thy  lord  and  raiser  hath  conferr'd  upon  thee. 
In  three  days'  absence  buried  ?  Hath  he  made  thee, 
A  thing  obscure,  almost  without  a  name. 
The  envy  of  great  fortunes  1  Have  I  graced  thee, 
Beyond  thy  rank,  and  entertain'd  thee,  as 
A  friend,  and  not  a  servant  1   and  is  this, 
This  impudent  attempt  to  taint  mine  honour, 
The  fair  return  of  both  our  ventured  favours ! 
Fran.  Hear  my  excuse. 
Marc.  The  devil  may  plead  mercy. 
And  with  as  much  assurance,  as  thou  yield  one. 
Burns  lust  so  hot  in  thee  1  or  is  thy  pride 
Grown  up  to  such  a  height,  that,  but  a  princess, 
No  woman  can  content  thee ;  and,  add  to  it, 
His  wife  and  princess,  to  whom  thou  art  tied 
In  all  the  bonds  of  duty  1 — Read  my  life. 
And  find  one  act  of  mine  so  loosely  carried, 
That  could  invite  a  most  self-loving  fool, 
Set  off  with  all  that  fortune  could  throw  on  him, 
To  the  least  hope  to  find  way  to  my  favour ; 
And,  what's  the  worst  mine  enemies  could  wish  me, 
I'll  be  thy  strumpet. 

Fran.  'Tis  acknowledged,  madam. 
That  your  whole  course  of  life  hath  been  a  pattern 
For  chaste  and  virtuous  women.     In  your  beauty. 
Which  I  first  saw,  and  loved,  as  a  fair  crystal, 
I  read  your  heavenly  mind,  clear  and  untainted ; 
And  while  the  duke  did  prize  you  to  your  value, 
Could  it  have  been  in  man  to  pay  that  duty, 
I  well  might  envy  him,  but  durst  not  hope 
To  stop  you  in  your  full  career  of  goodness : 
But  now  I  find  that  he's  fall'n  from  his  fortune, 
And,  howsoever  he  would  appear  doting. 
Grown  cold  in  his  affection ;  I  presume. 
From  his  most  barbarous  neglect  of  you, 
To  offer  my  true  service.     Nor  stand  I  bound, 
To  look  back  on  the  courtesies  of  him. 
That,  of  all  living  men,  is  most  unthankful. 

t  In  The  Fair  Penitent. 


Marc.  Unheard-of  impudence ! 

Fran.  You'll  say  I  am  modest, 
When  I  have  told  the  story.     Can  he  tax  me, 
That  have  received  some  worldly  trifles  from  him. 
For  being  ungrateful ;  when  he,  that  first  tasted. 
And  hath  so  long  enjoy'd,  your  sweet  embraces. 
In  which  all  blessings  that  our  frail  condition 
Is  capable  of,  are  wholly  comprehended, 
As  cloy'd  with  happiness,  contemns  the  giver 
Of  his  fehcity  !  and,  as  he  reach'd  not 
The  masterpiece  of  mischief  which  he  aims  at. 
Unless  he  pay  those  favours  he  stands  bound  to, 
With  fell  and  deadly  hate! — You  think  he  loves  you 
With  unexampled  fervour ;  nay,  dotes  on  you. 
As  there  were  something  in  you  more  than  woman : 
When,  on  my  knowledge,  he  long  since  hath  wish'd 
You  were  among  the  dead ; — and  I,  you  scorn  so, 
Perhaps,  am  your  preserver. 

Marc.  Bless  me,  good  angels. 
Or  I  am  blasted !     Lies  so  false  and  wicked, 
And  fashion'd  to  so  damnable  a  purpose. 
Cannot  be  spoken  by  a  human  tongue. 
My  husband  hate  me  !  give  thyself  the  lie. 
False  and  accursed !     Thy  soul,  if  thou  hast  any, 
Can  witness,  never  lady  stood  so  bound 
To  the  unfeign'd  affection  of  her  lord. 
As  I  do  to  my  Sforza.     If  thou  wouldst  work 
Upon  my  w«ak  credulity,  tell  me,  rather. 
That  the  earth  moves ;  the  sun  and  stars  stand  still ; 
The  ocean  keeps  nor  floods  nor  ebbs ;  or  that 
There's  peace  between  the  lion  and  the  lamb ; 
Or  that  the  ravenous  eagle  and  the  dove 
Keep  in  one  aerie,  and  bring  up  their  young ; 
Or  any  thing  that  is  averse  to  nature : 
And  I  will  sooner  credit  it,  than  that 
My  lord  can  think  of  me,  but  as  a  jewel, 
He  loves  more  than  himself,  and  all  the  world. 

Fran.  O  innocence  abused !  simplicity  cozen'd ! 
It  were  a  sin,  for  which  we  have  no  name. 
To  keep  you  longer  in  this  wilful  error. 
Read  his  affection  here; — [^Gives  her  a  paper.^ — 

and  then  observe 
How  dear  he  holds  you  !     'Tis  his  character. 
Which  cunning  yet  could  never  counterfeit. 

Marc.  'Tis  his  hand,  I'm  resolved  of  it.  I'll  try 
What  the  inscription  is. 

Fran.  Pray  you,  do  so. 

Marc,  (reads.)  You  know  my  pleasure,  and  the 
hour  of  Marcelia's  death,  which  fail  not  to  execute, 
as  you  wilt  answer  the  contrary,  not  with  your  head 
alone,  InU  with  the  ruin  of  your  whole  family.  .And 
this,  written  with  my  own  hand,  and  signed  with  my 
privy  signet,  shall  be  your  sufficient  warrant. 

Louovico  Sfobza. 
I  do  obey  it ;  every  word's  a  poinard. 
And  reaches  to  my  heart.  [JSie  swoons. 

Fran.  What  have  I  done ! 
Madam  !  for  heaven's  sake,  madam ! — O  my  fate ! 
I'll  bei.d  her  body :  this  is,  yet,  some  pleasure: 
I'll  kiss  her  into  a  new  life.     Dear  lady  ! — 
She  stirs.  For  the  duke's  sake,  for  Sforza's  sake — 

Marc.  Sforza's!  standoff;  though  dead,  I  will  be 
And  even  my  ashes  shall  abhor  the  touch  [his, 

Of  any  other. — 0  unkind,  and  cruel ! 
Leara,  women,  learn  to  trust  in  one  another ; 


There  is  no  faith  in  man :  Sforza  is  false, 
False  to  Marcelia ! 

Fran.  But  I  am  true, 
And  live  to  make  you  happy.     All  the  pomp, 
State,  and  observance  you  had,  being  his. 
Compared  to  what  you  shall  enjoy,  when  mine, 
Shall  be  no  more  remember'd.     Lose  his  memory. 
And  lot)k  with  cheerful  beams  on  your  new  creature; 
And  know,  what  he  hath  plotted  for  your  good, 
Fate  cannot  alter.     If  the  emperor 
Take  not  his  life,  at  his  return  he  dies. 
And  by  my  hand ;  my  wife,  that  is  his  heir( 
Shall  quickly  follow : — then  we  reign  alone  ! 
For  with  this  arm  I'll  swim  through  seas  of  blood. 
Or  make  a  bridge,  arch'd  with  the  bones  of  men. 
But  I  will  grasp  my  aims  in  you,  my  dearest. 
Dearest,  and  best  of  women ! 

Marc.  Thou  art  a  villain  ! 
All  attributes  of  archvillains  made  into  one. 
Cannot  express  thee.     I  prefer  the  hate 
Of  Sforza,  though  it  mark  me  for  the  grave. 
Before  thy  base  affection.     I  am  yet 
Pure  and  unspotted  in  my  true  love  to  him  ; 
Nor  shall  it  be  corrupted,  though  he's  tainted : 
Nor  will  I  part  with  innocence,  because 
He  is  found  guilty      For  thyself,  thou  art 
A  thing,  that,  equal  with  the  devil  himself, 
I  do  detest  and  scorn. 

Fran.  Thou,  then,  art  nothing : 
Thy  life  is  in  my  power,  disdainful  woman ! 
Think  on't,  and  tremble. 

Marc.  No,  though  thou  wert  now 
To  play  thy  hangman's  part. — Thou  well  may'stbe 
My  executioner,  and  art  only  fit 
For  such  employment ;  but  ne'er  hope  to  have 
The  least  grace  from  me.     I  will  never  see  thee. 
But  as  the  shame  of  men :  so,  with  my  curses 
Of  horror  to  thy  conscience  in  this  life. 
And  pains  in  hell  hereafter,  I  spit  at  thee ; 
And,  making  haste  to  make  my  peace  with  heaven. 
Expect  thee  as  my  hangman. 


PARTING  SCENE  OF  LE0STHENE3,  A  YOUNG 
NOBLKMAN  OF  SYRACUSE,  AND  CLEORA,  DAUGH- 
TER TO  THE  PK.arr0R  OF  TUE  CITY. 

FROM   "THE   BOMDXAM." 

Least.  We  are  alone ; 
But  how  I  should  begin,  or  in  what  language 
Speak  the  unwilling  word  of  parting  from  you, 
I  am  yet  to  learn. 

Cleo.  And  still  continue  ignorant ; 
For  I  must  be  most  cruel  to  myself. 
If  I  should  teach  you. 

Least.  Yet  it  must  be  spoken. 
Or  you  will  chide  my  slackness.  You  have  fir«d  me 
With  the  heat  of  noble  action  to  deserve  you  • 
And  the  least  spark  of  honour  that  took  life 
From  your  sweet  breath,  still  fann'd  by  it  and 

cherish'd. 
Must  mount  up  in  a  glorious  flame,  or  I 
Am  much  unworthy. 

Cleo.  May  it  yet  burn  here. 
And,  as  a  seamnrk,  serve  to  guide  true  lovers, 
Toss'd  on  the  ocean  of  luxurious  wishes, 
U 


28^ 


PHILIP   MASSINGER. 


Safe  from  the  rocks  of  lust,  into  the  harbour 
Of  pure  affection  !  rising  up  an  example 
Which  aftertimes  shall  witness  to  our  glory, 
First  took  from  us  beginning. 

Least,  'Tis  a  happiness 
My  duty  to  my  country,  and  mine  honour 
Cannot  consent  to :  besides,  add  to  these. 
It  was  your  pleasure,  fortified  by  persuasion, 
And  strength  of  reason,  for  the  general  good, 
That  I  should  go. 

Cleo.  Alas !  I  then  was  witty 
To  plead  against  myself;  and  mine  eye,  fix'd 
Upon  the  hill  of  honour,  ne'er  descended 
To  look  into  the  vde  of  certain  dangers, 
Through  which  you  were  to  cut  your  passage  to  it. 
Least.  I'll  stay  at  home,  then. 
CUo.  No,  that  must  not  be ; 
For  so,  to  serve  my  own  ends,  and  to  gain 
A  petty  wreath  myself,  I  rob  you  of 
A  certain  triumph,  which  must  fall  upon  you. 
Or  Virtue's  turn'd  a  handmaid  to  blind  Fortune. 
How  is  my  soul  divided !  to  confirm  you 
In  the  opinion  of  the  world,  most  worthy 
To  be  beloved,  (with  me  you're  at  the  height, 
And  can  advance  no  ftirther.)  I  must  send  you 
To  court  the  goddess  of  stern  war,  who,  if 
She  see  you  with  my  eyes,  will  ne'er  return  you. 
But  grow  enamour'd  of  you. 

Least.  Sweet,  take  comfort ! 
And  what  I  offer  you,  you  must  vouchsafe  me. 
Or  I  am  wretched :  All  the  dangers  that 
I  can  encounter  in  the  war,  are  trifles ; 
My  enemies  abroad  to  be  contemn'd ; 
The  dreadful  foes,  that  have  the  power  to  hurt  me, 
I  leave  at  home  with  you, 
Clea.  With  me  1 
Least.  Nay,  in  you. 
In  every  part  about  you,  they  are  arm'd 
To  fight  against  me. 
Cleo,  Where] 

Least.  There's  no  perfection 
That  you  are  mistress  of,  but  musters  up 
A  legion  against  me,  and  all  sworn 
To  my  destruction. 
Cleo.  This  is  strange ! 
Least.  But  true,  sweet; 
Excess  of  love  can  work  such  miracles ! 
Upon  this  ivory  forehead  are  intrench'd 
Ten  thousand  rivals,  and  these  suns  command 
Supplies  from  all  the  world,  on  pain  to  forfeit 
Their  comfortable  beams ;  these  ruby  hps, 
A  rich  exchequer  to  assure  their  pay  ; 
Thi;*  hand,  Sibylla's  golden  bough  to  guard  them 
Through  hell,  and  horror,  to  the  Elysian  springs ; 
Which  who'll  not  venture  for  ?  and,  should  I  name 
Such  as  the  virtues  of  your  mind  invite, 
Their  numbers  would  be  infinite. 

Cleo.  Can  you  think 
I  may  be  tempted  1 

Least,  You  were  never  proved. 
For  me,  I  have  conversed  with  you  no  further 
Than  would  become  a  brother.     I  ne'er  tuned 
Loose  notes  to  your  chaste  ears  ;  or  brought  rich 
For  my  artillery,  to  batter  down  [presents 

The  fortress  of  your  honour;  nor  endeavour'd 


To  make  your  blood  run  high  at  solemn  feasts 
With  viands  that  provoke ;  the  speeding  philtres , 
I  work'd  no  bawds  to  tempt  you ;  never  practised 
The  cunning  and  corrupting  arts  they  study. 
That  wander  in  the  wild  maze  of  desire ; 
Honest  simplicity  and  truth  were  all 
The  agents  I  employ'd ;  and  when  I  came 
To  see  you,  it  was  with  that  reverence 
As  I  beheld  the  altars  of  the  gods  : 
And  Love,  that  came  along  with  me,  was  taught 
To  leave  his  arrows  and  his  torch  behind, 
Quench'd  in  my  fear  to  give  offence. 

Cleo,  And  'twas 
That  modesty  that  took  me  and  preserves  me. 
Like  a  fresh  rose,  in  mine  own  natural  sweetness , 
Which,  sulHed  with  the  touch  of  impure  heads, 
Loses  both  scent  and  beauty. 

Least.  But,  Cleora, 
When  I  am  absent,  as  I  must  go  from  you 
(Such  is  the  cruelty  of  my  fate)  and  leave  you, 
Unguarded,  to  the  violent  assaults 
Of  loose  temptations ;  when  the  memory 
Of  my  so  many  years  of  love  and  service 
Is  lost  in  other  objects ;  when  you  are  courted 
By  such  as  keep  a  catalogue  of  their  conquests 
Won  upon  credulous  virgins ;  when  nor  father 
Is  here  to  awe  you,  brother  to  advise  you. 
Nor  your  poor  servant  by,  to  keep  such  off. 
By  lust  instructed  how  to  undermine. 
And  blow  your  chastity  up;  when  your  weak  senses, 
At  once  assaulted,  shall  conspire  against  you. 
And  play  the  traitors  to  your  soul,  your  virtue ; 
How  can  you  stand  1  'Faith,  though  you  fall,  and  I 
The  judge,  before  whom  you  then  stood  accused, 
I  should  acquit  you. 

Cleo.  W^ill  you  then  confirm 
That  love  and  jealousy,  though  of  different  natures. 
Must  of  necessity  be  twins ;  the  younger 
Created  only  to  defeat  th«  elder. 
And  spoil  him  of  his  birthright  1  'tis  not  well. 
But  being  to  part,  I  will  not  chide,  I  will  not ; 
Nor  with  one  syllable  or  tear,  express 
How  deeply  I  am  wounded  with  the  arrows 
Of  your  distrust :  but  when  that  you  shall  hear, 
At  your  return,  how  I  have  borne  myself. 
And  what  an  austere  penance  I  take  on  me. 
To  satisfy  your  doubts ;  when,  like  a  vestal, 
I  show  you,  to  your  shame,  the  fire  still  burning, 
Committed  to  my  charge  by  true  affection. 
The  people  joining  with  you  in  the  wonder ; 
When  by  the  glorious  splendour  of  my  sufferings, 
The  prying  eyes  of  jealousy  are  struck  blind. 
The  monster  too  that  feeds  on  fears,  e'en  starved 
For  want  of  seeming  matter  to  accuse  me ; 
Expect,  Leosthenes,  a  sharp  reproof 
From  my  just  anger. 

Least.  What  will  you  dol 

Clea.  Obey  me. 
Or  from  this  minute  you  are  a  stranger  to  me ; 
And  do't  without  reply.     All-seeing  sun. 
Thou  witness  of  my  innocence,  thus  I  close 
Mine  eyes  against  thy  comfortable  light. 
Till  the  return  of  this  distrustful  man  ! 
Now  bind  them  sure ; — nay,  do't :    [i/e  birids  het 
eyes.2     If,  uncompell'd, 


PHILIP   MASSINGER. 


231 


I  loose  this  knot,  until  the  hands  that  made  it 
Be  pleased  to  untie  it,  may  consuming  plagues 
Fall  heavy  on  me !  pray  you  guide  me  to  your  lips. 
This  kiss,  when  you  come  back,  shall  be  a  virgin 
To  bid  you  welcome ;  nay,  I  have  not  done  yet: 
I  will  continue  dumb,  and,  you  once  gone, 
No  accent  shall  come  from  me.  Now  to  my  chamber, 
My  tomb,  if  you  miscarry:  there  I'll  spend 
My  hours  in  silent  mourning,  and  thus  much 
Shall  be  reported  of  me  to  my  glory. 
And  you  confess  it,  whether  I  Uve  or  die, 
My  chastity  triumphs  o'er  your  jealousy. 


PISANDER  DECLARING  HIS  PASSION  FOR  CLEORA, 
.  IN    THE    INSURRECTION    OF   THE   SLAVES   OF 
SYRACUSE, 

FKOM  THE  SAME. 

Enter  Pisanbkr,  sptaking,  at  the  door,  to  the  Insurgentt. 

Pisander.  He  that  advances 
A  foot  beyond  this,  comes  upon  my  sword : 
You  have  had  your  ways,  disturb  not  mine. 

Timandra.  Speak  gently. 
Her  fears  may  kill  her  else. 

Pisnn.  Now  Love  inspire  me ! 
Still  shall  this  canopy  of  envious  night 
Obscure  my  suns  of  comfort?  and  those  dainties 
Of  purest  white  and  red,  which  I  take  in  at 
My  greedy  eyes,  denied  my  famish'd  senses  1— 
The  organs  of  your  hearing  yet  are  open ; 
And  you  infringe  no  vow,  though  you  vouchsafe 
To  give  them  warrant  to  convey  unto 
Your  understanding  parts,  the  story  of 
A  tortured  and  despairing  lover,  whom 
Not  fortune  but  affection  marks  your  slave : 
Shake  not,  best  lady  !  for  believe't,  you  are 
As  far  from  danger  as  I  am  from  force : 
All  violence  I  shall  offer,  tends  no  further 
Than  to  relate  my  sufferings,  which  I  dare  not 
Presume  to  do,  till,  by  some  gracious  sign. 
You  show  you  are  pleased  to  hear  me. 

Timand.  If  you  are. 
Hold  forth  your  right  hand. 

[Cleora  hdtdi  forth  her  right  hand. 

Pisam.  So  'tis  done ;  and  I 
With  my  glad  lips  seal  humbly  on  your  foot. 
My  soul's  thanks  for  the  favour :  I  forbear 
To  tell  you  who  I  am,  what  wealth,  what  honours 
I  made  exchange  of,  to  become  your  servant : 
And,  though  I  knew  worthy  Leostlienes 
(For  sure  he  must  be  worthy,  for  whose  love 
You  have  endured  so  much)  to  be  my  rival ; 
When  rage  and  jealousy  counsell'd  me  to  kill  him, 
Which  then  I  could  have  done  with  much  more  ease. 
Than  now,  in  fear  to  grieve  you,  I  dare  speak  it. 
Love,  seconded  with  duty,  boldly  told  me 
The  man  I  hated,  fair  Cleora  favour'd : 
And  that  was  his  protection.  [Cleoka  hotoi. 

2'imand.  See,  she  bows 
Her  head  in  sign  of  thankfulness. 

Pisan.  He  removed  by 
The  occasion  of  the  war,  (my  fires  increasing 
By  being  closed  and  stopp'd  up,)  frantic  affection 
Prompted  me  to  do  something  in  his  absence, 
That  might  deliver  you  into  my  power, 


Which  you  see  is  effected ;  and,  even  now. 
When  my  rebellious  passions  chide  my  dulness, 
And  tell  me  how  much  I  abuse  my  fortunes, 
Now  it  is  in  my  power  to  bear  you  hence, 

[Cleora  ilartt. 
Or  take  my  wishes  here,  (nay,  fear  not,  madam ; 
True  love  's  a  servant,  brutish  lust  a  tyrant,) 
I  dkre  not  touch  those  viands  that  ne'er  taste  well. 
But  when  they're  freely  offer'd :  only  thus  much, 
Be  pleased  I  may  speak  in  my  own  dear  cause. 
And  think  it  worthy  your  consideration, 
(I  have  loved  truly,  tannot  say  deserved, 
Since  duty  must  not  take  the  name  of  merit,) 
That  I  so  far  prize  your  content,  before 
All  blessings  that  my  hope  can  fashion  to  me, 
That  willingly  I  entertain  despair. 
And,  for  your  sake,  embrace  it :  for  I  know. 
This  opportunity  lost,  by  no  endeavour 
The  like  can  be  recover'd.     To  conclude. 
Forget  not  that  I  lose  myself  to  save  you : 
For  what  can  I  expect  but  death  and  torture. 
The  war  being  ended  1  and,  what  is  a  task 
Would  trouble  Hercules  to  undertake, 
I  do  deny  you  to  myself,  to  give  you, 
A  pure  unspotted  present,  to  my  rival. 
I  have  said :  If  it  distaste  not,  best  of  virgins. 
Reward  my  temperance  with  some  lawful  favcur, 
Though  you  contemn  my  person. 

[Cleora  kneels,  then  puUs  off  Tier  glove,  and 
offers  her  hand  U>  Pisanser. 
Timand,  See,  she  kneels ; 
And  seems  to  call  upon  the  gods  to  pay 
The  debt  she  owes  your  virtue :  to  perform  which. 
As  a  sure  pledge  of  friendship,  she  vouchsafes  you 
Her  fair  right  hand. 

Pisaiu  I  am  paid  for  all  my  sufferings. 
Now,  when  you  please,  pass  to  your  private  cham- 

ber; 
My  love  and  duty,  faithful  guards,  shall  keep  you 
From  all  disturbance;  and  when  you  are  sated 
With  thinking  of  Leosthenes,  as  a  fee 
Due  to  my  service,  spare  one  sigh  for  me. 


PISANDER  HOLDING  A  PARLEY  WITH  THE  CHIEFS 
OF  SYRACUSE,  AT  THE  HEAD  OF  THE  INSUK- 
OENTS. 

FROM  THE  8AMZ. 

Piaan.  Briefly  thus,  then. 
Since  I  must  speak  for  all ;  your  tyranny 
Drew  us  from  our  obedience.     Happy  those  times 
When  lords  were  styled  fathers  of  families, 
And  not  imperious  masters !  when  they  number'd 
Their  servants  almost  equal  with  their  sons. 
Or  one  degree  beneath  them  !  when  their  labours 
Were  cherish'd  and  rewarded,  and  a  period 
Set  to  their  sufferings :  when  they  did  not  press 
Their  duties  or  their  wills  beyond  the  power 
And  strength  of  their  performance!    all  things 

order'd 
With  such  decorum  as  wise  lawmakers, 
From  each  well-govern'd  private  house  derived 
The  perfect  model  of  a  commonweitlth. 
Humanity  then  lodged  in  the  hearts  of  men. 
And  thankful  masters  carefully  provided 


232 


PHILIP   MASSINGER. 


For  creatures  wanting  reason.     The  noble  horse, 
That,  in  his  fiery  youth,  from  his  wide  nostrils 
Neigh'd  courage  to  his  rider,  and  brake  through 
Groves  of  opposed  pikes,  bearing  his  lord 
Safe  to  triumphant  victory ;  old  or  wounded, 
Was  set  at  liberty,  and  freed  from  service. 
The  Athenian  mules,  that  from  the  quarry  drew 
Marble,  hew'd  for  the  temples  of  the  gods, 
The  great  work  ended,  were  dismiss'd,  and  fed 
At  the  public  cost ;  nay,  faithful  dogs  have  found 
Their  sepulchres ;  but  man,  to  man  more  cruel. 
Appoints  no  end  to  the  sufferings  of  his  slave ; 
Since  pride  stepp'd  in  and  riot,  and  o'erturn'd 
This  goodly  frame  of  concord,  teaching  masters 
To  glory  in  the  abuse  of  such  as  are 
Brought  under  their  command  ;  who,  grown  un- 

useful. 
Are  less  esteem'd  than  beasts. — This  you  have 

practised, 
Practised  on  us  with  rigour ;  this  hath  forced  us 
To  shake  our  heavy  yokes  off;  and,  if  redress 
Of  these  just  grievances  be  not  granted  us. 
We'll  right  ourselves,  and  by  strong  hand  defend 
What  we  are  now  possess'd  of. 


LEOSTHENES'S  RETURN  TO  CLEORA. 


FROM  THE  SAME. 


Timandra  (the  attendant  of  Cleora.")     You  are 

welcome,  sir. 
Least.  Thou  givest  it  in  a  heavy  tone. 
Timand.  Alas !  sir. 
We  have  so  long  fed  on  the  bread  of  sorrow, 
Drinking  the  bitter  water  of  afflictions, 
Made  loathsome  too  by  our  continued  fears, 
Comfort 's  a  stranger  to  us. 

Least.  Fears  !  your  sufferings : — 
For  which  I  am  so  overgone  with  g^ef, 
I  dare  not  ask,  without  compassionate  tears. 
The  villain's  name  that  robb'd  thee  of  thy  honour : 
For  being  train'd  up  in  chastity's  cold  school. 
And  taught  by  such  a  mistress  as  Cleora, 
'Twere  impious  in  me  to  think  Timandra 
Fell  with  her  own  consent. 

Timand.  How  mean  you,  fell,  sir  1 
I  understand  you  not. 

Least.  I  would  thou  didst  not, 
Or  that  I  could  not  read  upon  thy  face, 
In  blushing  characters,  the  story  of 
Libidinous  rape :  confess  it,  for  you  stand  not 
Accountable  for  a  sin,  against  whose  strength 
Your  o'ermatched  innocence  could  make  no  resist- 
ance ; 
Under  which  odds,  I  know,  Cleora  fell  too, 
Heaven's  help  in  vain  invoked  ;  the  amazed  sun 
Hiding  his  face  behind  a  mask  of  clouds, 
Not  daring  to  look  on  it !     In  her  sufferings 
All  sorrow 's  comprehended :  what  Timandra, 
Or  the  city,  has  endured,  her  loss  consider'd. 
Deserves  not  to  be  named. 

Timand.  Pray  you,  do  not  bring,  sir, 
In  the  chimeras  of  your  jealous  fears. 
New  monsters  to  affright  us. 

Lenst.  O,  Timandra, 
Iluit  I  had  faith  enough  but  to  believe  thee ! 


I  should  receive  it  with  a  joy  beyond 
Assurance  of  Elysian  shades  hereafter. 
Or  all  the  blessings,  in  this  life,  a  mother 
Could  wish  her  children  crown' d  with ; — ^but  I  must 

not 
Credit  impossibilities ;  yet  I  strive 
To  find  out  that  whose  knowledge  is  a  curse, 
And  ignorance  a  blessing.     Come,  discover 
What  kind  of  look  he  had  that  forced  thy  lady, 
(Thy  ravisher  I  will  inquire  at  leisure,) 
"That  when,  hereafter,  I  behold  a  stranger 
But  near  him  in  aspect,  I  may  conclude, 
Though  men  and  angels  should  proclaim  him 

honest, 
He  is  a  hell-bred  villain. 

Timand.  You  are  unworthy 
To  know  she  is  preserved,  preserved  untainted : 
Sorrow,  but  ill  bestow'd,  hath  only  made 
A  rape  upon  her  comforts  in  your  absence. 
Come  forth,  dear  madam.  [Leads  in  Cibora. 

Least.  Ha!  [Kneds. 

Timand.  Nay,  she  deserves 
The  bending  of  your  heart ;  that,  to  content  you. 
Has  kept  a  vow,  the  breach  of  which  a  vestal. 
Though  the  infringing  it  had  call'd  upon  her 
A  Uving  ftineral,  must  of  force  have  shrunk  at. 
No  danger  could  compel  her  to  dispense  with 
Her  cruel  penance,  though  hot  lust  came  arm'd 
To  seize  upon  her ;  when  one  look  or  accent 
Might  have  redeem'd  her. 

Least.  Might !  0  do  not  show  me 
A  beam  of  comfort,  and  straight  take  it  from  me. 
The  means  by  which  she  was  freed?  speak,  0 

speak  quickly ; 
Each  minute  of  delay  's  an  age  of  torment; 

0  speak,  Timandra. 

Timand.  Free  her  from  her  oath : 
Herself  can  best  deliver  it. 

Least,  O  blest  office  !  [VnMnds  her  'yes. 

Never  did  galley-slave  shake  off  his  chains. 
Or  look'd  on  his  redemption  from  the  oar. 
With  such  true  feeling  of  delight  as  now 

1  find  myself  possess'd  of. — Now  I  behold 
True  light  indeed ;  for,  since  these  fairest  stars, 
Cover'd  with  clouds  of  your  determinate  will. 
Denied  their  influence  to  my  optic  sense, 

The  splendour  of  the  sun  appear'd  to  me 
But  as  some  little  glimpse  of  his  bright  beams 
Convey'd  into  a  dungeon,  to  remember 
The  dark  inhabitants  there  how  much  they  wanted. 
Open  these  long-shut  lips,  and  strike  mine  ears 
With  music  more  harmonious  than  the  spheres 
Yield  in  their  heavenly  motions ;  and  if  ever 
A  true  submission  for  a  crime  acknowledged. 
May  find  a  gracious  hearing,  teach  your  trngue. 
In  the  first  sweet  articulate  sounds  it  utters. 
To  sign  my  wish'd-for  pardon. 

Cleo.  I  forgive  you. 

Least.  How  greedily  I  receive  this !  Stay,best  lady, 
And  let  me  by  degrees  ascend  the  height 
Of  human  happiness !  all  at  once  deliver'd. 
The  torrent  of  my  joys  will  overwhelm  me : — 
So  now  a  little  more ;  and  pray  excuse  me. 
If,  like  a  wanton  epicure,  I  desire 
The  pleasant  taste  these  cates  of  comfort  yield  me. 


PHILIP  MASSINGER. 


233 


Should  not  too  soon  be  swallow'd.     Have  you  not, 
By  your  unspotted  truth  I  do  conjure  you 
To  answer  truly,  suffer'd  in  your  honour, 
By  force,  I  mean,  for  in  your  will  I  free  you, 
Since  I  left  Syracuse  1 

Cleo.  I  restore 
This  kiss,  so  help  me  goodness !  which  I  borrow'd. 
When  I  last  saw  you. 

Leosl.  Miracle  of  virtue ! 
One  pause  more,  I  beseech  you ;  I  am  like 
A  man  whose  vital  spirits  consumed  and  wasted 
With  a  long  and  tedious  fever,  unto  whom 
Too  much  of  a  strong  cordial,  at  once  taken. 
Brings  death,  and  not  restores  him.     Yet  I  cannot 
Fix  here ;  but  must  inquire  the  man  to  whom 
I  stand  indebted  for  a  benefit, 
Which,  to  requite  at  full,  though  in  his  hand 
I  grasp  all  sceptres  the  world's  empire  bows  to, 
Would  leave  me  a  poor  bankrupt.     Name  him, 

lady; 
If  of  a  mean  estate,  I'll  gladly  part  with 
My  utmost  fortunes  to  him ;  but  if  noble, 
In  thankful  duty  study  how  to  serve  him; 
Or  if  of  higher  rank,  erect  him  altars. 
And  as  a  god  adore  him. 

Cleo.  If  that  goodness. 
And  noble  temperance,  the  queen  of  virtues, 
Bridling  rebellious  passions,  to  whose  sway 
Such  as  have  conquer'd  nations  have  lived  slaves. 
Did  ever  wing  great  minds  to  fly  to  heaven, 
He  that  preserved  mine  honour  may  hope  boldly 
To  fill  a  seat  among  the  gods,  and  shake  off 
Our  frail  corruption. 

Least.  Forward. 

Cleo.  Or  if  ever 
The  Powers  above  did  mask  in  human  shapes. 
To  teach  mortality,  not  by  cold  precepts 
Forgot  as  soon  as  told,  but  by  examples, 
To  imitate  their  pureness,  and  draw  near 
To  their  celestial  natures,  I  beheve 
He's  more  than  man. 

Leost.  You  do  describe  a  wonder. 

CUo.  Which  will  increase,  when  you  shall  un- 
derstand 
He  was  a  lover. 

Leost.  Not  yours,  lady  1 

Cleo.  Yes; 
Loved  me,  Leosthenes :  nay  more,  so  doated, 
(If  e'er  aifections  scorning  gross  desires 
May  without  wrong  be  styled  so,)  that  he  durst  not 
With  an  immodest  syllable  or  look, 
In  tear  it  might  take  from  me,  whom  he  made 
The  object  of  his  better  part,  discover 
I  was  the  saint  he  sued  to. 

Leost.  A  rare  temper ! 

Cleo.  I  cannot  speak  it  to  the  worth :  all  praise 
I  can  bestow  upon  it  will  appear 
Envious  detraction.     Not  to  rack  you  further. 
Yet  make  the  miracle  full,  though,  of  all  men. 
He  hated  you,  Leosthenes,  as  his  rival ; 
So  high  yet  he  prized  my  content,  that  knowing 
You  were  a  man  I  favour'd,  he  disdain'd  not, 
Against  himself,  to  serve  you. 

Leost.  You  conceal  still 
The  owner  of  these  excellencies. 
30 


Cleo.  'Tis  Marullo, 
My  father's  bondman. 

Leost.  Ha,  ha,  ha ! 

Cleo.  Why  do  you  laugh? 

Leosl.  To  hear  the  labouring  mountain  of  youi 
praise 
Deliver'd  of  a  mouse. 

Cleo.  The  man  deserves  not 
This  scorn,  I  can  assure  you. 

Leost.  Do  you  call 
What  was  his  duty,  merit  1 

Cleo.  Yes,  and  place  it 
As  high  in  my  esteem  as  all  the  honours 
Descended  from  your  ancestors,  or  the  glory. 
Which  you  may  call  your  own,  got  in  this  action, 
In  which,  I  must  confess,  you  have  done  nobly. 
And  I  could  add,  as  I  desired,  but  that 
I  fear  'twould  make  you  proud. 

Leost,  Why,  lady,  can  you 
Be  won  to  give  allowance  that  your  slave 
Should  dare  to  love  you  1 

Cleo.  The  immortal  gods 
Accept  the  meanest  altars  that  are  raised 
By  pure  devotions ;  and  sometimes  prefer 
An  ounce  of  frankincense,  honey  or  milk. 
Before  whole  hecatombs,  or  Sabean  gums, 
Oflfer'd  in  ostentation. — Are  you  sick 
Of  your  old  disease  1     I'll  fit  you.  [Aside. 

Leost.  You  seem  moved. 

Cleo.  Zealous,  I  grant,  in  the  defence  of  virtue. 
Why,  good  Leosthenes,  though  I  endured 
A  penance  for  your  sake,  above  example ; 
I  have  not  so  far  sold  myself,  I  take  it, 
To  be  at  your  devotion,  but  I  may 
Cherish  desert  in  others,  where  I  find  it. 
How  would  you  tyrannize,  if  you  stood  possess'd  of 
That  which  is  only  yours  in  expectation. 
That  now  prescribe  such  hard  conditions  to  me  ^ 

Leost.  One  kiss,  and  I  am  silenced. 

Cleo.  I  vouchsafe  it; 
Yet,  I  must  tell  you  'tis  a  favour  that 
Marullo,  when  I  was  his,  not  mine  own. 
Durst  not  presume  to  ask :  no ;  when  the  city 
Bow'd  humbly  to  licentious  rapes  and  lust. 
And  when  I  was  of  men  and  gods  forsaken, 
DeUver'd  to  his  power,  he  did  not  press  me 
To  grace  him  with  one  look  or  syllable. 
Or  urged  the  dispensation  of  an  oath 
Made  for  your  satisfaction : — the  poor  wretch, 
Having  related  only  his  own  sufferings. 
And  kiss'd  my  hand,  which  I  could  not  deny  him, 
Defending  life  from  others,  never  since 
Solicited  my  favours. 

Leosl.  Pray  you,  end ; 
The  story  does  not  please  me. 

Cleo.  Well,  take  heed 
Of  doubts  and  fears ; — for  know,  Leosthenes, 
A  greater  injury  cannot  be  offer'd 
To  innocent  chastity,  than  unjust  suspicion. 
I  love  MaruUo's  fair  mind,  not  his  person ; 
Let  that  secure  you.     And  I  here  command  you 
If  I  have  any  power  in  you,  to  stand 
Between  him  and  all  punishment,  and  oppose 

His  temperance  to  his  folly ;  if  you  fail 

No  more ;  I  will  not  threaten. 
U2 


234 


PHILIP   MASSINGER. 


FROM  THE   BONDMAN. 
Act  V.  Scene  III.— The  Court  of  Justice. 

Enter  Timolbon,  Archioamcs,  Cleoba,  and  Officers. 

Timol.  'Tis  wondrous  strange !  nor  can  it  fall 
within 
The  reach  of  my  belief,  a  slave  should  be 
The  owner  of  a  temperance  which  this  age 
Can  hardly  parallel  in  freeborn  lords. 
Or  kings  proud  of  their  purple. 

Archid.  'Tis  most  true; 
And  though  at  first  it  did  appear  a  fable, 
All  circumstances  meet  to  give  it  credit ; 
Which  works  so  on  me,  that  I  am  compell'd 
To  be  a  suitor,  not  to  be  denied. 
He  may  have  equal  hearing. 

Cleo.  Sir,  you  graced  me 
With  the  title  of  your  mistress ;  but  my  fortune 
Is  so  far  distant  from  command,  that  I 
Lay  by  the  power  you  gave  me,  and  plead  humbly, 
For  the  preserver  of  my  fame  and  honour. 
And  pray  you,  sir,  in  charity  believe, 
That  since  I  had  ability  of  speech, 
My  tongue  has  been  so  much  inured  to  truth, 
I  know  not  how  to  lie. 

Tinwl.  I'll  rather  doubt 
The  oracles  of  the  gods  than  question  what 
Your  innocence  dehvers ;  and,  as  far 
As  justice  and  mine  honour  can  give  way, 
He  shall  have  favour.     Bring  him  in  unbound : 

[Exeunt  Officers. 
And  though  Leosthenes  may  challenge  from  me, 
For  his  late  worthy  service,  credit  to 
All  things  he  can  allege  in  his  own  cause, 
Marullo,  so,  I  think,  you  call  his  name, 
Shall  find  I  do  reserve  one  ear  for  him, 

[Enter  Cleos,  Asotus,  Diphilcs,  Olympia,  and  Comsca. 
To  let  in  mercy.     Sit  and  take  your  places ; 
The  right  of  this  fair  virgin  first  determined. 
Your  bondmen  shall  be  censured. 

CUon.  With  all  rigour, 
We  do  expect. 

Coris.  Temper' d,  I  say,  with  mercy. 

Enter  at  am.  d/x/r  Leosthenes  and  Timaooras  ;  at  the  other, 
Officers  with  I^sander  and  Timaniira. 

I'ifttoL  Your  hand,  Leosthenes :  I  cannot  doubt. 
You,  that  have  been  victorious  in  the  war, 
Should,  in  a  combat  fought  with  words,  come  off 
But  with  assured  triumph. 

Least.  My  deserts,  sir, 
If,  without  arrogance,  I  may  style  them  such, 
Arm  me  firom  doubt  and  fear. 

TimoL  'Tis  nobly  spoken. 
jVor  be  thou  daunted  (howsoe'er  thy  fortune 
Has  mark'd  thee  out  a  slave)  to  speak  thy  merits : 
For  virtue,  though  in  rags,  may  challenge  more 
Than  vice  set  off  with  all  the  trim  of  greatness. 

Pisan.  I  had  rather  fall  under  so  just  a  judge, 
Than  be  acquitted  by  a  man  corrupt 
And  partial  in  his  censure. 

Archid.  Note  his  language  ; 
It  lelishes  of  better  breeding  than 
His  present  state  dares  promise. 

Timol.  I  observe  iu 
Place  the  fair  lady  in  the  midst,  that  both, 


Looking  with  covetous  eyes  upon  the  prize 
They  are  to  plead  for,  may,  from  the  fair  obje«*, 
Teach  Hermes  eloquence. 

Least.  Am  I  fallen  so  low  1 
My  birth,  my  honour,  and  what's  dearest  to  me, 
My  love,  and  witness  of  my  love,  my  service. 
So  undervalued,  that  I  must  contend 
With  one,  where  my  excess  of  glory  must 
Make  his  o'erthrow  a  conquest]    Shall  my  fulness 
Supply  defects  in  such  a  thing,  that  never 
Knew  any  thing  but  want  and  emptiness. 
Give  him  a  name,  and  keep  it  such,  from  this 
Unequal  competition  ?     If  my  pride, 
Or  any  bold  assurance  of  my  worth. 
Has  pluck'd  this  mountain  of  disgrace  upon  me, 
I  am  justly  punish'd,  and  submit ;  but  if 
I  have  been  modest,  and  esteem'd  myself 
More  injured  in  the  tribute  of  the  praise, 
Which  no  desert  of  mine,  prized  by  self-love. 
Ever  exacted,  may  this  cause  and  minute 
For  ever  be  forgotten.     I  dwell  long 
Upon  mine  anger,  and  now  turn  to  you. 
Ungrateful  fair  one ;  and,  since  you  are  such, 
'Tis  lawful  for  me  to  proclaim  myself. 
And  what  I  have  deserved. 

Cleo.  Neglect  and  scorn 
From  me,  for  this  proud  vaunt. 

Least.  You  nourish,  lady. 
Your  own  dishonour  in  this  harsh  reply. 
And  almost  prove  what  some  hold  of  your  sex , 
You  are  all  made  up  of  passion :  for  if  reason 
Or  judgment  could  find  entertainment  with  you, 
Or  that  you  would  distinguish  of  the  objects 
You  look  on,  in  a  true  glass,  not  seduced 
By  the  false  light  of  your  too  violent  will, 
I  should  not  need  to  plead  for  that  which  you 
With  joy  should  offer.  Is  my  high  birth  a  blemish  ! 
Or  does  my  wealth,  which  all  the  vain  expense 
Of  women  cannot  waste,  breed  loathing  in  you, 
The  honours  I  can  call  mine  own  thoughts,  scan- 
dals] 
Am  I  deform'd,  or,  for  my  father's  sins, 
Mulcted  by  nature  ]     If  you  interpret  these 
As  crimes,  'tis  fit  I  should  yield  up  myself 
Most  miserably  guilty.     But,  perhaps, 
(Which  yet  I  would  not  credit,)  you  have  seen 
This  gallant  pitch  the  bar,  or  bear  a  burden 
Would  crack  the  shoulders  of  a  weaker  bondman ; 
Or  any  other  boisterous  exercise. 
Assuring  a  strong  back  to  satisfy 
Your  loose  desires,  insatiate  as  the  grave. 

Cleo.  You  are  foul-mouth'd. 

Archid.  lU-manner'd  too. 

Least.  I  speak 
In  the  way  of  supposition,  and  entreat  you. 
With  all  the  fervour  of  a  constant  lover. 
That  you  would  free  yourself  from  these  aspersions, 
Or  any  imputation  black-tongued  slander 
Could  throw  on  your  unspotted  virgin  whiteness: 
To  which  there  is  no  easier  way,  than  by     . 
Vouchsafing  him  your  favour ;  him,  to  whom 
Next  to  the  general,  and  the  gods  and  fautors, 
The  country  owes  her  safety. 

Timug.  Are  you  stupid  ] 
'SUght !  leap  into  his  arms,  and  there  ask  pardon— 


PHILIP  MASSINGER. 


236 


Oh  !  you  expect  your  slave's  reply ;  no  doubt 
We  shall  have  a  fine  oration  !     I  will  teach 
My  spaniel  to  howl  in  sweeter  language, 
And  keep  a  better  method. 

Orchid.  You  forget 
The  dignity  of  the  place. 

Diph.  Silence ! 

Tintol.  [To  Pisander.']  Speak  boldly. 

Pisan.  'Tis  your  authority  gives  me  a  tongue, 
I  should  be  dumb  else ;  and  I  am  secure, 
I  cannot  clothe  my  thoughts,  and  just  defence, 
In  such  an  abject  phrase,  but  'twill  appear 
Equal,  if  not  above  my  low  condition. 
I  need  no  bombast  language,  stolen  from  such 
As  make  nobility  from  prodigious  terms 
The  hearers  understand  not ;  I  bring  with  me 
No  wealth  to  boast  of,  neither  can  I  number 
Uncertain  fortune's  favours  with  my  merits ; 
I  dare  not  force  affection,  or  presume 
To  censure  her  discretion,  that  looks  on  me 
As  a  weak  man,  and  not  her  fancy's  idol. 
How  I  have  loved,  and  how  much  I  have  suffer'd. 
And  with  what  pleasure  undergone  the  burden 
Of  my  ambitious  hopes,  (in  aiming  at 
The  glad  possession  of  a  happiness, 
The  abstract  of  all  goodness  in  mankind 
Can  at  no  part  deserve,)  with  my  confession 
Of  mine  own  wants,  is  all  that  can  plead  for  me. 
But  if  that  pure  desires,  not  blended  with 
Foul  thoughts,  that,  like  a  river,  keeps  his  course. 
Retaining  still  the  clearness  of  the  spring 
From  whence  it  took  beginning,  may  be  thought 
Worthy  acceptance ;  then  I  dare  rise  up. 
And  tell  this  gay  man  to  his  teeth,  I  never 
Durst  doubt  her  constancy,  that,  like  a  rock. 
Beats  off  temptations,  as  that  mocks  the  fury 
Of  the  proud  waves ;  nor,  from  my  jealous  fears. 
Question  that  goodness  to  which,  as  an  altar 
Of  all  perfection,  he  that  truly  loved 
Should  rather  bring  a  sacrifice  of  service, 
Than  raze  it  with  the  engines  of  suspicion : 
Of  which,  when  he  can  wash  an  ^thiop  white, 
Leosthenes  may  hope  to  free  himself; 
But,  till  then,  never. 

2\mag.  Bold,  presumptuous  villain  ! 

Pisan.  I  will  go  further,  and  make  good  upon 
him, 
r  the  pride  of  all  his  honours,  birth,  and  fortunes, 
He's  more  unworthy  than  myself. 

Leost.  Thou  liest. 

Timag.  Confute  him  with  a  whip,  and,  the  doubt 
decided. 
Punish  him  with  a  halter. 

Pisan.  O  the  gods  ! 
My  ribs,  though  made  of  brass,  cannot  contain 
My  heart,  swollen  big  with  rage.    The  he ! — a 

whip ! — 
Let  fury  then  disperse  these  clouds,  in  which 
I  long  have  march'd  disguised  !    yThrowi  off  his  dit- 

guUe.]  that,  when  they  know 
Whom  they  have  injured,  they  may  faint  with 

horror 
Of  my  revenge,  which,  wretched  men,  expect, 
As  sure  as  fate,  to  suffer. 

Leost.  Ha!  PixaiiUer! 


Timag.  'Tis  the  bold  Theban ! 

^sot.  There's  no  hope  for  me  then : 
I  thought  I  should  have  put  in  for  a  share. 
And  borne  Cleora  from  them  both ;  but  now 
This  stranger  looks  so  terrible,  that  I  dare  not 
So  much  as  look  on  her. 

Pisan.  Now  as  myself. 
Thy  equal  at  thy  best,  Leosthenes. 
For  you,  Timagoras,  praise  heaven  you  were  bom 
Cleora's  brother,  'tis  your  safest  armour. 
But  I  lose  time. — The  base  lie  cast  upon  me, 
I  thus  return :  Thou  art  a  perjured  man. 
False,  and  perfidious,  and  hast  made  a  tender 
Of  love  and  service  to  this  lady,  when 
Thy  soul,  if  thou  hast  any,  can  bear  witness. 
That  thou  were  not  thine  own :  for  proof  of  this, 
Look  better  on  this  virgin,  and  consider. 
This  Persian  shape  laid  by,  and  she  appearing 
In  a  Greekish  dress,  such  as  when  you  first  saw 

her. 
If  she  resemble  not  Pisander's  sister, 
One  call'd  Statilial 

Leost.  'Tis  the  same  \  my  guilt 
So  chokes  my  spirits,  I  cannot  deny 
My  falsehood,  nor  excuse  it. 

Pisan.  This  is  she, 
To  whom  thou  wert  contracted :  this  the  lady, 
That,  when  thou  wert  my  prisoner,  fairly  taken 
In  the  Spartan  war,  that  begg'd  thy  liberty. 
And  with  it  gave  herself  to  thee,  ungrateful ! 

StatiL  No  more,  Sir,  I  entreat  you :  I  perceive 
True  sorrow  in  his  looks,  and  a  consent 
To  make  me  reparation  in  mine  honour ; 
And  then  I  am  most  happy. 

Pisan.  The  wrong  done  her 
Drew  me  from  Thebes,  with  a  full  intent  to  kill 

thee; 
But  this  fair  object  met  me  in  my  fury. 
And  quite  disarm'd  me.     Being  denied  to  have 

her. 
By  you,  my  lord  Archidamus,  and  not  able 
To  live  far  from  her ;  love,  the  mistress  of 
All  quaint  devices,  prompted  me  to  treat 
With  a  friend  of  mine,  who,  as  a  pirate,  sold  me 
For  a  slave  to  you,  my  lord,  and  gave  my  sister 
As  a  present  to  Cleora. 

Timol.  Strange  meanders ! 

Pisan.  There  how  I  bare  myself,  needs  no  rela- 
tion. 
But,  if  so  far  descending  from  the  height 
Of  my  then  flourishing  fortunes,  to  the  lowest 
Condition  of  a  man,  to  have  means  only 
To  feed  my  eye  with  the  sight  of  what  I  honoured, 
The  dangers  too  I  underwent,  the  sufferings : 
The  clearness  of  my  interest,  may  deserve 
A  noble  recompense  in  your  lawful  favour; 
Now  'tis  apparent  that  Leosthenes 
Can  claim  no  interest  in  you,  you  may  please 
To  think  upon  my  service. 

Cleo.  Sir,  my  want 
Of  power  to  satisfy  so  great  a  debt. 
Makes  me  accuse  my  fortune ;  but  if  that, 
Out  of  the  bounty  of  your  mind,  you  think 
A  free  surrender  of  myself  ful'  payment, 
I  gladly  tender  it. 


236 


PHILIP   MASSINGER. 


FROM  "THE  GREAT  DUKE  OF  FLORENCE." 

GioTanni,  nephew  to  the  Duke  of  Florence,  taking  leave 

of  Lidia,  the  daughter  of  his  tutor  Charomonte. 

Persons. — Charomonte;  Contakino,  the  Dcke'8  Secretary; 

Giovanni  ;  and  Lidia. 

Char,  This  acknowledgment 
Enter  Libia. 
Binds  me  your  debtor  ever. — Here  comes  one 
In  whose  sad  looks  you  easily  may  read 
What  her  heart  suffers,  in  that  she  is  forced 
To  take  her  last  leave  of  you. 

Cont.  As  I  live, 
A  beauty  without  parallel ! 

Lid.  Must  you  go,  then, 
So  suddenly  1 

Giov.  There's  no  evasion,  Lidia, 
To  gain  the  least  delay,  though  I  would  buy  it 
At  any  rate.     Greatness,  with  private  men 
Esteem'd  a  blessing,  is  to  me  a  curse ; 
And  we,  whom,  for  our  high  births,  they  conclude 
The  only  freemen,  are  the  only  slaves. 
Happy  the  golden  mean  !  had  I  been  born 
In  a  poor  sordid  cottage,  not  nursed  up 
With  expectation  to  command  a  court, 
I  might,  like  such  of  your  condition,  sweetest. 
Have  ta'en  a  safe  and  middle  course,  and  not, 
As  I  am  now,  against  my  choice,  compell'd 
Or  to  lie  grovelling  on  the  earth,  or  raised 
So  high  upon  the  pinnacles  of  state, 
That  I  must  either  keep  my  height  with  danger, 
Or  fall  with  certain  ruin. 

Lid.  Your  own  goodness 
Will  be  your  faithful  guard. 

Giov.  O,  Lidia. 

Cont.  So  passionate ! 

Giov.  For,  had  I  been  your  equal, 
I  might  have  seen  and  liked  with  mine  own  eyes, 
And  not,  as  now,  with  others ;  I  might  still. 
And  without  observation,  or  envy, 
As  I  have  done,  continued  my  delights 
With  you,  that  are  alone,  in  my  esteem. 
The  abstract  of  society :  we  might  walk 
In  solitary  groves,  or  in  choice  gardens ; 
From  the  variety  of  curious  flowers 
Contemplate  nature's  workmanship,  and  wonders ; 
And  then,  for  change,  near  to  the  murmur  of 
Some  bubbling  fountain,  I  might  hear  you  sing. 
And,  from  the  well-tuned  accents  of  your  tongue, 
In  my  imagination  conceive 
With  what  melodious  harmony  a  choir 
Ol  angels  smg  above  their  Maker's  praises. 
And  then  with  chaste  discourse,  as  we  retum'd, 
Imp  feathers  to  the  broken  wings  of  time : — 
And  all  this  I  must  part  from. 

Cont.  You  forget 
The  haste  upon  us. 

Giov.  One  word  more. 
And  then  I  come.     And  after  this,  when,  with 
Continued  innocence  of  love  and  service, 
I  had  grown  ripe  for  hymeneal  joys, 
Embracing  you,  but  with  a  lawful  flame, 
I  might  have  been  your  husband. 

Lid.  Sir,  I  was, 
And  ever  am,  your  servant ;  but  it  was. 
And  'tis,  far  from  me  in  a  thought  to  cherish 


Such  saucy  hopes.     If  I  had  been  the  heir 

Of  all  the  globes  and  sceptres  mankind  bows  to, 

At  my  best  you  had  deserved  me ;  as  I  am, 

Howe'er  unworthy,  in  my  virgin  zeal 

I  wish  you,  as  a  partner  of  your  bed, 

A  princess  equal  to  you ;  such  aone 

That  may  make  it  the  study  of  her  life. 

With  all  the  obedience  of  a  wife,  to  please  you. 

May  you  have  happy  issue,  and  I  hve 

To  be  their  humblest  handmaid ! 

Giov.  I  am  dumb. 
And  can  make  no  reply. 

Cont.  Your  excellence 
Will  be  benighted. 

Giov.  This  kiss,  bathed  in  tears. 
May  learn  you  what  I  should  say. 


FROM  "THE   FATAL  DOWRY."* 

ACT   II.   SCEKE  I. 

Enter  Pontauer,  Malotin,  and  Bsauxont. 

Mai.  'Tis  strange. 

Beau.  Methinks  so. 

Pont.  In  a  man  but  young, 
Yet  old  in  judgment;  theorick  and  practick 
In  all  humanity,  and  to  increase  the  wonder, 
Religious,  yet  a  soldier ;  that  he  should 
Yield  his  free-living  youth  a  captive  for 
The  freedom  of  his  aged  father's  corpse, 
And  rather  choose  to  want  life's  necessaries 
Liberty,  hope  of  fortune,  than  it  should 
In  death  be  kept  from  Christian  ceremony. 

Mai.  Come,  'tis  a  golden  precedent  in  a  son, 
To  let  strong  nature  have  the  better  hand, 
In  such  a  case,  of  all  affected  reason. 
What  years  sit  on  this  Charalois  ] 

Beau.  T  wenty -eight : 
For  since  the  clock  did  strike  him  seventeen  old. 
Under  his  father's  wing  this  son  hath  fought. 
Served  and  commanded,  and  so  aptly  both, 
That  sometimes  he  appeared  his  father's  father. 
And  never  less  than  's  son ;  the  old  man's  virtues 
So  recent  in  him,  as  the  world  may  swear, 
Nought  but  a  fair  tree  could  such  fair  fruit  bear. 

Font.  But  wherefore  lets  he  such  a  barbarous  law, 
And  men  more  barbarous  to  excute  it, 
Prevail  on  his  soft  disposition, 
That  he  had  rather  die  alive  for  debt 
Of  the  old  man,  in  prison,  than  they  should 
Rob  him  of  sepulture ;  considering 
These  moneys  borrow'd  bought  the  lender's  peace, 
And  all  the  means  they  enjoy,  nor  were  diffused 
In  any  impious  or  licentious  path  ?  [trunk, 

Beau.  True !  for  my  part,  were  it  my  father's 
The  tyrannous  ram-heads  with  their  horns  should 

gore  it, 
Or  cast  it  to  their  curs,  than  they  less  currish. 
Ere  prey  on  me  so  with  their  Uon-law, 
Being  in  my  free  will,  as  in  his,  to  shun  it. 

Pont.  Alas !  he  knows  himself  in  poverty  lost. 
For  in  this  partial  avaricious  age 
What  price  bears  honour  1  virtue  1  long  ago 


*  Mr.  Gifford,  in  his  edition  of  Massinger,  has  few  doubtk 
that  it  wajj  written  by  Field. 


ANONYMOUS. 


237 


It  was  but  praised,  and  freezed ;  but  now-a-days 
'Tis  colder  far,  and  has  nor  love  nor  praise : 
The  very  praise  now  freezeth  too ;  for  nature 
Did  make  the  heathen  far  more  Christian  then, 
Than  knowledge  us,  less  heathenish,  Christian. 

Mai.  This  morning  is  the  tiineral  T 

Pont.  Certainly. 
And  from  this  prison, — 'twas  the  son's  request, 
That  his  dear  father  might  interment  have. 
See,  the  young  son  enter'd  a  lively  grave ! 

Beau.  They  come : — observe  their  order. 

SdUmn  Mitsic.  Enter  the  Funeral  Procession.  Tlie  Orffln 
borne  by  four,  preceded  by  a  Priest.  Captains,  Lieut«n- 
anta,  Ensigns,  and  Soldiers ;  Mourners,  Scutcheons,  dc^ 
and  very  good  order.  Romont  and  Charalois,  followed 
by  the  Jailers  and  Officers,  vtith  Creditors,  meet  it. 

Charal.  How  like  a  silent  stream  shaded  with 
And  gliding  softly  with  our  windy  sighs,     [night, 
Moves  the  whole  frame  of  this  solemnity  ! 
Tears,  sighs,  and  blacks  filling  the  simile ; 
Whilst  I,  the  only  murmur  in  this  grove 
Of  death,  thus  hollowly  break  forth.     Vouchsafe 

[To  the  bearers. 
To  stay  a  while. — Rest,  rest  in  peace,  dear  earth ! 
Thou  that  brought'st  rest  to  their  unthankful  lives, 
Whose  cruelty  denied  thee  rest  in  death  ! 
Here  stands  thy  poor  executor,  thy  son, 
That  makes  his  life  prisoner  to  bail  thy  death ; 
Who  gladlier  puts  on  this  captivity. 
Than  virgins,  long  in  love,  their  wedding  weeds. 
Of  all  that  ever  thou  hast  done  good  to. 
These  only  have  good  memories ;  for  they 
Remember  best  forget  not  gratitude. 
I  thank  you  for  this  last  and  friendly  love : 

[7b  the  Soldiert. 
And  though  this  country,  like  a  viperous  mother. 
Not  only  hath  eat  up  ungratefully 
All  means  of  thee,  her  son,  but  last,  thyself, 
Leaving  thy  heir  so  bare  and  indigent. 
He  cannot  raise  thee  a  poor  monument. 
Such  as  a  flatterer  or  a  usurer  hath ; 
Thy  worth,  in  every  honest  breast,  builds  one. 
Making  their  friendly  hearts  thy  funeral  stone. 


Pont.  Sir. 

Charal.  Peace !  Oh,  peace !  this  scene  is  wholly 

mine.  [weeps. 

What!  weep  ye,  soldiers?  blanch  not. — Romont 
Ha !  let  me  see !  my  miracle  is  eased, 
The  jailers  and  the  creditors  do  weep ; 
Even  they  that  make  us  weep,  do  weep  themselves. 
Be  these  thy  body's  balm !  these  and  thy  virtue 
Keep  thy  fame  ever  odoriferous, 
Whilst  the  great,  proud,  rich,  undeserving  man. 
Alive  stinks  in  his  vices,  and  being  vanish'd. 
The  golden  calf,  that  was  an  idol  deck'd 
With  marble  pillars,  jet,  and  porphyry, 
Shall  quickly,  both  in  bone  and  name,  consume, 
Though  wrapt  in  lead,  spice,  searcloth,  and  per- 
fiime !  . .  . 

Priest.  On. 

Charal.  One  moment  more, 
But  to  bestow  a  few  poor  legacies, 
All  I  have  left  in  my  dead  father's  rights. 
And  I  have  done.    Captain,  wear  thou  these  spurs. 
That  yet  ne'er  made  his  horse  run  from  a  foe. 
Lieutenant,  thou  this  scarf;  and  may  it  tie 
Thy  valour  and  thy  honesty  together ! 
For  so  it  did  in  him.     Ensign,  this  cuirass, 
Your  general's  necklace  once.    You,  gentle  bearers, 
Divide  this  purse  of  gold ;  this  other  strew 
Among  the  poor ;  'tis  all  I  have.     Romont — 

Wear  thou  this  medal  of  himself that,  like 

A  hearty  oak,  grew'st  close  to  this  tall  pine, 
Even  in  the  wildest  wilderness  of  war,         [selves : 
Whereon  foes  broke  their  swords,  and  tired  them- 
Wounded  and  hack'd  ye  were,  but  never  fell'd. 

For  me,  my  portion  provide  in  heaven  ! 

My  root  is  earth'd,  and  I,  a  desolate  branch. 
Left  scatter'd  in  the  highway  of  the  world, 
Trod  under  foot,  that  might  have  been  a  column 
Mainly  supporting  our  demolish'd  house. 

This*  would  I  wear  as  my  inheritance 

And  what  hope  can  arise  to  me  from  it, 
When  I  and  it  are  both  here  prisoners  ! 

*  His  father's  sword. 


ANONYMOUS. 

THE    OXFORD    RIDDLE    ON    THE    PURITANS. 

FROM  A  SIMaU  SHEET  PRINTED  AT  OXFORD  »  ltU3. 


There  dwells  a  people  on  the  earth. 
That  reckons  true  allegiance  treason, 
That  makes  sad  war  a  holy  mirth. 
Calls  madness  zeal,  and  nonsense  reason; 
That  finds  no  freedom  but  in  slavery. 
That  makes  lies  truth,  religion  knavery. 
That  rob  and  cheat  with  yea  and  nay : 
Riddle  me,  riddle  me,  who  are  they  ] 
They  hate  the  flesh,  yet  kiss  their  dames, 
That  make  kings  great  by  curbing  crowns. 
That  quench  the  fire  by  kindling  flames. 
That  settle  peace  by  plund'ring  towns. 
That  govern  with  implicit  votes. 
That  'stablieh  truth  by  cutting  throats, 
That  kiss  their  master  and  betray  : 
Riddle  me,  riddle  me,  who  are  they  1 


That  make  Heaven  speak  by  their  commission, 
That  stop  God's  peace  and  boast  his  power 
That  teach  bold  blasphemy  and  sedition. 
And  pray  high  treason  by  the  hour. 
That  damn  all  saints  but  such  as  they  are. 
That  wish  all  common,  except  prayer, 
That  idolize  Pym,  Brooks,  and  Say : 
Riddle  me,  riddle  me,  who  are  they  ? 
That  to  enrich  the  commonwealth. 
Transport  large  gold  to  foreign  parts ; 
That  house't  in  Amsterdam  by  stealth. 
Yet  lord  it  here  within  our  gates ; 
That  are  staid  men,  yet  only  stay 
For  a  light  night  to  run  away ; 

That  borrow  to  lend,  and  rob  to  pay : 
Riddle  me,  riddle  me,  who  are  they  1 


SIR  JOHN   SUCKLING. 


[Born,  1608.    Died,  1641.] 


(Suckling,  who  gives  levity  its  gayest  expres- 
sion, was  the  son  of  the  comptroller  of  the  house- 
hold to  Charles  I.  Langbaine  tells  us  that  he 
spoke  Latin  at  five  years  of  age ;  but  with  what 
correctness  or  fluency  we  are  not  informed.  His 
versatile  mind  certainly  acquired  many  accom- 
plishments, and  filled  a  short  life  with  many  pur- 
suits, for  he  was  a  traveller,  a  soldier,  a  lyric  and 
dramatic  poet,  and  a  musician.  After  serving  a 
campaign  under  Gustavus  Adolphus,  he  returned 
to  England,  was  favoured  by  Charles  I.,  and 
wrote  some  pieces,  which  were  exhibited  for  the 
amusement  of  the  court  with  sumptuous  splen- 
dour.    When  the  civil  wars  broke  out  he  ex- 


pended 1200/.*  on  the  equipment  of  a  regiment 
for  the  king,  which  was  distinguished,  however 
only  by  its  finery  and  cowardice.  A  brother  poet 
crowned  his  disgrace  with  a  ludicrous  song.  The 
event  is  said  to  have  aflfected  him  deeply  with 
shame ;  but  he  did  not  live  long  to  experience 
that  most  incurable  of  the  heart's  diseases.  Hav- 
ing learnt  that  his  servant  had  robbed  him,  he 
drew  on  his  boots  in  great  haste ;  a  rusty  nail,t 
that  was  concealed  in  one  of  them,  pierced  his 
heel,  and  produced  a  mortification,  of  which  he 
died.  His  poems,  his  five  plays,  together  with 
his  letters,  speeches,  and  tracts,  have  been  col- 
lected into  one  volume. 


SONG. 

Why  so  pale  and  wan,  fond  lover ! 
Pr'ythee  why  so  pale  1 

Will,  when  looking  well  can't  move  her, 
Looking  ill  prevail  T 
Pr'ythee  why  so  pale  1 

Why  so  dull  and  mute,  young  sinner ! 
Pr'ythee  why  so  mute  1 

Will,  when  speaking  well  can't  win  her, 
Saying  nothing  do'tl 
Pr'ythee  why  so  mute  1 

Quit,  quit  for  shame  !  this  will  not  move, 
This  cannot  take  her; 

If  of  herself  she  will  not  love, 

Nothing  can  make  her : — 
The  devil  take  her ! 


A  BALLAD  UPON  A  WEDDING. 
1  TELL  thee,  Dick,  where  I  have  been, 
Where  I  the  rarest  things  have  seen : 

0  things  without  compare ! 
Such  sights  again  cannot  be  found 
In  any  place  on  English  ground. 

Be  it  at  wake,  or  fair. 

At  Charing-Cross,  hard  by  the  way 
Where  we  (thou  know'st)  do  sell  our  hay, 

There  is  a  house  with  stairs : 
And  there  did  I  see  coming  down 
Such  folks  as  are  not  in  our  town, 

Vorty  at  least,  in  pairs. 

Amongst  the  rest,  one  pest'lent  fine, 
(His  beard  no  bigger  though  than  thine,) 

Waik'd  on  before  the  rest : 
Our  landlord  looks  like  nothing  to  him : 
The  king  (God  bless  him)  'twou'd  undo  him, 

Shou'd  he  go  still  so  drest. 

At  Course-a-park,  without  all  doubt. 
He  should  have  first  been  taken  out 

By  all  the  maids  i'  the  town : 

[•  Rather  12,000?.    See  Percy's  Reliques,  toI.  ii.  p.  356, 
where  the  ludicrous  song  Mr.  Campbell  refers  to  may  be 
found.— C.l 
2^ 


Though  lusty  Roger  there  had  been, 
Or  little  George  upon  the  Green, 

Or  Vincent  of  the  Crown. 

But  wot  you  what  T  the  youth  was  going 
To  make  an  end  of  all  his  wooing ; 

The  parson  for  him  stay'd : 
Yet  by  his  leave,  for  all  his  haste. 
He  did  not  so  much  wish  all  past 

(Perchance)  as  did  the  maid. 

The  maid — and  thereby  hangs  a  talc 
For  such  a  maid  no  Whitson  ale 

Could  «ver  yet  produce : 
No  grape  that's  kindly  ripe  could  be 
So  round,  so  plump,  so  soft  as  she, 

Nor  half  so  full  of  juice. 

Her  finger  was  so  small,  the  ring 
Wou'd  not  stay  on  which  they  did  bring. 

It  was  too  wide  a  peck : 
And  to  say  truth  (for  out  it  must) 
It  look'd  Uke  the  great  collar  (just) 

About  our  young  colt's  neck. 

Her  feet  beneath  her  petticoat, 
Like  little  mice  stole  in  and  out. 

As  if  they  fear'd  the  light : 
But  oh !  she  dances  such  a  way ! 
No  sun  upon  an  Easter  day 

Is  half  so  fine  a  sight. 

He  wou'd  have  kiss'd  her  once  or  twice. 
But  she  wou'd  not,  she  was  so  nice, 

-    She  wou'd  not  do't  in  sight: 
And  then  she  look'd  as  who  shou'd  say 
I  will  do  what  I  list  to-day ; 

And  you  shall  do't  at  night. 

Her  cheeks  so  rare  a  white  was  on. 
No  daisy  makes  comparison, 

(Who  sees  them  is  undone) 
For  streaks  of  red  were  mingled  there. 
Such  as  are  on  a  Katherine  pear, 

The  side  that's  next  the  sun. 

[t  Oldys  says  the  blade  of  a  penknife,  whilst  Aubrey 
amrmR  that  he  wa«  poisoned.  The  nail  or  blade  may 
have  been  poisoned. — C.] 


SIDNEY  GODOLPHIN.                                                        239 

HcT  lips  were  red,  and  one  was  thin, 

Now  hats  fly  off,  and  youths  carouse ; 

Compared  to  that  was  next  her  chin, 

Healths  first  go  round,  and  then  the  house. 

Some  bee  had  stung  it  newly. 

The  brides  came  thick  and  thick ; 

But  (Dick)  her  eyes  so  guard  her  face, 

And  when  'twas  named  another's  health, 

I  durst  no  more  upon  them  gaze. 

Perhaps  he  made  it  her's  by  stealth. 

Than  on  the  sun  in  July. 

And  who  could  help  it,  Dick  ? 

Her  mouth  so  small,  when  she  does  speak. 

0'  the  sudden  up  they  rise  and  dance ; 

Thou'dst  swear  her  teeth  her  words  did  break. 

Then  sit  again,  and  sigh  and  glance : 

That  they  might  passage  get ; 

Then  dance  again  and  kiss. 

But  she  so  handled  still  the  matter, 

Thus  sev'ral  ways  the  time  did  pass. 

They  came  as  good  as  ours,  or  better. 

Whilst  every  woman  wish'd  her  place. 

And  are  not  spent  a  whit. 

And  every  man  wish'd  his. 

If  wishing  shou'd  be  any  sin. 

By  this  time  all  were  stolen  aside 

The  parson  himself  had  guilty  been. 

To  counsel  and  undress  the  bride ; 

She  look'd  that  day  so  purely : 

But  that  he  must  not  know : 

And  did  the  youth  so  oft  the  feat 

But  yet  'twas  thought  he  guest  her  mind, 

At  night,  as  some  did  in  conceit, 

And  did  not  mean  to  stay  behind 

It  would  have  spoil'd  him,  surely. 

Above  an  hour  or  so. 

Passion  o'me !  how  I  run  on  ! 

When  in  he  came  (Dick)  there  she  lay, 

There's  that  that  wou'd  be  thought  upon, 

Like  new-fal'n  snow  melting  away. 

I  trow,  besides  the  bride : 

'Twas  time,  I  trow,  to  part. 

The  bus'ness  of  the  kitchen's  great, 

Kisses  were  now  the  only  stay. 

For  it  is  fit  that  men  should  eat ; 

Which  soon  she  gave,  as  who  wou'd  say. 

Nor  was  it  there  denied. 

Good  b'ye,  with  all  my  heart. 

Just  in  the  nick  the  cook  knock'd  thrice. 

But  just  as  heavens  wou'd  have  to  cross  it. 

And  all  the  waiters  in  a  trice 

In  came  the  bridemaids  with  the  posset ; 

His  summons  did  obey ; 

The  bridegroom  eat  in  spite ; 

Each  serving  man  with  dish  in  hand. 

For  had  he  left  the  women  to't 

March'd  boldly  up,  like  our  train'd  band. 

It  wou'd  have  cost  two  hours  to  do't. 

Presented  and  away. 

Which  were  too  much  that  night. 

When  all  the  meat  was  on  the*  table, 

At  length  the  candle's  out,  and  now 

What  man  of  knife,  or  teeth,  was  able 

All  that  they  had  not  done,  they  do ! 

To  stay  to  be  entreated : 

What  that  is,  who  can  tell  1 

And  this  the  very  reason  was. 

But  I  believe  it  was  no  more 

Before  the  parson  could  say  grace, 

Than  thou  and  I  have  done  before 

The  company  were  seated. 

With  Bridget  and  with  Nell! 

SIDNEY  G( 

3D0LPHIN. 

[Bom,  1610. 

Died,  1942.] 

Sidney  Godolphin,  who  is  highly  praised  by 

Godolphin.    He  flourished  and  perished  in  the 

Lord  Clarendon,  was  the  brother  of  the  treasurer 

civil  wars. 

THE  FOLLOWING  LINES  ARE  FOUND 

[N   MS.  IN   MR.  MALONE'S  COLLECTION. 

'Tis  affection  but  dissembled, 

'Tis  not  scorn  that  can  remove  thee. 

Or  dissembled  liberty. 

For  thou  either  wilt  not  see 

To  pretend  thy  passion  changed 

Such  loved  beauty  not  to  love  thee, 

With  changes  of  thy  mistress'  eye. 

Or  will  else  consent  that  she 

Following  her  inconstancy. 

Judge  not  as  she  ought  of  thee. 

Hopes,  which  do  from  favour  flourish. 

Thus  thou  either  canst  not  sever 

May  perhaps  as  soon  expire 

Hope  from  what  appears  so  fair. 

As  the  cause  which  did  them  nourish. 

Or,  unhappier,  thou  canst  never 

And  disdain'd  they  may  retire; 

Find  contentment  in  despair. 

But  love  is  another  fire.                          ^ 

Nor  make  love  a  trifling  care. 

For  if  beauty  cause  thy  passion. 

There  are  seen  but  few  retiring 

If  a  fair  resistless  eye 

Steps  in  all  the  paths  of  love, 

Melt  thee  with  its  soft  expression, 

Made  by  such  who  in  aspiring 

Then  thy  hopes  will  never  die. 

Meeting  scorn  their  hopes  remove ; 

Nor  be  cured  by  cruelty.    ■ 

Yet  even  these  ne'er  change  their  lOve 

WILLIAM  CARTWRIGHT. 


[Born,  1611.    Died,  1643.] 


William  Cartvtright  was  the  son  of  an  inn- 
keeper at  Cirencester,  who  had  been  reduced  to 
that  situation  by  spending  a  good  estate.  He 
was  a  king's  scholar  at  Westminster,  and  took 
orders  at  Oxford,  where  he  became,  says  Wood, 
"  a  most  florid  and  seraphic  preacher."  Bishop 
Duppa,  his  intimate  friend,  appointed  him  suc- 
centor  of  the  church  of  Salisbury  in  1642.  In 
the  same  year  he  was  one  of  the  council  of  war, 
or  delegacy,  appointed  by  the  .University  of  Ox- 
ford, for  providing  troops  sent  by  the  king  to  pro-  j 
tect,  or  as  the  opposite  party  alleged,  to  overawe 
the  universities.  His  zeal  in  this  service  occa- 
sioned his  being  imprisoned  by  the  parliamentary 


forces  on  their  arrival;  but  he  was  speedily  re- 
leased on  bail.  Early  in  the  year  1643  he  was 
appointed  junior  proctor  of  his  university,  and  also 
reader  in  metaphysics.  The  latter  office  we  may 
well  suppose  him  to  have  filled  with  ability,  as, 
according  to  Lloyd's  account,  he  studied  at  the 
rate  of  sixteen  hours  a  day  :  but  he  survived  his  ap- 
pointment to  it  for  a  very  short  time,  being  carried 
off  by  a  malignant  fever,  called  the  camp-disease, 
which  was  then  epidemical  at  Oxford.  Cart- 
wright  died  in  his  thirty-second  year ;  but  he  lived 
long  enough  to  earn  the  distinguishing  praise  of 
Ben  Jonson,  who  used  to  say  of  him,  «  My  son, 
Cartwright,  writes  all  like  a  man." 


ON  THE  DEATH  OP   SIR   BEVIL  GRENVILLE. 
Not  to  be  wrought  by  malice,  gain,  or  pride. 
To  a  compliance  with  the  thriving  side: 
Not  to  take  arms  for  love  of  change,  or  spite. 
But  only  to  maintain  afflicted  right; 
Not  to  die  vainly  in  pursuit  of  fame. 
Perversely  seeking  after  voice  and  name ; 
Is  to  resolve,  fight,  die,  as  martyrs  do. 
And  thus  did  he,  soldier  and  martyr  too 

When  now  th'  incensed  legions  proudly  came 
Down  like  a  torrent  without  bank  or  dam  : 
When  undeserved  success  urged  on  their  force ; 
That  thunder  must  come  down  to  stop  their  course, 
Or  Grenville  must  step  in ;  then  Grenville  stood, 
And  with  himself  opposed,  and  check'd  the  flood. 
Conquest  or  death  was  all  his  thought.     So  fire 
Either  o'ercomes,  or  doth  itself  expire  : 
His  courage  work'd  like  flames,  cast  heat  about, 
Here,  there,  on  this,  on  that  side,  none  gave  out ; 
Not  any  pike  in  that  renowned  stand. 
But  took  new  force  from  his  inspiring  hand : 
Soldier  encouraged  soldier,  man  urged  man, 
And  he  urged  all ;  so  much  example  can  ; 
Hurt  upon  hurt,  wound  upon  wound  did  call, 
He  was  the  butt,  the  mark,  the  aim  of  all  : 
His  soul  this  while  retired  from  cell  to  cell, 
At  last  flew  up  from  all,  and  then  he  fell. 
But  the  devoted  stand  enraged  more 
From  that  his  fate,  plied  hotter  than  before, 
And  proud  to  fall  with  him,  sworn  not  to  yield. 
Each  sought  an  honour'd  grave,  so  gain'd  the  field. 
Thus  he  being  fallen,  his  action  fought  anew : 
And  the  dead  conquer'd,  whiles  the  living  slew. 

This  was  not  nature's  courage,  not  that  thing 
We  valour  call,  which  time  and  reason  bring; 
But  a  diviner  ftiry,  fierce  and  high, 
Valour  transported  into  ecstasy. 
Which  angels,  looking  on  us  from  above, 
Use  to  convey  into  the  souls  they  love. 
You  now  that  boast  the  spirit,  and  its  sway, 
Show  us  his  second,  and  we'll  give  the  day  : 
We  know  your  politic  axiom,  lurk,  or  fly ; 
Ve  cannot  conquer,  'cause  you  dare  not  die : 
240 


And  though  you  thank  God  that  you  lost  none  there, 
'Cause  they  were  such  who  lived  not  when  they 

were; 
Yet  your  great  general  (who  doth  rise  and  fall, 
As  his  successes  do,  whom  you  dare  call. 
As  fame  unto  you  doth  reports  dispense. 

Either  a or  his  excellence) 

Howe'er  he  reigns  now  by  unheard-of  laws. 
Could  wish  his  fate  together  with  his  cause. 
And  thou  (blest  soul)  whose  clear  compacted 

fame. 
As  amber  bodies  keeps,  preserves  thy  name. 
Whose  life  affords  what  doth  content  both  eyes, 
Glory  for  people,  substance  for  the  wise. 
Go  laden  up  with  spoils,  possess  that  seat 
To  which  the  valiant,  when  they've  done,  retreat : 
And  when  thou  seest  an  happy  period  sent 
To  these  distractions,  and  the  storm  quite  spent, 
Look  down  and  say,  I  have  my  share  in  all, 
Much  good  grew  from  my  life,  much  from  my  fall. 


LOVE'S  DARTS. 
Where  is  that  learned  wretch  that  knows 
What  are  those  darts  the  veil'd  god  throws  1 

0  let  him  tell  me  ere  I  die 

When  'twas  he  saw  or  heard  them  fly : 
Whether  the  sparrow's  plumes,  or  dove's. 
Wing  them  for  various  loves ; 
And  whether  gold,  or  lead. 
Quicken,  or  dull  the  head  : 

1  will  anoint  and  keep  them  warm. 
And  make  the  weapons  heal  the  harm. 
Fond  that  I  am  to  ask !  whoe'er 

Did  yet  see  thought  1  or  silence  hear  t 
Safe  from  the  search  of  human  eye 
These  arrows  (as  their  ways  are)  fly : 

The  flights  of  angels  part 

Not  air  with  so  much  art ; 

And  snows  on  streams,  we  may 

Say,  louder  fall  than  they. 
So  hopeless  I  must  now  endure, 
And  neither  know  the  shafl  nor  cure. 


GEORGE  SANDYS. 


241 


A.  sudden  fire  of  blushes  shed 
To  dye  white  paths  with  hasty  red ; 
A  glance's  Ughtning  swiftly  thrown, 
Or  from  a  true  or  seeming  frown ; 

A  subtle  taking  smile 

From  passion,  or  from  guile ; 

The  spirit,  life,  and  grace 

Of  motion,  limbs,  and  face ; 
These  misconceit  entitles  darts, 
And  tears  the  bleedings  of  our  hearts. 

But  as  the  feathers  in  the  wing 
Unblemish'd  are,  and  no  wounds  bring, 
And  harmless  twigs  no  bloodshed  know, 
Till  art  doth  fit  them  for  the  bow ; 

So  lights  of  flowing  graces 

Sparkling  in  several  places. 

Only  adorn  the  parts. 

Till  that  we  make  them  darts ; 
Themselves  are  only  twigs  and  quills : 
We  give  them  shape,  and  force  for  ills. 

Beauty's  our  grief,  but  in  the  ore. 
We  mint,  and  stamp,  and  then  adore : 
Like  heathen  we  the  image  crown, 
And  indiscreetly  then  fall  down : 

Those  graces  all  were  meant 

Our  joy,  not  discontent ; 


But  with  untaught  desires 
We  turn  those  lights  to  fires, 
Thus  Nature's  healing  herbs  we  take. 
And  out  of  cures  do  poisons  make. 


A  VALEDICTION. 

Bid  me  not  go  where  neither  suns  nor  showers 

Do  make  or  cherish  flowers ; 

Where  discontented  things  in  sadness  lie. 

And  Nature  grieves  as  I. 

When  I  am  parted  from  those  eyes, 

From  which  my  better  day  doth  rise, 

Though  some  propitious  power 

Should  plant  me  in  a  bower. 

Where  amongst  happy  lovers  I  might  see 

How  showers  and  sunbeams  bring 

One  everlasting  spring. 

Nor  would  those  fall,  nor  these  shine  forth  to  me ; 

Nature  herself  to  him  is  lost. 

Who  loseth  her  he  honours  most. 

Then,  fairest,  to  my  parting  view  display 

Your  graces  all  in  one  full  day ; 

Whose  blessed  shapes  I'll  snatch  and  keep  till  when 

I  do  return  and  view  again : 

80  by  this  art  fancy  shall  fortune  cross, 

And  lovers  live  by  thinking  on  their  loss. 


GEORGE  SANDYS. 

[Born,  1677.    Died,  1643.] 


Gkobgb  Sandys,  to  whose  translations  Pope 
declared  that  English  poetry  owed  much  of  its 
beauty,  was  the  youngest  son  of  the  Archbishop 
of  York.  After  leaving  the  university,  he  set  out 
upon  an  extensive  tour,  comprehending  Greece, 
Egypt,  and  the  Holy  Land,  which  is  described  in 
his  well-known  and  well-written  book  of  Travels. 
After  his  return  to  England  he  published  a  trans- 
lation of  the  Metamorphoses  of  Ovid,  and  a  Para- 
phrase of  the  Psalms  of  David.     He  translated 


also  the  Christus  Patiens  of  Grotius.  Few  inci- 
dents of  his  life  are  recorded.  For  the  most  part 
of  his  latter  days  he  hved  with  Sir  Francis  Wen- 
man,  of  Caswell,  near  Witney,  in  Oxfordshire ; 
a  situation  near  to  Burford,  the  retirement  of  his 
intimate  friend  Lucius  Lord  Falkland,  who  has 
addressed  several  poems  to  him.  [He  also  re- 
sided some  time  in  Virginia,  in  the  service  of  the 
Virginia  company. — G.] 


PSALM   LXVIII. 

FROM  A  FARAPHRASI  OF  "THE  FSALXS." 

Let  God,  the  God  of  battle,  rise, 
And  scatter  his  proud  enemies : 
0  let  them  flee  before  his  face, 
Like  smoke  which  driving  tempests  chase ; 
As  wax  dissolves  with  scorching  fire, 
So  perish  in  his  burning  ire. 
But  let  the  just  with  joy  abound  ; 
In  joyful  songs  his  praise  resound ; 
Who,  riding  on  the  rolling  spheres, 
The  name  of  great  Jehovah  bears. 
Before  his  face  your  joys  express, 
A  father  to  the  fatherless ; 
He  wipes  the  tears  from  widows*  eyes. 
The  single  plants  in  families ; 
Enlarging  those  who  late  were  bound, 
While  rebels  starve  on  thirsty  ground. 
81 


When  he  our  numerous  army  led, 
And  march'd  through  deserts  full  of  dread, 
Heav'n  melted,  and  earth's  centre  shook, 
With  his  majestic  presence  struck. 
When  Israel's  God  in  clouds  came  down, 
High  Sinai  bow'd  his  trembling  crown; 
He,  in  th'  approach  of  meagre  dearth. 
With  showers  refresh 'd  the  fainting  earth. 
Where  his  own  flocks  in  safety  fed. 
The  needy  unto  plenty  led. 
By  him  we  conquer. — Virgfins  sing 
Our  victories,  and  timbrels  ring : 
He  kings  with  their  vast  armies  foils. 
While  women  share  their  wealthy  spoils. 

When  he  the  kings  had  overthrown. 
Our  land  like  snowy  Salmon  shone. 
God's  mountain  Bashan's  mount  transcends. 
Though  he  his  many  heads  extends. 
V 


242                                                        FRANCIS   QUARLES. 

Why  boast  ye  so,  ye  meaner  hills  1 

God  with  his  glory  Zion  fills, 

This  his  beloved  residence, 

Nor  ever  will  depart  from  hence. 

His  chariots  twenty  thousand  were, 

Which  myriads  of  angels  bear. 

He  in  the  midst,  as  when  he  crown'd 

High  Sinai's  sanctified  ground. 

Lord,  thou  hast  raised  thyself  on  high, 

And  captive  led  captivity 

0  praised  be  the  God  of  Gods, 
Who  with  his  daily  blessings  loads ; 
The  God  of  our  salvation, 

On  whom  our  hopes  depend  alone ; 
The  controverse  of  life  and  death 
Is  arbitrated  by  his  breath. 

Thus  spoke  Jehovah :  Jacob's  seed 

1  will  from  Bashan  bring  again. 
And  through  the  bottom  of  the  main. 
That  dogs  may  lap  their  enemies'  blood. 
And  they  wade  through  a  crimson  flood. 
We,  in  thy  sanctuary  late. 

My  God,  my  King,  beheld  thy  state ; 
The  sacred  singers  march'd  before, 
Who  instruments  of  music  bore, 
In  order  follow'd — every  maid 
Upon  her  pleasant  timbrel  play'd. 
His  praise  in  your  assemblies  sing. 

You  who  fi-om  Israel's  fountain  spring, 

Nor  little  Benj^amin  alone. 

But  Judah,  from  his  mountain-throne ; 

The  far-removed  Zebulon, 

And  Napthali,  that  borders  on 

Old  Jordan,  where  his  stream  dilates, 

Join'd  all  their  powers  and  potentates. 

For  us  his  winged  soldiers  fought ; 

Lord,  strengthen  what  thy  hand  hath  wrought ! 

He  that  supports  a  diadem 

To  thee,  divine  Jerusalem  ! 

Shall  in  devotion  treasure  bring. 

To  build  the  temple  of  his  King 

Far  off  from  sun-burnt  Meroe, 

From  falling  Nilus,  from  the  sea 

Which  beats  on  the  Egyptian  shore, 

Shall  princes  come,  and  here  adore. 

Ye  kingdoms  through  the  world  renown'd. 

Sing  to  the  Lord,  his  praise  resound ; 

He  who  heaven's  upper  heaven  bestrides, 

And  on  her  aged  shoulders  rides ; 

Whose  voice  the  clouds  asunder  rends. 

In  thunder  terrible  descends. 

0  praise  his  strength,  whose  majesty 

In  Israel  shines — ^his  power  on  high ! 

He  fi-om  his  sanctuary  throws 

A  trembling  horror  on  his  foes. 

While  us  his  power  and  strength  invest; 

0  Israel,  praise  the  ever-blest  !* 

FRANCIS 

[Born,  1592. 

This  voluminous  saint  was  bred  at  Cambridge 
and  Lincoln's-inn,  and  was  appointed  cup-bearer 
to  Elizabeth,  Electress  of  Bohemia,  after  quitting 
whose  service  he  went  to  Ireland,  and  was  secre- 
tary to  Archbishop  Usher.     On  the  breaking  out 
of  the  rebellion  in  that  kingdom  he  was  a  consi- 
derable sufferer,  and  was  obliged  to  fly,  for  safety, 
to  England.     He  had  already  been  pensioned  by 
Charles,  and  made  Chronologer  to  the  city  of 
London ;   but  in  the  general  ruin  of  the  royal 
cause  his  property  was  confiscated,  and  his  books 
end  manuscripts,  which  he  valued  more,  were 
plundered.     This  reverse  of  fortune  is  supposed 
to  have  accelerated  his  death. 

The  charitable  criticism  of  the  present  age  has 

QUARLES. 

Died,  1644.] 

done  justice  to  Quarles,  in  contrasting  his  merits 
with   his  acknowledged   deformities.     That  his 
perfect  specimens  of  the  bathos  should  have  been 
laughed  at  in  the  age  of  Pope,  is  not  surprising.f 
His  ''  Emblems,"  whimsical  as  they  are,  have  not 
the  merit  of  originality,  being  imitated  from  Her- 
man Hugo.   A  considerable  resemblance  to  Young 
may  be  traced  in  the  blended  strength  and  ex- 
travagance, and  ill-assorted  wit  and  devotion  of 
Quarles.     Like  Young,  he  wrote  vigorous  prose 
— witness  his  Enchiridion.     In  the  parallel,  how- 
ever, it  is  due  to  the  purity  of  Young  to  acknow- 
ledge, that  he  never  was  guilty  of  such  indecency 
as  that  which  disgraces  the  «  Argalus  and  Parthe* 
nia"  of  our  pious  author. 

*  [Mr.  Campbell's  extract,  selected  to  show  the  strength 
of  Sandys,  gives  no  idea  of  his  greatest  merit,  the  effect 
his  taste  and  knowledge  of  our  language  had  in  harmo- 
nizing the  numbers  of  our  couplet  verse.    Dryden.  who 
allows  him  but  slender  talents  as  a  translator,  calls  him, 
however,  "the  ingenious  and  learned  Sandys,  the  best 
versifier  of  the  former  age."     His  versification  is  his  chief 
excellence;  he  studied  the  well-placing  of  words  for  tlie 
•weetness  of  pronunciation,  and  gave  us  Ovid  in  smooth- 
lliding  verse : 

With  80  much  sweetness  and  unusual  grace, 
that  if  he  does  not  deserve  the  whole  eulogy  of  Drayton, 
he  merit*  his  -epithet  of  dainty,  which,  when  said  of  his 
heroic  verse,  is  not  only  poetical  but  appropriate.— C.J 

t  Of  his  absurdity  one  example  may  suffice  from  his 
•  Emblems." 

Man  is  a  tennis-court,  his  flesh  the  wall. 
The  gamesters  Qod  and  Satan,— the  heart's  the  ball; 

i- 

The  higher  and  the  lower  hazards  are 

Too  bold  presumption  and  too  base  despair : 

The  rackets  which  our  restless  balls  make  fly. 

Adversity  and  sweet  prosperity. 

The  angels  keep  the  court,  and  mark  the  place 

Where  the  ball  falls,  and  chalk  out  every  chase. 

The  line  's  a  civil  life  we  often  cross. 

O'er  which  the  ball,  not  flying,  mukes  a  loss. 

Detractors  are  like  staiiders-by,  and  bet 

With  charitable  men,  our  life's  the  set. 

Lord,  in  these  conflicts,  in  these  fierce  assaults, 

Laborious  Satan  maki'S  a  world  of  faults. 

Forgive  them,  Lord,  although  he  ne'er  implore 

For  favour,  they'll  be  set  upon  our  score. 

0  take  the  ball  before  it  come  to  the  ground. 

For  this  base  court  has  many  a  false  rebound ; 

Strike,  and  strike  hard,  and  strike  above  the  line, 

Strike  where  thou  please,  so  as  the  set  be  thine. 

FRANCIS   QUARLES. 


24S 


[Quarles  is  more  justly  criticised,  we  think,  by 
Mr.  S.  C.  Hall,  in  the  "  Book  of  Gems,"  in  which 
he  observes :  "  As  a  poet  he  has  been  somewhat 
hardly  dealt  with  ;  having  been  judged  more  by 
the  evidence  of  his  conceits,  absurdities,  and  false 
taste,  than  by  his  striking  and  original  images, 
his  noble  and  manly  thoughts,  and  the  exceeding 
fertility  of  his  language.  It  is  not  surprising  that 
posterity  has  failed  to  reverse  the  unjust  judgment 
passed  upon  him  by  his  contemporaries.  He  is 
described  by  one  of  them  as  '  an  old  puritanical 
poet,  the  sometime  darling  of  our  plebeian  judg- 
ments'— by  another  as  '  in  wonderful  veneration 
among  the  vulgar ;'  even  when  he  received  praise, 
it  was  faint  praise ;  his  master  Archbishop  Usher 
styles  him  '  a  man  of  some  fame  for  his  sacred 
poetry' — and  the  best  compliment  that  Lloyd  could 
afford  him  was  '  that  he  taught  poetry  to  be  witty 
without  profaneness,  wantonness,  or  being  satyri- 
cal — that  is,  with  the  poet's  abusing  God,  himself, 
or  his  neighbour.'  His  principal  poetical  works 
are  '  Job  Militant,'  '  Sion's  Elegies,'  the  '  History 
of  Queen  Esther,'  'Argalus  and  Parthenia,'  that 
which  he  calls  his  '  Morning  Muse,'  '  The  Feast 
for  Worms,  or  the  History  of  Jonah,'  and  the 
'Divine  Emblems' — the  last  being  the  only  pro- 
duction of  Quarles  that  is  now  at  all  known  or  read. 
This  has  passed  through  several  editions: — the 


latest,  perhaps,  is  that  which  a  presumptuous 
editor  describes  as  '  properly  modernized,'  which 
means,  according  to  a  better  reading,  utterly  spoiled. 
Quarles  was  indebted  for  the  idea  of  his  Emblems 
to  Herman  Hugo.  Of  the  poems  we  shall  give 
a  specimen — the  prints  we  should  not  be  so  well 
disposed  to  copy.  They  are  for  the  most  part 
absurd  in  the  extreme.  Thus,  the  picture  which 
accompanies  the  motto,  *  0  wretched  man  that  I 
am,  who  shall  deliver  me  from  the  body  of  this 
death  V  represents  a  man  standing  within  a  skele- 
ton. They  are  not  all,  however,  of  this  class ;  for 
example,  one  consists  of  a  helmet  turned  into  a 
beehive,  surrounded  by  its  useful  labourers — the 
motto  '  Ex  bello  pax.' — The  faults  of  Quarles  are 
large  and  numerous.  He  would  have  escaped 
this  censure  if  he  had  himself  followed  the  advice 
he  gave  to  others : — '  Clothe  not  thy  language 
either  with  obscurity  or  affectation.'  No  writer 
is  either  more  affected  or  more  obscure.  It  is  only 
by  raking  that  we  can  gather  the  gold ;  yet  it  is 
such  as  will  reward  the  seeker  who  has  courage 
to  undertake  the  search.  His  sagacity  and  good 
sense  are  unquestionable,  and  occasionally  there 
is  a  rich  outbreak  of  fancy ;  while  at  times  he 
startles  us  by  compressing,  as  it  were,  a  volume 
into  a  single  line." — G.] 


FAITH. 
The  proudest  pitch  of  that  victorious  spirit 
Was  but  to  win  the  world,  whereby  t'  inherit 
The  airy  purchase  of  a  transitory 
And  glozing  title  of  an  age's  glory ; 
Wouldst  thou  by  conquest  win  more  fame  than  he, 
Subdue  thyself!   thyself 's  a  world  to  thee. 
Earth's  but  a  ball,  that  heaven  hath  quilted  o'er 
With  Wealth  and  Honour,  banded  on  the  floor 
Of  fickle  Fortune's  false  and  slippery  court, 
Sent  for  a  toy,  to  make  us  children  sport, 
Man's  satiate  spirits  with  fresh  delights  supplying, 
To  still  the  fondlings  of  the  world  from  crying; 
And  he,  whose  merit  mounts  to  such  a  joy. 
Gains  but  the  honour  of  a  mighty  toy. 

But  wouldst  thou  conquer,  have  thy  conquest 

crown'd 
By  hands  of  Seraphims,  triumph'd  with  the  sound 
Of  heaven's  loud  trumpet,  warbled  by  the  shrill 
Celestial  choir,  recorded  with  a  quill 
Pluck'd  from  the  pinion  of  an  angel's  wing, 
Confirm'd  with  joy  by  heaven's  eternal  King; 
Conquer  thyself,  thy  rebel  thoughts  repel. 
And  chase  those  false  affections  that  rebel. 
Hath  heaven  despoil'd  what  his  full  hand  hath 

given  theel 
Nipp'd  thy  succeeding  blossoms  1  or  bereaven  thee 
Of  thy  dear  latest  hope,  thy  bosom  friend  1 
Doth  sad  Despair  deny  these  jjriefs  an  end  ? 
Despair's  a  whispering  rebel,  that  within  thee. 
Bribes  all  thy  field,  and  sets  thyself  again'  thee : 
Make  keen  thy  faith,  and  with  thy  force  let  flee. 
If  thou  not  conquer  him,  he'll  conquer  thee : 
Advance  thy  shield  of  Patience  to  thy  head, 
And  when  G-ief  strikes,  'twill  strike  the  striker  dead. 


In  adverse  fortunes,  be  thou  strong  and  stout, 
And  bravely  win  thyself,  heaven  holds  not  out 
His  bow  for  ever  bent ;  the  disposition 
Of  noblest  spirit  doth,  by  opposition, 
Exasperate  the  more :  a  gloomy  night 
Whets  on  the  morning  to  return  more  bright ; 
Brave  minds,  oppress'd,  should  in  despite  of  Fate 
Look  greatest,  like  the  sun,  in  lowest  state. 
But,  ah !  shall  God  thus  strive  with  flesh  and  blood ! 
Receives  he  glory  from,  or  reaps  he  good 
In  mortals'  ruin,  that  he  leaves  man  so 
To  be  o'erwhelm'd  by  this  unequal  foe  1 

May  not  a  potter,  that,  from  out  the  ground, 
Hath  framed  a  vessel,  search  if  it  be  sound  1 
Or  if,  by  furbishing,  he  take  more  pain 
To  make  it  fairer,  shall  the  pot  complain  ? 
Mortal,  thou  art  but  clay ;  then  shall  not  he, 
That  framed  thee  for  his  service,  season  thee ! 
Man,  close  thy  lips;  be  thou  no  undertaker 
Of  God's  designs :  dispute  not  with  thy  Maker. 


EMBLEM  I.    BOOK  in. 
My  soul  hath  desired  thee  in  the  niffht— Isaiab,  xxvi.  6. 
Good  God  !  what  horrid  darkness  doth  surround 
My  groping  soul !  how  are  my  senses  bound 
In  utter  shades ;  and  mufiled  from  the  light, 
Lurk  in  the  bosom  of  eternal  night! 
The  bold-faced  lamp  of  heaven  can  set  and  rise 
And  with  his  morning  glory  fill  the  eyes 
Of  gazing  mortals ;  his  victorious  ray 
Can  chase  the  shadows  and  restore  the  day: 
Night's  bashful  empress,  though  she  often  wane 
As  oft  repents  her  darkness,  primes  again ; 
And  with  her  circling  horns  doth  re-embra»M> 


244 


FRANCIS   QUARLES. 


Rer  brother's  wealth,  and  orbs  her  silver  face. 

But,  ah !  my  sun,  deep  swallow'd  in  his  fall, 

Is  set,  and  cannot  shine,  nor  rise  at  all : 

My  bankrupt  wain  can  beg  nor  borrow  light ; 

Alas !  my  darkness  is  perpetual  night. 

Fallt  have  their  risings;  wanings  have  their  primes, 

And  desperate  sorrows  wait  their  better  times : 

Ebbs  have  their  floods ;  and  autumns  have  their 

springs; 
All  states  have  changes,  hurried  with  the  swings 
Of  chance  and  time,  still  riding  to  and  fro : 
Terrestrial  bodies,  and  celestial  too. 
How  often  have  I  vainly  groped  about, 
With  lengthen'd  arms,  to  find  a  passage  out, 
That  I  might  catch  those  beams  mine  eye  desires, 
And  bathe  my  soul  in  these  celestial  fires ! 
Like  as  the  haggard,  cloister'd  in  her  mew, 
To  scour  her  downy  robes,  and  to  renew 
Her  broken  flags,  preparing  t'  overlook 
The  timorous  mallard  at  the  sliding  brook, 
Jets  oft  from  perch  to  perch ;  from  stock  to  ground, 
From  ground  to  window,  thus  surveying  round 
Her  dove-befeather'd  prison,  till  at  length 
Calling  her  noble  birth  to  mind,  and  strength 
Whereto  her  wing  was  born,  her  ragged  beak 
Nips  ofi"  her  jangling  jesses,  strives  to  break 
Her  jingling  fetters,  and  begins  to  bate 
At  every  glimpse,  and  darts  at  every  grate : 
E'en  so  my  weary  soul,  that  long  has  been 
An  inmate  in  this  tenement  of  sin, 
Lock'd  up  by  cloud-brow'd  error,  which  invites 
My  cloister'd  thoughts  to  feed  on  black  delights, 
Now  suns  her  shadows,  and  begins  to  dart 
Her  wing'd  desires  at  thee,  that  only  art 
The  sun  she  seeks,  whose  rising  beams  can  fright 
These  dusky  clouds  that  make  so  dark  a  night : 
Shine  forth,  great  glory,  shine ;  that  I  may  see, 
Both  how  to  loathe  myself,  and  honour  thee : 
But  if  my  weakness  force  thee  to  deny 
Thy  flames,  yet  lend  the  twilight  of  thine  eye ! 
If  I  must  want  those  beams  I  wish,  yet  grant 
That  I  at  least  may  wish  those  beams  I  want. 


BREVITT  OF  HUMAN  LIFE. 

Mr  glass  is  half  unspent!  forbear  t'  arrest 
My  thriftless  day  too  soon :  my  poor  request 
Is  that  my  glass  may  run  but  out  the  rest. 

My  lime-devouring  minutes  will  be  done 
Without  thy  help ;  see !  see  how  swift  they  run ; 
Cut  not  my  thread  before  my  thread  be  spun. 

The  gain's  not  great  I  purchase  by  this  stay ; 
What  loss  sustain'st  thou  by  so  small  delay. 
To  whom  ten  thousand  years  are  but  a  day  1 

My  following  eye  can  hardly  make  a  shift 
To  count  my  winged  hours ;  they  fly  so  swift. 
They  scarce  deserve  the  bounteous  name  of  gift. 

The  secret  wheels  of  hurrying  time  do  give 
So  short  a  warning  and  so  fast  they  drive, 
That  I  ato  dead  before  I  seem  to  live. 


And  what's  a  life  T  a  weary  pilgrimage, 
Whose  glory  in  one  day  doth  fill  the  stage 
With  childhood,  manhood,  and  decrepit  age. 

And  what's  a  life  ?  the  flourishing  array 
Of  the  proud  summer-meadow,  which  to-day 
Wears  her  green  plush,  and  is  to-morrow  hay. . . 


SONG. 
To  the  tone  of— Cuckolds  aU  a-row. 

Know  then,  my  brethren,  heaven  is  clear. 

And  all  the  clouds  are  gone; 
The  righteous  now  shall  flourish,  and 

Good  days  are  coming  on  : 
Come  then,  my  brethren,  and  be  glad, 

And  eke  rejoice  with  me ; 
Lawn  sleeves  and  rochets  shall  go  down. 

And  hey  !  then  up  go  we  ! 

We'll  break  the  windows  which  the  Whore 

Of  Babylon  hath  painted. 
And  when  the  popish  saints  are  down. 

Then  Barrow  shall  be  sainted. 
There's  neither  cross  nor  crucifix 

Shall  stand  for  men  to  see ; 
Rome's  trash  and  trumperies  shall  go  down. 

And  hey !  then  up  go  we !  ...  . 

We'll  down  with  all  the  ^Varsities, 

Where  learning  is  profest. 
Because  they  practise  and  maintain 

The  language  of  the  beast. 
We'll  drive  the  doctors  out  of  doors. 

And  arts,  whate'er  they  be ; 
We'll  cry  both  arts  and  learning  down, 

And  hey  !  then  up  go  we  !  ... . 

If  once  that  Antichristian  crew 

Be  crush'd  and  overthrown, 
We'll  teach  the  nobles  how  to  crouch. 

And  keep  the  gentry  down. 
Good  manners  have  an  ill  report. 

And  turn  to  pride,  we  see ; 
We'll  therefore  cry  good  manners  down. 

And  hey  !  then  up  go  we ! 

The  name  of  lord  shall  be  abhorr'd, 

For  every  man's  a  brother; 
No  reason  why,  in  church  or  state. 

One  man  should  rule  another. 
But  when  the  change  of  government 

Shall  set  our  fingers  free. 
We'll  make  the  wanton  sisters  stoop, 

And  hey  !  then  up  go  we  ! 

Our  cobblers  shall  translate  their  touts 

From  caves  obscure  and  shady ; 
We'll  make  Tom  T as  good  as  my  let  i, 

And  Joan  as  good  as  my  lady. 
We'll  crush  and  fling  the  marriage  ring 

Into  the  Roman  see  ; 
We'll  ask  no  bands,  but  t'en  clap  hands. 

And  hey  !  then  up  go  we ! 


WILLIAM   BROWNE. 


[Born,  1590.    Died,  1645.] 


William  Browne  was  the  son  of  a  gentleman 
of  Tavistock,  in  Devonshire.  He  was  educated 
at  Oxford,  and  went  from  thence  to  the  Inner 
Temple,  but  devoted  himself  chiefly  to  poetry. 
In  his  twenty-third  year  he  published  the  first 
part  of  his  Britannia's  Pastorals,  prefaced  by 
poetical  eulogies,  which  evince  his  having  been, 
at  that  early  period  of  life,  the  firiend  and  favour- 
ite of  Selden  and  Drayton.  To  these  testimonies 
be  afterwards  added  that  of  Ben  Jonson.  In  the 
following  year  he  published  the  Shepherd's  Pipe, 
of  which  the  fourth  eclogue  is  often  said  to  have 
been  the  precursor  of  Milton's  Lycidas.  A  sin- 
gle simile  about  a  rose  constitutes  all  the  resem- 
blance! In  1616  he  published  the  second  part 
of  his  Britannia's  Pastorals.  His  Masque  of  the 
Inner  Temple  was  never  printed,  till  Dr.  Farmer 
transcribed  it  from  a  MS.  of  the  Bodleian  library, 
for  Thomas  Davies's  edition  of  Browne's  works, 
more  than  120  years  after  the  author's  death. 


He  seems  to  have  taken  his  leave  of  the  Muses 
about  the  prime  of  his  life,  and  returned  to  Ox- 
ford, in  the  capacity  of  tutor  to  Robert  Dormer, 
Earl  of  Caernarvon,  who  fell  in  the  battle  of 
Newbury,  1643.  After  leaving  the  university 
with  that  nobleman,  he  found  a  liberal  patron  in 
William,  Earl  of  Pembroke,  whose  character, 
like  that  of  Caernarvon,  still  lives 'among  the 
warmly  coloured  and  minutely  touched  portraits 
of  Lord  Clarendon.  The  poet  lived  in  Lord 
Pembroke's  family ;  and,  according  to  Wood, 
grew  rich  in  his  employment.  But  the  particu- 
lars of  his  history  are  very  imperfectly  known, 
and  his  verses  deal  too  little  with  the  business  of 
life  to  throw  much  Ught  upon  his  circumstances. 
His  poetry  is  not  without  beauty ;  but  it  is  the 
beauty  of  mere  landscape  and  allegory,  without 
the  manners  and  passions  that  constitute  human 
interest. 


SONG. 
Gentle  nymphs,  be  not  refusing, 
Love's  neglect  is  time's  abusing, 

They  and  beauty  are  but  lent  you ; 
Take  the  one,  and  keep  the  other  ; 
Love  keeps  firesh  what  age  doth  smother, 

Beauty  gone,  you  will  repent  you. 

'Twill  be  said,  when  ye  have  proved, 
Never  swains  more  truly  loved : 

O,  then  fly  all  nice  behaviour ! 
Pity  fain  would  (as  her  duty) 
Be  attending  still  on  Beauty, 

Let  her  not  be  out  of  favQur. 


SONG. 

Shall  I  tell  you  whom  I  love  ? 

Hearken  then  a  while  to  me, 
And  if  such  a  woman  move 

As  I  now  shall  versify ; 
Be  assured,  'tis  she,  or  none, 
That  I  love,  and  love  alone. 

Nature  did  her  so  much  right. 
As  she  scorns  the  help  of  art. 

In  as  many  virtues  dight 

As  e'er  yet  embraced  a  heart. 

80  much  good  so  truly  tried, 

Some  for  less  were  deified. 

Wit  she  hath,  without  desire 

To  make  known  how  much  she  hath ; 
And  her  anger  flames  no  higher 

Than  may  fitly  sweeten  wrath. 
Full  of  pity  as  may  be. 
Though  perhaps  not  so  to  me. 


Reason  masters  every  sense, 
And  her  virtues  grace  her  birth : 

Lovely  as  all  excellence. 

Modest  in  her  most  of  mirth : 

Likelihood  enough  to  prove 

Only  worth  could  kindle  love. 

Such  she  is :  and  if  you  know 
Such  a  one  as  I  have  sung ; 

Be  she  brown,  or  fair,  or  so, 

That  she  be  but  somewhile  young ; 

Be  assured,  'tis  she,  or  none, 

That  I  love,  and  love  alone. 


POWEE   OF  GENIUS  OVER  ENTY. 

'T18  not  the  rancour  of  a  canker'd  heart 

That  can  debase  the  excellence  of  art. 

Nor  great  in  titles  makes  our  worth  obey, 

Since  we  have  lines  far  more  esteem'd  tlian  they. 

For  there  is  hidden  in  a  poet's  name 

A  spell  that  can  command  the  wings  of  Fame, 

And  maugre  all  oblivion's  hated  birth 

Begin  their  immortality  on  earth. 

When  he  that  'gainst  a  muse  with  hate  combines 

May  raise  his  tomb  in  vain  to  reach  our  lines. 


ADDRESS  TO  HIS  NATIVE  SOIL. 

Hail  thou,  my  native  soil !  thou  blessed  plot 
Whose  equal  all  the  world  aiTordeth  not ! 
Show  me  who  can  1  so  many  crystal  rills. 
Such  sweet-clothed  valleys,  or  aspiring  hills, 
Such   wood-ground,  pastures,  quarries,  wealthy 

mines, 
Such  rocks  in  whom  the  diamond  fairly  shines 
And  if  the  earth  can  show  the  like  again, 
Yet  will  she  fail  in  her  sea-ruling  men. 

t2  216 


246 


WILLIAM   BROWNE. 


Time  never  can  produce  men  to  o'ertake 
The  fames  of  Grenville,  Davis,  Gilbert,  Drake, 
Or  worthy  Hawkins,  or  of  thousands  more, 
That  by  their  power  made  the  Devonian  shore 
Mock  the  proud  Tagus  ;  for  whose  richest  spoil 
The  boasting  Spaniard  left  the  Indian  soil 
Bankrupt  of  store,  knowing  it  would  quit  cost 
By  winning  this,  though  all  the  rest  were  lost. 


EVENING. 
As  in  an  evening  when  the  gentle  air 
Breathes  to  the  sullen  night  a  soft  repair, 
I  oft  have  sat  on  Thames'  sweet  bank  to  hear 
My  friend  with  his  sweet  touch  to  charm  mine  ear. 
When  he  hath  play'd  (as  well  he  can)  some  strain 
That  likes  me,  straight  I  ask  the  same  again. 
And  he  as  gladly  granting,  strikes  it  o'er 
With  some  sweet  relish  was  forgot  before : 
I  would  have  been  content,  if  he  would  play. 
In  that  one  strain  to  pass  the  night  away ; 
But  fearing  much  to  do  his  patience  wrong, 
Unwillingly  have  ask'd  some  other  song : 
So  in  this  differing  key  though  I  could  well 
A  many  hours  but  as  few  minutes  tell. 
Yet  lest  mine  own  delight  might  injure  you 
(lliough  loath  so  soon)«I  take  my  song  anew. 


FROM  BRITANNIA'S  PASTORALS. 

BOOK  n.     BONO  v. 

Between  two  rocks  (immortal,  without  mother)* 
That  stand  as  if  outfacing  one  another, 
There  ran  a  creek  up,  intricate  and  blind. 
As  if  the  waters  hid  them  from  the  wind. 
Which  never  wash'd  but  at  a  higher  tide 
The  frizzled  cotes  which  do  the  mountains  hide, 
Where  never  gale  was  longer  known  to  stay 
Than  from  the  smooth  wave  it  had  swept  away 
The  new  divorced  leaves,  that  from  each  side 
Left  the  thick  boughs  to  dance  out  with  the  tide. 
At  further  end  the  creek,  a  stately  wood 
Gave  a  kind  shadow  (to  the  brackish  flood) 
Made  up  of  trees,  not  less  ken'd  by  each  skiff 
Than  that  sky-scaling  peak  of  Teneriffe, 
Upon  whose  tops  the  hernshew  bred  her  young. 
And  hoary  moss  upon  their  branches  hung ; 
Whose  rugged  rinds  suthcient  were  to  show, 
Without  their  height,  what  time  they  'gan  to  grow. 
And  if  dry  eld  by  wrinkled  skin  appears, 
None  could  allot  them  less  than  Nestor's  years. 
As  under  their  command  the  thronged  creek 
Ran  lessen'd  up.     Here  did  the  shepherds  seek 
Where  he  his  little  boat  might  safely  hide. 
Till  it  was  fraught  with  what  the  world  beside 
Could  not  outvalue;  nor  give  equal  weight 
Though  in  the  time  when  Greece  was  at  her 

height 

Yet  that  their  happy  voyage  might  not  be 
Without  time's  shortener,  heaven-taught  melody 


(Music  that  lent  feet  to  the  stable  woods, 
And  in  their  currents  turn'd  the  mighty  floods, 
Sorrow's  sweet  nurse,  yet  keeping  joy  alive. 
Sad  discontent's  most  welcome  corrosive, 
The  soul  of  art,  best  loved  when  love  is  by, 
The  kind  inspirer  of  sweet  poesy, 
Least  thou  shouldst  wanting  be,  when   swans 

would  fain 
Have  sung  one  song,  and  never  sung  again) 
The  gentle  shepherd,  hasting  to  the  shore. 
Began  this  lay,  and  timed  it  with  his  oar. 

Nevermore  let  holy  Dee 

O'er  other  rivers  brave. 
Or  boast  how  (in  his  jollity) 

Kings  row'd  upon  his  wave. 
But  silent  be,  and  ever  know 
That  Neptune  for  my  fare  would  row. . . . 

Swell  then,  gently  swell,  ye  floods. 

As  proud  of  what  ye  beiir. 
And  nymphs  that  in  low  coral  woods 

String  pearls  upon  your  hair. 
Ascend ;  and  tell  if  ere  this  day 
A  fairer  prize  was  seen  at  sea. 

See  the  salmons  leap  and  bound 

To  please  us  as  we  pass, 
Each  mermaid  on  the  rocks  around 

Lets  fall  her  brittle  glass. 
As  they  their  beauties  did  despise 
And  loved  no  mirror  but  your  eyes. 

Blow,  but  gently  blow,  fair  wind. 

From  the  forsaken  shore, 
And  be  as  to  the  halycon  kind. 

Till  we  have  ferried  o'er: 
So  mayst  thou  still  have  leave  to  blow. 
And  fan  the  way  where  she  shall  go. 


*  This  description  coincides  very  (itrikiii|ily  with  tlie 
scenery  of  the  TMni<ir.  in  Devonshire.  Browne,  wiio  was 
a  native  of  that  county,  must  have  studied  it  from  nature. 


VENUS  AND  ADONIS. 
Venus  by  Adonis'  side 
Crying  kiss'd  and  kissing  cried. 
Wrung  her  hands  and  tore  her  hair 
For  Adonis  dying  there. 

"  Stay,"  quoth  she,  "  O  stay  and  live ! 
Nature  surely  doth  not  give 
To  the  earth  her  sweetest  flowers 
To  be  seen  but  some  few  hours." 

On  his  face,  still  as  he  bled 
For  each  drop  a  tear  she  shed. 
Which  she  kiss'd  or  wiped  away. 
Else  had  drown'd  him  where  he  lay. 

«  Fair  Proserpina,"  quoth  she,    « 
"  Shall  not  have  thee  yet  from  me ; 
Nor  thy  soul  to  fly  begin 
While  my  lips  can  keep  it  in." 

Here  she  closed  again.     And  some 
Say,  Ajjollo  would  have  come 
To  have  cured  his  wounded  limb. 
But  that  she  bad  smother'd  him. 


THOMAS  HEYWOOD. 


IBM,  l(M9.J 


Thomas  Hetwood  was  the  most  prolific  writer 
in  the  most  fertile  age  of  our  drama.*  In  the 
midst  of  his  theatrical  labours  as  an  actor  and 
poet,  he  composed  a  formidable  list  of  prose  works, 
and  defended  the  stage  against  the  puritans,  in  a 
work  that  is  full  of  learning.  One  of  his  projects 
was  to  write  the  lives  of  all  poets  that  were  ever 
distinguished,  from  the  time  of  Homer  downwards. 
Yet  it  has  happened  to  the  framer  of  this  gigantic 
design  to  have  no  historian  so  kind  to  his  own 
memory  as  to  record  either  the  period  of  his  death, 
or  the  spot  that  covers  his  remains.  His  merits 
entitled  him  to  better  remeuibrance.  He  com- 
posed indeed  with  a  careless  rapidity,  and  seems  to 
have  thought  as  little  of  Horace's  precept  of 
"  scBpe  stylum  vertas"  as  of  most  of  the  injunctions 
in  the  .drt  of  Poetry.  But  he  possesses  consider- 
able power  of  interesting  the  affections,  by  placing 
his  plain  and  familiar  characters  in  affecting  situa- 
tions. The  worst  of  him  is,  that  his  common- 
place sentiments  and  plain  incidents  fall  not  only 
beneath  the  ideal  beauty  of  art,  but  are  often  more 
fatiguing  than  what  we  meet  with  in  the  ordinary 
and  unselected  circumstances  of  lifie.  When  he 
has  hit  upon  those  occasions  where  the  passions 
should  obviously  rise  with  accumulated  expres- 
sion, he  lingers  on  through  the  scene  with  a  dull 
w.d  level  indifference.  .  The  term  artlessness  may 
oe  applied  to  Hey  wood  in  two  very  opposite  senses. 
His  pathos  is  often  artless  in  the  better  meaning 
of  the  word,  because  its  objects  are  true  to  life, 


and  their  feelings  naturally  expressed.  But  he 
betrays  still  more  frequently  an  artlessness,  or 
we  should  rather  call  it,  a  want  of  art,  in  defi- 
ciency of  contrivance.  His  best  performance  is, 
"  A  Woman  killed  with  Kindness."  In  that  play 
the  repentance  of  Mrs.  Frankford,  who  dies  of  a 
broken  heart,  for  her  infidelity  to  a  generous  hus- 
band, would  present  a  situation  consummately 
moving,  if  we  were  lefl  to  conceive  her  death  to 
be  produced  simply  by  grief.  But  the  poet  most 
unskilfully  prepares  us  for  her  death,  by  her  de- 
claring her  intentions  to  starve  herself;  and  mars, 
by  the  weakness,  sin,  and  horror  of  suicide,  an 
example  of  penitence  that  would  otherwise  be 
sublimely  and  tenderly  edifying.  The  scene  of 
the  death  of  Mrs.  Frankford  has  been  deservedly 
noticed  for  its  pathos  by  an  eminent  foreign  critic, 
Mr.  Schlegel,t  who  also  commends  the  superior 
force  of  its  inexorable  morality  to  the  reconciling 
conclusion  of  Kotzebue's  drama  on  a  similar  subject.  * 
The  learned  German  perhaps  draws  his  inference 
too  rigidly.  Mrs.  Frankford's  crime  was  recent, 
and  her  repentance  and  death  immediately  follow 
it ;  but  the  guilt  of  the  other  tragic  penitent,  to 
whom  Mr.  S.  alludes,  is  more  remote,  and  less 
heinous;  and  to  prescribe  interminable  limits, 
either  in  real  or  imaginary  life,  to  the  generosity 
of  individual  forgiveness,  is  to  invest  morality 
with  terrors,  which  the  firailty  of  man  and  the 
mercy  of  Heaven  do  not  justify. 


SCENE  IN  THE  TRAGEDY   "A  WOMAN   KILLED 
WITH  KINDNESS." 

8BIEF  OF  FRANKFOKJ),  AFTER  DISCOVERING  BIS  WIFE'S  INFI- 
DEUTT   AND  DISMISSLNQ   HCR. 

Enter  Cranwel,  Frankford,  and  Nicholas. 

Cran.  Why  do  you  search  each  room  about 
your  house. 
Now  that  you  have  despatch'd  your  wife  away  1 

Fran.  O  sir,  to  see  that  nothing  may  be  left. 
That  ever  was  my  wife's :  I  loved  her  dearly, 
And  when  I  do  but  think  of  her  unkindness. 
My  thoughts  are  all  in  hell ;  to  avoid  which  torment, 
I  would  not  have  a  bodkin  or  a  cuff, 
A  bracelet,  necklace,  or  rebato  wier ; 
Nor  any  thing  that  ever  was  call'd  hers, 
Lefl  me,  by  which  I  might  remember  her. 
Seek  round  about.  [comer. 

Nic.  ....  Master,  here's  her  lute  flung  in  a 

Fran.  Her  lute]  Oh  God!  upon  this  instrument 
^ler  fingers  have  ran  quick  division. 
Swifter  than  that  which  now  divides  our  hearts. 
These  firets  have  made  me  pleasant,  that  have  now 
Fretsof  my  heart-strings  made.  O  master  Cranwel, 

[*  II«  liad,  a«  be  himfwlf  tells  U8,  "either  an  entire  hand, 
or  at  the  least  a  main  finger,  in  two  hundred  and  twenty 
playi>."    lie  was  a  native  of  Lincolushire. — C.] 


Oft  hath  she  made  this  melancholy  wood 
(Now  mute  and  dumb  for  her  disastrous  chance) 
Speak  sweetly  many  a  note ;  sound  many  a  strain 
To  her  own  ravishing  voice,  which  being  well  strung, 
What  pleasant  strange  airs  have  they  jointly  rung  1 
Post  with  it  after  her ;  now  nothing's  left ; 
Of  her  and  hers  I  am  at  once  bereft.  .... 
Nicholas  imertaka  Mrs.  Frankford  with  her  lute. 

Nic.  There. 

.Anne.  I  know  the  lute ;  oft  have  I  sung  to  thee : 
We  both  are  out  of  tune,  both  out  of  time. 

Nic.  My  master  commends  him  unto  ye ;  there'a 
all  he  can  find  that  was  ever  yours :  he  hath  no- 
thing left  that  ever  you  could  lay  claim  to  but  his 
own  heart,  and  he  could  not  afford  you  that.  All 
that  I  have  to  deliver  you  is  this ;  he  prays  you 
to  forget  him,  and  so  he  bids  you  farewell. 

.Anne.  I  thank  him ;  he  is-kind,  and  ever  was. 
All  you  that  have  true  feeling  of  my  grief. 
That  know  my  loss,  and  have  relenting  hearts. 
Gird  me  about ;  and  help  me,  with  your  tears. 
To  wash  my  spotted  sins :  my  lute  shall  groan ; 
It  cannot  weep,  but  shall  lament  my  moan. 

t  Mr.  Schlegel,  however,  la  mistaken  in  speaking  of  him 
as  anterior  to  Shakspeare,  evidently  confounding  him  with 
an  older  poet  of  the  name. 

247 


248 


THOMAS   HEYWOOD. 


DEATH  OF  MRS.   FRANKFORD. 

FBOM   THE  SAME. 


/%r«o»w.— Mr.  Malbt,  Mrs.  Anne  Frankford,  Frankfobd, 
Sir  Charlks  Mountford,  Sir  Francis  Acton. 

Mai.  How  fare  you,  Mrs.  Frankford  ?       [pray 
jinne.  Sick,  sick,  oh  sick  :  Give  me  some  air.     I 
Tell  me,  oh  tell  me,  where's  Mr.  Frankford  1 
Will  he  not  deign  to  see  me  ere  I  die  ? 

Mai.  Yes,  Mrs.  Frankford :  divers  gentlemen, 
Your  loving  neighbours,  with  that  just  request 
Have  moved  and  told  him  of  your  weak  estate : 
Who,  though  with  much  ado  to  get  belief, 
Examining  of  the  general  circumstance, 
Seeing  your  sorrow  and  your  penitence, 
And  hearing  therewithal  the  great  desire 
You  hav3  to  see  him  ere  you  left  the  world, 
He  gave  to  us  his  faith  to  follow  us. 
And  sure  he  will  be  here  immediately. 

Jlnne.   You    have   half  revived   me   with  the 
pleasing  news : 
Raise  me  a  little  higher  in  my  bed.        [Charles  1 
Blush  I  not,  brother  Acton  1     Blush  I  not.  Sir 
Can  you  not  read  my  fault  writ  in  my  cheek  1 
Is  not  my  crime  there  1  tell  me,  gentlemen. 
Char.  Alas !  good  mistress,  sickness  hath  not 
left  you 
Blood  in  your  face  enough  to  make  you  blush. 
Jlnne.  Then  sickness,  like  a  friend,  my  fault 
would  hide. 
Is  my  husband  come  ]     My  soul  but  tarries 
His  arrival,  then  I  am  fit  for  heaven. 

.Melon.  I  came  to  chide  you,  but  my  words  of  hate 
Are  turn'd  to  pity  and  compassionate  grief. 
I  came  to  rate  you,  but  my  brawls,  you  see, 
Melt  into  tears,  and  I  must  weep  by  thee. 
Here's  Mr.  Frankford  now. 

Enter  Frankford. 
Fran.  Good-morrow,  brother ;  morrow,  gentle- 
men ! 
God,  that  hath  laid  this  cross  upon  our  heads. 
Might  (had  he  pleased)  have  made  our  cause  of 

meeting 
On  a  more  fair  and  more  contented  ground : 
But  he  that  made  us,  made  us  to  this  woe. 
Anne.  And  is  he  come  ]     Methinks  that  voice 

I  know. 
Fran.  How  do  you,  woman  1  [better, 

.^nne.  Well,  Mr.  Frankford,  well ;  but  shall  be 
I  hope,  within  this  hour.  Will  you  vouchsafe 
(Out  of  your  grace  and  your  humanity) 
To  take  a  spotted  strumpet  by  the  hand  ]  [bonds 
Fran.  This  hand  once  held  my  heart  in  faster 
Than  now  'tis  gripea  by  me.  God  pardon  them 
That  made  us  first  break  hold  ! 

Anne.  Amen,  amen. 
Out  of  my  zeal  to  heaven,  whither  I'm  now  bound, 
I  was  so  impudent  to  wish  you  here ; 
And  once  more  beg  your  pardon.     Oh !  good  man, 
And  father  to  my  cliildren,  pardon  me. 
Pardon,  O  pardon  me  !  my  fault  so  heinous  is. 
That  if  you  in  this  world  forgive  it  not, 
Heaven  will  not  clear  it  in  the  world  to  come. 
Faintness  hath  so  usurp'd  upon  my  knees, 
I'hat  kneel  I  cannot:  But  on  my  heart's  knees 


My  prostrate  soul  lies  thrown  down  at  your  feet 
To  begyour  gracious  pardon :  Pardon, O  pardon  me! 

Fran.  As  freely  from  the  low  depth  of  my  soul 
As  my  Redeemer  hath  for  us  given  his  death, 
I  pardon  thee ;  I  will  shed  tears  for  thee ; 
Pray  with  thee ;  and  in  mere  pity  of  thy  weak 
I'll  wish  to  die  with  thee.  [estate, 

All.  So  do  we  all. 

Adon.     O,  Mr.  Frankford,  all  the  near  alliance 
I  lose  by  her,  shall  be  supplied  in  thee ; 
You  are  my  brother  by  the  nearest  way. 
Her  kindred  hath  fallen  off,  but  yours  doth  stay. 

Fran.  Even  as  I  Iiope  for  pardon  at  that  day. 
When  the  great  judge  of  heaven  in  scarlet  sits. 
So  be  thou  pardon'd.     Though  thy  rash  offence 
Divorced  our  bodies,  thy  repentant  tears 
Unite  our  souls. 

Char.  Then  comfort,  mistress  Frankford  ; 
You  see  your  husband  hath  forgiven  your  fall ; 
Then  rouse  your  spirits,  and  cheer  yoiir  fainting 

Sus.  How  is  it  with  you  ]  [soul. 

Acton.  How  d'ye  feel  yourselfl 

Anne.  Not  of  this  world. 

Fran.  I  see  you  are  not,  and  I  weep  to  see  it. 
My  wife,  the  mother  to  my  pretty  babes ; 
Both  those  lost  names  I  do  restore  thee  back. 
And  with  this  kiss  I  wed  thee  once  again : 
Though  thou  art  wounded  in  thy  honour'd  name, 
And  with  that  grief  upon  thy  death-bed  liest. 
Honest  in  heart,  upon  my  soul  thou  diest. 

Anne.  Pardon'd  on  earth,  soul,  thou  in  heaven 
art  free 
Once  more !  thy  wife  dies  thus  embracing  thee. 

Acton.  Peace  with  thee,  Nan.     Brothers  and 
gentlemen, 
(All  we  that  can  plead  interest  in  her  grief) 
Bestow  upon  her  body  funeral  tears. 
Brother,  had  you  with  threats  and  usage  bad 
Punish'd  her  sin,  the  grief  of  her  offence 
Had  not  with  such  true  sorrow  touch'd  her  heart. 


A   WITTUNG   SET  UP  BY   A   POET'S   LEGACY. 

FROM    "THB  PAIR  MAID  OP  THE   EXCHANGE." 

Cripple.  Why,  think'st  thou  that  I  cannot  write 
Ditty,  or  sonnet,  with  judicial  phrase,      [a  letter. 
As  pretty,  pleasing,  and  pathetical. 
As  any  Ovid-imitating  dunce 
In  all  the  town  1 

Frank.  I  think  thou  canst  not. 

Crip.  Yea,  I'll  swear  I  cannot : 
Yet,  sirrah,  I  could  cony-catch  the  world, 
Make  myself  famous  for  a  sudden  wit, 
And  be  admired  for  my  dexterity, 
Were  I  disposed. 

Frank.  I  prithee  how  1 

Crip.  Why  thus :  there  lived  a  poet  in  this  town 
(If  we  may  term  our  modern  writers  poets,) 
Sharp-witted,  bitter-tongued,  his  pen  of  steel. 
His  ink  was  temper'd  with  the  biting  juice. 
And  extracts  of  the  bitterest  weeds  that  grew: 
He  never  wrote  but  when  the  elements 
Of  fire  and  water  tilted  in  his  brain. 
This  fellow,  ready  to  give  up  his  ghost 
To  Luciae's  bosom,  did  bequeath  to  me 


WILLIAM   DRUMMOND. 


249 


Hi8  library,  which  was  just  nothing 
But  rolls  and  scrolls,  and  bundles  of  cast  wit, 
Such  as  durst  never  visit  Paul's  Churchyard : 
Amongst  them  all  I  happen'd  on  a  quire 
Or  two  of  paper  fiU'd  with  songs  and  ditties, 
And  here  and  there  a  hungry  epigram : 
These  I  reserve  to  my  own  proper  use, 
And,  paternoster-like,  have  conn'd  them  all. 
I  could  now,  when  I  am  in  company 
At  alehouse,  tavern,  or  an  ordinary, 
Upon  a  theme  make  an  extemporal  ditty, 
(Or  one  at  least  should  seem  extemporal,) 
Out  of  the  abundance  of  this  legacy. 
That  all  would  judge  it,  and  report  it  too, 
To  be  the  infant  of  a  sudden  wit ; 
And  then  were  I  an  admirable  fellow. 


SONG  OF  NYMPHS  TO  DIANA. 

FKOM   "THE  GOLDEN  AOE." 

Hail,  beauteous  Dian,  queen  of  shades. 
That  dwells  beneath  these  shadowy  glades. 
Mistress  of  all  these  beauteous  maids 
That  are  by  her  allow'd ; 


Virginity  we  all  profess. 
Abjure  the  worldly  vain  excess. 
And  will  to  Dian  yield  no  less 

Than  we  to  her  have  vow'd. 
The  shepherds,  satyrs,  nymphs,  and  fauns, 
For  thee  will  trip  it  o'er  the  lawns. 
Come  to  the  forest  let  us  go. 
And  trip  it  like  the  barren  doe, 
The  fauns  and  satyrs  will  do  so. 

And  freely  thus  they  may  do. 
The  fairies  dance,  and  satyrs  sing, 
And  on  the  grass  tread  many  a  ring. 
And  to  their  caves  their  ven'son  bring. 

And  we  will  do  as  they  do. 
The  shepherds,  satyrs,  &c. 
Our  food  is  honey  from  the  bees. 
And  mellow  fruits  that  drop  from  trees; 
In  chase  we  climb  the  high  degrees 

Of  every  steepy  mountain ; 
And  when  the  weary  day  is  past 
We  at  the  evening  hie  us  fast. 
And  after  this  our  field  repast. 

We  drink  the  pleasant  fountain. 
The  shepherds,  satyrs,  &c. 


WILLIAM   DRUMMOND. 


[Bom,  1586.    Died,  1649.] 


This  poet  was  bom  at  Hawthornden,  his  fa- 
ther's estate  in  Mid-Lothian,  took  a  degree  at  the 
university  of  Edinburgh,  studied  the  civil  law  in 
France,  and,  returning  home,  entered  into  pos- 
session of  his  paternal  estate,  and  devoted  him- 
self to  literature.  During  his  residence  at  Haw- 
thornden he  courted,  and  was  on  the  eve  of 
marrying,  a  lady  of  the  name  of  Cunningham. 
Her  sudden  death  inspired  him  with  a  melancholy 
which  he  sought  to  dissipate  by  travelling.  He 
accordingly  visited  France,  Italy,  and  Germany, 
and,  during  a  stay  of  eight  years  on  the  conti- 
nent, conversed  with  the  most  polished  society, 
and  studied  the  objects  most  interesting  to  curi- 
osity and  ta-ste.  He  collected  at  the  same  time 
a  number  of  books  and  manuscripts,  some  of 
which  are  still  in  the  hbrary  of  his  native  uni- 
versity. 

On  his  second  return  to  Scotland  he  found  the 
kingdom  distracted  by  political  and  religious  fer- 
ment, and  on  the  eve  of  a  civil  war.  What  con- 
nection this  aspect  of  public  affairs  had  with  his 
quitting  Hawthornden,  his  biographers  have  not 
informed  us,  but  so  it  was,  that  he  retired  to  the 
seat  of  his  brother-in-law,  Sur  John  Scot  of  Scots- 
tarvet,  a  man  of  letters,  and  probably  of  political 
sentiments  congenial  with  his  own.  At  his  abode 
he  wrote  his  History  of  the  Five  James's,  Kings 
of  Scotland,  a  work  abounding  in  false  eloquence 
and  slavish  pruiciples.  Having  returned  at  length 
to  settle  himself  at  his  own  seat,  he  married  a 
lady  of  the  name  of  Logan,  of  the  house  of  Rest- 
alrig,  in  whom  he  fancied  a  resemblance  to  his 
former  mistress,  and  repaired  the  family  mansion 
of  Hawthornden,  with  an  inscription  importing 
32 


his  hopes  of  resting  there  in  honourable  ease. 
But  the  times  were  little  suited  to  promote  his 
wishes ;  and  on  the  civil  war  breaking  out  he 
involved  himself  with  the  covenanters,  by  writing 
in  support  of  the  opposite  side,  for  which  his  ene- 
mies not  only  called  him  to  a  severe  account,  but 
compelled  him  to  furnish  his  quota  of  men  and 
arms  to  support  the  cause  which  he  detested. 
His  estate  lying  in  different  counties,  he  contri- 
buted halves  and  quarters  of  men  to  the  forces 
that  were  raised ;  and  on  this  occasion  he  wrote 
an  epigram,  bitterly  wishing  that  the  imaginary 
division  of  his  recruits  might  be  realized  on  their 
bodies.  His  grief  for  the  death  of  Charles  is  said  to 
have  shortened  his  days.  Such  stories  of  political 
sensibility  may  be  believed  on  proper  evidence. 

The  elegance  of  Drummond's  sonnets,  and  the 
humour  of  his  Scotch  and  Latin  macaronics,  have 
been  at  least  sufficiently  praised :  but  when  Milton 
has  been  described  as  essentially  obliged  to  him, 
the  compliment  to  his  genius  is  stretched  too  far 
A  moilern  writer,  who  edited  the  works  of  Drum- 
mond,  has  affirmed,  that,  "  perhaps,"  if  we  had 
had  no  Drummond,  we  should  not  have  seen 
the  finer  delicacies  of  Milton's  Comus,  Lycidas, 
L'Allegro,  and  II  Penseroso.  "  Perhaps"  is  an 
excellent  leading-string  for  weak  assertions.  One 
or  two  epithets  of  Drummond  may  be  recognised 
in  Milton,  though  not  in  the  minor  poems  already 
mentioned.*     It  is  difficult  to  apply  any  precise 

[•  The  only  pascBge  in  Milton  that  looks  like  borrow^ 
ing  from  Druuimoud  is  in  LycidM:  Gray,  who  borrowej 
always  and  ably.  adopUxI  one  of  his  lines  into  his  Klegj 
too  exact  and  uncommon  to  be  called  a  resiemblance : 
Far  from  the  madding  crowd'*  ignoble  strife.-  C  ^ 


250 


WILLIAM   DRUMMOND. 


idea  to  this  tautology  of  "  fine  delicacies ;"  but 
whatever  the  editor  of  Drumniond  meant  by  it, 
he  may  be  assured  that  there  is  no  debt  on  the 
part  of  Milton  to  the  poet  of  Hawthornden,  which 
the  former  could  be  the  least  unpoverished  by  re- 
turning. Philips,  the  nephew  of  Milton,  edited 
and  extolled  Drummond,  and  pronounced  him 
equal  to  Tasso  himself.  It  has  been  inferred  from 
some  passages  of  the  Theuirum  Poelarum  that 
Milton  had  dictated  several  critical  opinions  in 
that  performance ;  and  it  has  been  taken  for 
granted  that  Philips's  high  opinion  of  Drummond 


was  imbibed  from  the  author  of  «  Paradise  Lost." 
But  the  parallel  between  Drummond  and  Tasso 
surely  could  not  have  been  drawn  by  Milton. 
Philips  had  a  turn  for  poetry,  and  in  many  of  his 
critical  opinions  in  the  Tkeulrum  Poelarum,  showed 
a  taste  that  could  not  be  well  attributed  to  his 
uncle — in  none  more  than  in  this  exaggerated 
comparison  of  a  smooth  sonneteer  to  a  mighty 
poet.  It  is  equally  improbable  that  he  imbibed 
this  absurdity  from  Milton,  as  that  he  caught 
from  him  his  admiration  of  Drummond's  prose 
compositions  and  arbitrary  principles. 


80NNKT3. 
I. 
I  KNOif^  that  all  beneath  the  moon  decays, 
And  what  by  mortals  in  this  world  is  brought, 
In  Time's  great  periods  shall  return  to  nought; 
That  fairest  states  have  fatal  nights  and  days. 
I  know  that  all  the  Muse's  heavenly  lays, 
With  toil  of  sp'rit,  which  are  so  dearly  bought, 
As  idle  sounds,  of  few,  or  none  are  sought, 
That  there  is  nothing  lighter  than  vain  praise. 
I  know  frail  beauty  like  the  purple  flower. 
To  which  one  morn  oft  birth  and  death  affords, 
That  love  a  jarring  is  of  minds'  accords, 
Where  sense  and  will  envassal  Reason's  power; 
Know  what  I  list,  all  this  cannot  me  move, 
But  that,  alas !  I  both  must  write  and  love. 


Ay  me !  and  I  am  now  the  man  whose  muse 
In  happier  times  was  wont  to  laugh  at  love. 
And  those  who  sulTer'd  that  blind  boy  abuse 
The  noble  gifts  were  given  them  from  above. 
What  metamorphose  strange  is  this  I  prove  ? 
Myself  now  scarce  I  find  myself  to  be, 
And  think  no  fable  Circe's  tyranny. 
And  all  the  tales  are  told  of  changed  Jove ; 
Virtue  hath  taught  with  her  philosophy 
My  mind  into  a  better  course  to  move : 
Reason  may  chide  her  fill,  and  oft  reprove 
Affection's  power,  but  what  is  that  to  me  1 

Who  ever  think,  and  never  think  on  ought 

But  that  bright  cherubim  which  thralls  my 
thought. 

m. 
How  that  vast  heaven  entitled  first  is  roll'd, 
If  any  glancing  towers  beyond  it  be, 
And  people  living  in  eternity. 
Or  essence  pure  that  doth  this  all  uphold : 
What  motion  have  those  fixed  sparks  of  gold, 
The  wandering  carbuncles  which  shine  from  high. 
By  sp'rits,  or  bodies  cross-ways  in  the  sky, 
If  they  be  turn'd  and  mortal  things  behold. 
How  sun  posts  heaven  about,  how  night's  pale 

queen 
With  borrow'd  beams  looks  on  this  hanging  round, 
What  cause  fair  Iris  hath,  and  monsters  seen 
Id  air's  large  fields  of  light,  and  seas  profound, 

Did  hold  my  wandering  thoughts,  when  thy 
sweet  eye 

Bade  me  leave  all,  and  only  think  on  thee. 


If  cross'd  with  all  mishaps  be  my  poor  life. 
If  one  short  day  I  never  spent  in  mirth. 
If  my  sp'rit  with  itself  holds  lasting  strife, 
If  sorrow's  death  is  but  new  sorrow's  birth ; 
If  this  vain  world  be  but  a  mournful  stage, 
Where  slave-born  man  plays  to  the  scoffing  stars. 
If  youth  be  toss'd  with  love,  with  weakness  age; 
If  knowledge  serves  to   hold   our  thoughts  in 

wars. 
If  time  can  close  the  hundred  mouths  of  Fame, 
And  make  what's  long  since  past,  like  that's  to  be ; 
If  virtue  only  be  an  idle  name, 
If  being  born  I  was  but  born  to  die ; 

Why  seek  I  to  prolong  these  loathsome  days  1 
The  fairest  rose  in  shortest  time  decays. 


Dear  Chorister,  who  fiom  those  shadows  sends 
Ere  that  the  blushing  mom  dare  show  her  light, 
Such  sad  lamenting  strains,  that  night  attends, 
(Become  all  ear)  stars  stay  to  hear  thy  plight. 
If  one  whose  grief  even  reach  of  thought  transcends. 
Who  ne'er  (not  in  a  dream)  did  taste  delight. 
May  thee  importune  who  Uke  case  pretends, 
And  seems  to  joy  in  woe,  in  woe's  despite. 
Tell  me  (so  may  thou  fortune  milder  try. 
And  long,  long  sing)  for  what  thou  thus  complains. 
Since  winter's  gone,  and  sun  in  dappled  sky 
Enamour'd  smiles  on  woods  and  flowery  plains  1 
The  bird,  as  if  my  questions  did  her  move. 
With  trembling  wings  sigh'd  forth,  I  love,  I 
love. 

TI. 

Sweet  soul,  which  in  the  April  of  thy  years. 
For  to  enrich  the  heaven  madest  poor  this  round, 
And  now  with  flaming  rays  of  glory  crown'd. 
Most  blest  abides  above  the  sphere  of  spheres ; 
If  heavenly  laws,  alas !  have  not  thee  bound 
From  looking  to  this  globe  that  all  up-bears, 
If  ruth  and  pity  there  above  be  found, 
O  deign  to  lend  a  look  unto  these  tears, 
Do  not  disdain  (dear  ghost)  this  sacrifice, 
And  though  I  raise  not  pillars  to  thy  praise. 
My  oflerings  take,  let  this  for  me  suffice. 
My  heart  a  living  pyramid  I  raise . 

And  whilst  kings'  tombs  with  laurels  flourish 
green. 

Thine  shall  with  myrtles  and  these  flowers  be 
seen. 


THOMAS   NABBES. 


25i 


SPIRITUAL  POEMS. 
I. 
Look,  how  the  flower  which  ling'ringly  doth  fade, 
The  morning's  darling  late,  the  summer's  queen, 
Spoil'd  of  that  juice  which  kept  it  fresh  and  green, 
As  high  as  it  did  raise,  bows  low  the  head : 
Right  so  the  pleasures  of  my  Ufe  being  dead, 
Or  in  their  contraries  but  only  seen. 
With  swifter  speed  declines  tiian  erst  it  spread, 
And  (blasted)  scarce  now  shows  what  it  hath  been. 
As  doth  the  pilgrim,  therefore,  whom  the  night 
By  darkness  would  imprison  on  his  way, 
Think  on  thy  home  (my  soul)  and  think  aright. 
Of  what's  yet  left  thee  of  Ufe's  wasting  day ; 
Thy  sun  posts  westward,  passed  is  thy  morn. 
And  twice  it  is  not  given  thee  to  be  born, 
n. 
The  weary  mariner  so  fast  not  flies 
A  howling  tempest,  harbour  to  attain  ; 
Nor  shepherd  hastes  (when  frays  of  wolves  arise) 
So  fast  to  fold,  to  save  his  bleating  train, 
As  I  (wing'd  with  contempt  and  just  disdain) 
Now  fly  the  world,  and  what  it  most  doth  prize. 
And  sanctuary  seek,  free  to  remain 
From  wounds  of  abject  times,  and  envy's  eyes. 
To  me  this  world  did  once  seem  sweet  and  fair. 
While  senses'  light  mind's  prospective  kept  blind ; 
Now,  like  imagined  landscape  in  the  air, 
And  weeping  rainbows,  her  best  joys  I  find : 
Or  if  ought  here  is  had  that  praise  should  have. 
It  is  a  life  obscure,  and  silent  grave. 

m. 
The  last  and  greatest  herald  of  heaven's  king, 
Girt  with  rough  skins,  hies  to  the  deserts  wild. 
Among  that  savage  brood  the  woods  forth  bring, 
Which  he  more  harmless  found  than  man,  and  mild ; 
His  food  was  locusts,  and  what  there  doth  spring. 
With  honey  that  from  virgin  hives  distill'd, 
Parch'd  body,  hollow  eyes,  some  uncouth  thing, 


Made  him  appear,  long  since  from  earth  exiled. 
There  burst  he  forth ;  ail  ye  whose  hopes  rely 
On  God,  with  me  amidst  these  deserts  mourn. 
Repent,  repent,  and  fi-om  old  errors  turn ! 
Who  listen 'd  to  his  voice,  obey'd  his  cry  1 
Only  the  echoes,  whicti  he  made  relent. 
Rung  from  their  flinty  caves.  Repent,  repent ! 

nr. 

Sweet  bird,  that  sing'st  away  the  early  hours 
Of  winters  past  or  coming,  void  of  care. 
Well-pleased  with  delights  which  present  are. 
Fair    seasons,   budding    sprays,    sweet-smelling 

flowers : 
To  rocks,  to  springs,  to  rills,  from  leafy  bowers. 
Thou  thy  Creator's  goodness  dost  declare. 
And  what  dear  gifta  on  thee  he  did  not  spare, 
A  stain  to  human  sense  in  sin  that  lowers. 
What  soul  can  be  so  sick,  which  by  thy  songs 
(Attired  in  sweetness)  sweetly  is  not  driven 
Quite  to  forget  earth's  turmoils,  spites  and  wrongs, 
And  lift  a  reverend  eye  and  thought  to  heaven  ] 
Sweet,  artless  songster,  thou  my  mind  dost  raise 
To  airs  of  spheres,  yes,  and  to  angels'  lays. 

V. 

As  when  it  happeneth  that  some  lovely  town 
Unto  a  barbarous  besieger  falls. 
Who  both  by  sword  and  flame  himself  instals. 
And  (shameless)  it  in  tears  and  blood  doth  drown, 
Her  beauty  spoil'd,  her  citizens  made  thralls, 
j  His  spite  yet  cannot  so  her  all  throw  down, 
i  But  that  some  statue,  pillar  of  renown, 
!  Yet  lurks  unmaim'd  within  her  weeping  walls : 
So,  after  all  the  spoil,  disgrace,  and  wreck. 
That  time,  the  world,  and  death,  could   bring 

combined, 
Amidst  that  mass  of  ruins  they  did  make. 
Safe  and  all  scarless  yet  remains  my  mind . 
From  this  so  high  transcending  rapture  springs. 
That  I,  all  else  defaced,  not  envy  kings. 


THOMAS   NABBES. 

[Died,  1645.] 


This  was  an  inferior  dramatist  in  the  time  of 
Charles  I.  who,  besides  his  plays,  wrote  a  con- 
tinuation of  KnoUes's  History  of  the  Turks.  He 
seems  to  have  been  secretary  or  domestic  to  some 


nobleman  or  prelate,  at  or  near  Worcester,  tie 
had  a  share  in  the  poetical  collection  called 
Fancy's  Theatre,  with  Tatham,  Richard  Brome, 
and  others. 


SONG  BY  LOVE  AND  THE  VIRTUES  TO  PHYSAN- 
DER  AND  BELLANIMA. 

FROM   "  MICROCOSMCS,  A  MASQDB."     1637. 

Welcome,  welcome,  happy  pair, 
To  these  abodes,  where  spicy  air 
Breathes  perfumes,  and  every  sense 
Doth  find  his  object's  excellence ; 
Where's  no  heat,  nor  cold  extreme. 
No  winter's  ice,  no  summer's  scorching  beam; 
Where's  no  sun,  yet  never  night, 
Day  always  springing  from  eternal  light. 
(horus.  All  mortal  sufferings  laid  aside. 
Here  in  endless  bliis  abide. 


Love.     Welcome  to  Love,  my  new-loved  heir, 
Elysium's  thine,  ascend  my  chair: 
For  following  sensuality 
I  thought  to  disinherit  thee ; 
But  being  now  reform'd  in  life. 
And  reunited  to  thy  wife, 
Mine  only  daughter,  fate  allows 
That  Love  with  stars  should  crown  your  brows. 
Join  ye  that  were  his  guides  tt  this. 
Thus  I  enthrone  you  both — now  kiss ; 
Whilst  you  in  endless  measure*  move, 
Led  on  to  endless  joys  by  Love. 


THOMAS  MAY. 


[Born,  1595.     Died,  1650.] 


Thomas  Mat  whom  Dr.  Johnson  has  pro- 
nounced the  best  Latin  poet  of  England,  was  the 
son  of  Sir  Thomas  May,  of  Mayfield  in  Sussex. 
During  the  earlier  part  of  his  public  life  he  was 
encouraged  at  the  court  of  Charles  the  First,  in- 
scribed several  poems  to  his  majesty,  as  well  as 
wrote  them  at  his  injunction,  and  received  from 
Charles  the  appellation  of  "  his  poet."  During 
this  connection  with  roj-alty  he  wrote  his  five 
dramas,*  translated  the  Georgics  and  Pharsalia, 
continued  the  latter  in  English  as  well  as  Latin, 
and  by  his  imitation  of  Lucan  acquired  the  repu- 
tation of  a  modern  classic  in  foreign  countries. 
It  were  much  to  be  wished,  that  on  siding  with 
the  parliament  in  the  civil  wars,  he  had  left  a 
valedictory  testimony  of  regret  for  the  necessity 
of  opposing,  on  public  grounds,  a  monarch  who 
had  been  personally  kind  to  him.  The  change 
was  stigmatized  as  ungrateful,  and  it  was  both 
sordid  and  ungrateful,  if  the  account  given  by 
his  enemies  can  be  relied  on,  that  it  was  owing 
to  the  king's  refusal  of  the  laureateship,  or 
of  a  pension — for  the  story  is  told  in  different 
ways.  All  that  can  be  suggested  in  May's  behalf 
is,  that  no  complimentary  dedications  could  pledge 
his  principles  on  a  great  question  of  public  jus- 
tice, and  that  the  motives  of  an  action  are  seldom 
traced  with  scrupulous  truth,  where  it  is  the  bias 
of  the  narrator  to  degrade  the  action  itself.     Cla- 


rendon, the  most  respectable  of  his  accusers,  is 
exactly  in  this  situation.  He  begins  by  praising 
his  epic  poetry  as  among  the  best  in  our  language, 
and  inconsistently  concludes  by  pronouncing  that 
May  deserves  to  be  forgotten. 

The  parliament,  from  whatever  motive  he  em- 
braced their  cause,  appointed  him  their  secretary 
and  historiographer.  In  this  capacity  he  wrote 
his  Breviary,  which  Warburton  pronounces  "  a 
just  composition  according  to  the  rules  of  history." 
It  breaks  off,  much  to  the  loss  of  the  history  of 
that  time,  just  at  the  period  of  the  Self-denying  Or- 
dinance. Soon  after  this  publication  he  went  to 
bed  one  night  in  apparent  health,  having  drank 
freely,  and  was  found  dead  in  the  morning.  His 
death  was  ascribed  to  his  nightcap  being  tied  too 
tightly  under  his  chin.  Andrew  Marvel  imputes 
it  to  the  cheerful  bottle.  Taken  together,  they 
were  no  bad  receipt  for  suffocation.  The  vampire 
revenge  of  his  enemies  in  digging  him  up  fi-om 
his  grave,  is  an  event  too  notorious  in  the  history 
of  the  Restoration.  They  gave  him  honourable 
company  in  this  sacrilege,  namely,  that  of  Blake. 

He  has  ventured  in  narrative  poetry  on  a  simi- 
lar difficulty  to  that  Shakspeare  encountered  in 
the  historical  drama,  but  it  is  unnecessary  to  show 
with  how  much  less  success.  Even  in  that  de- 
partment, he  has  scarcely  equalled  Daniel  or 
Drayton. 


THE  DEATH  OF   ROSAMOND. 
Faie  Rosamond  within  her  bower  of  late 
(While  these  sad  storms  had  shaken  Henry's  state, 
And  he  from  England  last  had  absent  been) 
Retired  herself;  nor  had  that  star  been  seen 
To  shine  abroad,  or  with  her  lustre  grace 
The  woods  or  walks  adjoining  to  the  place. 

About  those  places,  while  the  times  were  free, 
Oft  with  a  train  of  her  attendants  she 
For  pleasure  walk'd ;  and  like  the  huntress  queen, 
With  her  light  nymphs,  was  by  the  people  seen. 
Thither  the  country  lads  and  swains,  that  near 
To  Woodstock  dwelt,  would  come  to  gaze  on  her. 
Their  jolly  May-games  there  would  they  present, 
Their  harmless  sports  and  rustic  merriment, 
To  give  this  beauteous  paragon  delight. 
Nor  that  officious  service  would  she  slight ; 
But  their  rude  pastimes  gently  entertain 

Now  came  that  fatal  day,  ordain'd  to  see 
The  eclipse  of  beauty,  and  for  ever  be 
Accursed  by  woeful  lovers, — all  alone 
Into  her  chamber  Rosamond  was  gone ;  .  .  .  . 
WhUe  thus  she  sadly  mused,  a  ruthful  cry 
Had  pierced  her  tender  ear,  and  in  the  sound 
Was  named  (she  thought)  unhappy  Rosamond. 

•  The  Heir,  C. ;    Antigone,  T. ;    Julia  Agrippina,  T. ; 
Cleopatra.  T.;  Old  Couple,  C;  to  wliieh  may  be  aUded 
f  alius  Cfesitr,  a  tragedy,  stUl  in  manuscript. 
262 


(The  cry  was  utter'd  by  her  grieved  maid, 
From  whom  that  clew  was  taken,  that  betray 'd 
Her  lady's  life,)  and  while  she  doubting  fear'd. 
Too  soon  the  fatal  certainty  appear'd : 
For  with  her  train  the  wrathful  queen  was  there 
Oh !  who  can  tell  what  cold  and  killing  feeir 
Through  every  part  of  Rosamond  was  struck  ? 
The  rosy  tincture  her  sweet  cheeks  forsook. 
And  like  an  ivory  statue  did  she  show 
Of  life  and  motion  reft.     Had  she  been  so 
Transform'd  in  deed,  how  kind  the  Fates  had  been, 
How  pitiful  to  her !  nay  to  the  queen ! 
Even  she  herself  did  seem  to  entertain 
Some  ruth ;  but  straight  revenge  return'd  again. 
And  fill'd  her  furious  breast.  "Strumpet,  (quoth  she) 
I  need  not  speak  at  all ;  my  sight  may  be 
Enough  expression  of  my  wrongs,  and  what 
The  consequence  must  prove  of  such  a  hate. 
Here,  take  this  poison'd  cup"  (for  in  her  hand 
A  poison'd  cup  she  had)  "  and  do  not  stand 
To  parley  now :  but  drink  it  presently, 
Or  else  by  tortures  be  resolved  to  die ! 
Thy  doom  is  set."     Pale  trembling  Rosamond 
Receives  the  cup,  and  kneeling  on  the  ground, 
When  dull  amazement  somewhat  had  forsook 
Her  breast,  thus  humbly  to  the  queen  she  spoke : 
"  I  dare  not  hope  you  should  so  far  relent. 
Great  queen,  as  to  forgive  the  punishment 


RICHARD   CRASHAW. 


2od 


That  to  my  foul  offence  is  justly  due. 

Nor  will  I  vainly  plead  excuse,  to  show 

By  what  strong  arts  I  was  at  first  betray'd, 

Or  tell  how  many  subtle  snares  were  laid 

To  catch  mine  honour.  These  though  ne'er  so  true, 

Can  bring  no  recompense  at  all  to  you, 

Nor  just  excuse  to  my  abhorred  crime. 

Instead  of  sudden  death,  I  crave  but  time,  .... 

"No  more,(replied  the  furious  queen;)  have  done; 
Delay  no  longer,  lest  thy  choice  be  gone, 
And  that  a  sterner  death  for  thee  remain." 
No  more  did  Rosamond  entreat  in  vain ; 
But,  forced  to  hard  necessity  to  yield, 
Drank  of  the  fatal  potion  tliat  she  held. 
And  with  it  enter'd  the  grim  tyrant  Death : 
Yet  gave  such  respite,  that  her  dying  breath 
Might  beg  forgiveness  from  the  heavenly  throne, 
And  pardon  those  that  her  destruction 
Had  doubly  wrought.  "  Forgive,  O  Lord,  (said  she,) 
Him  that  dishonour'd,  her  that  murder'd  me. 
Yet  let  me  speak,  for  truth's  sake,  angry  queen ! 
If  you  had  spared  my  lite,  I  might  have  been 


In  time  to  come  the  example  of  your  glory ; 
Not  of  your  shame,  as  now;  for  when  the  story 
Of  hapless  Rosamond  is  read,  the  best 
And  holiest  people,  as  they  will  detest 
My  crime,  and  call  it  foul,  they  will  abhor, 
And  call  unjust,  the  rage  of  Eleanor. 
And  in  this  act  of  yours  it  will  be  thought 
King  Henry's  sorrow,  not  his  love,  you  sought." 
And  now  so  far  the  venom's  force  assail'd 
Her  vital  parts,  that  life  with  language  fail'd. 
That  well-built  palace  where  the  Graces  made 
Their  chief  abode,  where  thousand  Cupids  play'd 
And  couch'd  their  shaft8,whose  structure  did  delight 
Even  nature's  self,  is  now  demolish'd  quite. 
Ne'er  to  be  raised  again ;  the  untimely  stroke 
0(  death  that  precious  cabinet  has  broke. 
That  Henry's  pleased  heart  so  long  had  held. 
With  sudden  mourning  now  the  house  is  fiU'd ; 
Nor  can  the  queen's  attendants,  though  they  fear 
Her  wrath,  from  weeping  at  that  sight  forbear. 
By  rough  north  blasts  so  blooming  roses  fade; 
So  crushed  falls  the  lily's  tender  blade 


RICHARD  CRASHAW. 


[Born,  1615?    Died,  I6S2.] 


This  poet  fell  into  neglect  in  his  own  age. 
He  was,  however,  one  of  the  first  of  our  old  minor 
poets  that  was  rescued  from  oblivion  in  the  fol- 
lowing century.  Pope  borrowed  from  him,  but 
acknowledged  his  obligations.  Crashaw  formed 
his  style  on  the  most  quaint  and  conceited  school 
of  Italian  poetry,  that  of  Marino ;  and  there  is  a 
prevalent  harshness  and  strained  expression  in 
his  verses;  but  there  are  also  many  touches  of 
beauty  and  solemnity,  and  the  strength  of  his 
thoughts  sometimes  appears  even  in  their  distor- 
tion. If  it  were  not  grown  into  a  tedious  and 
impertinent  fashion  to  discover  the  sources  of 
Paradise  Lost,  one  might  be  tempted  to  notice 
some  similarity  between  the  speech  of  Satan  in 
the  Sospetto  di  Herode  of  Marino  (which  Cra- 
shaw has  translated)  and  Satan's  address  to  the 
Sun  in  Milton.  The  little  that  is  known  of  Cra- 
shaw's  life  exhibits  enthusiasm,  but  it  is  not  that 
of  a  weak  or  selfish  mind.  His  private  character 
was  amiable ;  and  we  are  told  by  the  earliest  edi- 
tor of  his  "  Steps  to  the  Temple,"  that  he  was 
skilled  in  music,  drawing,  and  engraving.  His 
father,  of  whose  writings  an  account  is  given  in 
the  tenth  volume  of  the  Censura  Literaria,  was  a 
preacher  at  the  Temple  church,  London.  His 
son,  the  poet,  was  born  in  London,  but  at  what 
time  is  uncertain.  He  was  educated  at  the  Char- 
terhouse through  the  bounty  of  two  friends.  Sir 
Henry  Yeiverton,  and  Sir  Francis  Crew.     From 


thence  he  removed  to  Cambridge,  where  he  1  e- 
came  a  fellow,  and  took  a  degree  of  master  of 
arts.  There  he  published  his  Latin  poems,  in 
one  of  which  is  the  epigram  from  a  scripture  j  as- 
sage,  ending  with  the  line,  so  well  known, 

Lympha  pudica  Deum  vidit  et  erubnit, 
"The  modest  water  saw  its  God,  and  blusb'd :" 

and  also  his  pious  effusions,  called  "  Steps  to  the 
Temple."  The  title  of  the  latter  work  was  in 
allusion  to  the  church  at  Cambridge,  near  his  re- 
sidence, where  he  almost  constantly  spent  his 
time.  When  the  covenant,  in  1644,  was  oifered 
to  the  universities,  he  preferred  ejection  and 
poverty  to  subscribing  it  Already  he  had  been 
distinguished  as  a  popular  and  powerful  preacher. 
He  soon  after  embraced  the  Catholic  religion,  and 
repaired  to  France.  In  austerity  of  devotion  he 
had  no  great  transition  to  make  to  Catholicism ; 
and  his  abhorrence  at  the  religious  innovations  he 
had  witnessed,  together  with  his  admiration  of  the 
works  of  the  canonized  St.  Teresa  of  Spain,  still 
more  easily  account  for  his  conversion.  Cowley 
found  him  at  Paris  in  deplorable  poverty,  and 
recommended  him  to  his  exiled  queen,  Henrietta 
Maria.  Her  majesty  gave  him  letters  of  recom- 
mendation to  Italy,  where  he  became  a  secretary 
to  one  of  the  Roman  cardinals,  and  a  canon  of 
the  church  of  Loretto.  Soon  after  the  latter  a) 
pointment  he  died,  about  the  year  1652. 


SOSPETTO  IVHERODE.    LIB.  1. 


Below  the  bottom  of  the  great  abyss, 
There  where  one  centre  reconciles  all  things ; 
The  world's  profound  heart  pants ;  their  placed  is 
Mischief's  old  master,  close  about  him  clings 


A  curl'd  knot  of  embracing  snakes,  that  kiss 
His  correspondent  cheeks ;  these  loathsome  strings 

Hold  the  perverse  prince  in  eternal  ties. 

Fast  bound,  since  first  he  forfeited  the  skies. . 
W 


254 


RICHARD    CRASHAW. 


From  death's  sad  shades,  to  the  life-breathing  air 
This  mortal  enemy  to  mankind's  good. 
Lifts  his  maUgnant  eyes,  wasted  with  care, 
To  become  beautiful  in  human  blood. 
Where  Jordan  melts  his  crystal,  to  make  fair 
The  fields  of  Palestine  with  so  pure  a  flood ; 
There  does  he  fix  his  eyes,  and  there  detect 
New  matter  to  make  good  his  great  suspect. 

He  calls  to  mind  the  old  quarrel,  and  what  spark 
Set  the  contending  sons  of  heaven  on  fire : 
0(t  in  his  deep  thought  he  revolves  the  dark 
Sybils'  divining  leaves  ;  he  does  inquire 
Into  the  old  prophecies,  trembling  to  mark 
How  many  present  prodigies  conspire 

To  crown  their  past  predictions,  both  he  lays 
Together,  in  his  ponderous  mind  both  weighs. 

Heaven's  golden-winged  herald,  late  he  saw 
To  a  poor  Galilean  virgin  sent ; 
How  low  the  bright  youth  bow'd,and  with  what  awe 
Immortal  flowers  to  her  fair  hand  present. 
He  saw  the  old  Hebrew's  womb  neglect  the  law 
Of  age  and  barrenness,  and  her  babe  prevent 
His  birth  by  his  devotion,  who  began 
Betimes  to  be  a  saint,  before  a  man. 

He  saw  rich  nectar  thaws  release  the  rigour 
Of  the  icy  north,  from  frost-bound  Atlas'  hands 
His  adamantine  fetters  fall ;  green  vigour 
Gladding  the  Scythian  rocks,  and  Libyan  sands. 
He  saw  a  vernal  smile  sweetly  disfigure 
Winter's  sad  face,  and  through  the  flowery  lands 
Of  fair  Engaddi's  honey-sweating  fountains, 
With  manna,  milk,  and  balm,  new  broach  the 
mountains. 

He  saw  how  in  that  blest  day-bearing  night, 
The  heaven-rebuked  shades  made  haste  away ; 
How  bright  a  dawn  of  angels  with  new  light, 
Amazed  the  midnight  world,  and  made  a  day 
Of  which  the  morning  knew  not ;  mad  with  spite, 
He  niark'd  how  the  poor  shepherds  ran  to  pay 
Their  simple  tribute  to  the  babe,  whose  birth 
Was  the  great  business  both  of  heaven  and  earth. 

He  saw  a  threefold  sun,  with  rich  increase, 
Makt  proud  the  ruby  portals  of  the  east. 
He  saw  the  temple  sacred  to  sweet  peace. 
Adore  her  prince's  birth,  flat  on  her  breast 
He  saw  the  falhng  idols  all  confess 
A  coming  Deity.     He  saw  the  nest 

Of  poisonous  and  unnatural  loves,  earth-nurst, 
Touch'd   with   the   world's  true    antidote    to 
burst. 

He  saw  Heaven  blossom  with  a  new-born  light. 
On  which,  as  on  a  glorious  stranger,  gazed 
The  golden  eyes  of  night,  whose  beam  made  bright 
The  way  to  Beth'lem,  and  as  boldly  blazed 
(Nor  ask'd  leave  of  the  sun,)  by  day  as  night. 
Bv  whom   (as  Heaven's   illustrious  handmaid) 
raised 

Three  kings  (or  what  is  more)  three  wise  men 
went 

Wefetwird.  to  find  the  world's  true  orient  .  . . 


That  the  gi«?at  angel-blinding  light  should  shrink 
His  blaze,  to  shine  in  a  poor  shepherd's  eye. 
That  the  unmeasured  God  so  low  should  sink, 
As  pris'ner  in  a  few  poor  rags  to  lie. 
That  from  his  mother's  breast  he  milk  should  drink, 
Who  feeds  with  nectar  Heaven's  fair  family, 
That  a  vile  manger  his  low  bed  should  prove, 
Who  in  a  throne  of  stars  thunders  above. 

That  he  whom  the  sun  serves,  should  faintly  peep 
Through  clouds  of  infant  flesh :  that  he  the  old 
Eternal  Word  should  be  a  child  and  weep : 
That  he  who  made  the  fire  should  fear  the  cold ': 
That  Heaven's  high  Majesty  his  court  should  keep 
In  a  clay  cottage,  by  each  blast  controll'd : 

That  glory's  self  should  serve  our  griefs  and  fears. 

And  free  eternity  submit  to  years. 

And  further,  that  the  law's  eternal  Giver 
Should  bleed  in  his  own  law's  obedience ; 
And  to  the  circumcising  knife  deliver 
Himself,  the  forfeit  of  his  slave's  offence. 
That  the  unblemish'd  Lamb,  blessed  for  ever, 
Should  take  the  mark  of  sin,  and  pain  of  sense. 
These  are  the  knotty  riddles,  whose  dark  doubt 
Entangles  his  lost  thoughts  past  getting  out : 

While  new  thoughts  boil'd  in  his  enraged  breast, 
His  gloomy  bosom's  darkest  character 
Was  in  his  shady  forehead  seen  express'd. 
The  forehead's  shade  in  grief's  expression  there, 
Is  what  in  sign  of  joy  among  the  blest, 
The  face's  lightning,  or  a  smile  is  here. 

Those  stings  of  care  that  his  strong  heart  opprest, 
A   desperate    Oh   me !    drew   from  his   deep 
breast. 

Oh  me !  (thus  bellow'd  he ;)  oh  me  !  what  great 
Portents  before  mine  eyes  their  powers  advance  7 
And  serve  my  purer  sight,  only  to  beat 
Down  my  proud  thought,  and  leave  it  in  a  trance  1 
Frown  I,  and  can  great  Nature  keep  her  seat  1 
And  the  gay  stars  lead  on  their  golden  dance ; 
Can  his  attempts  above  still  prosperous  be, 
Auspicious  still,  in  spite  of  hell  and  me  1 

He  has  my  Heaven  (what  would  he  more)  whose 

bright 
And  radiant  sceptre  this  bold  hand  should  bear. 
And  for  the  never-fading  fields  of  light. 
My  fair  inheritance,  he  confines  me  here 
To  this  dark  house  of  shades,  horror,  and  night. 
To  draw  a  long-lived  death,  where  all  my  cheer 
Is  the  solemnity  my  sorrow  wears. 
That  mankind's  torment  waits  upon  my  tears 

Dark  dusky  man,  he  needs  would  single  forth, 
To  make  the  partner  of  his  own  pure  ray : 
And  should  we  powers  of  Heaven,  spirits  of  worth, 
Bow  our  bright  heads  before  a  king  of  clay  1 
It  shall  not  be,  said  I ;  and  clomb  the  north, 
Where  never  wing  of  angel  yet  made  way. 
What  though  I  miss'd  my  blowl  yet  I  struck  high, 
And  to  dare  something,  is  some  victory.* 

*  Which,  if  not  victory,  is  yet  revenge. — Milton. 


WILLIAM   HABINGTON. 


2o6 


Is  he  not  satisfied  ?  means  he  to  wrest 
Hell  from  me  too,  and  sack  my  territories  ? 
Vile  human  nature,  means  he  not  t'  invest 
(O  my  despite  !)  with  his  divinest  glories  1 
And  rising  with  rich  spoils  upon  his  breast, 
With  his  fair  triumphs  fill  all  future  stories  1 
Must  the  bright  arms  of  heaven  rebuke  these  eyesi 
Mock  me,  and  dazzle  my  dark  mysteries  1 

Art  thou  not  Lucifer  ?  he  to  whom  the  droves 
Of  stars  that  gild  the  morn  in  charge  were  given  1 
The  nimblest  of  the  lightning-winged  loves  1 
The  fairest,  and  the  first-born  smile  of  Heaven  1 
Look  in  what  pomp  the  mistress  planet  moves, 
Rcv'rently  circled  by  the  lesser  seven ; 

Such  and  so  rich,  the  flames  that  from  thine  eyes 
Oppress'd  the  common  people  of  the  skies. 


Ah,  wretch  !  what  boots  thee  to  cast  back  thy  eyea 
Where  dawning  hope  no  beam  of  comfort  shows  1 
While  the  reflection  of  thy  forepast  joys 
Renders  thee  double  to  thy  present  woes. 
Rather  make  up  to  thy  new  miseries, 
And  meet  the  mischief  that  upon  thee  grows. 

If  hell  must  mourn,  heaven  sure  shall  sympathize. 

What  force  cannot  eflect,  fraud  shall  devise. 

And  yet  whose  force  fear  1 1  have  I  so  lost 
Myself?  my  strength  too  with  my  innocence? 
Come,  try  who  dares,  heaven,  earth,  whate'er  dost 
A  borrow'd  being,  make  thy  bold  defence,     [boast 
Come  thy  Creator  too,  what  though  it  cost 
Me  yet  a  second  fall  1  we'd  try  our  streng^ths. 
Heavens  saw  us  struggle  once :  as  brave  a  fight 
Earth  now  shall  see,  and  tremble  at  the  sight. 


WILLIAM  HABINGTON. 


[Born,  1605.     Dini,  I6M.] 


The  mother  of  this  poet,  who  was  daughter  to 
Lord  Morley,  is  reported  to  have  written  the  famous 
letter  of  warning,  in  consequence  of  which  the 
gunpowder  plot  was  discovered.  His  father,  who 
had  been  suspected  of  a  share  in  Babington's 
conspiracy,  and  who  had  owed  his  release  to  his 
being  godson  to  Queen  Elizabeth,  was  a  second 
time  imprisoned,  and  condemned  to  death  on  the 
charge  of  having  concealed  some  of  the  agents 
in  the  gunpowder  plot;  but  by  Lord  Morley's 
interest  was  pardoned,  on  condition  of  confining 
himself  to  Worcestershire,  of  which  county  he 
lived  to  write  a  voluminous  history. 

The  family  were  catholics;  and  his  son,  the 
poet,  was  sent  to  St  Omer's,  we  are  told,  with  a 
view  to  make  him  a  Jesuit,  which  he  declined. 
The  same  intention  never  failed  to  be  ascribed  to 
all  English  families  who  sent  their  children  to 
that  seminary.  On  his  return  from  the  Conti- 
nent he  lived  chiefly  with  his  father,  who  was  his 


preceptor.  Of  the  subsequent  course  of  his  life 
nothing  more  seems  to  be  on  record  than  his 
marriage  and  his  literary  works.  The  latter  con- 
sisted of  effusions  entitled  Castara,  the  poetical 
name  of  his  mistress  ;  the  Queen  of  Arragon,  a 
tragi-comedy ;  a  History  of  Edward  IV.;  and 
Observations  upon  History. 

Habington  became  a  poet  from  the  courtship 
of  the  lady  whom  he  married,  Lucy,  daughter  to 
liord  Powis.  There  is  no  very  ardent  sensibility 
in  his  lyrics,  but  they  denote  a  mind  of  elegant 
and  chaste  sentiments.  He  is  fi-ee  as  any  of  the 
minor  poets  of  his  age  from  the  impurities  which 
were  then  considered  as  wit.  He  is  indeed  rather 
ostentatiously  platonic,  but  his  love  language  is 
far  from  being  so  elaborate  as  the  complimentary 
gallantry  of  the  preceding  age.  A  respectable 
gravity  of  thought,  and  succinct  fluency  of  expres- 
sion, are  obser^'able  in  the  poema  of  his  latei 
life. 


CUPIO  DISSOLVl. 

The  soul  which  doth  with  God  unite, 
Those  gayeties  how  doth  she  slight 

Which  o'er  opinion  sw^y  ! 
Like  sacred  virgin  wax,  which  shines 
On  altars  or  on  martyrs'  shrines, 

How  doth  she  burn  away  ! 

How  violent  are  her  throes  till  she 
From  envious  earth  deliver'd  be. 

Which  doth  her  flight  restrain  ! 
How  doth  she  doat  on  whips  and  racks, 
On  fires,  and  the  so-dreaded  axe. 

And  every  murdering  pain ! 

How  soon  she  leaves  the  pride  of  wealth, 
The  flatteries  of  youth  and  health, 

And  fame's  more  precious  breath ; 
And  every  gaudy  circumstance 
That  doth  the  pomp  of  life  advance, 

At  the  approach  of  death ! 


The  cunning  of  astrologers 
Observes  each  motion  of  the  stars. 

Placing  all  knowledge  there : 
And  lovers  in  their  mistress'  eyes 
Contract  those  wonders  of  the  skies, 

And  seek  no  higher  sphere. 

The  wandering  pilot  sweats  to  find 
The  causes  that  produce  the  wind, 

Still  gazing  on  the  pole. 
The  politician  scorns  all  art 
But  what  doth  pride  and  power  impart. 

And  swells  the  ambitious  soul. 

But  he  whom  heavenly  fire  doth  warm 
And  'gainst  these  powerful  follies  arm. 

Doth  soberly  disdain 
All  these  fond  human  mysteries 
As  the  deceitful  and  unwise 

Distempers  of  our  brain. 


256                                                   WILLIAM   HABINGTON. 

He  as  a  burden  bears  his  clay, 

She  her  throne  makes  reason  climb 

Yet  vainly  throws  it  not  away 

While  wild  passions  captive  lie ; 

On  every  idle  cause : 

And  each  article  of  time, 

But  with  the  same  untroubled  eye 

Her  pure  thoughts  to  heaven  fly : 

Can  or  resolve  to  live  or  die, 

All  her  vows  religious  be, 

Regardless  of  th'  applause. 

And  her  love  she  vows  to  me. 

My  God !  if  'tis  thy  great  decree 

That  this  must  the  last  moment  be 

Wherein  I  breathe  this  air; 

TO  CASTARA,   INQUIRING  WHY  I  LOVED  HER. 

My  heart  obeys,  joy'd  to  retreat 

Why  doth  the  stubborn  iron  prove 

From  the  false  favours  of  the  great. 
And  treachery  of  the  fair. 

So  gentle  to  th'  magnetic  stone? 
How  know  you  that  the  orbs  do  move ; 

With  music  too  1  since  heard  of  none  1 

When  thou  shalt  please  this  soul  t'  enthrone 

And  I  will  answer  why  I  love. 

Above  impure  corruption ; 

What  should  I  grieve  or  fear. 

'Tis  not  thy  virtues,  each  a  star 

To  think  this  breathless  body  must 

Which  in  thy  soul's  bright  sphere  do  shine. 

Become  a  loathsome  heap  of  dust, 

Shooting  their  beauties  from  afar. 

And  ne'er  again  appear. 

To  make  each  gazer's  heart  like  thine ; 

For  in  the  fire  when  ore  is  tried, 

Our  virtues  often  meteors  are. 

And  by  that  torment  purified. 

'Tis  not  thy  face,  I  cannot  spy, 

Do  we  deplore  the  loss  1 

When  poets  weep  some  virgin's  death, 

And  when  thou  shalt  my  soul  refine, 

That  Cupid  wantons  in  her  eye, 

That  it  thereby  may  purer  shine, 

Or  perfumes  vapour  from  her  breath. 

Shall  I  grieve  for  the  dross  1 

And  'mongst  the  dead  thou  once  must  lie. 
Nor  is't  thy  birth.     For  I  was  ne'er 

' 

THE  DESCRIPTION  OF  CASTARA. 

So  vain  as  in  that  to  delight : 

Like  the  violet,  which  alone 

Which,  balance  it,  no  weight  doth  bear, 
Nor  yet  is  object  to  the  sight, 

Prospers  in  some  happy  shade ; 
My  Castara  lives  unknown, 

But  only  fills  the  vulgar  ear. 

To  no  looser  eye  betray 'd, 

Nor  yet  thy  fortunes :  since  I  know 

For  she's  to  herself  untrue, 

They,  in  their  motion  like  the  sea 

Who  delights  i'  th'  public  view. 

Ebb  from  the  good,  to  the  impious  flow : 

Such  is  her  beauty,  as  no  arts 
Have  enrich'd  with  borrow'd  grace, 

And  so  in  flattery  betray. 

That  raising  they  but  overthrow. 

Her  high  birth  no  pride  imparts, 

And  yet  these  attributes  might  prove 

For  she  blushes  in  her  place. 

Fuel  enough  t'inflame  desire ; 

Folly  boasts  a  glorious  blood. 

But  there  was  something  from  above, 

She  is  noblest  being  good. 

Shot  without  reason's  guide,  this  fire. 

Cautious,  she  knew  never  yet 

I  know,  yet  know  not,  why  I  love. 

What  a  wanton  courtship  meant ; 
Nor  speaks  loud  to  boast  her  wit, 

^ 

In  her  silence  eloquent. 

SONO. 

Of  herself  survey  she  takes. 

FROM   "THE  QUEEX  OF   ABRAQON." 

But  'tween  men  no  difference  makes. 

A  Troffi-Comedy. 

She  obeys  with  speedy  will 

Not  the  Phoenix  in  his  death. 

Her  grave  parents'  wise  commands : 

Nor  those  banks  where  violets  grow, 

And  so  innocent,  that  ill. 

And  Arabian  winds  still  blow, 

She  nor  acts,  nor  understands                          « 

Yield  a  perfume  like  her  breath. 

Women's  feet  run  still  astray 

But  0  !  marriage  makes  the  spell. 

If  once  to  ill  they  know  the  way 

And  'tis  poison  if  I  smell. 

She  sails  by  that  rock,  the  court, 

The  twin-beauties  of  the  skies, 

Where  oft  honour  splits  her  mast: 

(When  the  half-sunk  sailors  haste 

And  retir'dness  thinks  the  port. 

To  rend  sail,  and  cut  their  mast,) 

Where  her  fame  may  anchor  cast. 

Shine  not  welcome,  as  her  eyes. 

Virtue  safely  cannot  sit, 

But  those  beams,  than  storms  more  black, 

Where  vice  is  enlhron'd  for  wit. 

If  they  point  at  me,  I  wrack. 

She  holds  that  day's  pleasure  best, 

Then  for  fear  of  such  a  fire, 

Where  sin  waits  not  on  delight; 

Which  kills  worse  than  the  long  night 

Without  mask,  or  ball,  or  feast 

Which  benumbs  the  Muscovite, 

Sweetly  spends  a  winter's  night. 

I  must  from  my  life  retire. 

O'er  that  darkness  w  hence  is  thrust, 

But  0  no  !  for  if  her  eye 

Prayer  and  sleep  oft  governs  lust. 

Warm  me  not,  I  freeze,  and  die. 

JOHN   HALL. 


(Bom,  1627.    Died,  1656.] 


John  Hai.l  was  bom  at  Durham,  and  edu- 
cated at  St  John's  College,  Cambridge,  where 
in  1646  he  published  a  volume  of  verses.     He 


had  been  some  time  at  the  bar,  when  he  died,  in 
his  twenty-ninth  year. 


THE  MORNING  STAR. 
Still  Herald  of  the  Mom!  whose  ray, 
Being  page  and  usher  to  the  day. 
Doth  mourn  behind  the  sun,  before  him  play ; 
Who  sett'st  a  golden  signal  ere 
The  bark  retire,  and  lark  appear, 
The  early  cocks  cry  comfort,  screech-owls  fear. 

Who  wink'st  while  lovers  plight  their  troth, 
Then  falls  asleep,  while  they  aure  loth 


To  part  without  a  more  engaging  oath ; 

Steal  in  a  message  to  the  eyes 

Of  Julia,  tell  her  that  she  lies 

Too  long, — thy  lord,  the  Sun,  will  quickly  rise. 

Yet  it  is  midnight  still  with  me, 
Nay  worse,  unless  that  kinder  she 
Smile  day,  and  in  my  zenith  seated  be ! 
But  if  she  will  obliquely  run, 
I  needs  a  calenture  must  shun. 
And,  like  an  Ethiopian,  hate  my  sun. 


WILLIAM   CHAMBERLAYNE. 

[Bom,  1619.    DM,  Ju.  n,  IS89.] 


I  BELIEVE  the  only  notice  of  this  poet  that  is 
to  be  found  is  in  Jiangbaine,  who  informs  us  that 
he  was  a  physician  at  Shaftesbury,  in  Dorset- 
shire, in  the  reigns  of  Charles  I.  and  H.  He 
wrote  a  single  tragi-comedy,  «  Love's  Victory," 
which  was  acted  after  the  Restoration  under  the 
new  title  of  "  Wits  led  by  the  Nose,  or  the  Poet's 
Revenge."  His  Pharonnida,  an  heroic  poem,  in 
five  books,  which  Langbaine  says  has  nothing  to 
recommend  it,  is  one  of  the  most  interesting 
stories  that  was  ever  told  in  verse,  and  contained 
so  much  amusing  matter  as  to  be  made  into  a 
prose  novel  in  the  reign  of  Charles  II.  What 
Dr.  Johnson  said  unjustly  of  Milton's  Comus,  that 
it  was  like  gold  hid  under  a  rock,  may  unfortu- 
nately be  applied  with  too  much  propriety  to 
Pharonnida.  Never  perhaps  was  so  much  beau- 
tiful design  in  poetry  marred  by  infelicity  of  exe- 
cution: his  ruggedness  of  versification,  abrupt 
transitions,  and  a  style  that  is  at  once  slovenly 
and  quaint,  perpetually  interrupted  in  enjoying 
the  splendid  figures  and  spirited  passions  of  this 


romantic  tablet,  and  make  us  catch  them  only  by 
glimpses.  I  am  well  aware  that  from  a  story  so 
closely  interwoven  a  few  selected  passages,  while 
they  may  be  more  than  sufficient  to  exemplify 
the  faults,  are  not  enough  to  discover  the  full 
worth  of  Chamberlayne.  His  sketches,  already 
imperfect,  must  appear  still  more  so  in  the  shape  of 
fragments ;  we  must  peruse  the  narrative  itself  to 
appreciate  the  rich  breadth  and  variety  of  its 
scenes,  and  we  must  perhaps  accustom  our  vision 
to  the  thick  medium  of  its  uncouth  style  to  enjoy 
the  power  and  pathos  of  his  characters  and  situa- 
tions. Under  all  the  defects  of  the  poem,  '.he 
reader  will  then  indeed  feel  its  unfinished  L  nts 
affect  the  heart  and  dilate  the  imagination.  F.  om 
the  fate  of  Chamberlayne  a  young  poet  may  learn 
one  important  lesson,  that  he  who  neglects  the 
subsidiary  graces  of  taste  has  every  chance  of 
being  neglected  by  posterity,  and  that  the  pride 
of  genius  must  not  prompt  him  to  disdain  the 
study  of  harmony  and  of  style. 


PHARONNIDA,   BOOK  n.    CANTO  III. 
Argalia  being  brought  before  the  PrinoeM  Pharonnida  on 
a  false  acruxation  of  murder,  they  fall  in  love  with  each 
other,  although  the  Princesg  id  obliged,  with  a  reluctant 
heart,  to  condemn  him  on  false  evidence. 

HiOH  mounted  on  an  ebon  throne  on  which 
Th'  embellish'd  silver  show'd  so  sadly  rich 
As  if  its  varied  form  strove  to  delight 
Those  solemn  souls  which  death-pale  fear  did  fright, 
In  Tyrian  purple  clad,  the  princess  sate. 
Between  two  sterner  ministers  of  fate, 
Impartial  judges,  whose  distinguish'd  tasks 
Their  various  habit  to  the  view  unmasks. 
One,  in  whose  looks,  as  pity  strove  to  draw 
Compassion  in  the  tablets  of  the  law, 


Some  softness  dwelt,  in  a  majestic  vest 
Of  state-like  red  was  clothed ;  the  other,  dress'd 
In  dismal  black,  whose  terrible  aspect 
Declared  his  office,  served  but  to  detect 
Her  slow  consent,  if,  when  the  first  forsook 
The  cause,  the  law  so  far  as  death  did  look. 
Silence  proclaim'd,  a  harsh  command  calls  forth 
Th'  undaunted  prisoner,  whose  excelling  worth 
In  this  low  ebb  of  fortune  did  appear 
Such  as  we  fancy  virtues  that  come  near 
The  excellence  of  angels — fear  had  not 
Rifled  one  drop  of  blood,  nor  rage  begot 
More  colour  in  his  cheeks — his  soul  in  state. 
Throned  in  the  medium,  constant  virtue  saU  . . . 
W2  267 


Yet,  though  now  depress'd 
Even  in  opinion,  which  oft  proves  the  best 
Support  to  those  whose  public  virtues  we 
Adore  before  their  private  guilt  we  see. 
His  noble  soul  still  wings  itself  above 
Passion's  dark  fogs ;  and  like  that  prosperous  dove 
The  world's  first  pilot,  for  discovery  sent, 
When  all  the  floods  that  bound  the  firmament 
O'erwhelm'd  the  earth,  conscience'  calm  joys  to 

increase, 
Returns,  freight  with  the  ohve  branch  of  peace. 
Thus  fortified  from  all  that  tyrant  fear 
O'erawed  the  guilty  with,  he  doth  appear. 

Not  all 

His  virtues  now  protect  him,  he  must  fall 
A  guiltless  sacrifice,  to  expiate 
No  other  crime  but  their  envom'd  hate. 
An  ominous  silence — such  as  oft  precedes 
The  fatal  sentence — while  the  accuser  reads 
His  charge,  possess'd  the  pitying  court  in  which 
Presaging  calm  Pharonnida,  too  rich 
In  mercy,  heaven's  supreme  prerogative, 
To  stifle  tears,  did  with  her  passion  strive 
So  long,  that  what  at  first  assaulted  in 
Sorrow's  black  armour,  had  so  often  been 
For  pity  cherish'd,  that  at  length  her  eyes 
Found  there  those  spirits  that  did  sympathize 
With  those  that  warm'd  her  blood,and  unseen,move 
That  engine  of  the  world,  mysterious  love.  .  . . 
The  beauteous  princess,  whose  fi-ee  soul  had  been 
Yet  guarded  in  her  virgin  ice,  and  now 
A  stranger  is  to  what  she  doth  allow 
Such  easy  entrance.     By  those  rays  that  fail 
From  either's  eyes,  to  make  reciprocal 
Their  yielding  passions,  brave  Argalia  felt, 
Even  in  the  grasp  of  death,  his  functions  melt 
To  flames,  which  on  his  heart  an  onset  make 
For  sadness,  such  as  weary  mortals  take 
Eternal  farewells  in.     Yet  in  this  high 
Tide  of  his  blood,  in  a  soft  calm  to  die, 
His  yielding  spirits  now  prepare  to  meet 
Death,  clothed  in  thoughts  white  as  his  winding- 
sheet. 
That  fatal  doom,  which  unto  heaven  affords 
The  sole  appeal,  one  of  the  assisting  lords 
Had  now  pronounced  whose  horrid  thunder  could 
Not  strike  his  laurell'd  brow;  that  voice  which  would 
Have  petrified  a  timorous  soul,  he  hears 
With  calm  attention.     No  disorder'd  fears 
Ruflled  his  fancy,  nor  domestic  war 
Uaged  in  his  breast ;  his  every  look  so  far 
From  vulgar  passions,  that,  unless,  amazed 
At  beauty's  majesty  he  sometime  gazed 
Wildly  on  that  as  emblems  of  more  great 
Glories  than  earth  afforded,  from  the  seat 
Of  resolution  his  fix'd  soul  had  not 
Been  stirr'd  to  passion,  which  had  now  begot 
Wonder,  not  fear,  within  him.     No  harsh  frown 
Contracts  his  brow ;  nor  did  his  thoughts  pull  down 
One  fainting  spirit,  wrapt  in  smother'd  groans, 
To  clog  his  heart.    From  her  most  eminent  thrones 
Of  sense,  the  eyes,  the  lightning  of  his  soul 
Flew  with  such  vigour  forth,  it  did  control 
All  weaker  passions,  and  at  orice  include 
Wita  Roman  valour  Christian  fortitude. 


BOOK  III.    CANTO  II. 

The  father  of  Pharonnida,  having  discovered  her  attach- 
ment to  Argalia,  breaks  into  rage  and  thus  threatens 
her. 

Silent  with  passion,  which  his  eyes  inflamed, 
The  prince  awhile  beholds  her  ere  he  blamed 
The  frailty  of  affection ;  but  at  length. 
Through  the  quick  throng  of  thoughts,  arm'd  with 

a  strength. 
Which  crush'd  the  soft  paternal  smiles  of  love. 
He  thus  begins — "  And  must,  O  must  that  prove 
My  greatest  curse  on  which  my  hopes  ordain'd 
To  raise  my  happiness  1     Have  I  refrain'd 
The  pleasures  of  a  nuptial  bed,  to  joy 
Alone  in  thee,  nor  trembled  to  destroy 
My  name,  so  that  advancing  thine  I  might 
Live  to  behold  my  sceptre  take  its  flight 
To  a  more  spacious  empire  ]     Have  I  spent 
My  youth  till,  grown  in  debt  to  age,  she  hath  sent 
Diseases  to  arrest  me  that  impair 
My  strength  and  hopes  e'er  to  enjoy  an  heir. 
Which  might  preserve  our  name,  which  only  now 
Must  in  our  dusty  annals  live ;  whilst  thou 
Transfer'st  the  glory  of  our  house  on  one. 
Which  had  not  I  warm'd  into  life,  had  gone, 
A  wretch  forgotten  of  the  world,  to  th'  earth 
From  whence  he  sprung  1  But  tear  this  monstrous 

birth 
Of  fancy  from  thy  soul,  quick  as  thou'dst  fly 
Descending  wrath  if  visible,  or  I 
Shall  blast  thee  with  rny  anger  till  thy  name 
Rot  in  my  memory ;  not  as  the  same 
That  once  thou  wert  behold  thee,  but  as  some 
Dire  prodigy,  which  to  foreshow  should  come 
All  ills  which  through  the  progress  of  my  life 
Did  chance  were  sent.     I  lost  a  queen  and  wife, 
Thy  virtuous  mother,  who  for  goodness  might 
Have  here  supplied,  before  she  took  her  flight 
To  heaven,  my  better  angel's  place ;  have  since 
Stood  storms  of  strong  afiliction ;  still  a  prince 
Over  my  passions  until  now,  but  this 
Hath  proved  me  coward.     Oh  !  thou  dost  amiss 
To  grieve  me  thus,  fond  girl." — With  that  he 

shook 
His  reverend  head ;  beholds  her  with  a  look 
Composed  of  grief  and  anger,  which  she  sees 
With  melting  sorrow :  but  resolved  love  frees 
Her  from  more  yielding  pity — 

She  falls 
Prostrate  at's  feet ;  to  his  remembrance  calls 
Her  dying  mother's  will,  by  whose  pale  dust 
She  now  conjures  him  not  to  be  unjust 
Unto  that  promise,  with  which  her  pure  soul 
Fled  satisfied  from  earth — as  to  control 
Her  freedom  of  affection. — 

She  then 
Calls  to  remembrance  who  relieved  him  when 
Distress'd  within  Aleythius'  walls ;  the  love 
His  subjects  bore  Argalia,  which  might  prove 
Her  choice,  her  happiness ;  with  all,  how  great 
A  likelihood,  it  was  but  the  retreat 
Of  royalty  to  a  more  safe  disguise 
Had  show'd  him  to  their  state's  deluded  eyes 
So  mean  a  thing.     Love's  boundless  rhetoric 
About  to  dictate  more,  h*,  with  a  quick 


WILLIAM   CHAMBERLAYNE. 


26» 


And  furious  haste,  forsakes  the  room,  his  rage 
Thus  boiling  o'er — "  And  must  my  wretched  age 
Be  thus  by  thee  tormented  1  but  take  heed, 
Correct  thy  passions,  or  their  cause  must  bleed, 
Until  he  quench  the  flame — " 

Her  soul,  oppress'd, 

Sinks  in  a  pale  swoon,  catching  at  the  rest 

It  must  not  yet  enjoy  ;  swift  help  lends  light, 

Though  faint  and  glimmering,  to  behold  what  night 

Of  grief  o'ershadow'd  her.     You  that  have  been 

Upon  the  rack  of  passion,  tortured  in 

The  engines  of  forbidden  love,  that  have 

Shed  fruitless  tears,  spent  hopeless  sighs,  to  crave 

A  rigid  parent's  fair  aspect,  conceive 

What  wild  distraction  seized  her.     I  must  leave 

Her  passions'  volume  only  to  be  read 

Within  the  breasts  of  such  whose  hearts  have  bled 

At  the  like  dangerous  wounds. 


BOOK  III.    CANTO    III. 
Through  the  dark  path  of  dusty  annals  we, 
Led  by  his  valour's  light,  return  to  see 
Argalia's  story,  who  hath,  since  that  night 
Wherein  he  took  that  strange  distracted  flight 
From  treacherous  Ardenna,  perform'd  a  course 
So  full  of  threat'ning  dangers,  that  the  force 
Of  his  protecting  angel  trembled  to 
Support  his  fate,  which  crack'd  the  slender  clew 
Of  destiny  almost  to  death :  his  stars, 
Doubting  their  influence  when  such  horrid  wars 
The  gods  proclaim'd,  withdrew  their  languish'd 

beams 
Beneath  heaven's  spangled  arch ;  in  pitchy  streams 
The  heavy  clouds  unlade  their  wombs,  until 
The  angry  winds,  fearing  the  floods  should  fill 
The  air,  the  region  where  they  ruled,  did  break 
Their  marble  lodgings ;  Nature's  self  grew  weak 
With  these  distemperatures,  and  seem'd  to  draw 
Tow'rd  dissolution — her  neglected  law 
Each  element  forgot.     The  imprison'd  flame. 
When  the  clouds'  stock  of  moisture  could  not  tame 
Its  violence,  in  sulp'hury  flashes  broke 
Thorough  the  glaring  air ;  the  swoln  clouds  spoke 
In  the  loud  voice  of  thunder ;  the  sea  raves 
And  foams  with  anger,  hurls  his  troubled  waves 
High  as  the  moon's  dull  orb,  whose  waning  light 
Withdrew  to  add  more  terror  to  the  night. 


ARGAUA  TAKEN   PRISONER   BY  THE  TURKS. 

The  Turks  had  ought 

Made  desperate  onslaughts  on  the  isle,  but  brought 

Nought  back  but  wounds  and  infamy ;  but  now, 

Wearied  with  toil,  they  are  resolved  to  bow 

Their  stubborn  resolutions  with  the  strength 

Of  not-to-be-resisted  want:  the  length 

Of  the  chronical  disease  extended  had 

To  some  few  months,  since  to  oppress  the  sad 

But  constant  islanders,  the  army  lay, 

Circling  their  confines.     Whilst  this  tedious  stay 

^rom  battle  rusts  the  soldier's  valour  in 

His  tainted  cabin,  there  had  often  been, 

With  all  variety  of  fortune,  fought 

Brave  smgle  combats,  whose  success  had  brought 


Honour's  unwither'd  laurels  on  the  brow 
Of  either  party  ;  but  the  balance,  now 
Forced  by  the  hand  of  a  brave  Turk,  inclined 
Wholly  to  them.     Thrice  had  his  valour  shined 
In  victory's  refulgent  rays,  thrice  heard 
The  shouts  of  conquest ;  thrice  on  his  lance  appear'd 
The  heads  of  noble  Rhodians,  which  had  struck 
A  general  sorrow  'mongst  the  knights.     All  look 
Who  next  the  lists  should  enter ;  each  desires 
The  task  were  his,  but  honour  now  requires 
A  spirit  more  than  vulgar,  or  she  dies 
The  next  attempt,  their  valour's  sacrifice ; 
To  prop  whose  ruins,  chosen  by  the  free 
Consent  of  all,  Argalia  comes  to  be 
Their  happy  champion.     Truce  proclaim'd,  until 
The  combat  ends,  th'  expecting  people  fill 
The  spacious  battlements ;  the  Turks  forsake 
Their  tents,  of  whom  the  city  ladies  take 
A  dreadful  view,  till  a  more  noble  sight 
Diverts  their  looks ;  each  part  behold  their  knight 
With  various  wishes,  whilst  in  blood  and  sweat 
They  toil  for  victory.     The  conflict's  heat 
Raged  in  their  veins,  which  honour  more  inflamed 
Than  burning  calentures  could  do ;  both  blamed 
The  feeble  influence  of  their  stars,  that  gave 
No  speedier  conquest ;  each  neglects  to  save 
Himself,  to  seek  advantage  to  offend 

His  eager  foe 

But  now  so  long 

The  Turks'  proud  champion  had  endured  the  strong 
Assaults  of  the  stout  Christian,  till  his  strength 
Cool'd,  on  the  ground,  with  his  blood — he  fell  at 

length, 
Beneath  his  conquering  sword.  The  barbarous  crew 
O'  the  villains  that  did  at  a  distance  view 
Their  champion's  fall,  all  bands  of  truce  forgot. 
Running  to  succour  him,  begin  a  hot 
And  desperate  combat  with  those  knights  that  stand 
To  aid  Argalia,  by  whose  conquering  hand 
Whole  squadrons  of  them  fall,  but  here  he  spent 
His  mighty  spirit  in  vain,  their  cannons  rent 

His  scatter'd  troops 

Argalia  lies  in  chains,  ordain'd  to  die 

A  sacrifice  unto  the  cruelty 

Of  the  fierce  bashaw,  whose  loved  favourite  in 

The  combat  late  he  slew ;  yet  had  not  been 

In  that  so  much  unhappy,  had  not  he. 

That  honour'd  then  his  sword  with  victory, 

Half-brother  to  Janusa  been,  a  bright 

But  cruel  lady,  whose  refined  delight 

Her  slave  (though  husband)  Ammurat,  durst  not 

Ruffle  with  discontent ;  wherefore,  to  cool  that  hot 

Contention  of  her  blood,  which  he  foresaw 

That  heavy  news  would  from  her  anger  draw. 

To  quench  with  the  brave  Christian's  death,  he* 

sent 
Him  living  to  her,  that  her  anger,  spent 
In  flaming  torments,  might  not  settle  in 
The  dregs  of  discontent.     Staying  to  win 
Some  Rhodian  castles,  all  the  prisoners  were 
Sent  with  a  guard  into  Sardinia,  there 
To  meet  their  wretched  thraldom.     From  the  re»» 
Argalia  sever'd,  soon  hopes  to  be  blest 
With  speedy  death,  though  waited  on  by  all 
The  hell-instructed  tonnents  that  could  fall 


Within  invention's  reach ;  but  he's  not  yet 
Arrived  to  his  period,  his  unmoved  stars  sit 
Thus  in  their  orbs  sec';red.     It  was  the  use 
Of  th'  Turkish  pride,  which  triumphs  in  th'  abuse 
Of  suffering  Christians,  once,  before  they  take 
The  ornaments  of  nature  off,  to  make 
Their  prisoners  pubhc  to  the  view,  that  all 
Might  mock  their  miseries:  this  sight  did  call 
Janusa  to  her  palace-window,  where, 
Whilst  she  beholds  them,  love  resolved  to  bear 
Her  ruin  on  her  treacherous  eye-beams,  till 
Her  heart  infected  grew ;  their  orbs  did  fill, 
As  the  most  pleasing  object,  with  the  sight 
Of  him  whose  sword  open'd  a  way  for  the  flight 
Of  her  loved  brother's  soul.     At  the  first  view 
Passion  had  struck  her  dumb,  but  when  it  grew 
Into  desire,  she  speedily  did  send 
To  have  his  name — which  known,  hate  did  defend 
Her  heart ;  besieged  with  love,she  sighs,and  straight 
Commands  him  to  a  dungeon  ;  but  love's  bait 
Cannot  be  so  cast  up,  though  to  eflace 
Her  image  fi'om  her  soul  she  strives.     The  place 
For  execution  she  commands  to  be 
'Gainst  the  next  day  prepared ;  but  rest  and  she 
Grow  enemies  about  it ;  if  she  steal 
A  slumber  from  her  thoughts,  that  doth  reveal 
Her  passions  in  a  dream,  sometimes  she  thought 
She  saw  her  brother's  pale  grim  ghost,  that  brought 
His  grisly  wounds  to  show  her,  smear'd  in  blood, 
Standing  before  her  sight ;  and  by  that  flood 
Those  red  streams  wept,  imploring  vengeance,  then, 
Enraged,  she  cries, "  O,  let  him  die !"     But  when 
Her  sleep-imprison'd  fancy,  wandering  in 
The  shades  of  darken'd  reason,  did  begin 
To  draw  Argalia's  image  on  her  soul, 
Love's  sovereign  power  did  suddenly  control 
The  strength  of  those  abortive  embryos,  sprung 
From  smother'd  anger.    The  glad  birds  had  sung 
A  lullaby  to  night,  the  lark  was  fled, 
On  dropping  wings,  up  from  his  dewy  bed, 
To  fan  them  in  the  rising  sunbeams,  ere 
Whose  early  reign  Janusa,  that  could  bear 
No  longer  lock'd  within  her  breast  so  great 
An  army  of  rebellious  passions,  beat 
From  reason's  conquer'd  fortress,  did  unfold 
Her  thoughts  to  Man  to,  a  stout  wench ;  whose  bold 
Wit,  join'd  with  zeal  to  serve  her,  had  endear'd 
Her  to  her  best  affections.     Having  clear'd 
All  doubts  with  hopeful  promises,  her  maid, 
By  whose  close  wiles  this  plot  must  be  convey'd, 
To  secret  action  of  her  council  makes 
Two  eunuch  pandars,  by  whose  help  she  takes 
Argalia  from  his  keeper's  charge,  as  to 
Suffer  more  torments  than  the  rest  should  do, 
And  lodged  him  in  that  castle  to  affright 
And  soften  his  great  soul  with  fear.     'I'he  light, 
Which  lent  its  beams  into  the  dismal  place 
In  which  he  lay,  without  presents  the  face 
(){  horror  smear'd  in  blood ;  a  scaflbld  built 
To  be  the  stage  of  murder,  blush'd  with  guilt 
Of  Christian  blood,  by  several  torments  let 
From  th'  imprisoning  veins.     This  object  set 
To  startle  his  resolves  if  good,  and  make 
His  future  joys  more  welcome,  could  not  shake 
I'he  heaven-built  pillars  of  his  soul,  that  stood 


Steady,  though  in  the  slippery  paths  of  blood. 
The  gloomy  night  now  sat  enthroned  in  dead 
And  silent  shadows,  midnight  curtains  spread 
The  earth  in  black  for  what  the  falling  day 
Had  blush'd  in  fire,  whilst  the  brave  pris'ner  lay, 
Circled  in  darkness,  yet  in  those  shades  spends 
The  hours  with  angels,  whose  assistance  lends 

Strength  to  the  wings  of  faith 

He  beholds 
A  glimmering  light,  whose  near  approach  unfolds 
The  leaves  of  darkness.     While  his  wonder  grows 
Big  with  amazement,  the  dim  taper  shows 
False  Manto  enter'd,  who,  prepared  to  be 
A  bawd  unto  her  lustful  mistress,  came, 
Not  with  persuasive  rhetoric  to  inflame 
A  heart  congeal'd  with  death's  approach.  .... 

Most  blest  of  men ! 
Compose  thy  wonder,  and  let  only  joy 
Dwell  in  thy  soul.     My  coming's  to  destroy, 
Not  nurse  thy  trembling  fears :  be  but  so  wise 
To  follow  thy  swift  fate,  and  thou  mayst  rise 
Above  the  reach  of  danger.     In  thy  arms 
Circle  that  power  whose  radiant  brightness  charms 
Fierce  Ammurat's  anger,  when  his  crescents  shine 
In  a  full  orb  of  forces ;  what  was  thine 
Ere  made  a  prisoner,  though  the  doubtful  state 
Of  her  best  Christian  monarch,  will  abate 
Its  splendour,  when  that  daughter  of  the  night. 
Thy  feeble  star,  shines  in  a  heaven  of  light. 
If  life  or  liberty,  then,  bear  a  shape 
Worthy  thy  courting,  swear  not  to  escape 
By  the  attempts  of  strength,  and  I  will  free 
The  iron  bonds  of  thy  captivity. 
A  solemn  oath,  by  that  great  power  he  served. 
Took,  and  believed :  his  hopes  no  longer  starved 
In  expectation.     From  that  swarthy  seat 
Of  sad  despair,  his  narrow  jail,  replete 
With  lazy  damps,  she  leads  him  to  a  room 
In  whose  delights  joy's  summer  seem'd  to  bloom 
There  left  him  to  the  brisk  society 
Of  costly  baths  and  Corsic  wines,  whose  high 
And  sprightly  tempers  from  cool  sherbets  found 
A  calm  ally  ;  here  his  harsh  thoughts  unwound 
Themselves  in  pleasure,  as  not  fearing  fate 
So  much,  but  that  he  dares  to  recreate 
His  spirit,  by  unwieldy  action  tired. 
With  all  that  lust  into  no  crime  had  fired. 
By  mutes,  those  silent  ministers  of  sin, 
His  sullied  garments  were  removed,  and  in 
Their  place  such  various  habits  laid,  as  pride 

Would  clothe  her  favourites  with 

Unruffled  here  by  the  rash  wearer,  rests 

Fair  Persian  mantles,  rich  Sclavonian  vests.  .  . . 

Though  on  this  swift  variety  of  fate 

He  looks  with  wonder,  yet  his  brave  soul  sate 

Too  safe  within  her  guards  of  reason,  to 

Be  shook  with  passion;  that  there's  something 

new 
And  strange  approaching  after  such  a  storm, 

This  gentle  calm  assures  him 

His  limbs  from  wounds  but  late  recover'd,  now 
Refiresh'd  with  liquid  odours,  did  allow 
Their  suppled  nerves  no  softer  rest,  but  in 
Such  robes  as  wore  their  ornament  within, 
Yeii'd  o'er  their  beauty. . . .  ^ 


His  guilty  conduct  now  had  brought  him  near 
Janusa's  room,  the  glaring  hghts  appear 
Thorough  the  window's  crystal  walls,  the  strong 
Perfumes  of  balmy  incense  mix'd  among 
The  wandering  atoms  of  the  air  did  fly. 

The  open  doors  allow 

A  free  access  into  the  room,  where  come, 
Such  real  forms  he  saw  as  would  strike  dumb 
The  Alcoran's  tales  of  Paradise,  the  fair 
And  sparkling  gems  i'  the  gilded  roof  impair 
Their  taper's  fire,  yet  both  themselves  confess 
Weak  to  those  flames  Janusa's  eyes  possess 
With  such  a  joy  as  bodies  that  do  long 
For  souls,  shall  meet  them  in  the  doomsday  throng, 
She  that  ruled  princes,  though  not  passions,  sate 
Waiting  her  lover,  on  a  throne  whose  state 
Epitomized  the  empire's  wealth ;  her  robe, 
With  costly  pride,  had  robb'd  the  chequer'd  globe 
Of  its  most  fair  and  orient  jewels,  to 
Enhance  its  value ;  captive  princes  who 
Had  lost  their  crowns,  might  there  those  gems 

have  seen 

Placed  in  a  seat  near  her  bright  throne,  to  stir 

His  settled  thoughts  she  thus  begins :  "  From  her 

Your  sword  hath  so  much  injured  as  to  shed 

Blood  so  near  kin  to  mine,  that  it  was  fed 

By  the  same  milky  fountains,  and  within 

One  womb  warm'd  into  life,  is  such  a  sin 

I  could  not  pardon,  did  not  love  commit 

A  rape  upon  my  mercy :  all  the  wit 

Of  man  in  vain  inventions  had  been  lost, 

Ere  thou  redeem'd ;  which  now,  although  it  cost 

The  price  of  all  my  honours,  I  will  do : 

Be  but  so  full  of  gratitude  as  to 

Repay  my  care  with  love.     Why  dost  thou  thus 

Sit  dumb  to  my  discourse  ?  it  lies  in  us 

To  raise  or  ruin  thee,  and  make  my  way 

Thorough  their  bloods  that  our  embraces  stay." . . . 

To  charm  those  sullen  spirits  that  within 

The  dark  cells  of  his  conscience  might  have  been 

Yet  by  religion  hid — that  gift  divine, 

The  soul's  composure,  music,  did  refine 

The  lazy  air,  whose  polish'd  harmony, 

Whilst  dancing  in  redoubled  echoes,  by 

A  wanton  song  was  answer'd,  whose  each  part 

Invites  the  hearing  to  betray  the  heart. 

Having  with  all  these  choice  flowers strew'd  the  way 

That  leads  to  lust,  to  shun  the  slow  decay 

Of  his  approach,  her  sickly  passions  ha^te 

To  die  in  action.     "  Come,"  she  cries,  "  we  waste 

1'he  precious  minutes.  Mow  thou  know'st  for  what 

I'hou'rt  sent  for  hither." 

Brave  Argalia  sits. 

With  virtue  cool'd And  must  my  freedom  then 

At  such  a  rate  be  purchased  ?  rather,  when 
My  life  expires  in  torments,  let  my  name 
Forgotten  die,  than  live  in  black-mouth'd  fame, 
A  servant  to  thy  lust.     Go,  tempt  thy  own 
Damn'd  infidels  to  sm,  that  ne'er  had  known 
The  way  to  virtue :  not  this  cobweb  veil 
3f  beauty,  which  thou  wear'st  but  as  a  jail 
To  a  soul  pale  with  guilt,  can  cover  o'er 

Thy  mind's  deformity 

Rent  from  these  gdded  pleasures,  send  me  to 
(^  dungeon  dark  as  hell,  where  shadows  do 


Reign  in  eternal  silence ;  let  these  rich 

And  costly  robes,  the  gaudy  trappings  which 

Thou  mean'st  to  clothe  my  sin  in,  be  exchanged 

For  sordid  rags.  When  thy  tierce  spleen  hath  ranged 

Through  all  invented  torments,  choose  the  worst 

To  punish  my  denial ;  less  accurst 

I  so  shall  perish,  than  if  by  consent 

I  taught  thy  guilty  thoughts  how  to  augment 

Their  sin  in  action,  and,  by  giving  ease 

To  thy  blood's  fever,  took  its  loath'd  disease. 

Her  look. 

Cast  like  a  felon's 

Was  sad ;  with  silent  grief  the  room  she  leaves. 


BOOK  III.    CANTO  IV. 
OuB  noble  captive,  to  fair  virtue's  throne 
In  safety  past,  though  through  lust's  burning  zone. 
Finds  in  his  dungeon's  lazy  damps  a  rest 
More    sweet,   tliough   with   the   heavy   weights 

oppress'd 
Of  iron  bondage,  than  if  they  had  been 
Love's  amorous  wreaths. 

But  she  breathes  curses  in 

Her  soul's  pale  agony And  now  she  steeps 

Her  down  in  tears — a  flood  of  sorrow  weeps. 
Of  power  (if  penitent)  to  expiate 
Youth's  vigorous  sins ;  but  all  her  mourning  sate 
Beneath  a  darker  veil  than  that  which  shades 
Repentant  grief.  .... 

So  far  the  fair  Janusa  in  this  sad 
Region  of  grief  had  gone,  till  sorrow  had 
That  fever  turn'd,  upon  whose  flaming  wings 
At  first  love  only  sate,  to  one  which  brings 
Death's  symptoms  near  the  heart 

The  rose  had  lost 

His  ensigns  in  her  cheeks,  and  though  it  cost 
Pains  near  to  death,  the  lily  had  alone 
Set  his  pale  banners  up ;  no  brightness  shone 
Within  her  eye's  dim  orbs,  whose  fading  light 
Being  quench'd  in  death,  had  set  in  endless  night. 
Had  not  the  wise  endeavours  of  her  maid. 
The  careful  Manto,  grief's  pale  scouts  betray'd. 
By  sly  deceit. 

Although  she  cures  not,  yet  gives  present  ease, 
By  laying  opiates  to  the  harsh  disease. 
A  letter,  which  did  for  uncivil  blame 
His  first  denial,  in  the  stranger's  nanie 
Disguised,  she  gives  her ;  which,  with  eyes  that  did 
O'erflow  with  joy  read  o'er,  had  soon  forbid 
Grief's  sullen  progress,  whose  next  stage  had  been 
O'er  life's  short  road,  the  grave — death's  quiet  inn, 
From  whose  dark  terror,  by  this  gleam  of  light. 
Like  trembling  children  by  a  lamp's  weak  light. 
Freed  from  night's  dreadful  shadows,  she  embraced 
Sleep,  nature's  darkness —  . . .  and  upon  the  wing? 
Of  airy  hope,  that  wanton  bird  which  sings 
As  soon  as  fledged,  advanced  her  to  survey 
The  dawning  beauties  of  a  long'd-for  day. .... 
But  ere  this  pyramid  of  pleasure  to 
Its  height  arrives — with's  presence  to  undo 
The  golden  structure — dreadful  Ammurat, 
From  his  floating  mansion  lately  landed  at 
The  city's  port,  impatient  love  had  brought 
In  an  untimely  visit.  .... 


He  enters,  luid  she  faints!  in  which  pale  trance 
His  pity  finds  her,  but  to  no  such  chance 
Imputes  the  cause :  rather  conceives  it  joy, 
Whose  rushing  torrent  made  her  heart  employ 
Its  nimble  servants,  all  her  spirits,  to 
Prevent  a  deluge,  which  might  else  undo 
Love's  new  made  commonwealth.     But  whilst 

his  care 
Hastens  to  help,  her  fortune  did  declare 
Her  sorrow's  dark  enigma ;  from  her  bed 
The  letter  dropt — ^which,  when  life's  army  fled, 
Their  frontier  garrisons  neglected,  had 
Been  left  within't — thisseen,  declares  a  sad 
Truth  to  th'  amazed  Bassa,  though  'twere  mix'd 
With  subtle  falsehood.     While  he  stands,  betwixt 
High  rage  and  grief  distracted,  doubtful  yet 
In  what  new  dress  to  wear  revenge,  the  fit 
Forsakes  Janusa  ;  who,  not  knowing  she 
Detected  stood  of  lust's  conspiracy 
'Gainst  honour's  royal  charter,  from  a  low 
Voice  strains  a  welcome,  which  did  seem  to  flow 
From  fickle  discontent,  such  as  the  weak 
Lungs  breathe  their  thoughts  in  whilst  their  fibres 

break.   , 
To  counterfeited  slumbers  leaving  her, 
He's  gone  with  silent  anger  to  confer ; 
With  such  a  farewell  as  kind  husbands  leave 
Their  pregnant  wives,  preparing  to  receive 
A  mother's  first  of  blessings,  he  forsakes 
The  room,  and  into  strict  inquiry  takes 
The  wretched  Manto,  who,  ere  she  could  call 
Excuse  to  aid,  surprised,  discovers  all. 


The  captive  Argalia  is  again  brought  before  Janusa,  who 
is  unconscious  that  the  Bassa  had  read  the  letter.  Am- 
murat,  in  the  mean  time,  is  concealed,  to  watch  the 
interview. 

Placed,  by  false  Manto,  in  a  closet,  which. 
Silent  and  sad,  had  only  to  enrich 
Its  roof  with  light,  some  few  neglected  beams 
Sent  from  Janusa's  room,  which  serve  as  streams 
To  watch  intelligence ;  here  he  beheld. 
Whilst  she  who  with  his  absence  had  expell'd 
All  thoughtful  cares,  was  with  her  joy  swell'd  high. 
As  captives  are  when  call'd  to  liberty. 
Perfumed  and  costly,  her  fairbed  was  more 
Adorn'd  than  shrines  which  costly  kings  adore ; 
Incense,  in  smoky  curls,  climbs  to  the  fair 
Roof,  whilst  choice  music  rarifies  the  air ; 
Each  element  in  more  perfection  here, 
Than  in  the  first  creation  did  appear. 
Yet  lived  in  harmony :  the  wing'd  fire  lent 
Perfumes  to  the  air,  that  to  moist  cordials  pent 
In  crj'stal  vials,  strength ;  and  those  impart 
Their  vigour  to  that  ball  of  earth,  the  heart. 
The  nice  eye  here  epitomized  might  see 
Rich  Persia's  wealth,  and  old  Rome's  luxury. 

But  now,  like  Nature's  new-made  favourite, 
Who,  until  all  created  for  delight 
W  us  framed,  did  ne'er  see  Paradise,  comes  in 
Deceived  Argalia,  thinking  he  had  been 

Call'd  thither  to  behold  a  penitent 

W  ith  such  a  high 
Heioic  scorn  as  aged  saints  that  die,  [slights 

Heaven's   fav'rites,  leave  the  trivial   world — he 


That  gilded  pomp ;  no  splendent  beam  invites 
His  serious  eye  to  meet  their  objects  in 
An  amorous  glance,  reserved  as  he  had  been 
Before  his  grave  confessor :  he  beholds 
Beauty's  bright  magic,  while  its  art  unfolds 
Great  love's  mysterious  riddles,  and  commands 
Captive  Janusa  to  infringe  the  bands 
Of  matrimonial  modesty.     When  all 
Temptation  fails,  she  leaves  her  throne  to  fall. 
The  scorn  of  greatness,  at  his  feet :  but  prayer, 
Like  flattery,  expires  in  useless  air, 
Too  weak  to  batter  that  firm  confidence 
Their  torment's  thunder  could  not  shake.     From 

hence 
Despair,  love's  tyrant,  had  enforced  her  to 
More  wild  attempts,  had  not  her  Ammurat,  who, 
Unseen,  beheld  ail  this,  prevented,  by 
His  sight,  the  death  of  bleeding  modesty. 

Made  swift  with  rage,  the  ruftled  curtain  flies 
His  angry  touch — he  enters — fix'd  his  eyes. 
From  whence  some  drops  of  rage  distil,  on  her 
Whose  heart  had  lent  her  face  its  character. 
Whilst  he  stood  red  with  flaming  anger,  she 
Looks  pale  with  fear — ^passion's  disparity 
Dwelt  in  their  troubled  breasts ;  his  wild  eyes  stood 
Like  comets,  when  attracting  storms  of  blood 
Shook  with  portents  sad,  the  whilst  hers  sate 
Like  the  dull  earth,  when  trembling  at  the  fate 
Of  those  ensuing  evils — heavy  fix'd 
Within  their  orbs.    Passions  thus  strangely  mix'd, 
No  various  fever  e'er  created  in  [been 

The  phrenzied  brain,  when  sleep's  sweet  calm  had 

From  her  soft  throne  deposed 

So  having  paused,  his  dreadful  voice  thus  broke 
The  dismal  silence. 
Thou  curse  of  my  nativity,  that  more 
Aflects  me  than  eternjd  wrath  can  do- 
Spirits  condemn'd,  some  fiends,  instruct  me  to 
Heighten  revenge  to  thy  desert ;  but  so 
I  should  do  more  than  mortals  may,  and  throw 
Thy  spotted  soul  to  flames.     Yet  I  will  give 
Its  psissport  hence ;  for  think  not  to  outlive 
This  hour,  this  fatal  hour,  ordain'd  to  see 

More  than  an  age  before  of  tragedy 

Fearing  tears  should  win 
The  victory  of  anger,  Ammurat  draws 
His  scimitar,  which  had  in  blood  writ  laws 
For  conquer'd  provinces,  and  with  a  swift 
And  cruel  rage,  ere  penitence  could  lift 
Her  burden'd  soul  in  a  repentant  thought 
Tow'rds  heaven,  sheathes  the  cold  steel  in  her  soft 
And  snowy  breast :  with  a  loud  groan  she  falls 
Upon  the  bloody  floor,  half  breathless,  calls 
For  bis  untimely  pity :  but  perceiving 
The  fleeting  spirits,  with  her  blood,  were  leaving 
Her  heart  unguarded,  she  implores  that  breath 
Which  yet  remain'd,  not  to  bewail  her  death. 
But  beg  his  life  that  caused  it — on  her  knees, 
Struggling  to  rise.  But  now  calm'd  Ammuratfrees 
Her  from  disturbing  death,  in  his  last  great  work 
And  thus  declares  some  virtue  in  a  Turk. 

I  have,  brave  Christian,  by  perusing  thee 
In  this  great  art  of  honour  learnt  to  be, 
Too  late,  thy  follower :  this  ring  (with  that 
Gives  him  his  signet)  shall,  when  question'd  at 


RICHARD  LOVELACE. 


263 


The  castle  guards,  thy  safety  be.     And  now 
I  see  her  blood's  low  water  doth  allow 
Me  only  time  to  launch  my  soul's  black  bark 
Into  death's  rubric  sea — for  to  the  dark 
And  silent  region,  though  we  here  were  by 
Passion  divorced,  fortune  shall  not  deny 
Our  souls  to  sail  together.     From  thy  eyes 
Remove  death's  load,  and  see  what  sacrifice 
My  love  is  offering.     With  that  word,  a  stroke 
Pierces  his  breast,  whose  speedy  pains  invoke 
Death's  opiates  to  appease  them :  he  sinks  down 
By  's  dying  wife,  who,  ere  the  cold  flood  drown 
Life  in  the  deluge  of  her  wounds,  once  more 
Betrays  her  eyes  to  the  light ;  and  though  they  wore 
The  weight  of  death  upon  their  lids,  did  keep 
Them  so  long  open,  till  the  icy  sleep 
Began  to  seize  on  him,  and  then  she  cries — 
0  see,  just  heaven  !  see,  see  my  Ammurat  dies, 
To  wander  with  me  in  the  unknown  shade 
Of  immortality — But  I  have  made 


The  wounds  that  murther'd  both;  his  hand  that  gave 

Mine,  did  but  gently  let  me  blood  to.  save 

An  everlasting  fever.     Pardon  me, 

My  dear,  my  dying  lord.     Eternity 

Shall  see  my  soul  white-wash'd  in  tears ;  but  oh 

I  now  feel  time's  dear  want — they  will  not  flow 

Fast  as  my  stream  of  blood.     Christian,  farewell 

Whene'er  thou  dost  our  tragic  story  tell, 

Do  not  extenuate  my  crimes,  but  let 

Them  in  their  own  black  characters  be  set. 

Near  Ammurat's  bright  virtues,  that,  read  by 

Th'  unpractised  lover,  which  posterity, 

Whilst  wanton  winds  play  with  our  dust,  shall  raise 

On  beauties ;  that  the  good  may  justice  praise 

By  his  example,  and  the  bad  by  mine 

From  vice's  throne  be  scared  to  virtue's  shrine. 

This, 

She  cries,  is  our  last  interview — a  kiss 

Then  joins  their  bloodless  lips — each  close  the  eye« 

Of  the  other,  whilst  the  parting  spirit  flies. 


RICHARD  LOVELACE. 


[Born,  1618 

This  gallant,  unfortunate  man,  who  was  much 
distinguished  for  the  beauty  of  his  person,  was 
the  son  of  Sir  William  Lovelace,  of  Woolwich, 
in  Kent-  After  taking  a  master's  degree  at  Cam- 
bridge, he  was  for  some  time  an  officer  in  the  army ; 
but  returned  to  his  native  country  after  the  paci- 
fication of  Berwick,  and  took  possession  of  his 
paternal  estate,  worth  about  500/.  per  annum. 
About  the  same  time  he  was  deputed  by  the 
county  of  Kent  to  deliver  their  petition  to  the 
House  of  Commons,  for  restoring  the  king  to 
his  rights,  and  settling  the  government.  This 
petition  gave  such  oflfence  that  he  was  committed 
to  the  Gate-house  prison,  and  only  released  on 
finding  bail  to  an  enormous  amount  not  to  pass 
beyond  the  lines  of  communication.     During  his 


Died,  I6&8.] 

confinement  to  London  his  fortune  was  wasted  ir 
support  of  the  royal  cause.  In  1646  he  formed 
a  regiment  for  the  service  of  the  French  king, 
was  colonel  of  it,  and  was  wounded  at  Dunkirk. 
On  this  occasion  his  mistress,  Lucasta,  a  Miss 
Lucy  Sacheverel,  married  another,  hearing  that 
he  had  died  of  his  wounds.  At  the  end  of  two 
years  he  returned  to  England,  and  was  again  im- 
prisoned till  after  the  death  of  Charles  I.  He 
was  then  at  liberty ;  but,  according  to  Wood,  was 
left  in  the  most  destitute  circumstances,  his  estate 
being  gone.  He,  who  had  been  the  favourite  of 
courts,  is  represented  as  having  lodged  in  the  most 
obscure  recesses  of  poverty,*  and  died  in  g^eat 
misery  in  a  lodging  near  Shoe-lane. 


A  LOOSE  SARABAND. 
Ah  me,  the  little  tyrant  thief 

As  once  my  heart  was  playing, 
He  snatch'd  it  up,  and  flew  away, 

Laughing  at  all  my  praying. 
Proud  of  his  purchase,  he  surveys, 

And  curiously  sounds  it ; 
And  though  he  sees  it  full  of  wounds, 

Cruel  still  on  he  wounds  it. 
And  now  this  heart  is  all  his  sport, 

Which  as  a  ball  he  boundeth. 
From  hand  to  hand,  from  breast  to  lip, 

And  all  its  rest  confoundeth. 
Then  as  a  top  he  sets  it  up, 

And  pitifully  whips  it ; 
Sometimes  he  clothes  it  gay  and  fine, 
•        Then  straight  again  he  strips  it. 
,  He  cover'd  it  with  false  belief. 

Which  gloriously  show'd  it; 
And  for  a  morning  cushionet 

On 's  mother  he  bestow'd  it. 


Each  day  with  her  small  brazen  stings 
A  thousand  times  she  raced  it ; 

But  then  at  night,  bright  with  her  gems, 
Once  near  her  breast  she  placed  it. 

Then  warm  it  'gan  to  throb  and  bleed. 
She  knew  that  smart  and  grieved ; 

At  length  this  poor  condemned  heart. 
With  tliese  rich  drugs  reprieved. 

She  wash'd  the  wound  with  a  fresh  tear. 

Which  my  Lucasta  dropped ; 
And  in  the  sleeve  silk  of  her  hair 

'Twas  hard  bound  up  and  wrapped. 

She  probed  it  with  her  constancy. 
And  found  no  rancour  nigh  it; 

Only  the  anger  of  her  eye 

Had  wrought  some  proud  flesh  nigh  it. 

*  The  compiler  of  the  Biographia  Dramatica  remarkk 
that  Wood  must  have  exaggenited  LoTehioe's  poverty, 
for  his  daughter  and  mie  heir  married  the  fion  of  Lord 
Chief  Justin!  Colce,  and  brought  to  her  husband  the  eatatM 
of  her  father  at  Kiog'g.down  in  Kent 


264 


RICHARD   LOVELACE. 


Then  presg'd  she  hard  in  e^ery  vein, 
Which  from  her  kisses  thrili'd, 

And  with  the  balm  heal'd  all  its  pain 
That  from  her  hand  distill  d. 

But  yet  this  heart  avoids  me  still, 
Will  not  by  me  be  owned ; 

But,  fled  to  its  physician's  breast, 
There  proudly  sits  enthroned. 


BONO. 


Amabantha,  sweet  and  fair. 
Forbear  to  braid  that  shining  hair  : 
As  my  curious  hand  or  eye, 
Hovering  round  thee,  let  it  fly : 

Let  it  fly  as  unconfined 
As  its  ravisher  the  wind, 
Who  has  left  his  darUng  east 
To  wanton  o'er  this  spicy  nest 

Every  tress  must  be  confess'd 
But  neatly  tangled  at  the  best, 
Like  a  clew  of  golden  thread 
Most  excellently  ravelled : 

Do  not  then  wind  up  that  light 

In  ribands,  and  o'ercloud  the  night ; 

Like  the  sun  in  his  early  ray. 

But  shake  your  head  and  scatter  day. 


BONO. 

TO  ALTHEA,  FBOM  PRISOK. 

Wh«n  Love,  with  unconfined  wings, 

Hovers  within  my  gates, 
And  my  divine  Althea  brings 

To  whisper  at  my  grates ; 
When  I  lie  tangled  in  her  hair, 

And  fetter'd  to  her  eye, — 
The  birds,  that  wanton  in  the  air 

Know  no  such  liberty. 

When  flooring  cups  run  swiftly  round 

With  no  allaying  Thames, 
Our  careless  head  with  roses  bound. 

Our  hearts  with  loyal  flames ; 
When  thirsty  grief  in  wine  we  steep. 

When  healths  and  draughts  go  free, 

Fishes,  that  tipple  in  the  deep. 

Know  no  such  liberty. 

When,  Uke  committed  Unnets,  1 

With  shriller  throat  shall  sing 
The  sweetness,  mercy,  majesty, 

And  glories  of  my  King;* 
When  I  shall  voice  aloud  how  good 

He  is,  how  great  should  be, — 
Enlarged  winds,  that  curl  the  flood, 

Know  no  such  hberty. 

r*  Charlea  I,  in  whoM  eauM  Lorelsoe  wm  then  in 


Stone  walls  do  not  a  prison  make, 

Nor  iron  bars  a  cage ; 
Minds  innocent  and  quiet  take 

That  for  an  hermitage. 
If  I  have  freedom  in  my  love, 

And  in  my  soul  am  free, — • 
Angels  alone,  that  soar  above, 

Enjoy  such  liberty. 


THE  SCRUTINY. 
Why  should  you  swear  I  am  forsworn  1 

Since  thine  I  vow'd  to  be ; 
Lady,  it  is  already  morn. 

And  'twas  last  night  I  swore  to  thee 

That  fond  impossibility. 

Have  I  not  loved  thee  much  and  long, 
A  tedious  twelve  hours'  space  1 

I  must  all  other  beauties  wrong. 
And  rob  thee  of  a  new  embrace. 
Could  I  still  dote  upon  thy  face. 

Not  but  all  joy  in  thy  brown  hair. 
By  others  may  be  found ; 

But  I  must  search  the  black  and  fair. 
Like  skilful  mineralists  that  sound 
For  treasure  in  unplough'd-up  ground. 

Then,  if  when  I  have  loved  my  round, 
Thou  provest  the  pleasant  she ; 

With  spoils  of  meaner  beauties  crown'd 
I  laden  will  return  to  thee, 
Ev'n  sated  with  variety. 


TO  LUCASTA.— GOING  TO  THE  WARS. 

Tell  me  not,  sweet,  I  am  unkind. 

That  from  the  nunnery 
Of  thy  chaste  breast,  and  quiet  mind 

To  war  and  arms  I  fly. 

True ;  a  new  mistress  now  I  chase. 

The  first  foe  in  the  field  ; 
And  with  a  stronger  faith  embrace 

A  sword,  a  horse,  a  shield. 

Yet  this  inconstancy  is  such 

As  you  too  shall  adore ; 
I  could  not  love  thee,  dear,  so  much, 

Loved  I  not  honour  more. 


TO  SIR  PETER  LELY,  ON   HIS  PICTURE  OF 
CHARLES  I. 

See  !  what  an  humble  bravery  doth  shine 
And  grief  triumphant  breaking  through  each  line 
How  it  commands  the  face !  so  sweet  a  scorn 
Never  did  happy  misery  adorn  ! 
So  sacred  a  contempt !  that  others  show 
To  this  (o'  th'  height  of  all  the  wheel)  b^low 
That  mightiest  monarchs  by  this  shaded  book 
May  copy  out  their  proudest,  richest  look.  .  . 
Thou  sorrow  canst  design  without  a  teat         • 
And,  with  the  man,  his  very  hope  or  fear.  . .  . 


KATHERINE  PHILIPS. 

[Born,  1631.     Dwd,  1664.] 


Mrs.  KxTHEaiNE  Philips,  wife  of  James 
Philips,  Esq.,  of  the  Priory  of  Cardigan.  Her 
maiden  name  was  Fowler.  She  died  of  the 
small-pox,  in  her  thirty-third  year.  The  match- 
less Orinda,  as  she  was  called,*  cannot  be  said  to 
have  been  a  woman  of  genius ;  but  her  verses 
betoken  an  interesting  and  placid  enthusiasm  of 
heart,  and  a  cultivated  taste,  that  form  a  beauti- 


ful specimen  of  female  character.  She  translated 
two  of  the  tragedies  of  Corneille,  and  left  a  v> 
lume  of  letters  to  Sir  Charles  Cotterell,  which 
were  published  a  considerable  time  after  her 
death.  Jeremy  Taylor  addressed  to  her  his 
«  Measures  and  Offices  of  Friendship,"  and  Cow- 
ley, as  also  Flatman,  his  imitator,  honoured  her 
memory  with  poetical  tributes. 


THE  INQUIRY. 
If  we  no  old  historian's  name 

Authentic  will  admit, 
But  think  all  said  of  friendship's  fame 

But  poetry  or  wit ; 
Yet  what's  revered  by  minds  so  pure 
Must  be  a  bright  idea  sure. 

But  as  our  immortality 

By  inward  sense  we  find, 
Judging  that  if  it  could  not  be, 

It  would  not  be  design'd : 
So  here  how  could  such  copies  fell. 
If  there  were  no  original  1 

But  if  truth  be  in  ancient  song, 

Or  story  we  believe ; 
If  the  inspired  and  greater  throng 

Have  scorned  to  deceive ; 
There  have  been  hearts  whose  friendship  gave 
Them  thoughts  at  once  both  soft  and  grave. 

Among  that  consecrated  crew 

Some  more  seraphic  shade 
Lend  me  a  favourable  clew, 

Now  mists  my  eyes  invade. 
Why,  having  fiU'd  the  world  with  fame, 
Left  you  so  little  of  your  flame  ? 

Why  is't  so  difficult  to  see 

Two  bodies  and  one  mind  ? 
And  why  are  those  who  else  agree 

So  difficultly  kind  1 
Hath  nature  such  fantastic  art, 
That  she  can  vary  every  heart  1 

Why  are  the  bands  of  friendship  tied 

With  so  remiss  a  knot, 
That  by  the  most  it  is  defied. 

And  by  the  most  forgot  1 
Why  do  we  step  with  so  light  sense 
From  friendship  to  indifference  ] 

[*  But  thuR  Orinda  died : 
Heaven,  by  the  same  disease,  did  both  translate; 
As  equal  were  their  bouIs,  ro  equal  was  thoir  fate. 

Dbiden,  Odf.  to  Mrs.  Atme  KiUigrew.—C.] 


If  friendship  sympathy  impart, 

Why  this  ill-shuffled  game, 
That  heart  can  never  meet  with  heart. 

Or  flame  encounter  flame  1 
What  does  this  cruelty  create  1 
Is't  the  intrigue  of  love  or  fate  7 

Had  friendship  ne'er  been  known  to  men, 

(The  ghost  at  last  confest) 
The  world  had  then  a  stranger  been 

To  all  that  heaven  possest. 
But  could  it  all  be  here  acquired, 
Not  heaven  itself  would  be  desired. 


A  FRIEND. 

Love,  nature's  plot,  this  great  creation's  soul. 
The  being  and  the  harmony  of  things. 

Doth  still  preserve  and  propagate  the  whole, 
From    whence   man's    happiness    and   safety 
springs : 

The  earliest,  whitest,  blessed'st  times  did  draw 

From  her  alone  their  universal  law. 

Friendship  's  an  abstract  of  this  noble  flame, 
*Tis  love  refined  and  purged  from  all  its  dross. 

The  next  to  angel's  love,  if  not  the  same. 
As  strong  in  passion  is,  though  not  so  gross : 

It  antedates  a  glad  eternity. 

And  is  an  heaven  in  epitome. .... 

Essential  honour  must  be  in  a  friend. 

Not  such  as  every  breath  fans  to  and  fro; 

But  bom  within,  is  its  own  judge  and  end. 
And  dares  not  sin  though  sure  that  none  should 
know. 

Where  friendship  's  spoke,  honesty 's  understood ; 

For  none  can  be  a  friend  that  is  not  good 

Thick  waters  show  no  images  of  things ; 

Friends  are  each  other's  mirrors,  and  should  be 
Clearer  than  crystal  or  the  mountain  springs. 

And  free  from  clouds,  design  or  flattery. 
For  vulgar  souls  no  part  of  friendship  share ; 
Poets  and  friends  tire  born  to  what  they  are. 


86« 


WILLIAM  HEMINGE. 


This  writer  was  the  son  of  John  Heminge 
the  famous  player,  who  was  contemporary  with 
Shakspeare,  and  whose  name  is  prefixed,  together 
with  that  of  Condeli,  to  the  folio  edition  of  the 


great  poet's  works.  He  was  bom  in  1602,  and 
received  his  education  at  Oxford.  This  is  all 
that  is  mentioned  of  him  by  the  compilers  of  the 
Biographia  Dramatica. 


FROM  "THE  FATAL  CONTRACT."  ACT  n.    SCENE  II. 

Aphelifi  has  been  contracted  by  mutual  tows  to  CloTis, 
younfcer  brother  of  the  young  king  of  France,  ClotaMb 
and  imagines  in  this  scene  that  she  is  to  be  brought 
into  the  presence  of  Clovis,  instead  of  whom  she  is 
brought  to  Clotair  by  the  treachery  of  the  Eunuch. 

Enter  ApheU-S  and  the  Eunuch,  with  a  loax-taper. 
^ph.  Into  what  labyrinth  do  you  lead  me,  sir  1 
What  by,  perplexed  ways  1  I  should  much  fear, 
Had  you  not  used  his  name,  which  is  to  me 
A  strength  'gainst  terror,  and  himself  so  good, 
Occasion  cannot  vary,  nor  the  night, 
Youth,  nor  his  wild  desire;  otherwise 
A  silent  sorrow  firom  mine  eyes  would  steal, 
And  tell  sad  stories  for  me. 

Eun,  You  are  too  tender  of  your  honour,  lady. 
Too  full  of  aguish  trembling ;  the  noble  prince 
Is  as  December  frosty  in  desire ; 
Save  what  is  lawful,  he  not  owns  that  heat. 
Which,  wereyou  snow,  would  thaw  a  tear  fi-om  you. 
^ph.  This  is  the  place  appointed :  pray  heavens 
Go  well !  [all  things 

Eun.  I  will  go  call  him :  please  you  rest  yourself: 
Here  lies  a  book  will  bear  you  company 
Till  I  return,  which  will  be  presently. — 

[Aphelia  reads  the  book. 
Hither  I'll  send  the  king ;  not  that  I  mean  [Aside. 
To  give  him  leave  to  cool  his  burning  lust, 
For  Clovis  shall  prevent  him  in  the  fact. 
And  thus  I  shall  endear  myself  to  both, 
Clovis,  enr.aged,  perhaps  will  kill  the  king, 
Or  by  the  king  will  perish ;  if  both  fall, 
Or  either,  both  ways  make  for  me. 
The  queen  as  rootedly  does  hate  her  sons 
As  I  her  ladyship.     To  see  this  fray 
She  must  be  brought  by  me :  she'll  steel  them  on 
To  one  another's  damage ;  for  her  sake 
I'll  say  I  set  on  foot  this  hopeful  brawl. 
Thus  on  all  sides  the  eunuch  will  play  foul, 
And  as  his  face  is  black  he'll  have  his  soul. 
Jph.  (Beading.)    How  witty  sorrow  has  found 
out  discourse 
Fitting  a  midnight  season :  here  I  see 
One  bathed  in  virgin's  tears,  whose  purity 
Might  blanch  a  black-a-moor,  turn  nature's  stream 
Back  on  itself;  words  pure,  and  of  that  strain 
Might  move  the  Parca  to  be  pitiful. 
Enter  Cu>TAni. 
Clot.  Methinks  I  stand  like  Tarqum  in  the  night 
When  he  defiled  the  chastity  of  Rome, 
Doubtful  of  what  to  do ;  and  like  a  thief, 
I  take  each  noise  to  be  an  officer. 

[Site  stm  readi  on. 
She  nas  a  ravishing  feature,  and  her  mind 
Is  of  a  purer  temper  than  her  body : 
260 


Her  virtues  more  than  beauty  ravish'd  me. 

And  I  commit,  even  with  her  piety, 

A  kind  of  incest  with  religion. 

Though  I  do  know  it  is  a  deed  of  death, 

Condemn'd  to  torments  in  the  other  world. 

Such  tempting  sweetness  dwells  in  every  limb 

That  I  must  venture 

Jph.  Alack,  poor  maid ! 
Poor  ravish'd  Philomel !  thy  lot  was  ill 
To  meet  that  violence  in  a  brother,  which 
I  in  a  stranger  doubt  not ;  yet  methinks 
I  am  too  confident,  for  I  feel  my  heart 
Burden'd  with  something  ominous :  these  men 
Are  things  of  subtle  nature,  and  their  oaths 
Inconstant  like  themselves.     Clovis  may  prove 

unkind. 
Alack,  why  not?  say  he  should  offer  foiJ, 
The  evil  counsel  of  a  secret  place. 
And  night,  his  fi"iend,  might  overtempt  his  will. 
I  dare  not  stand  the  hazard ;  guide  me,  light, 
To  some  untrodden  place,  where  poor  I  may 
Wear  out  the  night  with  sighs  till  it  be  day. 

Clot.  I  am  resolved,  I  will  be  bold  and  resolute : 
Hail,  beauteous  damsel ! 

Jph.  Ha !  what  man  art  thou. 
That  hast  thy  countenance  clouded  with  thy  cloak, 
And  hidest  thy  face  from  darkness  and  the  night 
If  thy  intents  deserve  a  muffler  too. 
Withdraw,  and  act  them  not — What  art  thou  1 

speak. 
And  wherefore  camest  thou  hither  1 

Cloi.  I  came  to  find  one  beautiful  as  thou — . . . . 
.Aph.  I  understand  you  not. 
Clot.  But  you  must;  yea,  and  the  right  way  too. 
Aph.  Help!  help!  help! 
Cloi.  Peace !  none  of  your  loud  music,  lady: 
If  you  raise  a  note,  or  beat  the  air  with  clamour, 
You  see  your  death.  [Draws  his  dagger. 

.Sph,  What  violence  is  this,  inhuman  sir  .' 
Why  do  you  threaten  war,  fright  my  soft  peace 
With  most  ungentle  steel  1   What  have  I  done 
Dangerous,  or  am  like  to  do  1  Why  do  you  wrack 

me  thusi 
Mine  arms  are  guilty  of  no  crimes,  do  not  torment 

'em  ; 
Mine  heart  and  they  have  been  heaved  up  together 
For  mankind  that  was  holy ;  if  in  that  act 
They  have  not  pray'd  for  you,  mend,  and  be  holy. 
The  fault  is  none  of  theirs. 

Cto,'.  Come,  do  not  seem  more  holy  than  you  are, 
I  know  your  heart. 

.Aph.  Let  your  dagger  too,  noble  sir,  strike  home 
And  sacrifice  a  soul  to  chastity. 
As  pure  as  is  itself,  or  innocence. 


WILLIAM   HEMINGE. 


267 


Clot.  This  is  not  the  way :  know  you  me,  beauty  1 
[Discovers  himself. 

jjph.  The  majesty  of  France ! 

Clut.  Be  not  afraid. 

^y>/i.  I  dare  not  fear ;  it's  treason  to  suspect 
My  king  can  harbour  thoughts  that  tend  to  ill : 
I  know  your  godlike  good,  and  have  but  tried 
How  far  weak  woman  durst  be  virtuous. 

Clot.  Cunning  simplicity,  thou  art  deceived ; 
Thy  wit  as  well  as  beauty  wounds  me,  and  thy 

tongue 
In  pleading  for  thee  pleads  against  thyself: 
It  is  thy  virtue  moves  me,  and  thy  good 
Tempts  me  to  acts  of  evil ;  wert  thou  bad. 
Or  loose  in  thy  desires,  I  could  stand 
And  only  gaze,  not  surfeit  on  thy  beauty ; 
But  as  thou  art,  there's  witchcraft  in  thy  face. . . . 

..dph.  You  are  my  king,  and  may  command 
ray  life, 
My  will  to  sin  you  cannot ;  you  may  force 
Unhallow'd  deeds  upon  me,  spot  my  fame, 
And  make  my  body  suffer,  not  my  mind. 
When  you  have  done  this  unreligious  deed, 
Conquer'd  a  poor  weak  maid,  a  trembling  maid, 
What  trophy,  or  what  triumph  will  it  bring 
More  than  a  living  scorn  upon  your  name  1 
The  ashes  in  your  urn  shall  suffer  for't. 
Virgins  will  sow  their  curses  on  your  grave. 
Time  blot  your  kingly  parentage,  and  call 
Your  birth  in  question.     Do  you  think 
This  deed  will  lie  conceal'd  ]  the  faults  kings  do 
Shine  like  the  fiery  beacons  on  a  hill. 
For  all  to  see,  and,  seeing,  tremble  at. 
It's  not  a  single  ill  which  you  commit ; 
What  in  the  subject  is  a  petty  fault 
Monsters  your  actions,  and  's  a  foul  offence : 
You  give  your  subjects  license  to  ofiend 
When  you  do  teach  them  how. 

Clot.  I  will  endure  no  longer:  come  along. 
Or  by  the  curious  spinstry  of  thy  head, 
M'hich  nature's  cunningest  finger  twisted  out, 
I'll  drag  thee  to  my  couch.     Tempt  not  my  fury. 

Clovis.  Hold ! — hold,  my  heart ;  can  I  endure 

this] 

Monster  of  men ! 
Thou  king  of  darkness !  down  unto  thy  hell ! 
I  have  a  spell  will  lay  thy  honesty, 
And  this  abused  goodness 

jLuit.  Beat  down  their  swords — what  do  the 
princes  mean  1 
Ring  out  the  'larum-bell — call  up  the  court — 


ANOTHER  SCENE  FROM  THE  SAME. 

Fhrsons. — ClovJs,  Clotair,  Strephdn.  L.khot  the  Physician, 
Euuuch,  Aphklia. 

In  the  Bcquel  of  the  story,  the  guard!!  of  the  king  having 
fallen  upon  Clovis,  he  is  aipjirently  killeil,  but  is  never- 
theless secretly  cured  of  his  wounds,  and  assumes  a 
disguise.  In  the  mean  time,  the  queen  mother,  anxious 
to  get  rid  of  Aphelia,  causes  one  of  her  own  pammours 
to  dress  in  the  armour  of  I'rince  Clovis.  and  t<>  demand, 
in  the  chnracti-r  of  his  irhnst,  that  Aphelia  shall  he  kiv- 
crificeil  upon  his  hearse.  Clotair  pretends  to  comply 
Willi  this  sacrifice,  and  Apli(;lia  is  brought  out  to  exe- 
cution ;  but  when  all  is  ready,  he  takes  the  sword  from 
the  beadsm»n.  lays  it  at  iier  feet,  and  declares  lier  his 
queen.    C.ovis  attends  in  disguise,  and  the  poet  makes 


him  behave  with  rather  more  composure  than  we  should 
expect  from  his  trying  situation;  but  when  he  sees  his 
miiitress  accept  the  band  of  bis  royal  brother,  he  atlas^ 
breaks  out. 

Clovis.  Where  am  II 
Awake !  for  ever  rather  let  me  sleep. 
Is  this  a  funeral  ?     0  that  I  were  a  hearse. 
And  not  the  mock  of  what  is  pageanted.* 

Clotair.  Amazement  quite  confounds  me — Clo 
vis  alive !  [desir* 

Larrujt.  Yes,  sir,  by  my  art  he  lives,  though  his 
Was  not  to  have  it  known ;  this  chest  contains 
Nothing  but  spices  sweetly  odoriferous. 

Clotair.  Into  my  soul   I    welcome  thee,  dear 
brother ; 
This  second  birth  of  thine  brings  me  more  joy 
Than  had  Aphelia  brought  me  forth  an  heir, 
Whom  now  you  must  remember  as  a  sister. 

Clovis.     O  that  in  nature  there  was  left  an  art 
Could  teach  me  to  forget  I  ever  loved 
This  her  great  masterpiece !  O  well-built  fi-ame. 
Why  dost  thou  harbour  such  unhallow'd  guests, 
To  house  within  thy  bosom  perjury  1 
If  that  our  vows  are  register'd  in  heaven, 
Why  are  they  broke  on  earth  ?     Aphelia, 
This  was  a  hasty  match,  the  subtle  air 
Has  not  yet  cool'd  the  breath  with  which  thou 

sworest 
Thyself  into  my  soul ;  and  on  thy  cheeks 
The  print  and  pathway  of  those  tears  remain, 
That  woo'd  me  to  believe  so ;  fly  me  not, 
I  am  no  spirit ;  taste  my  active  pulse. 
And  you  shall  find  it  make  such  harmony 
As  youth  and  health  enjoy. 

Jluii.  The  queen  !  she  faints. 

Cluvis.     Is  there  a  God  left  so  propitious 
To  rid  me  of  my  fears  1  still  let  her  sleep, 
For  if  she  wake  (O  king !)  she  will  appear 
Too  monstrous  a  spectre  for  frail  eyes 
To  see  and  keep  their  senses. 

Lurnot.  Are  you  mad  1  [were ! 

Clovis.  Nothing  so  happy,  Strephon ;  would  I 
In  time's  first  progress  I  despair  the  hour 
That  brings  such  fortune  with  it ;  I  should  then 
Forget  that  she  was  ever  pleasing  to  me ; 
I  should  no  more  remember  she  would  sit 
And  sing  me  into  dreams  of  Paradise ; 
Never  more  hang  about  her  ivory  neck, 
Believing  such  a  one  Diana's  was ; 
Never  more  doat  she  breathes  Arabia, 
Or  kiss  her  coral  lips  into  a  paleness.  [gaze, 

Luniot.  See,  she's  return'd,  and  with  majestic 
In  pity  rather  than  contempt,  beholds  you. 

CU/vis.  Convey  me  hence,  some  charitable  man. 
Lest  this  same  creature,  looking  like  a  saint. 
Hurry  my  soul  to  hell:  she  is  a  fiend 
Apparell'd  like  a  woman,  sent  on  earth 
For  man's  destruction. 

Cioluir.  Rule  your  disorder'd  tongue ; 
Clovis,  what's  past  we  are  content  to  think 
It  was  our  brother  spoke,  and  not  our  subject. 

Clovis.  I  had  forgot  myself,  yet  well  remember 
Yon  gorgon  has  transform'd  me  into  stone ; 

*  A  hearse,  supposed  to  contain  the  corpse  of  ClOTis. 
forms  a  part  of  the  pageant  here  introduced. 


268 


JAMES  SHIRLEY. 


And  since  that  time  my  language  has  been  harsh, 

My  words  too  heavy  for  my  tongue,  too  earthly ; 

I  was  not  born  so,  trust  me,  Aphelia ; 

Before  I  was  possess'd  with  these  black  thoughts, 

I  could  sit  by  thy  side,  and  rest  my  head 

Upon  the  rising  pillows  of  thy  breast. 

Whose  natural  sweetness  would  invite  mine  eyes 

To  sink  in  pleasing  slumbers,  wake,  and  kiss 

The  rose-beds  that  afforded  me  such  bliss ; 

But  thou  art  now  a  general  disease 

That  eat'st  into  my  marrow,  turn'st  my  blood. 

And  makest  my  veins  run  poison,  that  each  sense 

Groans  at  the  alteration.     Am  I  the  Monsieur  1 

Does  Clovis  talk  his  sorrows,  and  not  act  1 

O  man  bewomanized  !  Wert  thou  not  mine  1 

How  comes  it  thou  art  his  1 

Clolair.  You  have  done  ill. 
And  must  be  taught  so  ;  you  capitulate 
Not  with  your  equal,  Clovis,  she's  thy  queen. 

Clovis.  Upon  my  knees  I  do  acknowledge  her 
Queen  of  my  thoughts  and  my  affections. 

0  pardon  me,  if  my  ill-tutor'd  tongue 
Has  forfeited  my  head ;  if  not,  behold 
Before  the  sacred  altar  of  thy  feet 

1  lie,  a  willing  sacrifice. 

Ophelia.  Arise : 
And  henceforth,  Clovis,  thus  instruct  thy  soul ; 
There  lies  a  depth  in  fate  which  earthly  eyes 
May  faintly  look  into,  but  cannot  fathom  ; 
You  had  my  vow  till  death  to  be  your  wife. 
You  being  dead  my  vows  were  cancelled, 


And  I,  as  thus  you  see,  bestow'd. 

Clovis.  Farewell ; 
I  will  no  more  offend  you  :  would  to  God 
These  cruel  hands,  not  enough  barbarous, 
That  made  these  bleeding  witnesses  of  love, 
Had  set  an  endless  period  to  my  life  too ! 

Clotair.  Where  there's  no  help  its  bootless  to 
complain ; 
Clovis,  she's  mine  :  let  not  your  spirit  war 
Or  mutiny  within  you  ;  because  I  say  't ; 
Nor  let  thy  tongue  from  henceforth  dare  presume 
To  say  she  might  or  ever  should  be  thine  ; 
What's  past  once  more  I  pardon,  'tis  our  wedding- 
day. 

Clovis.  A  long  farewell  to  love ;  thus  do  I  break 
[Breaks  the  ring. 
Your  broken  pledge  of  faith  ;  and  with  this  kiss. 
The  last  that  ever  Clovis  must  print  here, 
Unkiss  the  kiss  that  seal'd  it  on  thy  lips. 
Ye  powers,  ye  are  unjust,  for  her  wild  breath, 
That  has  the  sacred  tie  of  contract  broken. 
Is  still  the  same  Arabia  that  it  was. 

f  r/ie  king,  Clotair,  puUs  him. 
Nav,  I  have  done :  beware  of  jealousy  ! 
I  would  not  have  you  nourish  jealous  thoughts ; 
Though  she  has  broke  her  faith  to  me,  to  you, 
Against  her  reputation,  she'll  be  true  : 
Farewell  my  first  love  lost,  I'll  choose  to  have 
No  wife  till  death  shall  wed  me  to  my  grave. 
Come,  Strephon,  come  and  teach  me  how  to  die, 
That  gavest  me  life  so  unadvisedly. 


JAMES  SHIRLEY. 


[Born,  I59S.     Died,  1666.] 


James  Shiklet  was  bom  in  London.  He  was 
educated  at  Cambridge,*  where  he  took  the  de- 
gree of  A.  M.,  and  had  a  curacy  for  some  time 
at  or  near  St.  Alban's,  but  embracing  popery, 
became  a  schoolmaster  [1623]  in  that  town. 
Leaving  this  employment,  he  settled  in  London 
as  a  dramatic  writer,  and  between  the  years  1625 
and  1666  published  thirty-nine  plays.  In  the 
civil  wars  he  followed  his  patron,  the  Earl  of 
Newcastle,  to  the  field ;  but  on  the  decline  of  the 
royal   cause,  returned    to   London,  and   as   the 


theatres  were  now  shut,  kept  a  school  in  White- 
friars,  where  he  educated  many  eminent  charac- 
ters. At  the  reopening  of  the  theatres  he  must 
have  been  too  old  to  have  renewed  his  dramatic 
labours ;  and  what  benefit  the  Restoration 
brought  him  as  a  royalist,  we  are  not  informed. 
Both  he  and  his  wife  died  on  the  same  day,  im- 
mediately after  the  great  fire  of  London,  by  which 
they  had  been  driven  out  of  their  house,  and  pro- 
bably owed  their  deaths  to  their  losses  and  terror 
on  that  occasion."}" 


FROM  THE  TRAGEDY  OF  "THE  CARDINAL." 

J\rKms.—T/ie  DvcHeaa  and  her  Ladies. 
Faleiia.  Sweet  madam,  be  less  thoughtful; 
this  obedience 
To  passion  will  destroy  the  noblest  fi-ame 
Of  beauty  that  this  kingdom  ever  boasted. 

Celiiida.   This    sadness    might   become  your 
other  habit, 


•  He  hud  studied  aloo  at  Oxford,  where  Wood  says  that 
Laud  object4-d  to  bis  taking  ordi-ra.  ou  acrount  of  a  mole 
01.  his  lea  ih-vk.  which  xn-itly  di-flgured  him.  This fas- 
tidiou;<ue.-'«  aliout  per.-K)nal  beauty,  is  certainly  beyond  the 
L.^»itical  law.  [As  no  mention  of  Shirley  oorurs  in  any 
of  the  public  records  of  Oxford,  thi?  duration  of  his  resi- 
d«noe  at  St.  John's  College  cannot  be  determined.— Dyce's 
X-t/e,  p.  V.J 


And  ceremonies  black  for  him  that  died. 
The  times  of  sorrow  are  expired,  and  all 
The  joys  that  wait  upon  the  court — your  birth. 
And  a  new  Hymen  that  is  coming  towards  you. 
Invite  a  change. 

Duch.  Ladies,  I  thank  you  both. 
I  pray  excuse  a  little  melancholy 
That  is  behind.     My  year  of  mourning  ha'h  not 
So  clear'd  my  account  with  sorrow,  but  there  may 
Some  dark  thoughts  stay  with  sad  reflections 


[t  Shirley  was  tlie  last  of  a  frreat  race,  all  of  whom  spoke 
nearly  the  same  language,  and  had  a  set  of  moral  feelings 
and  notions  in  common.  A  new  language,  and  quite  a 
new  turn  of  tragic  and  comic  interest,  came  in  with  the 
Restoration. — Lamb.] 


JAMES   SHIRLEY. 


209 


Upon  my  heiirt,  for  Iiim  I  lost.     Even  this 
New  dress  and  smiling  garment,  meant  to  show 
A  peace  concluded  'tvvi.xt  my  grief  and  me, 
Is  but  a  sad  remembrance :  but  I  resolve 
To  entertain  more  pleasing  thoughts,  and  if 
You  wish  me  heartily  to  smile,  you  must 
Not  mention  grief:  not  in  advice  to  leave  it. 
Such  counsels  open  but  afresh  the  wounds 
You  would  close  up,  and  keep  alive  the  cause 
Whose  bleeding  you  would  cure;  let's  talk  of 

something 
That  may  delight.     You  two  are  read  in  all 
The  histories  of  our  court ;  tell  me,  Valeria, 
Who  has  thy  vote  for  the  most  handsome  man. 
Thus  I  must  counterfeit  a  peace,  when  all     [Aside. 
Within  me  is  at  mutiny. 

Val.  I  have  examined 
All  that  are  candidates  for  praise  of  ladies, 
But  find — may  I  speak  boldly  to  your  grace, 
And  will  you  not  return  it,  in  your  mirth, 
To  make  me  blush  1 

Duch.  No,  no ;  speak  freely. 

Val.  I  will  not  rack  your  patience,  madam,  but 
Were  I  a  princess,  I  should  think  Count  D'Alvarez 
Had  sweetness  to  deserve  me  from  the  world. 

Duch.  Alvarez  !  she's  a  spy  upon  my  heart. 

{Ande. 

VaL  He's  young   and   active,  and  composed 
most  sweetly. 

Duch.  I  have  seen  a  face  more  tempting. 

Val.  It  had  then 
Too  much  of  woman  in 't ;  his  eyes  speak  movingly, 
Which  may  excuse  his  voice,  and  lead  away 
All  female  pride  his  captive.     His  black  hair, 
Which  naturally  falling  into  curls 

Duch.  Prithee  no  more,  thou  art  in  love  with  him. 
The  man  in  your  esteem,  Celinda,  now. 

Cel.  Alvarez  is,  I  must  confess,  a  gentleman 
Of  handsome  composition,  but  with 
His  mind  (the  greater  excellence)  I  think 
Another  may  delight  a  lady  more. 
If  man  be  well  consider'd,  that's  Columbo, 
Now,  madam,  votec"  to  be  yours. 

Duch,  My  torm^nt!  [Attde. 

VuL  She  atfects  him  not. 

Cel.  He  has  a  person  and  a  bravery  beyond 
All  men  that  I  observe. 

Val    He  is  a  soldier, 
A  rough-hewn  man,  and  may  show  well  at  distance , 
His  talk  will  fright  a  lady  :  war  and  grim- 
Faced  Honour  are  his  mistresses — he  raves 
To  hear  a  lute — Love  meant  him  not  his  priest. 
Again  your  pardon,  madam :  we  may  talk. 
But  you  have  art  to  choose  and  crown  afl'ection. 

[Htf.unt. 

Duch.  What  is  it  to  be  born  above  these  ladies, 
And  want  their  freedom  1  They  are  not  constrain'd, 
Nor  slaved  by  their  own  greatness,  or  the  king's. 
But  let  their  free  hearts  look  abroad  and  choose 
By  their  own  eyes  to  love.     I  must  repair 
My  poor  afflicted  bosom,  and  assume 
The    privilege   I   was   born   with,    which    now 

prompts  me 
To  tell  the  king  he  hath  no  power  nor  art 
To  steer  a  lover's  soul. 


FROM  TUB  PAMR. 
The  D..<be8s's  conf  renre  with  Alrares. 

JEnter  SiCRETART. 

Scr.  The  Count  D'Alvarez,  madam. 

Durh.  Admit  him. 
And  let  none  interrupt  us.  [Exit  See.]  How  shall  I 
Behave  my  looks  ?   the  guilt  of  my  neglect. 
Which  had  no  seal  from  hence,  will  call  up  blood 
To  write  upon  my  cheeks  the  shame  and  story 
In  some  red  letter. 

Enter  lyALTAass. 

VMv.  Madam,  I  present 
One  that  was  glad  to  obey  your  grace,  and  come 
To  know  what  your  commands  are. 

Durh.  Where  I  once 
Did  promise  love,  a  love  that  had  the  power 
And  office  of  a  priest,  to  chain  my  heart 
To  yours,  it  were  injustice  to  command. 

D'jllv.  But  I  can  look  upon  you,  madam,  as 
Becomes  a  servant,  with  as  much  humility. 
In  tenderness  of  your  honour  and  great  fortune, 
Give  up,  when  you  call  back  your  bounty,  all  that 
Was  mine,  as  I  had  pride  to  think  them  favours. 

Duch.  Hath  love  taught  thee  no  more  assur- 
ance in 
Our  mutual  vows,  thou  canst  suspect  it  possible 
I  should  revoke  a  promise  made  to  heaven 
And  thee,  so  soon  1     This  must  arise  from  some 
Distrust  of  thy  own  faith. 

D^Mv.  Your  grace's  pardon  : 
To  speak  with  freedom,  I  am  not  so  old 
In  cunning  to  betray,  nor  young  in  time 
Not  to  see  where  and  when  I  am  at  loss. 
And  how  to  bear  my  fortune  and  my  wounds ; 
Which,  if  I  look  for  health,  must  still  bleed  inward, 
A  hard  and  desperate  condition. 
I  am  not  ignorant  your  birth  and  greatness 
Have  placed  you  to  grow  up  with  the  king's  grace 
And  jealousy,  which  to  remove  his  power 
Hath  chosen  a  fit  object  for  your  beauty 
To  shine  upon — Columbo,  his  great  favourite. 
I  am  a  man  on  whom  but  late  the  king 
Has  pleased  to  cast  a  beam,  which  was  not  meant 
To  make  me  proud,  but  wisely  to  direct 
And  light  me  to  my  safety.     Oh,  dear  madam, 
I  will  not  call  more  witness  of  my  love. 
If  you  will  let  me  still  give  it  that  name. 
Than  this,  that  I  dare  make  myself  a  loser. 
And  to  you  will  give  all  my  blessings  up. 
Preserve  your  greatness,  and  forget  a  trifle, 
That  shall  at  best,  when  you  have  drawn  me  up, 
But  hang  about  you  like  a  cloud,  and  dim 
The  glories  you  are  born  to. 

Duch.  Misery 
Of  birth  and  slate !  that  I  could  shift  into 
A  meaner  blood,  or  find  some  art  to  purge 
That  part  which  makes  my  veins  unequal.     Y»'f 
Those  nice  distinctions  have  no  place  in  us; 
There's  but  a  shadow  difference,  a  title; 
Thy  stock  partakes  as  much  of  noble  sap 
As  that  which  feeds  the  root  of  kings;  and  he 
'J'hat  writes  a  lord,  hath  all  the  essence  of 
Nobility. 

D'JUv.  'Tis  not  a  name  that  makes 
Our  separation — the  king's  displeasure 
X  % 


270 


JAMES   SHIRLEY. 


Hangs  a  portent  to  fright  us,  and  the  matter 
That  feeds  this  exhalation  is  the  cardinal's 
Plot  to  advance  his  nephew ;  then  Columbo, 
A  man  made  up  for  some  prodigious  act, 
Is  fit  to  be  consider'd :  in  all  three 
There  is  no  character  you  fix  upon 
But  has  a  form  of  ruin  to  us  both. 

Duch.  Then  you  do  look  on  them  with  fear  ? 

VAIv.  With  eyes 
That  should  think  tears  a  duty  to  lament 
Your  least  unkind  fate ;  but  my  youth  dares  boldly 
Meet  all  the  tyranny  of  the  stars,  whose  black 
Malevolence  but  shoot  my  single  tragedy; 
You  are  above  the  value  of  many  worlds 
Peopled  with  such  as  I  am. 

Diich.  What  if  Columbo, 
Engaged  in  war,  in  his  hot  thirst  of  honour, 
Find  out  the  way  to  death  1 

D.Alv.  'Tis  possible. 

Durh.  Or  say,  no  matter  by  what  art  or  motive, 
He  gives  his  title  up,  and  leave  me  to 
My  own  election. 

UAlv.  If  I  then  be  happy 
To  have  a  name  within  your  thought,  there  can 
Be  nothing  left  to  crown  rne  with  new  blessing. 
But  I  dream  thus  of  heaven,  and  wake  to  find 
My  am'rous  soul  a  mockery,  when  the  priest 
Shall  tie  you  to  another,  and  the  joys 
Of  marriage  leave  no  thought  at  leisure  to 
liook  back  upon  Alvarez,  that  must  wither 
For  loss  of  you:  yet  then  I  cannot  lose 
So  much  of  what  I  was  once  in  your  favour. 
But  in  a  sigh  pray  still  you  may  live  happy. 

Duch.  My  heart  is  in  a  mist;  some  good  star  smile 
Upon  my  resolution,  and  direct 
Two  lovers  in  their  chaste  embrace  to  meet. 
Columbo's  bed  contains  my  winding-sheet. 


FROM  THE  SAME. 

Conference  of  the  Ducbeps  and  the  Cardinal,  after  the 
Dudiess  hafi  sent  a  letter  to  Columbo,  praying  him  to 
renounce  her.  and  has  received  an  answer  from  the 
camp,  complying  with  the  request. 

Cardinal.  Madam. 

Durhesg.  My  lord. 

Curd.  The  king  speaks  of  a  letter  that  has  brought 
A  riddle  in 't 

Diuh.  'Tis  easy  to  interpret. 

Curd.  From  my  nephew.     May  I  deserve  the 
favour  1  [Givei  hin  the  letter. 

Duch.  He  looks  as  though  his  eyes  would  fire 
the  paper ; 
They  are  a  pair  of  burning-glasses,  and 
His  envious  blood  doth  give  them  flame. 

Card.  What  lethargy  could  thus  unspirit  him  7 
I  i.m  all  wonder.     Do  not  believe,  madam, 
But  that  Columbo's  love  is  yet  more  sacred 
To  honour  and  yourself,  than  thus  to  forfeit 
What  I  have  heard  him  call  the  glorious  wreath 
To  all  his  merits,  given  him  by  the  king, 
Piom  whom  he  took  you  with  more  pride  than  ever 
He  came  from  victory ;  his  kisses  hang 
Yet  panting  on  your  lips,  and  he  but  now 
Exchanged  rehgious  farewell,  to  return 
B  It  with  more  triumph  to  be  yours. 


Duch,  My  lord. 
You  do  believe  your  nephew's  hand  was  not 
Surprised  or  strain'd  to  this? 

Card.  Strange  arts  and  windings  in  the  world- 
most  dark 
And  subtle  progresses.     W^ho  brought  this  letter! 

Dtuh.  I  inquired  not  his  name.    I  thought  it  no* 
Considerable  to  take  such  narrow  notice. 

Card.  Desert  and  honour  urged  it  here,  nor  can 
I  blame  you  to  be  angry  ;  yet  his  person 
Obliged  you  should  have  given  a  nobler  pause 
Before  you  made  your  faith  and  change  so  violent 
From  his  known  worth,  into  the  arms  of  one. 
However  fashion'd  to  your  amorous  wish, 
Not  equal  to  his  cheapest  fame,  with  all 
Th    gloss  of  blood  and  merit. 

Duih.  This  compassion. 
My  good  lord  cardinal,  I  cannot  think 
Flows  from  an  even  justice,  it  betrays 
You  partial  where  your  blood  runs. 

Card.  I  fear,  madam, 
Your  own  takes  too  much  license,  and  will  soon 
Fall  to  the  censure  of  unruly  tongues. 
Because  Alvarez  has  a  softer  cheek. 
Can,  like  a  woman,  trim  his  wanton  hair, 
Spend  half  a  day  with  looking  in  the  glass 
To  find  a  posture  to  present  himself. 
And  bring  more  eti'eminacy  than  man 
Or  honour,  to  your  bed — must  he  supplant  him  1 
Take  heed,  the  common  murmur,  when  it  catches 
The  scent  of  a  lost  fame, 

Duch.  My  fame,  lord  cardinal ! 
It  stands  upon  an  innocence  as  clear 
As  the  devotions  you  pay  to  heaven. 
I  shall  not  urge,  my  lord,  your  soft  indulgence 
At  my  next  shrift. 

Card.  You  are  a  fine  conri  lady. 

Durh.  And  you  should  be  a  reverend  churchman. 

Card.  One  that,  if  you  have  not  thrown  off 
Would  counsel  you  to  leave  Alvarez,     [modesty, 

Duch.  'Cause  you  dare  do  worse 
Than  marriage,  must  not  I  be  admitted  what 
The  church  and  law  allow  meT 

Card.  Insolent !  then  you  dare  marry  him  ! 

Duch.  Dare !    let  your   contracted   flame    and 
malice  with 
Columbo's  rage  higher  than  that,  meet  us 
When  we  approach  the  holy  place,  clasp'd  hand 
In  hand, — we'll  break  through  all  your  force,  and  fix 
Our  sacred  vows  together  there. 

Card.  I  knew 
When  with  as  chaste  a  brow  you  promised  fair 
To  another — You  are  no  dissembling  lady. 

Duch.  Would  all  your  actions  had  no  falser  lights 
About  'em 

Card.  Ha!  [loud. 

Duch.  The  people  would  not  talk  and  curse  so 

Card.  I'll  have  you  chid  into  a  blush  for  this. 

Duch.  Begin  at  home,  great  man,  there's  cause 
enough. 
You  turn  the  wrong  end  of  the  perspective 
Upon  your  crimes  to  drive  them  to  a  far 
And  lesser  sight ;  but  let  your  eyes  look  r\ght. 
What  giants  would  your  pride  and  surfei ,  seem. 
How  gross  your  avarice,  eating  up  whole  families. 


JAMES   SHIRLEY. 


271 


How  vast  arc  your  corruptions  and  abuse 

Of  a  king's  ear,  at  which  you  hang  a  pendant, 

Not  to  adorn,  but  ulcerate ;  whdst  the  honest 

Nobility,  Uke  pictures  in  the  arras, 

Serve  only  for  court-ornament :  if  they  speak, 

'Tis  when  you  set  their  tongues,  which  you  wind  up 

Like  clocks  to  strike  at  the  just  hour  you  please. 

Leave,  leave,  my  lord,  these  usurpations, 

And  be  what  you  were  meant,  a  man  to  cure, 

Not  let  in  agues  to  religion. 

Look  on  the  church's  wounds 

Card.  You  dare  presume. 
In  your  rude  spleen  to  me,  to  abuse  the  church  1 

Duch.  Alas !  you  give  false  aim,  my  lord ;  'tis  your 
Ambition  and  scarlet  sins  that  rob 
Her  altar  of  the  glory,  and  leave  wounds 
Upon  her  brow  ^hich  fetches  grief  and  paleness 
Into  her  cheeks ;  making  her  troubled  bosom 
Pant  with  her  groans,  and  shroud  her  holy  blushes 
Within  your  reverend  purples. 

Card.   Will  you  now  take  breath? 

Duch.  In  hope,  my  lord,  you  will  behold  yourself 
In  a  true  glass,  and  see  those  unjust  acts 
That  so  deform  you,  and  by  timely  cure 
Prevent  a  shame  before  the  short-hair'd  men 
Do  crowd  and  call  for  justice,  I  take  leave.    [Exit. 

Card.  This  woman  has  a  spirit  that  may  rise 
To  tame  the  devU's, — there's  no  dealing  with 
Her  angry  tongue, — 'tis  action  and  revenge 
Must  calm  her  fury.     Were  Columbo  here 
I  could  resolve, — but  letters  shall  be  sent 
To  th'  army,  which  may  wake  him  into  sense 
Of  his  rash  folly,  or  direct  his  spirit 
Some  way  to  snatch  his  honour  from  this  flame ; 
All  great  men  know  "  the  soul  of  life  is  fame." 


FROM   "THE  ROYAL  MASTER." 

The  Duke  of  Florence,  being  engaged  to  msirry  the  rister 
of  the  King  of  Naples,  is  treacherously  led  to  distrust 
her  character,  and,  on  showing  symptoms  of  his  disre- 
gard, id  thus  called  to  account  by  the  King. 

King.  There's  another 
Whom  though  you  can  forget.     My  sister,  sir, 
Deserves  to  be  remember'd. 

Duke.  You  are  jealous 
That  I  visit  this  lady. 

King.  That  were  only 
To  doubt.     I  must  be  plain ;  Florence  has  not 
Been  kind  to  Naples  to  reward  us  with 
Affront  for  love ;  and  Theodosia  must  not 
Be  any  prince's  mockery. 

Duke.  I  can 
Take  boldness  too,  and  tell  you,  sir,  it  were 
More  for  her  honour  she  would  mock  no  prince. 
I  am  not  lost  to  Florence  yet,  though  I 
Be  Naples'  guest;  and  I  must  tell  him  here, 
I  came  to  meet  with  fair  and  princely  treaties 
Of  love,  not  to  be  made  the  tale  of  Italy, 
The  ground  of  scurril  pasquils,  or  the  mirth 
Of  any  lady  who  shall  pre-engage 
Her  heart  to  another's  bosom,  and  then  sneak 
Off  like  a  tame  despised  property 
When  her  ends  are  advanced. 

ATiwg.  I  understand  not 
This  passion,  yet  it  points  at  something 


That  may  be  dangerous ;  to  conclude,  Theodosia 
Is  Naples'  s  ster,  and  I  must  not  see 
Hei  lost  to  honour,  though  my  kingdom  bleed 
To  rescue  her. 

Dtike.  Now  you  are  passionate. 
This  must  be  repair'd,  my  name  is  wounded, 
And  my  affection  betray'd  :  your  sister. 
That  looks  like  a  fair  star  within  love's  sky. 
Is  fall'n,  and  by  the  scattering  of  her  fires 
Declares  she  has  alliance  with  the  earth, 
Not  heavenly  nature. 

King.  Are  my  senses  perfect  T 
Be  clearer,  sir ;  teach  me  to  understand 
This  prodigy.     You  do  not  scorn  our  sister  ? 

DvJce.  Not  I !  as  she  has  title  to  your  blood, 
She  merits  all  ambition;  she's  a  princess, 
Yet  no  stain  to  her  invention,  we  are  parallels, 
Equal,  but  never  made  to  meet. 

King.  How's  this  ? 

Duke.  Truth  is  my  witness,  I  did  mean 
No  ceremonious  love  until  I  found 
Her  heart  was  given  from  me,  though  your  powef 
Contract  our  bodies. 

Kifig.  Stay  and  be  advised ; 
And  if  your  doubts,  by  some  malicious  tongue 
Framed  to  abuse  my  sister  and  yourself. 
Have  raised  this  mutiny  in  your  thoughts,  I  have 
A  power  to  cure  all. 

Dtike.  Sir,  you  cannot. 

King.  Not  to  court  thee  for  her  husband,  wert 
possess'd 
Of  all  o'er  which  our  eagle  shakes  his  wings. 
But  to  set  right  her  honour ;  and  ere  I  challenge 
Thee  by  thy  birth,  by  all  thy  hopes  and  right 
To  fame,  to  tell  me  what  malicious  breath 
Has  poison'd  her,  hear  what  my  sister  sends 
By  me  so  late,  Time  is  not  old  in  minutes,     [tell 
The  words  yet  warm  with  her  own  breath — Pray 
The  duke,  she  says,  although  I  know  not  from 
What  root  his  discontents  grow  to  devote  him 
To  Domitilla 

Duke.  How  does  she  know  that  1  [fancy ; 

King.  Whose  beauty  has  more  spell  upon  his 
I  did  contract  my  heart  when  I  thought  his 
Had  been  no  stranger  to  his  tongue,  and  can 
Not  find  within  it  since  what  should  divert 
His  princely  thoughts  from  my  first  innocence, 
Yet  such  is  my  stern  fate  I  must  still  love  him. 
And  though  he  frame  his  heart  to  unkind  distance, 
It  hath  embracing  virtue  upon  mine, 
And  with  his  own  remove  draws  my  soul  after  him. 
If  he  forget  I  am  a  princess,  pray 
Let  Naples  do  so  too,  for  my  revenge 
Shall  be  in  prayers,  that  he  may  find  my  wrong. 
And  teach  him  soft  repentance  and  mftre  faith. 

Duke.  All  this  must  not  betray  my  freedom,  sir. 

King.  You'll  not  accuse  our  sister  of  dishonour? 

Duke.  I  would  not  grieve  you,  sir,  to  hear  what  I 
Could  say ;  and  press  me  not,  for  your  own  peace; 
Fames  must  be  gently  touch'd. 

King.  As  thou  art  Florence,  speak. 

Duke.  I  shall  displease. 
Yet  I  but  tell  her  brother  that  doth  press  me. 
Lucrece  was  chaste  after  the  rape,  but  where 
The  blood  consents  there  needs  no  ravisher 


JAMES   SHIRLEY. 


King.  I  do  grow  faint  with  wonder.     Here's 
To  blast  an  apprehension,  and  shoot         [enough 
A  quaking  through  the  valiant  soul  of  man. 
My  sister's  blood  accused,  and  her  fair  name. 
Late  chaste  as  trembling  snow,  whose  fleeces  clothe 
Our  Alpine  hills — sweet  as  the  rose's  spirit. 
Or  violet's  cheek,  on  which  the  morning  leaves 
A  tear  at  parting, — now  begins  to  wither 
As  it  would  haste  to  death  and  be  forgotten. 
This  Florence  is  a  prince  that  does  accuse  her, 
And  such  men  give  not  faith  to  every  murmur 
Or  slight  intelligence  that  wounds  a  lady 
In  her  dear  honour.     But  she  is  my  sister; 
Think  of  that  too.  credit  not  all.  but  ask 
Of  thy  own  vems  what  guilty  flowings  there 
May  tempt  thee  to  believe  this  accusation. 


FROM  "THE  GENTLEMAN  OF  VENICE." 

Claudiana.  on  receiving  a  proposition  from  her  husband 
Cornari.  which  she  supposes  to  arise  from  his  suspicion 
of  her  infidelity. 

Claudiana.  Let  me  fall  [Kruds. 

Beneath  that  which  sustains  me,  ere  I  take 
In  a  belief  that  will  destroy  my  peace ; 
Not  in  the  apprehension  of  what 
You  frame  t'  accuse  yourself,  but  in  fear 
My-  honour  is  betray'd  to  your  suspicion. 

Cornari.  Rise !  with  thy  tears  I  kiss 
Away  thy  tremblings.     I  suspect  thy  honour  1 
My  heart  will  want  faith  to  believe  an  angel. 
That  should  traduce  thy  fair  name ;  thou  art  chaste 
As  the  white  down  of  heaven,  whose  feathers  play 
Upon  the  wings  of  a  cold  winter's  gale. 
Trembling  with  fear  to  touch  th'  impurer  earth. 
How  are  the  roses  frighted  in  thy  cheeks 
To  paleness,  weeping  out  transparent  dew, 
When  a  loose  story  is  but  named  1  thou  art 
The  miracle  of  a  chaste  wife,  from  which  fair 
Original,  drawn  out  by  Heaven's  own  hand, 
To  have  had  one  copy  I  had  writ  perfection. 


FROM  "THE  DOUBTFUL  HEIR." 

Pertnni. — Ferdinand  in  prison  for  asserting  his  right  to  the 
kingdom  of  Murcia.  Rosama,  hit  mistress,  aisguised 
Wee  a  Page. 

Rosaiiia.  Pkat  do  not  grieve  for  me.     I  have 
a  heart 
That  can  for  your  sake  suffer  more ;  and  when 
The  tyranny  of  your  fate  calls  me  to  die, 
I  can  as  willingly  resign  my  breath 
As  go  to  sleep. 

Ferdinand.  Can  I  hear  this 
Without  a  fresh  wound,  that  thy  love  to  me 
Should  lie  so  ill  rewarded  1  thou  hast  engaged 
Thysolf  too  much  already ;  'tis  within 
Thy  will  yet  to  be  safe, — reveal  thyself,       [ness, 
Throw  off  the  cloud  that  doth  eclipse  that  bright- 
And  they  will  court  thy  person,  and  be  proud 
With  all  becoming  honour  to  receive  thee ; 
No  fear  shall  rob  thy  cheek  of  her  chaste  blood. 
Oh,  leave  me  to  my  own  stars,  and  expect, 
Whale'er  become  of  .wretched  Ferdinand, 
A  happy  fate. 


Ros.  Your  counsel  is  unkind  ; 
This  language  would  become  your  charity 
To  a  stranger,  but  my  interest  is  more 
In  thee,  than  thus  with  words  to  be  sent  off. 
Our  vows  have  made  us  one,  nor  can  the  names 
Of  father,  country,  or  what  can  be  dear 
In  nature,  bribe  one  thought  to  wish  myself 
In  heaven  without  thy  company  :  it  were  poor,  then, 
To  leave  thee  here.  Then,  by  thy  faith  I  charge  thee ; 
By  this,  the  first  and  last  seal  of  our  love ;  [Kisses  him. 
By  all  our  promises,  when  we  did  flatter 
Ourselves,  and  in  our  fancy  took  the  world 
A  pieces,  and  collected  what  did  like 
Us  best,  to  make  us  a  new  paradise ; 
By  that  the  noblest  ornament  of  thy  soul, 
Thy  honour,  I  conjure  thee,  let  me  still 
Be  undiscover'd.     What  will  it  avail 
To  leave  me,  whom  thou  lovest,  and  walk  alone, 
Sad  pilgrim,  to  another  world  1     We  will 
Converse  in  soul,  and  shoot  like  stars  whose  beams 
Are  twisted,  and  make  bright  the  sullen  groves 
Of  lovers,  as  we  pass. 

Fer.  These  are  but  dreams 
Of  happiness:  be  wise,  Rosania, 
Thy  love  is  not  a  friend  to  make  thee  miserable; 
Society  in  death,  where  we  affect. 
But  multiplies  our  grief.     Live  thou,  oh  live! 
And  if  thou  hast  a  tear,  when  I  am  dead, 
But  drop  it  to  my  memory,  it  shall 
More  precious  than  embalming  dwell  upon  me, 
And  keep  my  ashes  pure ;  my  spirit  shall 
At  the  same  instant,  in  some  innocent  shap>e. 
Descend  upon  that  earth  thou  hast  bedew'd, 
And,  kissing  the  bright  tribute  of  thine  eye, 
Shall  after  wait  like  thy  good  angel  on  thee. 
There  will  be  none  to  speak  of  Ferdinand 
Without  disdain  if  thou  diest  too.     Oh,  live 
A  little  to  defend  me,  or  at  least 
To  say  I  was  no  traitor  to  thy  love ; 
And  lay  the  shame  on  death  and  my  false  stars, 
That  would  not  let  me  live  to  be  a  king. 

Ros.  O  Ferdinand ! 
Thou  dost  not  love  me  now  ? 

Fer.  Not  love,  Rosania  1 
If  wooing  thee  to  live  will  not  assure  thee, 
Command  me  then  to  die,  and  spare  the  cruelty 
Of  the  fair  queen.     Not  love,  Rosania  .' 
If  thou  wilt  but  delight  to  see  me  bleed, 
I  will  at  such  a  narrow  passage  let 
Out  life,  it  shall  be  many  hours  in  ebbing ; 
And  my  soul,  bathing  in  the  crimson  stream, 
Take  pleasure  to  be  drown'd.     I  have  small  time 
To  love  and  be  alive,  but  I  will  carry 
So  true  a  faith  to  woman  hence  as  shall 
Make  poor  the  world,  when  I  am  gone  to  tell 
The  story  yonder. — We  are  interrupted. 
Enter  Keeper. 

Keeper.  You  must  prepare  yourself  for  present 
I  have  command  t'  attend  you  to  the  judges,  [trial; 
That  gentleman,  and  all  that  did  adhere 
To  your  conspiracy,  are  by  the  queen's 
Most  gracious  mercy  pardon'd. 

Fer.  In  that  word 
Thou  hast  brought  me  more  than  life.  I  shall  betray, 
And  with  my  too  much  joy  undo  thee  again. 


JAMES    SHIRLEY. 


273 


Heaven  does  command  thee  live,  I  must  obey 
This  summons.     I  shall  see  thee  again,  Tiberio,* 
Before  I  die. 

Bos.  I'll  wait  upon  you,  sir ; 
The  queen  will  not  deny  me  that  poor  office. 
I  know  not  how  to  leave  you. 

Fer.  Death  and  I 
Shall  meet  and  be  made  friends ;  but  when  we  part, 
The  world  shall  find  thy  story  in  my  heart. 


FERDIHAND'S  TRIAL. 

FROM   THE   SAME. 

J%r«on»,  besidrs  the  Prisoner  at  the  bar  and  Ms  Page,  are 
OuYi\,  the  supposed  (ivtKS  of  Murcia;  OflScers;  Ernesto, 
KoDKiGUEZ.  I.KANDKo.  atid  Leokario;  Noblemen,  Ladies, 
Oeutlemfn,  and  Guard. 

Queen.  Is  that  the  prisoner  at  the  bar  1 

Leon.  He  that  pretended  himself  Ferdinand, 
Your  uncle's  son. 

Queen.  Proceed  to  his  arraignment.     My  lord 
You  know  our  pleasure.  [Leandro, 

Leandro.  Although  the  queen  in  her  own  royal 
power. 
And  without  violating  sacred  justice,  where 
Treason  comes  to  invade  her  and  her  crown 
With  open  war,  need  not  insist  upon 
The  forms  and  circumstance  of  law,  but  use 
Her  sword  in  present  execution. 
Yet  such  is  the  sweet  temper  of  her  blood 
And  calmness  of  her  nature,  though  provoked 
Into  a  storm,  unto  the  greatest  oflender 
She  shuts  up  no  defence,  willing  to  give 
A  satisfaction  to  the  world  how  much 
She  doth  delight  in  mercy.     Ferdinand, 
For  so  thou  dost  pretend  thyself,  thou  art 
Indicted  of  high  treason  to  her  majesty, 
In  that  thou  hast  usurp'd  relation  to 
Her  blood,  and,  under  name  of  being  her  kinsmem. 
Not  only  hast  contrived  to  blast  her  honour 
With  neighbouring  princes,  but  hast  gather'd  arms 
To  wound  the  precious  bosom  of  her  country. 
And  tear  the  crown,  which  heaven  and  just  suc- 
cession 
Hath  placed  upon  her  royal  head.     What  canst 
Thou  answer  to  this  treason  1 

Fer.  Boldly  thus : 
As  I  was  never,  with  the  height  of  all 
My  expectations  and  the  aid  of  friends, 
Transported  one  degree  above  myself,     [frown'd. 
So  must  not  Ferdinand,  though  his  stars  have 
And  the  great  eye  of  Providence  seem  to  slumber 
While  your  force  thus  compell'd  and  brought  me 

hither, 
With  mockery  of  my  fate,  to  be  arraign'd 
For  being  a  prince,  have  any  thought  beneath 
The  title  I  was  bom  to.     Yet  I'll  not  call 
This  cruelty  in  you,  nor  in  the  queen, 
(If  I  may  name  her  so  without  injustice 
To  my  own  right;)  a  kingdom  is  a  garland 
Worth  all  contention,  and  where  right  seals  not 
The  true  possession  nature  is  forgotten. 
And  blood  thought  cheap  to  assure  it.     There  is 
something 

*  The  assumed  name  of  the  page. 
36 


Within  that  excellent  figure  that  restrains 
A  passion  here,  that  else  would  forth  like  lightning  • 
'Tis  not  your  shape,  which  yet  hath  so  much  sweet 
Some  pale  religious  hermit  might  suspect     fness , 
You  are  the  blessed  saint  he  pray'd  to :  no. 
The  magic's  in  our  nature  and  our  blood. 
For  both  our  veins,  full  of  one  precious  purple. 
Strike  harmony  in  their  motion ;  I  am  Ferdinand, 
And  you  the  fair  Olivia,  brother's  children. 

Zeon.  What  insolence  is  this  1 

Quee  .  Oh,  my  lord,  let  him 
Be  free  to  plead ;  for,  if  it  be  no  dream. 
His  cause  will  want  an  orator.     By  my  blood 
He  does  talk  bravely. 

Rodrig.  These  are  flourishes. 

Em.  Speak  to  the  treason  you  are  charged  with. 
And  confess  a  guilt. 

Leon.  He  justifies  himself. 

Fer.  If  it  be  treason  to  be  born  a  prince, 
To  have  my  father's  royal  blood  move  here ; 
If  it  be  treason  in  my  infancy 
To  have  escaped  by  Divine  providence. 
When  my  poor  life  should  have  been  sacrificed 
To  please  a  cruel  uncle,  whose  ambition 
Surprised  my  crown,  and  after  made  Olivia, 
His  daughter,  queen ;  if  it  be  treason  to 
Have  been  a  stranger  thus  long  from  my  country, 
Bred  up  with  silence  of  my  name  and  birth, 
And  not  till  now  mature  to  own  myself 
Before  a  sunbeam ;  if  it  be  treason. 
After  so  long  a  banishment,  to  weep 
A  tear  of  joy  upon  my  country's  Iwsom 
And  call  her  mine,  my  just  inheritance. 
Unless  you  stain  my  blood  with  bastardy ; 
If  it  be  treason  still  to  love  this  eartli, 
That  knew  so  many  of  my  race  her  kings, 
Though  late  unkindly  arm'd  to  kill  her  sovereign, 
As  if  the  effusion  of  my  blood  were  left 
To  make  her  fertile ;  if  to  love  Olivia, 
My  nearest  pledge  of  blood,  although  her  power 
Hath  chain'd  her  prince,  and  made  her  lord  her 
Who  sits  with  expectation  to  hear  [prisoner, 

That  sentence  that  must  make  the  golden  wreath 
Secure  upon  her  brow  by  blasting  mine : 
If  this  be  treason,  I  am  guilty.     Ferdinand, 
Your  king's  become  a  traitor,  and  must  die 
A  black  and  most  inglorious  death. 

Era.  You  offer 
At  some  defence,  but  come  not  home.     By  what 
Engine  were  you  translated  hence,  or  whither 
Convey'd  T     There  was  some  trust  deceived  when 

you 
Were  carried  forth  to  be  pre8er^•ed,  and  much 
Care  taken  since  in  bringing  of  you  up. 
And  giving  secret  fire  to  this  ambition. 

Fer.  There  wants  no  testimony  here  of  what 
Concerns  the  story  of  my  birth  and  infancy. 
If  one  dare  speak  and  be  an  honest  lord 

Leand.  How's  thati  [tyranny , 

Fer.  Whose  love  and  art  secured  me  from  all 
Though  here  my  funeral  was  believed ;  while  I, 
Sent  to  an  honourable  friend,  his  kinsman, 
Grew  safely  to  the  knowledge  of  myself 
At  last,  till  fortune  of  the  war  betray'd  mo 
To  this  captivity. 


274 


JAMES  SHIRLEY. 


Leand.  I  blush  at  thee, 
Young  man,  whose  fall  has  made  thee  desperate. 
And  carest  not  what  man's  blood  thou  draw'st 
As  hateful  as  thy  crimes.  [along, 

Em.  That  confederate 
Sure  has  some  name :  declare  him,  that  he  may 
1  aank  you  for  his  award,  an  d  lose  his  head  for 't. 

Queen,  We  always  see  that  men,  in  such  high 
nature 
Deform'd  and  guilty,  want  no  specious  shapes 
To  gain  their  practice,  friendship,  and  compassion ; 
But  he  shall  feel  the  punishment.     D'  you  smile  1 

Fer,  A  woman's  anger  is  but  worth  it,  madam ; 
And  if  I  may  have  freedom,  I  must  say, 
Not  in  contempt  of  what  you  seem,  nor  help'd 
By  overcharge  of  passion,  which  but  makes 
A  fruitless  noise,  I  have  a  ssnse  of  what 
I  am  to  lose,  a  life ;  but  I  am  so  fortified 
With  valiant  thoughts  and  innocence,  I  shall, 
When  my  last  breath  is  giving  up  to  lose 
Itself  in  the  air,  be  so  remote  from  fear. 
That  I  will  cast  my  face  into  a  smile. 
Which  shall,  when  I  am  dead,  acquit  all  trembling. 
And  be  a  story  to  the  world  how  free 
From  paleness  Ferdinand  took  leave  of  earth. 

Eos.  Alas !  my  lord,  you  forget  me,  that  can 
Part  with  so  much  courage. 

Fer.  I  forget  indeed: 
I  thought  of  death  with  honour,  but  my  love 
Hath  found  a  way  to  chide  me.     Oh,  my  boy ! 
I  can  weep  now. 

Leon.  A  sudden  change :  be  weeps. 

Queen.  What  boy  is  that  1 

Fer.  I  prithee  take  thyself  away. 

Queen.  Y'our  spirit  does  melt,  it  seems,  and  you 
begin  to  think 
A  life  is  worth  preserving  though  with  infamy. 

Fer.  Goodness,  thy  aid  again,  and  tell  this  great, 
Proud  woman,  I  have  a  spirit  scorns  her  pity. 
Come  hither,  boy,  and  let  me  kiss  thee :  thus, 
At  parting  with  a  good  and  pretty  servant, 
I  can  without  my  honour  stain'd  shed  tears. 
I  took  thee  from  thy  friends  to  make  thee  mine- 
Is  it  not  truth,  boy  ? 

Hos.  Yes,  my  lord. 

Fer.  And  meant,  when  I  was  king,  to  make  thee 
And  shall  I  not,  when  I  can  live  no  longer     [great ; 
To  cherish  thee,  at  farewell  drop  a  tear. 
That  I  could  weep  my  soul  upon  thee]     But 
You  are  too  slow,  methinks ;  I  am  so  far 
Fiom  dread,  I  think  your  forms  too  tedious. 
1  expect  my  sentence. 

(^en.  Let  it  stay  awhile.  [protect  me. 

{.Aside.)     What  secret  flame  is  thisi     Honour 
Your  grace's  fair  excuse ;  for  you  I  shall 
Return  again.  [Exa. 

Fer.  And  I,  with  better  guard, 
After  my  silence  in  the  grave,  to  meet 
And  plead  this  cause. 

Ern.  He  is  distracted,  sure. 
His  person  I  could  pity,  but  his  insolence 
Wants  an  example.     What  if  we  proceed 
To  sentence  1 

lAon.  I  suppose  the  queen  will  clear 
Tour  duties  in't. 


[ExiL 


Leand,  But  I'll  acquaint  her. 

Leon.  My  lord,  Leandro's  gone. 

Ern.  His  censure  will 
Be  one  with  ours. — 

Fer.  Yet  shall  I  publish  who 
Thou  art]  I  shall  not  die  with  a  calm  soul 
And  leave  thee  in  this  cloud. 

EnU.r  QuEEjj  and  Leandro. 

Ros.  By  no  means,  sir.     The  queen. 

Queen.   Whose  service  is  so  forward  to  our  state. 
That  when  our  pleasure 's  known  not  to  proceed, 
They  dare  be  officious  in  his  sentence  1     Are 
We  queen,  or  do  we  move  by  your  protection? 

Ern.  Madam,  the  prince 

Queen.  My  lord,  you  have  a  queen : 
I  not  suspect  his  wisdom,  sir,  but  he 
Hath  no  commission  here  to  be  a  judge ; 
You  were  best  circumscribe  our  regal  power. 
And  by  yourselves  condemn  or  pardon  all. 
And  we  sign  to  your  will.    The  offence  which  you 
Call  treason  strikes  at  us,  and  we  release  it.    . 
Let  me  but  see  one  curl  in  any  brow ; 
Attend  the  prisoner  hither — Kiss  our  hand. 
Are  you  so  merciless  to  think  this  man 
Fit  for  a  scaffold  ? — You  shall,  sir,  be  near  us ; 
And  if  in  this  confusion  of  your  fortunes 
You  can  find  gratitude  and  love,  despair  not ; 
These  men,  that  now  oppose,  may  find  your  title 
Clear  to  the  kingdom  too.     Be,  sir,  collected. 
And  let  ns  love  your  arm. 

[Exit,  supported  by  FE&DiNAin> 

Ros.  What  change  is  here  1 

Leand.  What  think  you  of  this,  lords? 

Rodrig.  I  dare  not  think. 

Leon.  Affronted  thus  !     Oh,  my  vex'd  heart ! 

Ros.  I'll  follow  still ;  and,  if  this  be  no  dream. 
We  have  'scaped  a  brook  to  meet  a  greater  stream. 


THE  GAY  WORLD. 

FROM   "THE   LADY  OF    PLEASURE." 

Aretina,  Sir  Thomas  Bornweli's  ladi/,  and  his  Steward. 

Steward.  Be  patient,  madam,  you  may  have 
your  pleasure. 

.Aret.  'Tis  that  I  came  to  town  for :  I  would  not 
Endure  again  the  country  conversation 
To  be  the  lady  of  six  shires !  the  men. 
So  near  the  primitive  making,  they  retain 
A  sense  of  nothing  but  the  earth ;  their  brains 
And  barren  heads  standing  as  much  in  want 
Of  ploughing  as  their  ground :  to  hear  a  fellow 
Make  himself  merry  and  his  horse  with  whistling 
Sellinger's  Round ;  t'  observe  with  what  solemnity 
They  keep  their  wakes,  and  throw  for  pewter 

candlesticks ; 
How  they  become  the  morris,  with  whose  bells 
They  ring  all  into  Whitsun  ales,  and  swear 
Through  twenty  scarfs  and  napkins,  till  the  hobby 

horse 
Tire,  and  the  maid-marian,  dissolved  to  a  jelly. 
Be  kept  for  spoon-meat. 

Stetc,  These,  with  your  pardon,  are  no  argumen 
To  make  the  country  life  appear  so  hateful. 
At  least  to  your  particular,  who  enjoy'd 
A  blessinK  in  that  calm,  would  you  be  pleased 


JAMES   SHIRLEY. 


275 


To  think  so,  and  the  pleasure  of  a  kingdom  : 
While  your  own  will  commanded  what  should  move 
Delights,  your  husband's  love  and  power  join'd 
To  give  your  life  more  harmony.     You  lived  there 
Secure  and  innocent,  beloved  of  all ; 
Praised  for  your  hospitality,  and  pray'd  for : 
You  might  be  envied,  but  malice  knew 
Not  where  you  dwelt. — I  would  not  prophesy, 
But  leave  to  your  own  apprehension 
What  may  succeed  your  change. 

.Arel.  You  do  imagine. 
No  doubt,  you  have  taJk'd  wisely,  and  confuted 
London  past  all  defence.     Your  master  should 
Do  well  to  send  you  back  into  the  country 
With  title  of  superintendent  bailiff.  4 

Stew.  How,  madam  ? 

AreL.  Even  so,  sir.  [servant. 

Stew,  I  am    a   gentleman,  though  now   your 

Jlret.  A  country  gentleman. 
By  your  affection  to  converse  with  stubble : 
His  tenants  will  advance  you  wit,  and  plump  it  so 
With  beef  and  bag-pudding 

Stew.  You  may  say  your  pleasure, 
It  becomes  not  me  dispute.  [master. 

Aret.  Complain  to  the  lord  o(  the  soil,  your 

Stew.  Y'  are  a  woman  of  an  ungovern'd  passion, 
And  I  pity  you. 

Enter  Sir  Thomas  Bornwelu 

Born.  How  now,  what's  the  matter? 
Angry,  sweetheart  1 

Aret.  I  am  angry  with  myself, 
To  be  so  miserably  restrain'd  in  things 
Wherein  it  doth  concern  your  love  and  honour 
To  see  me  satisfied. 

Born.  In  what,  Aretina, 
Dost  thou  accuse  me?  have  I  not  obey'd 
All  thy  desires  against  mine  own  opinion  ? 
Quitted  the  country,  and  removed  the  hope 
Of  our  return  by  sale  of  that  fair  lordship 
We  lived  in ;  changed  a  calm  and  retire  life 
For  this  wild  town,  composed  of  noise  and  charge  1 

Aiet.  What  charge  more  than  is  necessary 
For  a  lady  of  my  birth  »nd  education  1 

Born.  I  am  not  ignorant  how  much  nobility 
Flows  in  your  blood ;  your  kinsmen,  great  and 

powerful 
r  th'  state,  but  with  thip  lose  not  your  memory 
Of  being  my  wife.     I  shall  be  studious, 
Madam,  to  give  the  dignity  of  your  birth 
All  the  best  ornaments  which  become  my  fortune, 
But  would  not  flatter  it  to  ruin  both, 
And  be  the  fable  of  the  town,  to  teach 
Other  men  loss  of  wit  by  mine,  employ'd 
To  serve  your  vast  expenses. 

Aret.  Am  I  then 
Brought  in  the  balance  so,  sir  1 

Born.  Though  you  weigh 
Me  in  a  partial  scale,  my  heart  is  honest, 
And  must  take  liberty  to  think  you  have 
Obey'd  no  modest  counsel  to  affect, 
Nay  study,  ways  of  pride  and  costly  ceremony. 
Your  change  of  gaudy  furniture,  and  pictures 
Of  this  Italian  master  and  that  Dutchman's ; 
Your  mighty  looking-glasses,  like  artillery, 
Brought  home  on  etiginea;  the  superfluous  plate, 


Antique  and  novel ;  vanities  of  tires ;  [man 

Fourscore  pound  suppers  for  my  lord,  your  kins- 
Banquets  for  t'  other  lady  aunt,  and  cousins; 
And  perfumes  that  exceed  all:  train  of  servants, 
To  stifle  us  at  home  and  show  abroad. 
More  motley  than  the  French  or  the  Venetian, 
About  your  coach,  whose  rude  postilion 
Must  pester  every  narrow  lane,  till  passengers 
And  tradesmen  curse  your  choking  up  their  stalls, 
And  common  cries  pursue  your  ladyship 
For  hind'ring  o'  the  market. 

Aret.  Have  you  done,  sir  1 

Bom.  I  cQuld  accuse  the  gayety  ofyour  wardrobe 
And  prodigal  embroideries,  under  which 
Rich  satins,  plushes,  cloth  of  silver,  dare 
Not  show  their  own  complexions.     Your  jewels, 
Able  to  burn  out  the  spectator's  eyes, 
And  show  like  bonfires  on  you  by  the  tapers. 
Something  might  here  be  spared,  with  safety  of 
Your  birth  and  honour,  since  the  truest  wealth 
Shines  from  the  soul,  and  draws  up  just  admirers. 
I  could  urge  something  more. 

Aret.  Pray  do ;  I  like 
Your  homily  of  thrift. 

Born.  I  could  wish,  madam, 
You  would  not  game  so  much. 

Aret.  A  gamester  too  1 

Born.  But  you  are  not  to  that  repentance  yet 
Should  teach  you  skill  enough  to  raise  your  profit ; 
You  look  not  through  the  subtlety  of  cards 
And  mysteries  of  dice,  nor  can  you  save 
Charge  with  the  box,  buy  petticoats  and  pearls, 
And  keep  your  family  by  the  precious  income. 
Nor  do  I  wish  you  should.     My  poorest  servant 
Shall  not  upbraid  my  tables,  nor  his  hire 
Purchased  beneath  my  honour.     You  may  play, 
Not  a  pastime  but  a  tyranny,  and  vex 
Yourself  and  my  estate  by  't 

Aret.  Good, — proceed.  [more 

Born.  Another  game  you  have,  which  consumes 
Your  fame  than  purse ;  your  revels  in  the  night, 
Your  meetings  call'd  the  Ball,  to  which  appear, 
As  to  the  court  of  pleasure,  all  your  gallants 
And  ladies,  thither  bound  by  a  subpoena 
Of  Venus  and  small  Cupid's  high  displeasure; 
'Tis  but  the  Family  of  Love  translated 
Into  a  more  costly  sin.     There  was  a  play  on  *t, 
And  had  the  poet  not  been  bribed  to  a  modest 
Expression  of  your  antic  gambols  in  't. 
Some  deeds  had  been  discover'd,  and  the  deeds  too 
In  time  he  may  repent  and  make  some  blush 
To  see  the  second  part  danced  on  the  stage. 
My  thoughts  acquit  you  for  dishonouring  me 
By  any  foul  act,  but  the  virtuous  know 
'Tis  not  enough  to  clear  ourselves,  but  the 
Suspicions  of  our  shame. 

Aret.  Have  you  concluded 
Your  lecture  1 

Born.  I  have  done ;  and  howsoever 
My  language  may  appear  to  you,  it  carries 
No  other  than  my  fair  and  just  intent 
To  your  delights,  without  curb  to  their  fair 
And  modest  freedom. 

Arel.  I'll  not  be  so  tedious 
In  my  reply,  but  without  art  or  eleganw 


273 


JAMES   SHIRLEY. 


Assure  /ou  I  still  keep  my  first  opinion ; 

And  though  you  veil  your  avaricious  meaning 

With  handsome  names  of  modesty,  and  thrift, 

I  find  you  would  intrench  and  wound  the  liberty 

I  was  born  with :  were  my  desires  unprivileged 

By  example,  while  my  judgment  thought  'em  fit, 

You  ought  not  to  oppose  ;  but  when  the  practice 

And  tract  of  every  honourable  lady 

Authorize  me,  I  take  it  great  injustice 

To  have  my  pleasure  circumscribed  and  taught  me. 

A  narrow-minded  husband  is  a  thief 

To  his  own  fame,  and  his  preferment  too ; 

He  shuts  his  parts  and  fortunes  from  the  world. 

While  irom  the  popular  vote  and  knowledge  men 

Rise  to  employment  in  the  state. 

Born.  I  have 
No  great  ambition  to  buy  preferment 
At  so  dear  a  rate. 

^ret.  Nor  I  to  sell  my  honour 
By  living  poor  and  sparingly.     I  was  not 
Bred  in  that  ebb  of  fortune,  and  my  fate 
Shall  not  compel  me  to 't. 

Bor7i.  I  know  not,  madam, 
But  you  pursue  these  ways. 

.^rel.  What  ways  1 

Born.  In  the  strict  sense  of  honesty  I  dare 
Make  oath  they  are  innocent. 

.^ret.  Do  not  divert. 
By  busy  troubling  of  your  brain,  those  thoughts 
That  should  preserve  them. 

Borti.  How  was  thatl 

Jret.  'Tis  English. 

Boriu  But  carries  some  unkind  sense 

Untir  steward. 

jlret.  What's  your  news,  sir  1 

S:ew.  Madam,  two  gentlemen. 

.dret.  What  gentlemen ;  have  they  no  names  1 

Stew.  They  are 

The  gentleman  with  his  own  head  of  hair, 
Whom  you  commended  for  his  horsemanship 
In  Hyde  Park,  and  becoming  [so]  the  saddle, 
The  other  day. 

.Aret.  What  circumstance  is  this 
To  know  him  by  1 

Stew.  His  name 's  at  my  tongue's  end — 
He  liked  the  fashion  of  your  pearl  chain,  madam, 
And  borrow'd  it  for  his  jeweller  to  take 
A  copy  by. 

Born.  What  cheating  gallant 's  this  1 

Slew.  That  never  walks  without  a  lady's  busk. 
And  plays  with  fans: — Mr.  Alexander  Kickshaw. 
I  thought  I  should  remember  him. 

Jret.  What's  the  other  1 

Stew.  What  an  unlucky  memory  I  have — 
The  gallant  that  still  danceth  in  the  street, 
And  wears  a  gross  of  ribbon  in  his  hat ; 
That  carries  oringado  in  his  pocket. 
And  sugar-plums  to  sweeten  his  discourse ; 
That  studies  compliment,  defies  all  wit 
On  black,  and  censures  plays  that  are  not  bawdy — 
Mr.  John  Littleworth 

.^ret.  Thev  ar«  welcome;  but 
Pray  entertain  them  a  small  time,  lest  I 
Be  unprovided. 

£orn.  Did  they  ask  for  me  1 


Slew,  No,  sir. 

Born.  It  matters  not,  they  must  be  welcome. 

,^ret.  Fie,  how  this  hair's  disorder'd ;  here's  acurl 
Straddles  most  impiously.     I  must  to  my  closet. 

[Exit. 

Born.  Wait  on  them ;  my  lady  will  return  again. 
I  have  to  such  a  height  fulfill'd  her  humour. 
All  application's  dangerous ;  these  gallants 
Must  be  received,  or  she  will  fall  into 
A  tempest,  and  the  house  be  shook  with  names 
Of  all  her  kindred.     'Tis  a  servitude 
I  may  in  time  shake  off. 

Unter  Mb.  Alexander  Kickshaw  and  Ltttleworth. 

Kirk,  and  Lit,  Save  you,  Sir  Thomas. 
^     Born.  Save  you,  gentlemen. 

Kick.  I  kiss  your  hand. 

Born.  What  day  is  it  abroad  1 

Lit.  The  morning  rises  from  your  lady's  eye ; 
If  she  look  clear,  we  take  the  happy  omen 
Of  a  fair  day. 

Born.  She'll  instantly  appear 
To  the  discredit  of  your  compliment ; 
But  you  express  your  wit  thus. 

Kick.  And  you  modesty. 
Not  to  affect  the  praises  of  your  own.       [afoot ! 

Born.  Leaving  this  subject,  what  game  s  now 
What  exercise  carries  the  general  vote 
O'  the  town  now  ?     Nothing  moves  without  your 
knowledge. 

Kick.  The  cocking  now  has  all  the  noise.  I'll  have 
A  hundred  pieces  of  one  battle.     Oh, 
These  birds  of  Mars ! 

Lit.  Venus  is  Mars  his  bird  too. 

Kirk.  Why,  and  the  pretty  doves  are  Yenuses, 
To  show  that  kisses  draw  the  chariot. 

Lit.  I'm  for  that  skirmish. 

Boin.  When  shall  we  have 
More  booths  and  bagpipes  upon  Banstead  downs? 
No  mighty  race  is  expected  ?   But  my  lady  returns. 
Enter  Aretina. 

Jlrel.  Fair  morning  to  you,  gentlemen  ; 
You  went  not  late  to  bed,  by  your  early  visit. 
You  do  me  honour. 

Kirk.  It  becomes  our  service.         [intelligenc«. 

.Arel.  What  news  abroad?    You  hold  precious 

Lit.  All  tongues  are  so  much  busy  with  your 
praise, 
They  have  not  time  to  frame  other  discourse. 
Wilt  please  you,  madam,  taste  a  sugar-plum  ? 

Born.  What  does  the  goldsmith  think  the  pearl 
You  borrow'd  of  my  lady  1  [is  worth 

Kick.  'Tis  a  rich  one. 

Born.  She  has  many  other  toys,  whose  fashion 
Will  like  extremely.  You  have  no  intention  [you 
To  buy  any  of  her  jewels  T 

Kirk.    Understand  me.  [this. 

Born.  You  had rathersell, perhaps]  Butleavinff 
I  hope  you'll  dine  with  us  1 

Kirk.  I  came  on  purpose. 

Jlrel.  And  where  were  you  last  night  1 

Kirk.  I,  madam  !  where 
I  slept  not :  it  had  been  sin :  where  so  much 
Delight  and  beauty  was  to  keep  me  waiting. 
There  is  a  lady,  madam,  will  be  worth 
Your  free  society  ;  my  conversation 


JAMES  SHIRLEY. 


277 


Ne'er  knew  so  elegant  and  brave  a  soul, 
With  most  incomparable  flesh  and  blood : 
So  spirited,  so  courtly,  speaks  the  languages, 
Sings,  dances,  plays  o'  the  lute  to  admiration ; 
Is  fair,  and  paints  not ;  games  too,  keeps  a  table, 
And  talks  most  witty  satire  ;  has  a  wit 
Of  a  clean  Mercury. 

Lit.  Is  she  married  1 

Kick.  No. 

^ret.  A  virgin  1 

Kick.  Neither. 

Lit.  What,  a  widow  ?    Something 
Of  this  wide  commendation  might  have  been 
Excused  this  such  a  prodigy. 

Kick.  Repent, 
Before  I  name  her.     She  did  never  see 
Vet  full  sixteen ;  an  age  in  the  opinion 
Of  wise  men  not  contemptible.     She  has 
Mourn'd  out  her  year  too  for  the  honest  knight 
That  had  compassion  of  her  youth  and  died 
So  timely.     Such  a  widow  is  not  common ; 
And  now  she  shines  [abroad]  more  fresh  and 
Than  any  natural  virgin.  [tempting 

.diet.     What's  her  name  ] 

Kick.  She  was  christen'd   Celestina;   by  her 
husband 
The  lady  Belamour.     This  ring  was  hers. 

Earn.  You  borrow'd  it  to  copy  out  the  posy  ] 

Kick.  Are  they  not  pretty  rubies  1     'Twas  a 
grace 
She  was  pleased  to  show  me,  that  I  might  have  one 
Made  of  the  [self]  same  fashion,  for  I  love 
All  pretty  forms. 

.die/.  And  is  she  glorious ? 

Kick.  She  is  full  of  jewels,  madam ;  but  I  am 
Most  taken  with  the  bravery  of  her  mind,  [ment 
Although  her  garments  have  all  grace  and  orna- 

jlrel.  You  have  been  high  in  praises. 

Kick.  I  come  short; 
No  flattery  can  reach  her. 

Born.  Now  my  lady 
Is  troubled,  as  she  fear'd  to  be  eclipsed. 
This  news  will  cost  me  somewhat  [Aside. 

Arel.  You  deserve 
Her  favour  for  this  noble  character. 

Kick,  And  I  possess  it  by  my  star's  benevolence. 

Aret.  You  must  bring  us  acquainted. 

Born.  I  pray  do,  sir ; 
I  long  to  see  her  too.     Madam,  I  have 
Thought  upon't,  and  corrected  my  opinion ; 
Pursue  what  ways  of  pleasure  your  desires 
Incline  you  to.     Not  only  with  my  state, 
But  with  my  person  I  will  follow  you: 
I  see  the  folly  of  my  thrift,  and  will 
Repent  in  sack  and  prodigality 
To  your  own  heart's  content. 

Are:.  But  do  not  mock. 

Bonu  Take  me  to  your  embraces,  gentlemen, 
And  tutor  me. 

Lit.  And  will  you  kiss  the  ladies  7  [beauty — 
I'orn.  And  sing,  and  dance. — I  long  to  see  this 
(  would  fain  lose  an  hundred  pounds  at  dice  now — 
Thou  shalt  have  another  gown  and  petticoat 
To-morrow — Will  you  sell  my  running  horses  ? — 
We  have  no  Greek  wine  in  the  house,  I  thimk ; 


Pray  send  one  of  our  footmen  to  the  merchant. 
And  throw  the  hogshead  of  March  beer  into 
The  kennel,  to  make  room  for  sack  and  claret. 
What  think  you  to  be  drunk  yet  before  dinner? 
We  will  have  constant  music,  and  maintain 
Them  and  their  fiddles  in  fantastic  liveries — 
ni  tune  my  voice  to  catches — I  must  have 
My  dining-room  enlarged  t'  invite  ambassadors— 
We'll  feast  the  parish  in  the  fields,  and  teach 
The  military  men  new  discipline. 
Who  shall  charge  all  their  [great]  artillery 
With  oranges  and  lemons,  boy,  to  play 
All  dinner  upon  our  capons. 

Kick.  He's  exalted. 

Born.  I  will  do  any  thing  to  please  my  lady. 
Let  that  suflice,  and  kiss  o'  the  same  condition. 
I  am  converted,  do  not  you  dispute. 
But  patiently  allow  the  miracle. 

Aret.  I  am  glad  to  hear  you  sit  in  so  good  tune. 
Enter  Sf  rvant. 

Serv.  Madam,  the  painter. 

Aie:.  I  am  to  sit  this  morning.      [sitting's  but 

Kick.  With  your  favour,  we'll  wait  on  you ; 
A  melancholy  exercise  without 
Some  company  to  discourse. 

Aret.  It  does  conclude 
A  lady's  morning  work ;  we  rise,  make  fine, 
Sit  for  our  picture,  and  'tis  time  to  dine. 


EXTRAVAGANCE  OF  CELESTINA. 

FROM   TBE   SAME. 

Enter  Celestina  and  her  Steward. 

Cel.  Fie,  what  an  air  this  room  has  1 

Steio.  'Tis  perfumed.  [thrift 

Cel.  With  some  cheap  stuff:  is  it  your  wisdom's 
To  infect  my  nostrils  thus,  or  is  *t  to  favour 
The  gout  in  your  worship's  hand  T  You  are  afraid 
To  exercise  your  pen  in  your  account-book, 
Or  do  you  doubt  my  credit  to  discharge 
Your  bills  ? 

Stew.  Madam,  I  hope  you  have  not  found 
My  duty  with  the  guilt  of  sloth  or  jealousy 
Unapt  to  your  command. 

Cel.  You  can  extenuate 
Your  faults  with  language,  sir ;  but  I  expect 
To  be  obcy'd.     What  hangings  have  we  here ' 

S  ew.  They  are  arras,  madam. 

Cel.  Impudence,  I  know't, 
I  will  have  fresher  and  more  rich,  not  wrought 
With  faces  that  may  scandalize  a  Christian, 
With  Jewish  stories,  stuft^d  with  corn  and  camels; 
You  had  best  wrap  all  my  chambers  in  wild  Irish, 
And  make  a  nursery  of  monsters  here, 
To  fright  the  ladies  come  to  visit  me. 

S  ew.  Madam,  I  hope 

Cel.  I  say  I  will  have  other. 
Good  master  steward,  of  a  finer  loom. 
Some  silk  and  silver,  if  your  worship  please 
To  let  me  be  at  so  much  cost :  I'll  have 
Stories  to  fit  the  seasons  of  the  year. 
And  change  as  often  as  I  please. 

Stew,  You  shall,  madam. 

Cel.  I  am  boumltoyour  consent  forsooth!  Andia 
My  coach  brought  home  1 

Stew.  This  morning  I  expect  it 
Y 


278 


JAMES  SHIRLEY. 


Cd.  Tl  *,  inside,  as  I  gave  direction, 
Of  crimson  plush] 

Slew.  Of  crimson  camel  plush,     [ride  through 

Cel.  Ten  thousand  moths  consume 't !   Shall  I 
The  streets  in  penance,  wrapt  up  round  in  hair- 
cloth 1 
Sell 't  to  an  alderman, — 'twill  serve  his  wife 
To  go  a  feasting  to  their  country  house, — 
Or  fetch  a  merchant's  nurse-child,  and  come  home 
Laden  with  fruit  and  cheesecakes.     I  despise  it. 

Stew.  The  nails  adorn  it,  madam,  set  in  method 
And  pretty  forms. 

Cel.  But  single-gilt,  I  warrant 

Slew.  No,  madam. 

Cel.  Another  solecism.     0  fie  ! 
This  fellow  will  bring  me  to  a  consumption 
With  fretting  at  his  ignorance.     Some  lady 
Had  rather  never  pray  than  go  to  church  in  't. 
The  nails  not  double-gilt ! — to  market  with  it ! 
'Twill  hackney  out  to  Mile  End,  or  convey 
Your  city  tumblers  to  be  drunk  with  cream 
And  prunes  at  Islington. 

Slew.  Good  madam,  hear  me. 

Cel.  I'll  rather  be  beholding  to  my  aunt, 
The  countess,  for  her  mourning  coach,  than  be 
Disparaged  so.     Shall  any  juggling  tradesman 
Be  at  charge  to  shoe  his  running  horse  with  gold, 
And  shall  my  coach-nails  be  but  single-gilt  1 
How  dare  these  knaves  abuse  me  so ! 

Stew.  Vouchsafe 
To  hear  me  speak. 

Cel.  Is  my  sedan  yet  finish'd 
As  I  gave  charge  ? 

Sew.  Yes,  madam,  it  is  finish'd, 
But  without  tilting  plumes  at  the  four  corners; 
The  scarlet 's  pure,  but  not  embroider'd. 

Cel.  What  mischief  were  it  to  your  conscience 
Were  my  coach  lined  with  tissue,  and  my  harness 
Cover'd  with  needlework  ]  if  my  sedan 
Had  all  the  story  of  the  prodigal 
Embroider'd  with  pearl  1 

Slew.  Alas,  good  madam, 
I  know  'tis  your  own  cost ;  I'm  but  your  steward, 
And  would  discharge  my  duty  the  best  way. 
You  have  been  pleased  to  hear  me,  'tis  not  for 
My  profit  that  I  manage  your  estate 
And  save  expense,  but  for  your  honour,  madam. 

Cel.  How,  sir,  my  honour  1 

Slew.  Though  you  hear  it  not. 
Men's  tongues  are  liberal  in  your  character 
Since  you  began  to  live  thus  high.     I  know 
Your  fame  is  precious  to  you. 

Cel.  I  were  best 
Make  you  my  governor !     Audacious  varlet, 
How  dare  you  interpose  your  doting  counsel  ? 
Mind  your  affairs  with  more  obedience, 
Or  I  shall  ease  you  of  an  office,  sir. 
Must  I  be  limited  to  please  your  honour. 
Or  for  the  vulgar  breath  confine  my  pleasures  ] 
I  will  pursue  'em  in  what  shapes  I  fancy 
Here  and  abroad.     My  entertainments  shall 
Be  oft'ner,  and  more  rich.    Who  shall  control  me  1 
1  live  i'  the  Strand,  whither  few  ladies  come 
To  live  and  purchase  more  than  fame — I  will 
Be  hospitable  then,  and  spare  no  cost 


That  may  engage  all  generous  report 
To  trumpet  forth  my  bounty  and  my  bravery 
Till  the  court  envy  and  remove — I'll  have 
My  house  the  academy  of  wits,  who  shall 
Exalt  [their  genius]  with  rich  sack  and  sturgeon, 
Write  panegyrics  of  my  feasts,  and  praise 
The  method  of  my  witty  superfluities — 
The  horses  shall  be  taught,  with  frequent  waiting 
Upon  my  gates,  to  stop  in  their  career         [fury ; 
Toward  Charing  Cross,  spite  of  the  coachman's 
And  not  a  tilter  but  shall  strike  his  plume 
When  he  sails  by  my  window. — My  balcony 
Shall  be  the  courtiers'  idol,  and  more  gazed  at 
Than  all  the  pageantry  at  Temple  Bar 
By  my  country  clients. 

Slew.  Sure  my  lady  's  mad. 

Cel.  Take  that  for  your  ill  manners.    [Strikes  him. 

Stew.  Thank  you,  madam  : 
I  would  there  were  less  quicksilver  in  your  fingers. 

[Exit. 

Cel.  There's  more  than  simple  honesty  in  a 
servant 
Required  to  his  full  duty.     None  should  dare 
But  with  a  look,  much  less  a  saucy  language, 
Check  at  their  mistress's  pleasure.     I'm  resolved 
To  pay  for  some  delight,  my  estate  will  bear  it ; 
I'll  rein  it  shorter  when  I  please. 


AREXINA'S  RECEPTION  OF  HER  NEPHEW 
FREDERICK. 

FROM  THE  SAME. 

Persons. — Bornwell,  Frederick,  and  Steward. 
Enter  Mr.  Frederick. 

Stew.  Mr.  Frederick,  welcome.    I  expected  not 
So  soon  your  presence.    What 's  the  hasty  cause  1 

Fred.  These  letters  from  my  tutor  will  acquaint 
.  .  .  Where's  my  aunt?  [you. 

Stew.  She's  busy  about  her  painting  in  her  closet; 
The  outlandish  man  of  art  is  copying  out 
Her  countenance. 

Fred.  She's  sitting  for  her  picture  1      [hang'd 

Siew.  Yes,  sir ;  and  when  'tis  drawn,  she  will  be 
Next  the  French  cardinal  in  the  dining-room. 
But  when  she  hears  you're  come,  she  will  dismiss 
The  Belgic  gentleman  to  entertain 
Your  worship. 

Fred.  Change  of  air  has  made  you  witty. 

Born.  Your  tutor  gives  you  a  handsome  character, 
Frederick,  and  is  sorry  your  aunt's  pleasure 
Commands  you  from  your  studies ;  but  I  hope 
You  have  no  quarrel  to  the  liberal  arts  1 
Learning  is  an  addition  beyond 
Nobility  of  birth  ;  honour  of  blood. 
Without  the  ornament  of  knowledge,  is 
A  glorious  ignorance. 

Fred.  I  never  knew  more  sweet  and  happy  hou 
Than  I  employ'd  upon  my  books.     I  heard 
A  part  of  my  philo^ophy,  and  was  so 
Delighted  with  the  harmony  of  nature, 
I  could  have  wasted  my  whole  life  upon 't. 

lorn.  'Tib  pity  a  rash  indulgence  should  conupl 
So  fair  a  genius.     She  's  here ; — I'll  observe. 
Enter  Aretina.  Kickshaw,  Littuwortb. 

Fred.  My  most  loved  aunt 


JAMES   SHIRLEY. 


279 


^rtU  Support  me, — I  shall  faint ! 

Lit,  What  ails  your  ladyship  1 

,Aret.  Is  that  Frederick 
In  black  1 

Kick.  Yes,  madam ;  but  the  doublet 's  satin. 

.Aret.  The  boy 's  undone. 

Fred.  Madam,  you  appear  troubled. 

^ret.  Have  I  not  cause  1  Was  I  not  trusted  with 
Thy  education,  boy,  and  have  they  sent  thee 
Home  like  a  very  scholar  \ 

Kick,  'Twas  ill  done, 
Howe'er  they  used  him  in  the  university, 
To  send  him  home  to  his  friends  thus. 

Fred,  Why,  sir,  black 
(For  'tis  the  colour  that  offends  your  eyesight) 
Is  not,  within  my  reading,  any  blemish ; 
Sables  are  no  disgrace  in  heraldry. 

Kick.  'Tis  coming  firom  the  college  thus  that 
makes  it 
Dishonourable.     While  you  wore  it  for 
Your  father  it  was  commendable,  or  were 
Your  aunt  dead  you  might  mourn  and  justify. 

Jiret.  What  luck*  I  did  not  send  him  into  France ! 
They  would  have  given  him  generous  education, 
Taught  him  another  garb,  to  wear  his  lock 
And  shape  as  gaudy  as  the  summer,  how 
To  dance  and  wag  his  feather  41amode, 
To  compliment  and  cringe,  to  talk  not  modestly, 
Like  ay  forsooth  and  no  forsooth,  to  blush 
And  look  so  like  a  chaplain ;  there  he  might 
Have  learnt  a  brazen  confidence,  and  observed 
So  well  the  custom  of  the  country,  that 
He  might  by  this  time  have  invented  fashions 
For  us,  and  been  a  benefit  to  the  kingdom ; 
Preserved  our  tailors  in  their  wits,  and  saved 
The  charge  of  sending  into  foreign  courts 
For  pride  and  antic  fashions.     Observe 
In  what  a  posture  he  does  hold  his  hat  now  ! 

Fred.  Madam,  with   your   pardon,  you   have 
practised 
Another  dialect  than  was  taught  me  when 
I  was  commended  to  your  care  and  breeding. 
I  understand  not  this ;  Latin  or  Greek 
Are  more  familiar  to  my  apprehension ; 
Logic  was  not  so  hard  in  my  first  lectures 
As  your  strange  language. 

Jzrel.  Some  strong  waters, — oh  ! 

Lit.  Comfits  will  be  as  comfortable  to  your 
stomach,  madam.  [Offers  his  box. 

.Arel.  I  fear  he's  spoil'd  for  ever :  he  did  name 
Logic,  and  may,  for  ought  I  know,  be  gone 
So  far  to  understand  it.     I  did  always 
Suspect  they  would  corrupt  him  in  the  college- 
Will  your  Greek  saws  and  sentences  discharge 
'I'he  mercer  ?  or  is  Latin  a  fit  language 
To  court  a  mistress  in  1     Master  Alexander, 
If  you  have  any  charity,  let  me 
Commend  him  to  your  breeding ;  I  suspect 
I  must  employ  my  doctor  first  to  purge 
The  university  that  lies  in  's  head 
To  alter 's  complexion. 

Kick.  If  you  dare 
Trust  me  to  serve  him — 

*  Luck  eTidently  meaos  misfortune  here. 


Aret.  Mr.  Littleworth, 
Be  you  join'd  in  commission. 

Lit.  I  will  teach  him 
Postures  and  rudiments. 

Aret.  I  have  no  patience 
To  see  him  in  this  shape,  it  turns  my  stomach 
When  he  has  cast  his  academic  skin. 
He  shall  be  yours.     I  am  bound  in  conscience 
To  see  him  bred,  his  own  'state  shall  maintain 
The  charge  while  he 's  my  ward.  Come  hither,  sir. 

Fred.  What  does  my  aunt  mean  to  do  with  me  ? 

Stew.  To  make  you  a  fine  gentleman,  and  trans* 
late  you 
Out  of  your  learned  language,  sir,  into 
The  present  Goth  and  Vandal,  which  is  French. 

Born.  Into  what  mischief  will  this  humour  ebb  1 
She  will  undo  the  boy ;  I  see  him  ruin'd. 
My  patience  is  not  manly,  but  I  must 
Use  stratagem  to  reduce  her,  open  ways 
Give  me  no  hope. 

Sleio.  You  shall  be  obey'd,  madam. 

[Exj>unt  all  but  Frederick  and  the  Stewud. 

Fred.  Mr.  Steward,  are  you  sure  we  dp  not  dream! 
Was 't  not  my  aunt  you  talk'd  to  1 

Slew.  One  that  loves  you 
Dear  as  her  life.  These  clothes  do  not  become  you ; 
You  must  have  better,  sir. 

Fred.  These  are  not  old.  [keep 

Slew.  More  suitable  to  the  town  and  time.     We 
No  Lent  here,  nor  is 't  my  lady's  pleasure  you 
Should  fast  fi-om  any  thing  you  have  a  mind  to. 
Unless   it  be  your  learning,  which  she  would 

have  you 
Forget  with  all  convenient  speed  that  may  be 
For  the  credit  of  your  noble  family. 
The  case  is  alter'd  since  we  lived  in  the  country  • 
We  do  not  [now]  invite  the  poor  o'  the  parish 
To  dinner,  keep  a  table  for  the  tenants ; 
Our  kitchen  does  not  smell  of  beef,  the  cellar 
Defies  the  price  of  malt  and  hops ;  the  footmen 
And  coach-drivers  may  be  drunk  like  gentlemen 
With  wine ;  nor  will  three  fiddlers  upon  holidays. 
With  aid  of  bagpipes,  that  call'd  in  the  country 
To  dance  and  plough  the  hall  up  with  their  hobnails 
Now  make  my  lady  merry ;  we  do  feed 
Like  princes,  and  feast  nothing  [else]  but  princes, 
And  are  those  robes  fit  to  be  seen  amongst  'em  1 

Fred.  My  lady  keeps  a  court  then  1  Is  Sir  Thomas 
Affected  with  this  state  and  cost  1 

Slew.  He  was  not. 
But  is  converted.     But  I  hope  you  will  not 
Persist  in  heresy,  but  take  a  course 
Of  riot  to  content  your  friends ;  you  shall 
Want  nothing.     If  you  can  be  proud  and  spend  it 
For  my  lady's  honour,  here  are  a  hundred 
Pieces  will  serve  you  till  you  have  new  clothes ; 
I  will  present  you  with  a  nag  of  mine, 
Poor  tender  of  my  service — please  to  accept. 
My  lady's  smile  more  than  rewards  me  for  it. 
I  must  provide  fit  servants  to  attend  you, 
Monsieurs  for  horse  and  foot. 

Fred.  I  shall  submit. 
If  this  be  my  aunt's  pleasure,  and  be  ruled. 
My  eyes  are  open'd  with  this  purse  already, 
And  sack  will  help  to  inspire  me.   I  must  spend  it 


280 


JAMES   SHIRLEY. 


FROM  "CHABOT,  ADMIRAL  OF  FRANCE."* 

The  Queen  insultinii;  the  Wife  and  Father  of  the  aocvued 
Admiral  in  their  misfortunes. 

Pertont. — ^The  Constable  of  France,  Queen,  Wife  and 
Father  of  Chadot. 

Constable  introducing  Vie  Wife  of  Chabot. 
Cons,  She  attends  you,  madam. 
Queen.   This   humbleness   proceeds   not  from 
your  heart ;  [thoughts ; 

Why,  you  are  a  queen  yourself  in  your  own 
The  admiral's  wife  of  France  cannot  be  less ; 
You  have  not  state  enough,  you  should  not  move 
Without  a  train  of  friends  and  servants. 

Wife.  There  is  some  mystery 
Within  your  language,  madam.     I  would  hope 
You  have  more  charity  than  to  imagine 
My  present  condition  worth  your  triumph, 
In  which  I  am  not  so  lost  but  I  have 
Some  friends  and  servants  with  proportion 
To  my  lord's  fortune ;  but  none  within  the  lists 
Of  those  that  obey  me  can  be  more  ready 
To  express  their  dulies,  than  my  heart  to  serve 
Your  just  commands. 

Queen.  Then  pride  will  ebb,  I  see ; 
There  is  no  constant  flood  of  state  and  greatness ; 
The  prodigy  is  ceasing  when  your  lord 
Comes  to  the  balance ;  he,  whose  blazing  fires 
Shot  wonders  through  the  kingdom,  will  discover 
What  flying  and  corrupted  matter  fed  him. 
Wife.  My  lord  ? 

Queen.  Your  high  and  mighty  justicer, 
The  man  of  conscience,  the  oracle 
Of  state,  whose  honourable  titles  [mortal ; 

Would  crack  an  elephant's  back,  is  now  tum'd 
Must  pass  examination  and  the  test 
Of  law,  have  all  his  offices  ripp'd  up, 
And  his  corrupt  soul  laid  open  *o  the  subjects ; 
His  bribes,  oppressions,  and  cloae  sins,  that  made 
So  many  groan  and  curse  him,  now  shall  find 
Their  just  reward  ;  and  all  that  love  their  country 
Uless  Heaven  and  the  king's  justice,  for  removing 
Such  a  devouring  monster. 
Father.  Sir,  your  pardon. 
Madam,  you  are  the  queen,  she  is  my  daughter, 
And  he  that  you  have  character'd  so  monstrous 
My  son-in-law,  now  gone  to  be  arraign'd. 
The  king  is  just,  and  a  good  man ;  but 't  does  not 
Add  to  the  graces  of  your  royal  person 
To  tread  upon  a  la^y  thus  dejected 
By  her  own  grief:  her  lord's  not  yet  found  guilty. 
Much  less  condemn'd,  though  you  have  pleased* 
to  execute  him. 
Qween.  What  saucy  fellow  'a  this  1 
Father.  I  must  confess 
I  am  a  man  out  of  this  element. 
No  courtier,  yet  I  am  a  gentleman. 
That  dare  speak  honest  truth  to  the  queen's  ear, 
(A  duty  every  subject  will  not  pay  you,) 
And  justify  it  to  all  the  world ;  there's  nothing 
Doth  more  eclipse  the  honours  of  our  soul 


♦i  I  ^^J'P'"*"  ,*"«»  certainly  the  larger  share  in  tiiig 
tra(;e<ly  the  specimen  ohould  have  b..,.n  ,,la«'d  by  Air 
Campbell  under  ChHpman.  Gifford  Ht  first  thSt  "  Chi: 
Worklf  "*^  "^'"''"^We  in  a  collecUon  of^Shirfey^ 


Than  an  ill-grounded  and  ill-follow'd  passion, 
Let  fly  with  noise  and  license  against  those 
Whose  hearts  before  are  bleeding. 

Cons.  Brave  old  man  !  [a  woman 

Father.   'Cause  you  are  a  queen,  to  trample  o'er 
Whose  tongue  and  faculties  are  all  tied  up ; 
Strike  out  a  lion's  teeth,  and  pare  his  claws. 
And  then  a  dwarf  may  pluck  him  by  the  beard — 
'Tis  a  gay  victory. 

Queen.  Did  you  hear,  my  lord  1 
Father.  I  ha'  done. 
Wife.  And  it  concerns  me  to  begin. 
I  have  not  made  this  pause  through  servile  fear. 
Or  guilty  apprehension  of  your  rage. 
But  with  just  wonder  of  the  heats  and  wildness 
Has  prepossess'd  your  nature  'gainst  our  innocence. 
You  are  my  queen,  unto  that  title  bows 
The  humblest  knee  in  France,  my  heart  made  lower 
With  my  obedience  and  prostrate  duty, 
Nor  have  I  powers  created  for  my  use 
When  just  commands  of  you  expect  their  ser\'ice; 
But  were  you  queen  of  all  the  world,  or  something 
To  be  thought  greater,  betwixt  Heaven  and  us. 
That  I  could  reach  you  with  my  eyes  and  voice, 
I  would  shoot  both  up  in  defence  of  my 
Abused  honour,  and  stand  all  your  lightning. 
Queen.  So  brave  1 
Wife.  So  just  and  boldly  innocent. 
I  cannot  fear,  arm'd  with  a  noble  conscience, 
The  tempest  of  your  frown,  were  it  more  frightful 
Than  ever  fury  made  a  woman's  anger,        [mony ; 
Prepared  to  kill  with  death's  most  horrid  cere- 
Yet  with  what  freedom  of  my  soul  I  can 
Forgive  your  accusation  of  my  pride,     [language  ? 
Queen.  Forgive'!    What  insolence  is  like  this 
Can  any  action  of  ours  be  capable 
Of  thy  forgiveness?    Dust!  how  I  despise  thee! 
Can  we  sin  to  be  object  of  thy  mercy  1        [stain 
Wife.  Yes,  and  have  done  't  already,  and  no 
To  your  greatness,  madam ;  'tis  my  charity, 
I  can  remit ;  when  sovereign  princes  dare 
Do  injury  to  those  that  live  beneath  them. 
They  turn  worth  pity  and  their  prayers,  and  'tis 
In  the  free  power  of  those  whom  they  oppress 
To  pardon  'em ;  each  soul  has  a  prerogative 
And  privilege  royal  that  was  signed  by  Heaven. 
But  though,  in  th'  knowledge  of  my  disposition. 
Stranger  to  pride,  and  what  you  charge  me  with, 
I  can  forgive  the  injustice  done  to  me, 
And  striking  at  my  person,  I  have  no 
Commission  from  my  lord  to  clear  you  for 
The  wrongs  you  have  done  him,  and  till  he  pardon 
The  wounding  of  his  loyalty,  with  which  life 
Can  hold  no  balance,  I  must  talk  just  boldness 

To  say [ter, 

Father.  No  more !  Now  I  must  tell  you,  daugh- 
Lest  you  forget  yourself,  she  is  the  queen. 
And  it  becomes  you  not  to  vie  with  her 
Passion  for  passion :  if  your  lord  stand  fast 
To  the  full  search  of  law.  Heaven  will  revenge  him, 
And  give  him  up  precious  to  good  men's  loves. 
If  you  attempt  by  these  unruly  ways 
To  vindicate  his  justice,  I'm  against  you  ; 
Dear  as  I  wish  your  husband's  life  and  i  line. 
Subjects  are  bound  to  suffer,  not  conVjst 


Ibrz 


ANONYMOUS. 


281 


With  princes,  since  their  will  and  acts  must  be 
Accounted  one  day  to  a  Judge  supreme. 

Wife.  I  ha'  done.     If  the  devotion  to  my  lord. 
Or  pity  to  his  innocence,  have  led  me 
Beyond  the  awful  limits  to  be  observed 
By  one  so  much  beneath  your  sacred  person, 
I  thus  low  crave  your  royal  pardon,  madam ; 

[Kneelt. 
I  know  you  will  remember,  in  your  goodness, 
My  life-blood  is  concern'd  while  his  least  vein 
Shall  run  black  and  polluted,  my  heart  fed 
With  what  keeps  him  alive ;  nor  can  there  be 
A  greater  wound  than  that  which  strikes  the  life 
Of  our  good  name,  so  much  above  the  bleeding 
Of  this  rude  pile  we  carry,  as  the  soul 
Hath  excellence  above  this  earth-born  frailty. 
My  lord,  by  the  king's  will,  is  led  already 
To  a  severe  arraignment,  and  to  judges 
Will  make  no  tender  search  into  his  tract 
Of  life  and  state ;  stay  but  a  little  while, 
And  France  shall  echo  to  his  shame  or  innocence. 
This  suit  I  beg  with  tears,  I  shall  have  sorrow 
Enough  to  hear  him  censured  foul  and  monstrous 
Should  you  forbear  to  antedate  my  sufferings. 

Qiieen.  Your  conscience  comes  about,  and  you 
incline 
To  fear  he  may  be  worth  the  law's  condemning. 

Wife  prising.']  I  sooner  will  suspect  the  stars 
may  lose 
Their  way,  and  crystal  heaven  return  to  chaos ; 
Truth  sits  not  on  her  square  more  firm  than  he ; 
Yet  let  me  tell  you,  madam,  were  his  life 
And  action  so  foul  as  you  have  character'd 
And  the  bad  world  expects,  though  as  a  wife 
'Twere  duty  I  should  weep  myself  to  death 


To  know  him  fall'n  from  virtue,  yet  so  much 
I,  a  frail  woman,  love  n>y  king  and  country, 
I  should  condemn  him  too,  and  think  all  honours, 
The  price  of  his  lost  faith,  more  fatal  to  me 
Than  Cleopatra's  asps  warm  in  my  bosom, 
And  as  much  boast  their  killing. 


DEATH'S  CONQUEST. 

The  glories  of  our  birth  and  state 

Are  shadows,  not  substantial  things ; 
There  is  no  armour  against  fate, 
Death  lays  his  icy  hands  on  kings ; 
Sceptre  and  crown 
Must  tumble  down, 
And,  in  the  dust,  be  equal  made 
With  the  poor  crooked  scythe  and  spade. 

Some  men  with  swords  may  reap  the  field, 
And  plant  fresh  laurels  where  they  kill ; 
But  their  strong  nerves  at  last  must  yield ; 
They  tame  but  one  another  still : 
Early  or  late 
They  stoop  to  fate. 
And  must  give  up  their  murm'ring  breath. 
When  they,  pale  captives,  creep  to  death. 

The  garlands  wither  on  your  brow, 

Then  boast  no  more  your  mighty  deeds ; 
Upon  Death's  purple  altar  now 

See  where  the  victor  victim  bleeds ; 
All  hands  must  come 
To  the  cold  tomb, 
Only  the  actions  of  the  just, 
Smell  sweet  and  blo«iioin  in  the  dust 


ANONYMOUS. 


FROM   "SELECT  AYRES  AND  DIALOGUES,"  BY 
LAWES.    1659. 

I  DO  confess  thou  'rt  smooth  and  fair. 

And  I  might  have  gone  near  to  love  thee. 

Had  I  not  found  the  slightest  prayer 

That  lip  could  move  had  power  to  move  thee ; 

But  I  can  let  thee  now  alone, 

As  worthy  to  be  loved  by  none. 

I  do  confess  thou  'rt  sweet,  yet  find 
Thee  such  an  unthrifl  of  thy  sweets, 

Thy  favours  are  but  like  the  wind. 
Which  kisseth  every  thing  it  meets ; 

And  since  thou  canst  with  more  than  one, 

rhou'rt  worthy  to  be  loved  by  none. 

The  morning-rose,  that  untouch'd  stands 
Arin'd  with  her  briers,  how  sweetly  smells ! 

But  pluck'd  and  strain'd  through  ruder  hands. 
Her  sweet  no  longer  with  her  dwells ; 

•Jut  scent  and  beauty  both  are  gone. 

And  leaves  fall  firom  her  one  by  one. 
S6 


Such  fate  ere  long  will  thee  betide. 
When  thou  hast  handled  been  awhile ; 

With  sear  flowers  to  be  thrown  aside. 
And  I  will  sigh  when  some  will  smile 

To  see  thy  love  for  more  than  one 

Hath  brought  thee  to  be  loved  by  none.* 


SONG. 


From  p.  11  of  "Cromwell's  Consplra-y,  a  tragi-coraedy, 
relatintr  to  our  luttir  Times;  beginniiiK  nt  the  death  of 
King  CliarleR  the  Kirst.  and  endiUK  with  the  happy  lle- 
Btauration  of  King  CharlcM  the  Second.  Written  by  a 
Person  of  Qualityr"     4to,  Load.  lb6U. 

How  happy  's  the  pris'ner  that  conquers  his  fate 
With  silence,  and  ne'er  on  bad  fortune  complains, 

But  carelessly  plays  with  his  keys  on  the  grate. 
And  makes  a  sweet  concert  with  them  and  his 
chains !  [oppress'd, 

He  drowns  care  with  sack,  while  his  thoughts  are 

And  makes  his  heart  float  like  a  cork  in  his  breast 


[•  To  this  song,  which  wan  written  by  Sir  Robert  Ayton. 
Bums  gave  a  &o(«  dre$M,  but  fkiled  to  improTp.J 
t2 


282 


ANONYMOUS. 


Then  since  w'  are  all  slaves  who  islanders  be, 
And  the  world  's  a  large  prison  enclosed  with 

the  sea, 
We  will  drink  up  the  ocean,  and  set  ourselves  free, 
For  man  is  the  world 's  epitome. 

Let  tyrants  wear  purple,  deep  dyed  in  the  blood 

Of  them  they  have  slain,  their  sceptres  to  sway : 
If  our  conscience  be  clear,  and  our  title  be  good 
To  the  rags  that  hang  on  us,  w'  are  richer  than 
they: 
We'll  drink  down  at  night  what  we  beg  or  can 
borrow,  [morrow. 

And  sleep  without  plotting  for  more  the  next 
Then  since  w'  are  all  slaves,  &c. 

Come,  drawer,  and  fill  us  a  peck  of  Canary, 
One  brimmer  shall  bid  all  our  senses  good  night. 

When  old  Aristotle  was  frolic  and  merry. 

By  the  juice  of  the  grape  he  turn'd  Stagyrite ; 

Copernicus  once  in  a  drunken  fit  found      [round. 

By  the  course  of  his  brains  that  the  world  turned 
Then  since  w'  are  all  slaves,  &c. 

'Tis  sack  makes  our  faces  like  comets  to  shine. 
And  gives  beauty  beyond  a  complexion  mask ; 

Diogenes  fell  so  in  love  with  his  wine. 

That  when  'twas  all  out  he  still  lived  in  the  cask ; 

And  he  so  loved  the  scent  of  the  wainscotted  room, 

That  dying  he  desired  a  tub  for  his  tomb. 
Then  since  w'are  all  slaves,  &c 


LOYALTY  CONFINED. 

FROM  THE  SAME. 

Ascribed  to  Sir  Roger  L'Bstrange. 

Beat  on,  proud  billows ;  Boreas,  blow ; 

Swell,  curled  waves,  high  as  Jove's  roof; 
Your  incivility  doth  show 

That  tinocence  is  tempest-proof: 
Though  surly  Nereus  frown,  my  thoughts  are  calm ; 
Then  strike,  AtHiction,  for  thy  wounds  are  balm. 

That  which  the  world  miscalls  a  jail, 

A  private  closet  is  to  me ; 
Whilst  a  good  conscience  is  my  bail, 

And  innocence  my  liberty  : 
Locks,  bars,  and  solitude,  together  met, 
Makes  me  no  prisoner,  but  an  anchoret. 

T.  whilst  I  wish'd  to  be  retired. 

Into  this  private  room  was  turn'd, 
As  if  their  wisdoms  had  conspired 

The  salamander  should  be  burn'd; 
Or  like  a  sophy,  that  would  drown  a  fish, 
I  am  constrained  to  sufier  what  I  wish. 

Thy  cynic  hugs  his  poverty, 

The  pelican  her  wilderness; 
And  'tis  the  Indian's  pride  to  be 

Naked  on  frozen  Caucasus : 
Contentment  cannot  smart,  stoics  we  see 
Muke  torments  easy  to  their  apathy. 

Tnese  manacles  upon  my  arm 

I  as  my  mistress'  favours  wea*-; 
And  for  to  keep  my  ankles  warm, 

I  have  some  iron  shackles  there. 


These  walls  are  but  my  garrison  ;  this  cell, 
Which  men  call  jail,  doth  prove  my  citadel. 

I'm  in  this  cabinet  lock'd  up. 

Like  some  high-prized  Margaret; 
Or,  like  some  Great  Mogul,  or  Pope, 

Am  cloister'd  up  from  public  sight : 
Retirement  is  a  piece  of  majesty. 
And  thus,  proud  sultan,  I'm  as  great  as  thee. 

Here  sin  for  want  of  food  must  starve. 
Where  tempting  objects  are  not  seen ; 

And  these  strong  walls  do  only  serve 
To  keep  vice  out,  and  keep  me  in : 

Malice  of  late's  grown  charitable  sure, 

I'm  not  committed,  but  I'm  kept  secure 

Have  you  not  seen  the  nightingale, 

A  pilgrim  coop'd  into  a  cage. 
How  doth  she  chant  her  wonted  tale 

In  that  her  narrow  hermitage  1 
Even  there  her  charming  melody  doth  prove 
That  all  her  boughs  are  trees,  her  cage  a  grove. 

My  soul  is  free  as  th'  ambient  air. 
Although  my  baser  part's  immured. 

Whilst  loyal  thoughts  do  still  repair, 
T'  accompany  my  solitude : 

And  though  immured,  yet  I  can  chirp  and  sing 

Disgrace  to  rebels,  glory  to  my  king. 

What  though  I  cannot  see  my  king. 
Neither  in  his  person  or  his  coin  1 

Yet  contemplation  is  a  thing. 

That  renders  what  I  have  not  mine. 

My  king  from  me  what  adamant  can  part, 

Whom  I  do  wear  engraven  on  my  heart  1 

I  am  that  bird  whom  they  combine 

Thus  to  deprive  of  liberty  ; 
But  though  they  do  my  corpse  confine, 

Yet,  maugre  hate,  my  soul  is  free. 
Although  rebellion  do  my  body  bind, 
My  king  can  only  captivate  my  mind. 


UPON   AMBITION. 

0C0A8I0SED   ON  THE   ACCUSATION  OP   THE  EARL   OF  STRAFFORD, 
IN   1640. 

From  the  "Rump,"  a  collection  of  poems  and  songs  relat- 
ing to  the  times  from  1639  to  1661.    Lond.  1662. 

How  uncertain  is  the  state 
Of  that  greatness  we  adore ; 
When  ambitiously  we  soar. 
And  have  ta'en  the  glorious  height, 

'Tis  but  ruin  gilded  o'er. 
To  enslave  us  to  our  fate. 
Whose  false  delight  is  easier  got  than  kept, 
Content  ne'er  on  its  gaudy  pillow  slept. 

Then  how  fondly  do  we  try. 
With  such  superstitious  care, 
To  build  fabrics  in  the  air; 
Or  seek  safety  in  that  sky. 

Where  no  stars  but  meteors  are 
That  portend  a  ruin  nigh: 
And  having  reach'd  the  object  of  our  aim, 
We  find  it  but  a  pyramid  of  flame. 


ALEXANDER   BROME. 


[Born,  ie2a     Died,  1666.] 


Alexander  Brome  was  an  attorney  in  the 
Lord  Mayor's  Court.  From  a  verse  in  one  of 
his  poems,  it  would  seem  that  he  had  been  sent 
once  in  the  civil  war,  (by  compulsion  no  doubt,) 
on  the  parliament  side,  but  had  stayed  only  three 
days,  and  never  fought  against  the  king  and  the 
cavaliers.  He  was  in  truth  a  strenuous  loyalist, 
and  the  bacchanalian  songster  of  his  party.  Most 
of  the  songs  and  epigrams  that  were  published 
against  the  Rump  have  been  ascribed  to  him. 
He  had,  besides,  a  share  in  the  translation  of 
Horace,  with  Fanshawe,  Holiday,  Cowley,  and 
others,  and  pubUshed  a  single  comedy,  the  Cun- 


ning Jjovers,  which  was  acted  in  1651,  at  the  pp. 
vate  house  in  Drury.  There  is  a  playful  variety 
in  his  metre,  that  probably  had  a  better  effect  in 
song  than  in  reading.  His  thoughts  on  love  and 
the  bottle  have  at  least  the  merit  of  being  decently 
jovial,  though  he  arrays  the  trite  arguments  of 
convivial  invitation  in  few  original  images.  In 
studying  the  traits  and  complexion  of  a  past  age, 
amusement,  if  not  illustration,  will  often  be  found 
from  the  ordinary  effusions  of  party  ridicule.  In 
this  view,  the  Diurnal,  and  other  political  satires 
of  Brome,  have  an  extrinsic  value  as  contempo- 
rary caricatures. 


THE  RESOLVB, 

Tell  me  not  of  a  face  that's  fair, 

Nor  lip  and  cheek  that's  red, 
Nor  of  the  tresses  of  her  hair. 

Nor  curls  in  order  laid ; 
Nor  of  a  rare  seraphic  voice, 

That  like  an  angel  sings ; 
Though  if  I  were  to  take  my  choice, 

I  would  have  all  these  things. 
But  if  that  thou  wilt  have  me  love, 

And  it  must  be  a  she ; 
The  only  argument  can  move 

Is,  that  she  will  love  me. 

The  glories  of  your  ladies  be 

But  metaphors  of  things, 
And  but  resemble  what  we  see 

Each  common  object  brings. 
Roses  out-red  their  lips  and  cheeks. 

Lilies  their  whiteness  stain : 
What  fool  is  he  that  shadows  seeks. 

And  may  the  substance  gain  ! 
Then  if  thou  'It  have  me  love  a  lass. 

Let  it  be  one  that's  kind, 
Else  I'm  a  servant  to  the  glass 

That's  with  Canary  lined. 


ON  CANARY. 
Of  all  the  rare  juices 
That  Bacchus  or  Ceres  produces, 
Thefe's  none  that  I  can,  nor  dare  I 
Compare  with  the  princely  Canary. 
For  this  is  the  thing 

That  a  fancy  infuses ; 
This  first  got  a  king, 

And  next  the  nine  Muses : 
Twas  this  made  old  poets  so  sprightly  to  sing, 

And  fill  all  the  world  with  the  glory  and  fame  on't ; 
They  Helicon  call'd  it,  and  the  Thespian  spring. 
But  this  was  the  drink,  though  they  knew  not 
the  name  on't. 


Our  cider  and  perry 
May  make  a  man  mad,  but  not  merry ; 
It  makes  people  windmill-pated, 
And  with  crackers  sophisticated  ; 

And  your  hops,  yeast,  and  malt, 
When  they're  mingled  together. 

Make  our  fancies  to  halt, 
Or  reel  any  whither ; 
It  stufts  up  our  brains  with  froth  and  with  vest. 

That  if  one  would  write  but  a  verse  for  a  bellman. 
He  must  study  till  Christmas  for  an  eight-shilling 
jest; 
These  liquors  won't  raise,  but  drown,  and  o'er- 
whelm  man. 

Our  drowsy  metheglin 
Was  only  ordained  to  inveigle  in 

The  novice  that  knows  not  to  drink  yet. 
But  is  fuddled  before  he  can  think  it ; 
And  your  claret  and  white     ^ 

Have  a  gunpowder  fury; 
They're  of  the  French  spright. 
But  they  won't  long  endure  you. 
And  your  holiday  muscadine,  Alicant  and  tent, 

Have  only  this  property  and  virtue  that's  fit  in't. 

They'll  make  a  man  sleep  till  a  preachment  be  spent. 

But  we  neither  can  warm  our  blood  nor  wit  in't. 

The  bagrag  and  Rhenish 
You  must  with  ingredients  replenish; 
'Tis  a  wine  to  please  ladies  and  toys  with ; 
But  not  for  a  man  to  rejoice  with. 
But  'tis  sack  makes  the  sport. 

And  who  gains  but  that  flavour. 
Though  an  abbess  he  court. 
In  his  high-shoes  he'll  have  her ; 
'Tis  this  that  advances  the  drinker  and  drawer : 
Though  the  father  came  to  town  in  his  hobnails 
and  leather. 
He  turns  it  to  velvet,  and  brinpis  up  an  heir. 
In  the  town  in  his  chain,  in  the  field  with  b>M 
feather. 

283 


284 


ROBERT  HERRICK. 


TO  A  COY  LADY. 

1  PEITHKK  leave  this  peevish  fashion, 
Don't  desire  to  be  high  prized ; 

Love's  a  princely  noble  passion. 
And  doth  scorn  to  be  despised. 

Though  we  say  you're  fair,  you  know 

We  your  beauty  do  bestow. 

For  our  fancy  makes  you  so. 

Don't  be  proud  'cause  we  adore  you, 
We  do  't  only  for  our  pleasure ; 

And  those  parts  in  which  you  glory 
We  by  fancy  weigh  and  measure. 

When  for  deities  you  go, 

For  angels  or  for  queens,  pray  know 

'Tis  our  fancy  makes  you  so. 

Don't  suppose  your  majesty 
By  tyranny's  best  signified. 

And  your  angelic  natures  be 
Distinguish'd  only  by  your  pride. 


Tyrants  make  subjects  rebels  grow. 
And  pride  makes  angels  devils  below, 
And  your  pride  may  make  you  so. 


THE  MAD  LOVER. 
I  HAVE  been  in  love,  and  in  debt,  and  in  drink — 

This  many  and  many  a  year ;  [think, 

And  those  three  are  plagues  enough,  one  would 

For  one  poor  mortal  to  bear. 
'Twas  drink  made  me  fall  into  love. 

And  love  made  me  run  into  debt ;  [strove. 

And  though  I  have  struggled,  and  struggled  and 

I  cannot  get  out  of  them  yet. 

There's  nothing  but  money  can  cure  me. 
And  rid  me  of  all  my  pain : 
'Twill  pay  all  my  debts, 
And  remove  all  my  lets ! 
And  my  mistress  that  cannot  endure  me, 

Will  love  me,  and  love  me  again : 
Then  I'll  fall  to  loving  and  drinking  again. 


ROBERT   HERRICK. 


(Born,  I59I.    DM,  ibont  1674.] 


Herkick's  vein  of  poetry  is  very  irregular ; 
but  where  the  ore  is  pure,  it  is  of  high  value. 
His  song  beginning,  "Gather ye  rose-buds,  while 
ye  may,"  is  sweetly  Anacreontic  Nichols,  in  his 
History  of  Leicestershire,  has  given  the  fullest 
account  of  his  history  hitherto  published,  and 
reprinted  many  of  his  poems,  which  illustrate  his 
family  connections.  He  was  the  son  of  an  emi- 
nent goldsmith  in  Cheapside,  was  born  in  London, 
and  educated  at  Cambridge.     Being  patronized 


by  the  Earl  of  Exeter,  he  was,  in  1629,  presented 
by  Charles  L  to  the  vicarage  of  Dean  Prior,  in 
Devonshire,  from  which  he  was  ejected  during 
the  civil  war,  and  then  having  assumed  the  habit 
of  a  layman,  resided  in  Westminster.  After 
the  Restoration  he  was  replaced  in  his  vicar- 
age. To  his  Hesperides,  or  Works  Human  and 
Divine,*  he  added  some  pieces  on  religicTus  sub- 
jects, where  his  volatile  genius  was  not  in  her 
element. 


TO  MEADOWS. 

Ye  have  been  fresh  and  green. 
Ye  have  been  fill'd  with  flowers ; 

And  ye  the  walks  have  been. 

Where  maids  have  spent  their  hours. 

Ye  have  beheld  where  they 
With  wicker  arks  did  come, 

To  kiss  and  bear  away 
The  richer  cowslips  home. 

You've  heard  them  sweetly  sing, 
And  seen  them  in  a  round. 


(*  Whut  is  '•  Divine"  hag  much  of  the  essence  of  poetry ; 
that  whirh  is  liumiin.  of  the  frwilty  of  the  flesh.  Some 
are  playfully  paxbjral,  fionie  sweetly  Anacreontic,  gome 
in  the  higher  key  of  r«-li({ion,  others  lagciviou.ily  wanton 
au<l  unclean.  The  whole  collection  seems  to  have  pa-ssed 
Into  ohiivion  till  about  the  year  1706,  and  since  then  we 
^are  ha<l  a  separale  Tolumc  of  tielifctiims,  and  two  com- 
plete nprintg.  His  several  excellenoe«  have  preserved  h\a 
many  indecencies,  the  divinity  of  his  verse  (poetically 
■Deaking)  the  dungbill  of  bis  obscener  moods.    Soutbey, 


Each  virgin  like  a  Spring 
With  honeysuckles  crowned. 

But  now  we  see  none  here. 
Whose  silvery  feet  did  tread, 

And,  with  dishevell'd  hair, 
Adorn'd  this  smoother  mead. 

Like  unthrifts,  having  spent 
Your  stock,  and  needy  grown, 

Ye're  left  here  to  lament 
Your  poor  estates  alone. 


admitting  the  perennial  beauty  of  many  of  his  po«m!^ 
has  styled  him,  not  with  too  much  severity,  "a  coarse- 
minded  and  beastly  writer."  Jmtei'  Attempts  in  ^i.rse, 
p.  85;  see  also  Qwir.  Hi  v.  vol.  iv.  p.  171. — C] 

[The  last  and  best  edition  of  Herrick  was  published  by 
H.  G.  Clarke,  London.  ]S44.  in  two  volumes.  The  life  of 
Herrick,  we  are  inclined  to  think.  wa,s  as  licentious  as  his 
verse,  and  both  dis<:raced  the  church  and  served  well  to 
round  the  periods  of  Puritan  lamentations  and  anatb't- 
mas. — G.] 


ROBERT  IIERRICK. 


285 


SONO. 

Gather  ye  rose-buds,  while  ye  may, 

Old  Time  is  still  a  flying ; 
And  this  same  flower  that  smiles  to-day, 

To-morrow  will  be  dying. 

The  glorious  lamp  of  heaven,  the  sun. 

The  higher  he 's  a  getting. 
The  sooner  will  his  race  be  run, 

And  nearer  he's  to  setting. 

The  age  is  best  which  is  the  first, 
When  youth  and  blood  are  warmer ; 

But  being  spent,  the  worse  and  worst 
Times  still  succeed  the  former. 

Then  be  not  coy,  but  use  your  time, 
And,  whilst  ye  may,  go  marry ; 

For  having  lost  but  once  your  prime, 
You  may  for  ever  tarry. 


TO  DAFFODILS. 
Fair  daffodils,  we  weep  to  see 
You  haste  away  so  soon  ; 
As  yet,  the  early -rising  sun 
Has  not  attain'd  its  noon. 

Stay,  stay 
Until  the  hasting  day 

Has  run 
But  to  the  even  song ; 
And  having  pray'd  together,  we 
Will  go  with  you  along. 

We  have  short  time  to  stay  as  you. 
We  have  as  short  a  spring ; 
As  quick  a  growth  to  meet  decay, 
As  you  or  any  thing. 

We  die, 
Aa  your  hours  do,  and  dry 

Away, 
Like  to  the  summer's  rain. 
Or  as  the  pearls  of  morning  dew, 
Ne'er  to  be  found  again. 


TO  BLOSSOMS. 
Fair  pledges  of  a  fruitful  tree, 
Why  do  you  fall  so  fasti 
Your  date  is  not  so  past ; 
But  you  may  stay  yet  here  awhile, 
To  blush  and  gently  smile. 
And  go  at  last. 

What,  were  ye  bom  to  be 

An  hour  or  half's  delight. 
And  so  to  bid  good-night  ? 

'Twas  pity  Nature  brought  ye  forth 
Merely  to  show  your  worth. 
And  lose  you  quite. 

But  you  are  lovely  leaves,  where  we 
May  read  how  soon  things  have 
Their  end.  though  ne'er  so  brave  : 

And  after  they  have  shown  their  pride. 
Like  you,  awhile,  they  glide 
Into  the  grave. 


THE  NIG!JT-PIECE^TO  JULIA. 
Her  eyes  the  glow-worm  lend  thee. 
The  shooting  stars  attend  thee ; 
And  the  elves  also, 
Whose  little  eyes  glow 
Like  the  sparks  of  fire,  befriend  thee. 

No  Will  o'  th'  Wisp  mislight  thee ; 
Nor  snake  or  slow-worm  bite  thee ; 

But  on,  on  thy  way. 

Not  making  a  stay. 
Since  ghost  there  is  none  to  afiright  thee 

Let  not  the  dark  thee  cumber ; 

What  though  the  moon  does  slumber  ? 
The  stars  of  the  night 
Will  lend  thee  their  light, 

Like  tapers  clear  without  number. 

Then,  Julia,  let  me  woo  thee, 
Thus,  thus,  to  come  unto  me ; 

And  when  I  shall  meet 

Thy  silvery  feet. 
My  soul  I'll  pour  into  thee. 


THE  COUNTRY  LIFE. 

Sweet  country  life,  to  such  unknown 

Whose  lives  are  others',  not  their  own  ! 

But,  serving  courts  and  cities,  be 

Less  happy,  less  enjoying  thee ! 

Thou  never  plough'st  the  ocean's  foam 

To  seek  and  bring  rough  pepper  home : 

Nor  to  the  Eastern  Ind  dost  rove. 

To  bring  from  thence  the  scorched  clove : 

Nor,  with  the  lost  of  thy  loved  rest, 

Bring' si  home  the  ingot  from  the  West. 

No  :  thy  ambition's  master-piece 

Flies  no  thought  higher  than  a  fleece ; 

Or  how  to  pay  thy  hinds,  and  clear 

All  scores,  and  so  to  end  the  year ; 

But  walk'st  about  thy  own  dear  bounds. 

Not  envying  others'  larger  grounc^ : 

For  well  thou  know'st  'tis  not  th'  extent 

Of  land  makes  life,  but  sweet  content. 

When  now  the  cock,  the  ploughman's  horn, 

Calls  forth  the  lily-wristed  morn. 

Then  to  thy  corn-fields  thou  dost  go, 

Which  though  well-soil'd,  yet  thou  dost  know 

That  the  best  compost  for  the  lands 

Is  the  wise  master's  feet  and  hands. 

There  at  the  plough  thou  tind'st  thy  team, 

With  a  hind  whistling  there  to  them ; 

And  cheer'st  them  up  by  singing  how 

The  kingdom's  portion  is  the  plough. 

This  done,  then  to  th'  enamell'd  meads 

Thou  go'st ;  and  as  thy  foot  there  treads. 

Thou  see'st  a  present  godlike  power 

Imprinted  in  each  herb  and  flower; 

And  smell'st  the  breath  of  great-eyed  kine. 

Sweet  as  the  blossoms  of  the  vine. 

Here  thou  behold'st  thy  large  sleek  neat. 

Unto  the  dewlaps  up  in  meat; 

And,  as  thou  look'st,  the  wanton  steer, 

The  heifer,  cow,  and  ox,  draw  near. 

To  make  a  pleasing  pastime  there 


286 


ABRAHAM  COWLEY. 


Theso  seen,  thou  go'st  to  view  thy  flocks 

Of  sheep,  safe  from  the  wolf  and  fox ; 

And  find'st  their  bellies  there  as  full 

Of  short  sweet  grass,  as  backs  with  wool ; 

And  leavest  them  as  they  feed  and  fill ; 

A  shepherd  piping  on  a  hill. 

For  sports,  for  pageantry,  and  plays, 

Thou  hast  thy  eves  and  holidays ; 

On  which  the  young  men  and  maids  meet, 

To  exercise  their  dancing  feet ; 

Tripping  the  comely  country  round, 

With  daffodils  and  daisies  crown'd. 

Thy  wakes,  thy  quintels,  here  thou  hast; 

Thy  May-poles  too,  with  garlands  graced ; 

Thy  morris-dance,  thy  Whitsun-ale, 

Thy  shearing  feast,  which  never  fail ; 

Thy  harvest-home,  thy  wassail-bowl. 

That's  tost  up  after  fox  i'  th'  hole ; 

Thy  mummeries,  thy  Twelfth-night  kings 

And  queens,  thy  Christmas  revellings ; 

Thy  nut-brown  mirth,  thy  russet  wit ; 

And  no  man  pays  too  dear  for  it. 

To  these  thou  hast  thy  times  to  go, 

And  trace  the  hare  in  the  treacherous  snow ; 

Thy  witty  wiles  to  draw,  and  get 

The  lark  into  the  trammel  net ; 

Thou  hast  thy  cockrood,  and  thy  glade 

To  take  the  precious  pheasant  made ; 

Thy  lime-twigs,  snares,  and  pit-falls,  then 

To  catch  the  pilfering  birds,  not  men. 

O  happy  life,  if  that  their  good 
The  husbandmen  but  understood  ! 
Who  all  the  days  themselves  do  please, 
And  younglings,  with  such  sports  as  these ; 
And,  lying  down,  have  nought  to  affright 
Sweet  sleep  that  makes  more  short  the  night. 


LITANY  TO  THE  HOLY  SPIRIT. 
In  the  hour  of  my  distress. 
When  temptations  me  oppress, 
And  when  I  my  sins  confess, 

8weet  Spirit,  comfort  me. 


When  I  lie  within  my  bed,    - 
Sick  at  heart,  and  sick  at  head. 
And  with  doubts  discomforted, 
Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me. 

When  the  house  doth  sigh  and  weep, 
And  the  world  is  drowned  in  sleep. 
Yet  mine  eyes  the  watch  do  keep ; 
Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me. 

When  the  passing-bell  doth  toll, 
And  the  furies  in  a  shoal 
Come  to  fright  a  parting  soul. 

Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me. 

When  God  knows  I'm  tossed  about. 
Either  with  despair  or  doubt. 
Yet  before  the  glass  be  out. 

Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me. 

When  the  tapers  now  burn  blue. 
And  the  comforters  are  few, 
And  that  number  more  than  true, 
Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me. 

When  the  priest  his  last  hath  prayed, 
And  I  nod  to  what  is  said, 
'Cause  my  speech  is  now  decayed. 
Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me. 

When  the  tempter  me  pursueth 
With  the  sins  of  all  my  youth, 
And  half  damns  me  with  untruth. 
Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me. 

When  the  flames  and  hellish  cries 
Fright  mine  ears  and  fright  mine  eyes, 
And  all  terrors  me  surprise. 

Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me. 

When  the  judgment  is  revealed. 
And  that  opened  which  was  sealed. 
When  to  Thee  I  have  appealed 
Sweet  Spirit,  comfort  me. 


ABRAHAM  COWLEY. 


IBorn,  1618.     Died,  1667.] 


Abraham  Cowley  was  the  posthumous  son 
of  a  grocer  in  London.  His  mother,  though  left 
B  poor  widow,  found  means  to  get  him  educated 
at  Westminster  School,  and  he  obtained  a  scholar- 
ship at  Cambridge.  Before  leaving  the  former 
scmmary,  he  published  his  Poetical  Blossoms. 
He  wrote  verses  while  yet  a  child ;  and  amidst 
his  best  poetry  as  well  as  his  worst,  in  his  touch- 
ing and  tender  as  well  as  extravagant  passages, 
there  is  always  something  that  reminds  us  of 
childhood  in  Cowley.  From  Cambridge  he  was 
ejected  in  1643,  for  his  loyalty  ;  after  a  short 
retirement,  he  was  induced  by  his  principles  to 
follow  the  queen  to  Paris,  as  secretary  to  the 


Earl  of  St.  Albans,  and  during  an  absence  of 
ten  years  from  his  native  country,  was  employed 
in  confidential  journeys  for  his  party,  and  in  de- 
ciphering the  royal  correspondence.  The  object 
of  his  return  to  England,  in  1656, 1  am  disposed 
to  think,  is  misrepresented  by  his  biographers ; 
they  tell  us  that  he  came  over  under  pretence  of 
privacy,  to  give  notice  of  the  posture  of  affairs. 
Cowley  came  home  indeed,  and  published  an  edition 
of  his  poems,  in  the  preface  to  which  he  decidedly 
declares  himself  a  quietist  under  the  existing 
government,  abjures  the  idea  of  all  political  hos- 
tility, and  tells  us  that  he  had  not  only  abstained 
from  printing,  but  had  burnt  the  very  copifs  of 


ABRAHAM   COWLEl. 


287 


his  verses  that  alluded  to  the  civil  wars.  "  The 
enmities  of  fellow-citizens,"  he  continues,  "should 
be  like  those  of  lovers,  the  redintegration  of  their 
amity."  If  Cowley  employed  this  language  to 
mjike  his  privacy  the  deeper  pretence  for  giving 
secret  intelligence,  his  office  may  be  worthily 
named  that  of  a  spy ;  but  the  manliness  and  pla- 
cidity of  his  character  render  it  much  more  pro- 
bable that  he  was  sincere  in  those  declarations ; 
nor  were  his  studious  pursuits,  which  were  chiefly 
botanical,  well  calculated  for  political  intrigue. 
He  took  a  doctor's  degree,  but  never  practised, 
and  was  one  of  the  earliest  members  of  the  phi- 
losophical society.  While  Butler's  satire  was  un- 
worthily employed  in  ridiculing  the  infancy  of  that 
institution,  Cowley's  wit  took  a  more  than  ordi- 
nary stretch  of  perversion  in  the  good  intention  of 
commending  it.    Speaking  of  Bacon,  he  calls  him 

th9  mighty  man. 
Whom  a  wise  king  and  nature  chose 
To  be  the  chancellor  of  both  their  laws. 

At  his  first  arrival  in  England  he  had  been 
imprisoned,  and  obliged  to  find  bail  to  a  great 
amount.  On  the  death  of  Cromwell,  he  con- 
sidered himself  at  liberty,  and  went  to  France, 
where  he  stopped  till  the  Restoration.  At  that 
event,  when  men  who  had  fought  under  Crom- 
well were  rewarded  for  coming  over  to  Charles 
II.,  Cowley  was  denied  the  mastership  of  the 
Savoy  on  pretence  of  his  disloyalty,  and  the 
Lord  Chancellor  told  him  that  his  pardon  was 
his  reward.     The  sum  of  his  offence  was,  that 


he  had  lived  peaceably  under  the  usurping 
government,  though  without  having  published 
a  word,  even  in  his  amiable  and  pacific  preface, 
that  committed  his  principles.  But  an  absurd 
idea  prevailed  that  his  Cutter  of  Coleman-street 
was  a  satire  on  his  party,  and  he  had  published 
an  ode  to  Brutus !  It  is  impossible  to  contrast 
this  injured  honesty  of  Cowley  with  the  success- 
ful profligacy  of  Waller  and  Dryden,  and  not  to 
be  struck  with  the  all-prevailing  power  of  impu- 
dence. In  such  circumstances,  it  is  little  to  be 
wondered  at  that  Cowley  should  have  sighed  for 
retirement,  and  been  ready  to  accept  of  it  even 
in  the  deserts  of  America.  Misanthropy,  as  far  as 
so  gentle  a  nature  could  cherish  it,  naturally 
strengthened  his  love  of  retirement,  and  in- 
creased that  passion  for  a  country  life  which 
breathes  in  the  fancy  of  his  poetry,  and  in  the 
eloquence  of  his  prose.  By  the  influence  of 
Buckingham  and  St.  Albans,  he  at  last  obtained 
a  competence  of  about  300/.  a  year  from  a  lease 
of  the  queen's  lands,  which  enabled  him  to  retire, 
first  to  Barnes  Elms,  and  afterwards  to  Chertsey, 
on  the  Thames.  But  his  health  was  now  de- 
clining, and  he  did  not  long  experience  either 
the  sweets  or  inconvenience  of  rustication.  He 
died,  according  to  Dr.  Sprat,  in  consequence  of 
exposing  himself  to  cold  one  evening  that  he 
stayed  late  among  his  labourers.  Another  account 
ascribes  his  death  to  being  benighted  in  the 
fields,  after  having  spent  too  convivial  an  evening 
with  the  same  Dr.  Sprat* 


THE  CHRONICLE,  A  BALLAD-f 
Margarita  first  possess'd, 
If  I  remember  well,  my  breast, 
Margarita  first  of  all ; 
But  when  a  while  the  wanton  maid 
With  my  restless  heart  had  play'd, 
Martha  took  the  flying  ball. 

Martha  soon  did  it  resign 
To  the  beauteous  Catharine : 
Beauteous  Catharine  gave  place 
(Though  loth  and  angry  she  to  part 
With  the  possession  of  my  heart) 
To  Eliza's  conquering  face. 

Eliza  to  this  hour  might  reign. 
Had  she  not  evil  counsels  ta'en : 
Fundamental  laws  she  broke 
And  still  new  favourites  she  chose, 
Till  up  in  arms  my  passions  rose, 
And  cast  away  her  yoke. 

Mary  then,  and  gentle  Annej 
Both  to  reign  at  once  began  ; 

f*  "Cowley  is  a  writer  of  great  sense,  ingenuity,  and 
learning,"  says  Hazlitt.  "but  as  a  poet  bis  fancy  is  quaint, 
far-fetched  and  mechanical."  The  same  critic,  however, 
says  of  his  Anacreontics,  that  they  are  perfect,  breathing 
'  the  Tery  spirit  of  lore  and  wine." — O.J 

[t  ■'  The  Chronicle"  is  a  composition  unrivalled  and 
alone :  such  gayety  of  fancy,  such  facility  of  expresaion. 


Alternately  they  sway'd. 
And  sometimes  Mary  was  the  fair, 
And  sometimes  Anne  the  crown  did  wear 
And  sometimes  both  I  obey'd. 

Another  Mary  then  arose, 
And  did  rigorous  laws  impose ; 
A  mighty  tyrant  she  ! 
Long,  alas !  should  I  have  been 
Under  that  iron-sceptred  queen, 
Had  not  Rebecca  set  me  free. 

When  fair  Rebecca  set  me  free, 

'Twas  then  a  golden  time  with  me: 

But  soon  those  pleasures  fled  ; 

For  the  gracious  princess  died 

In  her  youth  and  beauty's  pride, 

And  Judith  reigned  in  her  stead. 

One  month,  three  days,  and  half  an  hour, 

Judith  held  the  sovereign  power : 

Wondrous  beautiful  her  face. 

But  so  weak  and  small  her  wit. 

That  she  to  govern  was  unfit, 

And  so  Susanna  took  her  place. 


such  varied  similituile,  such  a  succession  of  images,  and 
such  a  dance  of  words,  it  is  in  vain  to  e^tpect  except  f^om 
Cowley.  To  such  a  performance.  Suckling  could  have 
brought  the  gHyety,  but  not  the  knowledge ;  Dryden 
eould  have  supplied  the  knowledge,  but  not  the  gayetT 

^^OU.NKM.] 


468 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY. 


But  when  Isabella  came, 
Arm'd  with  a  resistless  flame ; 
And  th'  artillery  of  her  eye, 
Whilst  she  proudly  march'd  about, 
Greater  conquests  to  find  out, 
She  beat  out  Susan  by-the-by. 


But  in  her  place  I  then  obey'd 
Black-eyed  Bess,  her  viceroy  maid, 
To  whom  ensued  a  vacancy. 
Thousand  worst  passions  then  possess'd 
The  interregnum  of  my  breast. 
Bless  me  firom  such  an  anarchy ! 

Gentle  Henrietta  then, 
And  a  third  Mary,  next  began : 
Then  Joan,  and  Jane,  and  Audria; 
And  then  a  pretty  Thomasine, 
And  then  another  Catharine, 
And  then  a  long  et  cetera. 

But  should  I  now  to  you  relate 
The  strength  and  riches  of  their  state, 
The  powder,  patches,  and  the  pins. 
The  ribands,  jewels,  and  the  rings. 
The  lace,  the  paint,  and  warlike  things. 
That  make  up  all  their  magazines : 

If  I  should  teU  the  politic  arts 
To  take  and  keep  men's  hearts. 
The  letters,  embassies,  and  spies. 
The  frowns,  the  smiles  and  flatteries. 
The  quarrels,  tears,  and  perjuries. 
Numberless,  nameless  mysteries ! 

And  all  the  little  lime-twigs  laid 
By  Mach'avel  the  waiting-maid  ; 
I  more  voluminous  should  grow 
(Chiefly  if  I  like  them  should  tell 
All  change  of  weathers  that  befell) 
Than  Holinshed  or  Stow. 

But  I  will  briefer  with  them  be. 
Since  few  of  them  were  long  with  me. 
A  higher  and  a  nobler 
My  present  emperess  does  claim, 
Heleonora!  first  o'  the  name. 
Whom  God  grant  long  to  reign. 


In  which  all  colours  and  all  figures  were 
That  nature  or  that  fancy  can  create, 
That  art  can  never  imitate. 
And  with  loose  pride  it  wanton'd  in  the  air : 
In  such  a  dress,  in  such  a  well-clothed  dream. 
She  used  of  old  near  fair  Ismenus'  stream 
Pindar,  her  Theban  favourite,  to  meet;        [feet. 
A  crown  was  on  her  head,  and  wings  were  on  her 


THE  COMPLAINT.* 

In  a  deep  vision's  intellectual  scene. 

Beneath  a  bower  for  sorrow  made, 

Th'  uncomfortable  shade 

Of  the  black  yew's  unlucky  green, 

Mix'd  with  the  morning  willow's  careful  gray. 

Where  rev'rend  Cam  cuts  out  his  famous  way 

The  melancholy  Cowley  lay ; 

And,  lo !  a  Muse  appeared  to  his  closed  sight 

(The  Muses  oft  in  lands  of  visions  play,) 

Bodied,  array'd,  and  seen  by  an  internal  light : 

A  golden  harp  with  silver  strings  she  bore, 

A  wondrous  hieroglyphic  robe  she  wore. 


[*  Written  on  thn  riitid  cenpuren  pa.ised  upon  bis 
comedy  callrd  'Cutter  of  Colcnian-ntreet.'  "  He  published 
his  prft»'n»ion8  and  his  discontent."  says  Johnson,  "in  an 
Ode  called  'The  Cooiplaint;'  in  which  he  styles  himself 


She  touched  him  with  her  harp  and  raised  bins 

from  the  ground ; 
The  shaken  strings  melodiously  resound. 
"  Art  thou  return'd  at  last,"  said  she, 
"To  this  forsaken  place  and  me  T 
Thou  prodigal !  who  didst  so  loosely  waste 
Of  all  thy  youthful  years  the  good  estate ; 
Art  thou  return'd,  here  to  repent  too  late  1 
And  gather  husks  of  learning  up  at  last. 
Now  the  rich  harvest-time  of  life  is  past. 
And  winter  marches  on  so  fast  1 
But  when  I  meant  t'  adopt  thee  for  my  son, 
And  did  as  leam'd  a  portion  assign 
As  ever  any  of  the  mighty  nine 
Had  to  their  dearest  children  done ; 
When  I  resolved  t'  exalt  thy  anointed  name 
Among  the  spiritual  lords  of  peaceful  fame ; 
Thou  changeling !  thou,  bewitch'd  with  noise  and 

show, 
Wouldst  into  courts  and  cities  from  me  go ; 
Wouldst  see  the  world  abroad,  and  have  a  share 
In  all  the  foUies  and  the  tumults  there ; 
Thou  wouldst,  forsooth,  be  something  in  a  state. 
And  business   thou  wouldst  find,  and  wouldst 
Business !  the  frivolous  pretence  [create : 

Of  human  lusts  to  shake  off  innocence ; 
Business !  the  grave  impertinence  ; 
Business !  the  thing  which  I  of  all  things  hate, 
Business !  the  contradiction  of  thy  fate. 

Go,  renegado!  cast  up  thy  account, 

And  see  to  what  amount 

Thy  foolish  gains  by  quitting  me : 

The  sale  of  knowledge,  fame,  and  liberty, 

The  fruits  of  thy  unlearn'd  apostasy,  [past. 

Thou  thoughtst,  if  once  the  public  storm  were 

Ail  thy  remaining  life  should  sunshine  be : 

Behold  the  public  storm  is  spent  at  last, 

The  sovereign  is  toss'd  at  sea  no  more, 

And  thou  with  all  the  noble  company. 

Art  got  at  last  to  shore: 

But  whilst  thy  fellow-voyagers  I  see. 

All  march'd  up  to  possess  the  promised  land. 

Thou  still  alone,  alas !   dost  gaping  stand. 

Upon  the  naked  beach,  upon  the  barren  sand. 

As  a  fair  morning  of  the  blessed  spring, 

After  a  tedious  stormy  night, 

Such  was  the  glorious  entry  of  our  king ; 

Enriching  moisture  dropp'd  on  every  thing: 

Plenty  he  sow'd  below,  and  cast  about  him  light. 

But  then,  alas !  to  thee  alone 

One  of  old  Gideon  s  miracles  was  shown, 


thf  melanrhnly  CuwUy.  This  met  with  the  usual  fortune 
of  complaints,  and  seems  to  have  excited  more  contempt 
thau  pity."] 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY. 


289 


For  ev'ry  tree,  and  ev'ry  hand  around, 

W^ith  pearly  dew  was  crown'd, 

And  upon  all  the  quicken'd  ground 

The  fruitful  seed  of  heaven  did  brooding  lie 

And  nothing  but  the  Muse's  fleece  was  dry. 

It  did  all  other  threats  surpass, 

When  God  to  his  own  people  said,  [Ictl,) 

(The  men  whom  thro'  long  wanderings  he  had 

That  he  would  give  them  even  a  heaven  of  brass : 

They  look'd  up  to  that  heaven  in  vain,       [strain 

That  bounteous  heaven  !  which  God  did  not  re- 

Upon  the  most  unjust  to  shine  and  rain. 

The  Rachel,  for  which  twice  seven  years  and  more, 

Thou  didst  with  faith  and  labour  serve, 

And  didst  (if  faith  and  labour  can)  deserve, 

Though  she  contracted  was  to  thee, 

Given  to  another,  thou  didst  see. 

Given  to  another,  who  had  store 

Of  fairer  and  of  richer  wives  before, 

And  not  a  Leah  left,  thy  recompense  to  be. 

Go  on,  twice  seven  years  more,  thy  fortune  try, 

Twice  seven  years  more  God  in  his  bounty  may 

Give  thee  to  fling  away 

Into  the  court's  deceitful  lottery : 

But  think  how  likejy  'lis  that  thou. 

With  the  dull  work  of  thy  unwieldy  plough, 

Shouldst  in  a  hard  and  barren  season  thrive, 

Shouldst  even  able  be  to  live ; 

Thou !  to  whose  share  so  little  bread  did  fall 

In  the  miraculous  year  when  manna  rain'd  on  all." 

Thus  spake  the  Muse,  and  spake  it  with  a  smile, 

That  seem'd  at  once  to  pity  and  revile : 

And  to  her  thus,  raising  his  thoughtful  head. 

The  melancholy  Cowley  said  : 

"  Ah,  wanton  foe !  dost  thou  upbraid 

The  ills  which  thou  thyself  hast  made  ? 

When  in  the  cradle  innocent  I  lay. 

Thou,  wicked  spirit,  stolest  me  away. 

And  my  abused  soul  didst  bear 

Into  thy  new-found  worlds,  I  know  not  where. 

Thy  golden  Indies  in  the  air ; 

And  ever  since  I  strive  in  vain 

My  ravish'd  freedom  to  regain ; 

Still  I  rebel,  still  thou  dost  reign ; 

Lo,  still  in  verse,  against  thee  I  complain. 

There  is  a  sort  of  stubborn  weeds. 

Which  if  the  earth  but  once  it  ever  breeds. 

No  wholesome  herb  can  near  them  thrive. 

No  useful  plant  can  keep  alive ; 

The  foolish  sports  I  did  on  thee  bestow 

Make  all  my  art  and  labour  fruitless  now ;   [grow. 

Where  once  such  fairies  dance,  no  grass  dotn  ever 

When  my  new  mind  had  no  infiision  known. 
Thou  gavest  so  deep  a  tincture  of  thine  own, 
That  ever  since  I  vainly  try 
To  wash  away  th'  inherent  dye : 
Long  work,  perhaps,  may  spoil  thy  colours  quite, 
But  never  wiH  reduce  the  native  white. 
To  all  the  ports  of  honour  and  of  gain 
I  often  steer  my  course  in  vain ; 
Thy  gale  comes  cross,  and  drives  me  back  again. 
Thou  slacken'st  all  my  nerves  of  industry. 
By  making  them  so  oft  to  be 
37 


The  tinkling  strings  of  thy  loose  minstrelsy 

Whoever  this  world's  happiness  would  see 

Must  as  entirely  cast  off  thee. 

As  they  who  only  heaven  desire 

Do  from  the  world  retire. 

This  was  my  error,  this  my  gross  mistake, 

Myself  a  demi-votary  to  make. 

Thus  with  Sapphira  and  her  husband's  fate, 

(A  fault  which  I,  like  them,  am  taught  too  late,) 

For  all  that  I  gave  up,  I  nothing  gain, 

And  per  sh  for  the  part  which  I  retain. 

Teach  me  not  then,  O  thou  fallacious  Muse ! 

The  court  and  better  king  t'  accuse; 

The  heaven  under  which  I  live  is  fair, 

The  fertile  soil  will  a  full  harvest  bear : 

Thine,  thine  is  all  the  barrenness,  if  thou 

Makest  me  sit  still  and  sing  when  I  should  plough. 

When  I  but  think  how  many  a  tedious  year 

Our  patient  sovereign  did  attend 

His  long  misfortune's  fatal  end ; 

How  cheerfully,  and  how  exempt  from  fear, 

On  the  Great  Sovereign's  will  he  did  depend, 

I  ought  to  be  accursed  if  I  refuse 

To  wait  on  his,  O  thou  fallacious  Muse  ! 

Kings  have  long  hands,  they  say,  and  though  I  be 

So  distant,  they  may  reach  at  length  to  me. 

However,  of  all  princes  thou  [slow ; 

Shouldst  not  reproach  rewards  for  being  small  or 

Thou !  who  rewardest  but  with  pop'lar  breath. 

And  that,  too,  after  death !" 


mOM  FRIENDSHIP  IN  ABSENCB. 

A  THOUSAND  pretty  ways  we'll  think  upon 

To  mock  our  separation. 

Alas !  ten  thousand  will  not  do ; 

My  heart  will  thus  no  longer  stay, 

No  longer  'twill  be  kept  from  you, 

But  knocks  against  the  breast  to  get  away. 

And  when  no  art  aflfords  me  help  or  ease, 

I  seek  with  verse  my  griefs  t'  appease : 

Just  as  a  bird  that  flies  about, 

And  beats  itself  against  the  cage. 

Finding  at  last  no  passage  out, 

It  sits  and  sings,  and  so  o'ercomes  its  rage. 


THE  DESPAIR. 

Beneath  this  gloomy  shade, 

By  Nature  only  for  my  sorrows  made, 

I'll  spend  this  voice  in  cries, 

In  tears  I'll  waste  these  eyes. 

By  love  so  vainly  fed ; 

So  lust  of  old  the  deluge  punished. 

Ah,  wretched  youth,  said  I ; 

Ah,  wretched  youth !  twice  did  I  sadly  cry  ; 

Ah,  wretched  youth  !  the  fields  and  floods  repiv 

When  thoughts  of  love  I  entertain, 
I  meet  no  words  but  Never,  and.  In  vain : 
Never,  alas !  that  dreadful  name 
Which  fuels  the  infernal  flame : 
Never !  my  time  to  come  must  waste ; 
In  vain !  torments  the  present  and  the  pa««.  • 
Z 


290 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY. 


In  vain,  in  vain  !  said  I, 

In  vain,  in  vain !  twice  did  I  sadly  cry ; 

In  vain  !  in  vain !  the  fields  and  floods  reply. 

No  more  shall  fields  or  floods  do  so. 

For  I  to  shades  more  dark  and  silent  go : 

All  this  world's  noise  appears  to  me 

A  dull  ill-acted  comedy : 

No  comfort  to  my  wounded  sight, 

In  the  sun's  busy  and  impert'nent  light 

Then  down  I  laid  my  head, 

Down  on  cold  earth,  and  for  a  while  was  dead. 

And  my  freed  soul  to  a  strange  somewhere  fled. 

Ah,  sottish  soul !  said  I, 

When  back  to  its  cage  again  I  saw  it  fly : 

Fool !  to  resume  her  broken  chain, 

And  row  her  galley  here  again  ! 

Fool !  to  that  body  to  return, 

Where  it  condemn'd  and  destined  is  to  bum ! 

Once  dead,  how  can  it  be 

Death  should  a  thing  so  pleasant  seem  to  thee. 

That  thou  shouldst  come  to  live  it  o'er  again  in  me  1 


THE  WAITING-MAID. 

Thy  maid !  Ah  !  find  some  nobler  theme 
Whereon  thy  doubts  to  place, 

Nor  by  a  low  suspect  blaspheme 
The  glories  of  thy  face. 

Alas !  she  makes  thee  shine  so  fair, 

So  exquisitely  bright, 
That  her  dim  lamp  must  disappear 

Before  thy  potent  light. 

Three  hours  each  mom  in  dressing  thee 

Maliciously  are  spent. 
And  make  that  beauty  tyranny, 

That's  else  a  civil  government. 

Th'  adorning  thee  with  so  much  art 

Is  but  a  barb'rous  skill ; 
'Tis  like  the  pois'ning  of  a  dart. 

Too  apt  before  to  kill. 

The  min'st'ring  angels  none  can  see; 

'Tis  not  their  beauty  or  their  face, 
For  which  by  men  they  worshipp'd  be. 

But  their  high  office  and  their  place. 
Thou  art  my  goddess,  my  saint  she ; 
I  pray  to  her  only  to  pray  to  thee. 


HONOUR. 
She  loves,  and  she  confesses  too ; 
There's  then,  at  last,  no  more  to  do : 
The  happy  work  's  entirely  done ; 
Enter  the  town  which  thou  hast  won  ; 
The  fruits  of  conquest  now  begin : 
lo,  triumph ;  enter  in. 

What  is  this,  ye  gods!  what  can  it  be  1 
Remains  there  still  an  enemy  ? 


Bold  Honour  stands  up  in  the  gate. 
And  would  yet  capitulate  ; 
Have  I  o'ercome  all  real  foes, 
And  shall  this  phantom  me  oppose ! 

Noisy  nothing !  stalking  shade  ! 

By  what  witchcraft  wert  thou  made  1 

Empty  cause  of  solid  harms  ! 

But  I  shall  find  out  counter-charma 

Thy  airy  devilship  to  remove 

From  this  circle  here  of  love. 

Sure  I  shall  rid  myself  of  thee 

By  the  night's  obscurity, 

And  obscurer  secresy : 

Unlike  to  ev'ry  other  sprite. 

Thou  attempt'st  not  men  t'  affright. 

Nor  appear 'st  but  in  the  light. 


OF  WIT. 


[♦  Thit  U  Cowley's  very  fault :  wit  to  an  excess  :— 
«  He  more  had  pleased  us  had  he  pleased  us  less." 
He  never  knew  when  he  had  said  enough,  but  ran  him- 


Tell  me,  0  tell !  what  kind  of  thing  is  Wit, 
Thou  who  master  art  of  it : 
For  the  first  matter  loves  variety  less : 
Less  women  love  it,  either  in  love  or  dress : 
A  thousand  diff'rent  shapes  it  bears, 
Comely  in  thousand  shapes  appears : 
Yonder  we  saw  it  plain,  and  here  'tis  now, 
Like  spirits,  in  a  place,  we  know  not  how. 

London,  that  vends  of  false  ware  so  much  store, 

In  no  ware  deceives  us  more : 

For  men,  led  by  the  colour  and  the  shape 

Like  Zeuxis'  birds,  fly  to  the  painted  grape. 

Some  things  do  through  our  judgment  pass, 

As  through  a  multiplying-glass ; 

And  sometimes,  if  the  object  be  too  far, 

W^e  take  a  falling  meteor  for  a  star. 

Hence  'tis  a  wit,  that  greatest  word  of  fame, 

Grows  such  a  common  name ; 

And  wits  by  our  creation  they  become, 

Just  so  as  tit'lar  bishops  made  at  Rome. 

'Tis  not  a  tale,  'tis  not  a  jest. 

Admired  with  laughter  at  a  feast, 

Nor  florid  talk,  which  can  that  title  gain ; 

The  proofs  of  wit  for  ever  must  remain. 

'Tis  not  to  force  some  lifeless  verses  meet 

With  their  five  gouty  feet : 

All  ev'rywhcre,  like  man's  must  be  the  soul, 

And  reason  the  inferior  powers  control. 

Such  were  the  numbers  which  could  call 

The  stones  into  the  Theban  wall. 

Such  miracles  are  ceased ;  and  now  we  see 

No  towns  or  houses  raised  by  poetry. 

Yet  'tis  not  to  adorn  and  gild  each  part; 
That  shows  more  cost  than  art. 
Jewels  at  nose  and  lips  but  ill  appear ; 
Rather  than  all  things  wit,  let  none  be  there.* 
Several  lights  will  not  be  seen, 
If  there  be  nothing  else  between. 


self  and  his  reader  both  out  of  breath.  In  a  better  age 
Cowley  had  been  a  great  poet — he  ia  now  gunk  fi'oui  his 
first  reputation :  for.  sis  Lord  Rochester  said,  though  sooi^ 
what  profanely.  A'b<  being  of  God,  he  could  not  statid.] 


!il 


ABRAHAM   COWLEY. 


291 


Men  doubt,  because  they  stand  so  thick  i'  th'  sky, 
If  those  be  stars  which  paint  the  galaxy. 

'Tis  not  when  two  like  words  make  up  one  noise. 

Jests  for  Dutch  men  and  Engl  sh  boys ; 

In  which  who  finds  out  wit,  the  same  may  see 

In  an'grams  and  acrostics  poetry. 

Much  less  can  that  have  any  place 

At  which  a  virgin  hides  her  face ; 

Such  dross  the  fire  must  purge  away ;  'tis  just 

The  author  blush  there  where  the  reader  must. 

'Tis  not  such  lines  as  almost  crack  the  stage, 

When  Bajazet  begins  to  rage ; 

Nor  a  tall  met'phor  in  the  bombast  way, 

Nor  the  dry  chips  of  short-lung'd  Seneca : 

Nor  upon  all  things  to  obtrude 

And  force  some  odd  similitude. 

What  is  it  then,  which,  like  the  Power  Divine, 

We  only  can  by  negatives  define  1 

In  a  true  piece  of  wit  all  things  must  be. 

Yet  all  things  there  agree : 

As  in  the  ark,  join'd  without  force  or  strife. 

All  creatures  dwelt,  all  creatures  that  had  life. 

Or  as  the  primitive  forms  of  all, 

(If  we  compare  great  things  with  small,) 

Which  without  discord  or  confusion  lie. 

In  that  strange  mirror  of  the  Deity. 


OP  SOUTtJDB. 

Hail,  old  patrician  trees,  so  great  and  good ! 

Hail,  ye  plebeian  underwood  ! 

Where  the  poetic  birds  rejoice. 

And  for  their  quiet  nests  and  plenteous  food 

Pay  with  their  grateful  voice. 

Hail  the  poor  Muse's  richest  manor-seat! 

Ye  country-houses  and  retreat. 

Which  all  the  happy  gods  so  love, 

That  for  you  oft  they  quit  their  bright  and  great 

Metropolis  above. 

Here  Nature  does  a  house  for  me  erect, 
Nature !  the  fairest  architect. 
Who  those  fond  artists  does  despise 
That  can  the  fair  and  living  trees  neglect. 
Yet  the  dead  timber  prize. 

Here  let  me,  careless  and  unthoughtful  lying. 
Hear  the  soft  winds  above  me  flying, 
With  all  their  wanton  boughs  dispute. 
And  the  more  tuneful  birds  to  both  replying. 
Nor  be  myself,  too,  mute. 

A  silver  stream  shall  roll  his  waters  near. 
Gilt  with  the  sunbeams  here  and  there, 
On  whose  enamell'd  bank  I'll  walk. 
And  see  how  prettily  they  smile, 
And  hear  how  prettily  they  talk.  ' 

Ah !  vn-etched,  and  too  solitary  he, 
Who  loves  not  his  own  company  ! 
He'll  feel  the  weight  of  it  many  a  day. 
Unless  he  calls  in  sin  or  vanity 
To  help  to  bear  it  away. 


Oh,  Solitude  !  first  state  of  humankind  ! 
Which  blessed  remain'd  till  man  did  find 
Even  his  own  helper's  company  : 
As  soon  as  two,  alas !  together  join'd. 
The  serpent  made  up  three. 

Though  God  himself,  through  countless  ages,  tiiee 

His  sole  companion  chose  to  be. 

Thee,  sacred  Solitude  !  alone, 

Before  the  branchy  head  of  number's  tree 

Sprang  from  the  trunk  of  one ; 

Thou  (though  men  think  thine  an  unactive  part) 
Dost  break  and  tame  th'  unruly  hearty 
Which  else  would  know  no  settled  pace, 
Making  it  move,  well  managed  by  thy  art. 
With  swiftness  and  with  grace. 

Thou  the  faint  beams  of  reason's  scatter'd  light 

Dost,  like  a  burning-glass,  unite. 

Dost  multiply  the  feeble  heat, 

And  fortify  the  strength,  till  thou  dost  bright 

And  noble  fires  beget.     | 

Whilst  this  hard  truth  I  teach,  methinks  I  see 
The  monster  London  laugh  at  me ; 
I  should  at  thee,  too,  foolish  city ! 
If  it  were  fit  to  laugh  at  misery ; 
But  thy  estate  I  pity. 

Let  but  thy  wicked  men  from  out  thee  go. 
And  all  the  fools  that  crowd  thee  so, 
Even  thou,  who  dost  thy  millions  boast, 
A  village  less  than  Islington  wilt  grow, 
A  solitude  almost. 


THE  SWALLOW. 

Foolish  prater !  what  dost  thou 

So  very  early  at  my  window  do 

With  thy  tuneless  serenade] 

Well  it  had  been  had  Tereus  made 

Thee  as  dumb  as  Philomel ; 

There  his  knife  had  done  but  well. 

In  thy  undiscover'd  nest 

Thou  dost  all  the  winter  rest. 

And  dreamest  o'er  thy  summer  joys 

Free  from  the  stormy  season's  noise ; 

Free  from  th'  ill  thou  'st  done  to  me ; 

Who  disturbs  or  seeks  out  thee  1 

Hadst  thou  all  the  charming  notes 

Of  the  woods'  poetic  throats. 

All  thy  art  could  never  pay 

What  thou  'st  ta'en  from  me  away. 

Cruel  bird  !  thou  'st  ta'en  away 

A  dream  out  of  my  arms  to-day ; 

A  dream  that  ne'er  must  equall'd  be 

By  all  that  waking  eyes  may  see : 

Thou  this  damage  to  repair. 

Nothing  half  so  sweet  or  fair. 

Nothing  half  so  good  can'st  bring. 

Though  men  say  thou  bring'st  the  spring. 


SIR  RICHARD   FANSHAWE. 


[Born,  160S.     Died,  1666.] 


Sir  RiiiHAKD  Fanshawe,  the  son  of  Sir  Henry 
Panshawe,  remembrancer  of  the  Irish  Exchequer, 
was  bom  at  Ware,  in  Hertfordshire,  in  1608. 
An  accomplished  traveller,  he  gave  our  language 


some  of  its  earliest  and  most  important  transla> 
tions  from  modem  literature,  and  acted  a  distin- 
guished part  under  the  Charleses,  in  the  political 
and  diplomatic  history  of  England.* 


THE  SPRING,  A  SONNET. 

FROM  THB  SPANISH. 

Those  whiter  lilies  which  the  early  morn 
Seems  to  have  newly  woven  of  sleaved  silk, 

To  which,  on  banks  of  wealthy  Tagus  bom, 
Gold  was  their  cradle,  liquid  pearl  their  milk. 

These  blushing  roses,  with  whose  virgin  leaves 
The  wanton  wind  to  sport  himself  presumes, 


Whilst  from  their  rifled  wardrobe  he  receives 
For  his  wings  purple,  for  his  breath  perfumes. 

Both  those  and  these  my  Cselia's  pretty  foot 
Trod  up — but  if  she  should  her  face  display, 

And  fragrant  breast — they'd  dry  again  to  the  root, 
As  with  the  blasting  of  the  midday's  ray; 

And  this  soft  wind,  which  both  perfumes  and  cools. 

Pass  like  the  unregarded  breath  of  fools. 


SIR  WILLIAM  DAVENANT. 


[Bom,  1605.     Died,  1668.] 


Davenant's  personal  history  is  sufficiently 
curious  without  attaching  importance  to  the  in- 
sinuation of  Wood,  so  gravely  taken  up  by  Mr. 
Malone,  that  he  was  the  son  of  Shakspeare.  He 
was  the  son  of  a  vintner  at  Oxford,  at  whose  house  , 
the  immortal  poet  is  said  to  have  frequently 
lodged."!"  Having  risen  to  notice  by  his  tragedy 
of  Albovine,  he  wrote  masques  for  the  court  of 
Charles  I.  and  was  made  governor  of  the  king  and 
queen's  company  of  actors  in  Drury-lane.  In  the 
civil  wars  we  find  the  theatric  manager  quickly 
transmuted  into  a  lieutenant-general  of  ord- 
nance, knighted  for  his  services  at  the  siege  of 
Gloucester,  and  afterwards  negotiating  between 
the  king  and  his  advisers  at  Paris.  There  he 
began  his  poem  of  Gondibert,  which  he  laid  aside 
for  a  time  for  the  scheme  of  carrying  a  colony 
from  France  to  Virginia ;  but  his  vessel  was 
seized  by  one  of  the  parliament  ships,  he  was 
thrown  into  prison,  and  owed  his  life  to  friendly 
interference — it  is  said,  to  that  of  Milton,  whose 
friendship  he  returned  in  kind.  On  being  liberated, 
his  ardent  activity  was  shown  in  attempting  to 
restore  theatrical  amusements  in  the  very  teeth 
ol  bigotry  and  puritanism,  and  he  actually  suc- 
ceeded so  far  as  to  open  a  theatre  in  the  Charter- 
house Yard,     At  the  Restoration  he  received  the 


[•  His  life  by  his  widow  is  one  of  the  most  agreeable 
•dditioos  to  literary  history  made  within  the  last  tive-and- 
twenty  years.] 
293 


patent  of  the  Duke's  Theatre  in  Lincoln's  Inn, 
which  he  held  till  his  death. 

Gondibert  has  divided  the  critics.  It  is  unde- 
niable, on  the  one  hand,  that  he  showed  a  high 
and  independent  conception  of  epic  poetry,  in 
wishing  to  emancipate  it  from  the  slavery  of 
ancient  authority  and  to  establish  its  interest  in 
the  dignity  of  human  nature,  without  incredible 
and  stale  machinery.  His  subject  was  well 
chosen  from  modern  romantic  story,  and  he 
strove  to  give  it  the  close  and  compact  symmetry 
of  the  drama.  Ingenious  and  witty  images  and 
majestic  sentiments  are  thickly  scattered  over 
the  poem.  But  Gondibert,  who  is  so  formally 
described,  has  certainly  more  of  the  cold  and 
abstract  air  of  an  historical,  than  of  a  poetical 
portrait,  and,  unfortunately,  the  beauties  of  the 
poem  are  those  of  elegy  and  epigram,  more  than 
of  heroic  fiction.  It  wants  the  charm  of  free  and 
forcible  narration ;  the  life-pulse  of  interest  is 
incessantly  stopped  by  solemn  pauses  of  reflection, 
and  the  story  works  its  way  through  an  intricacy 
of  superfluous  fancies,  some  beautiful  and  others 
conceited,  but  all  as  they  are  united,  tending  to 
divert  the  interest,  like  a  multitude  of  weeds  upon 
a  stream,  that  entangle  its  course  while  they  seem 
to  adorn  it. 


[t  There  is  other  testimony  to  what  Malone  took  up  too 
gravely  besides  Wood's  insinuation — there  is  the  Better- 
ton  bdief,  preserved  in  Spence  from  Pope's  relation.] 


SIR   WILLIAM   DAVENANT. 


298 


FROM  'GONDIBERT,"  CANTO  IV. 

rhe  Father  of  Rhodalind  ofTRring  her  to  Duke  Gondibert, 
and  the  Duke's  subsequi-nt  interview  with  Birtha,  to 
whom  he  is  attached. 

The  king  (who  never  time  nor  power  misspent 
In  subject's  bashfulness,  whiling  great  deeds 

Like  coward  councils,  who  too  late  consent,) 
Thus  to  his  secret  will  aloud  proceeds : 

« If  to  thy  fame,  brave  youth,  I  could  add  wings, 
Or  make  her  trumpet  louder  by  my  voice, 

I  would  (as  an  example  drawn  for  kings) 

Proclaim  the  cause,  why  thou  art  now  my  choice. 


For  she  is  yours,  as  your  adoption  free ; 

And  in  that  gift,  my  remnant  life  I  give  ; 
But  'tis  to  you,  brave  youth  !  who  now  are  she; 

And  she  that  heaven  where  secondly  I  live. 

And  richer  than  the  crown  (which  shall  be  thine 
When  life's  long  progress  I  have  gone  with  fame) 

Take  all  her  love ;  which  scarce  forbears  to  shine 
And  own  thee,  through  her  virgin-curtain, 
shame." 

Thus  spake  the  king ;  and  Rhodalind  appear'd 
Through  publish'd  love,  with  so  much  bash- 
fulness. 

As  young  kings  show,  when  by  surprise  o'erheard, 
Moaning  to  fav'rite  ears  a  deep  distress. 

For  love  is  a  distress,  and  would  be  hid     [grow ; 

Like  monarch's  griefs,  by  which  they  bashful 
And  in  that  shame  beholders  they  forbid  ;  fshow. 

Since  those  blush  most,  who  most  their  blushes 

And  Gondibert,  with  dying  eyes,  did  grieve 
At  her  vail'd  love,  (a  wound  he  cannot  heal,) 

As  great  minds  mourn,  who  cannot  then  relieve 
The  virtuous,  when  through  shame  they  want 
conceal. 

And  now  cold  Birtha's  rosy  looks  decay ; 

Who  in  fear's  frost  had  like  her  beauty  died, 
But  that  attendant  hope  persuades  her  stay 

A  while,  to  hear  her  duke ;  who  thus  replied: 

"  Victorious  king !  abroad  your  subjects  are 
Like  legates,  safe ;  at  home  like  altars  free ! 

Even  by  your  fame  they  conquer,  as  by  war ; 
And  by  your  laws  safe  from  each  other  be. 

A  king  you  are  o'er  subjects  so,  as  wise 
And  noble  husbands  seem  o'er  loyal  wives ; 

Who  claim  not,  yet  confess  their  liberties. 
And  brag  to  strangers  of  their  happy  lives. 

To  foes  a  winter  storm ;  whilst  your  friends  bow, 
Like  summer  trees,  beneath  your  bounty's  load ; 

To  me  (next  him  whom  your  great  self  with  low 
And  cheerful  duty  serves)  a  giving  god. 

riince  this  is  you,  and  Rhodalind  (the  light 
By  which  her  sex  fled  virtue  find)  is  yours ; 

Your  diamond,  which  tests  of  jealous  sight. 
The  stroke,  and  fire,  and  Oisel's  juice  endures; 

Since  she  so  precious  is,  I  shall  appear 
All  counterfeit  of  art's  disguises  made ; 


'  And  never  dare  approach  her  lustre  near, 

j       Who  scarce  can  hold  my  value  in  the  shade. 

Forgive  me  that  I  am  not  what  I  seem ; 

But  falsely  have  dissembled  an  excess 
Of  all  such  virtues  as  you  most  esteem ; 

But  now  grow  good  but  as  I  ills  confess. 

Far  in  ambition's  fever  am  I  gone ! 

Like  raging  flame  aspiring  is  my  love ; 
Like  flame  destructive  too,  and,  like  the  sun. 

Does  round  the  world  tow'rds  change  of  objects 
move. 
Nor  is  this  now  through  virtuous  shame  confess'd ; 

But  Rhodalind  does  force  my  conjured  fear, 
As  men  whom  evil  spirits  have  possess'd. 

Tell  all  when  saintly  votaries  appear. 

When  she  will  grace  the  bridal  dignity. 

It  will  be  soon  to  all  young  monarchs  known ; 

Who  then  by  posting  through  the  world  will  try 
Who  first  can  at  her  feet  present  his  crown. 

Then  will  Verona  seem  the  inn  of  kings  ; 

And  Rhodalind  shall  at  her  palace-gate 
Smile,  when  great  love  these  royal  suitors  brings; 

Who  for  that  smile  would  as  for  empire  wait. 

Amongst  this  ruling  race  she  choice  may  take 
For  warmth  of  valour,  coolness  of  the  mind. 

Eyes  that  in  empire's  drowsy  calms  can  wake. 
In  storms  look  out,  in  darkness  dangers  find ; 

A  prince  who  more  enlarges  power  than  lands. 
Whose  greatness  is  not  what  his  map  contains  • 

But  thinks  that  his  where  he  at  full  commands. 
Not  where  his  coin  does  pass,  but  power  remains. 

Who  knows  that  power  can  never  be  too  high 
When  by  the  good  possest,  for  'tis  in  them 

The  swelling  Nile,  from  which  though  people  fly. 
They  prosper  most  by  rising  of  the  stream. 

Thus,  princes,you  should  choose ;  and  you  will  find. 
Even  he,  since  men  are  wolves,  must  civilize 

(As  light  does  tame  some  beasts  of  savage  kind) 
Himself  yet  more,  by  dwelling  in  your  eyes." 

Such  was  the  duke's  reply  ;  which  did  produce 
Thoughts  of  adiverse  shape  through  sev'ral  ears : 

His  jealous  rivals  mourn  at  his  excuse ; 
But  Astragon  it  cures  of  all  his  fears. 

Birtha  his  praise  of  Rhodalind  bewails; 

And  now  her  hope  a  weak  physician  seems ; 
For  hope,  the  common  comforter,  prevails 

Like  common  med'cines,  slowly  in  extremes. 

The  kintr  (secure  in  oflTer'd  empire)  takes 
This  forced  excuse  as  troubled  bashfulness, 

And  a  disguise  which  sudden  passion  makes. 
To  hide  niorejoys  than  prudence  should  expres* 

And  Rhodalind  (who  never  loved  before. 
Nor  could  suspect  his  love  was  giv'n  away) 

Thought  not  the  treasure  of  his  breast  so  poor. 
But  that  it  might  his  debts  of  honour  pay. 

To  hasten  the  rewards  of  his  desert. 

The  king  does  to  Verona  him  command ; 

And,  kindness  so  imposed,  not  all  his  art 
Can  now  instruct  his  duty  to  withstand. 
s2 


2{>4 


SIR  WILLIAM  DAVENANT. 


Yet  whilst  the  king  does  now  his  time  dispose 
In  seeing  wonders,  in  this  palace  shown, 

He  would  a  parting  kindness  pay  to  those 

Who  of  their  wounds  are  yet  not  perfect  grown. 

And  by  this  fair  pretence,  whilst  on  the  king 
Lord  Astragon  through  all  the  house  attends, 

Young  Orga  does  the  duke  to  Birtha  bring, 
Who  thus  her  sorrows  to  his  bosom  sends  : 

"Why  should  my  storm  your  life's  calm  voyage 
Destroying  wholly  virtue's  race  in  one;  [vex? 

So  by  the  first  to  my  unlucky  sex. 
All  in  a  single  ruin  were  undone. 

Make  heav'nly  Rhodalind  your  bride !  whilst  I, 
Your  once  loved  maid,  excuse  you  since  I  know 

That  virtuous  men  forsake  so  willingly 

Long  cherish'd  life,  because  to  heav'n  they  go. 

Let  me  her  servant  be :  a  dignity, 

Which  if  your  pity  in  my  fall  procures, 

I  still  shall  value  the  advancement  high. 
Not  as  the  crown  is  hers,  but  she  is  yours." 

Ere  this  high  sorrow  up  to  dying  grew. 
The  duke  the  casket  open'd,  and  from  thence 

(Form'd  like  a  heart)  a  cheerful  emerald  drew ; 
Cheerfiil,  as  if  the  lively  stone  had  sense. 

The  thirtieth  carract  it  had  doubled  twice ; 

Not  ta'en  from  the  Attic  silver  mine, 
Nor  from  the  brass,  though  such  (of  nobler  price) 

Did  on  the  necks  of  Parthian  ladies  shine : 

Nor  yet  of  those  which  make  the  Ethiop  proud ; 

Nor  taken  from  those  rocks  where  Bactrians 
climb: 
But  from  the  Scythian,  and  without  a  cloud ; 

Not  sick  at  fire,  nor  languishing  with  time. 

Then  thus  he  spake :  "  This,  Birtha,  from  my  male 

Progenitors,  was  to  the  loyal  she 
On  whose  kind  heart  they  did  in  love  prevail, 

The  nuptial  pledge,  and  this  I  give  to  thee  : 

Seven  centuries  have  passed,  since  it  from  bride 
To  bride  did  first  succeed ;  and  though  'tis  known 

From  ancient  lore,  that  gems  much  virtue  hide, 
And  that  the  em'rald  is  the  bridal-stone  : 

Though  much  renown'd  because  it  chastens  loves. 
And  will,  when  worn  by  the  neglected  wife, 

Show  when  her  absent  lord  disloyal  proves, 
By  faintness,  and  a  pale  decay  of  life. 

Though  emeralds  serve  as  spies  to  jealous  brides, 
Yet  each  compared  to  this  does  counsel  keep; 

Like  a  false  stone,  the  husband's  falsehood  hides, 
Or  sefims  born  blind,  or  feigns  a  dying  sleep. 

W  ith  this  take  Orgo,  as  a  better  spy. 

Who  may  in  all  your  kinder  fears  be  sent 

To  watch  at  court,  if  I  deserve  to  die 

By  making  this  to  fade,  and  you  lament." 

Had  now  an  artful  pencil  Birtha  drawn, 

(With  grief  all  dark,  then  straight  with  loy  all 
light,) 

He  must  have  fancied  first,  in  early  dawn, 
A  sudden  break  of  beauty  out  of  night. 


Or  first  he  must  have  mark'd  what  paleness  fear. 
■     Like  nipping  frost,  did  to  her  visage  bring ; 
Then  think  he  sees,  in  a  cold  backward  year, 
A  rosy  morn  begin  a  sudden  spring. 

Her  joys  (too  vast  to  be  contained  in  speech) 
Thus  she  a  little  spake  :  "  Why  stoop  you  dowp 

My  plighted  lord,  to  lowly  Birtha's  reach, 
Since  Rhodalind  would  lift  you  to  a  crown  ] 

Or  why  do  I,  when  I  this  plight  embrace, 
Boldly  aspire  to  take  what  you  have  given  1 

But  that  your  virtue  has  with  angels  place, 
And  'tis  a  virtue  to  aspire  to  heav'n. 

And  as  tow'rds  heav'n  all  travel  on  their  knees, 
So  I  tow'rds  you,  though  love  aspire,  will  move : 

And  were  you  crown 'd,  what  couldyou  better  please 
Than  awed  obedience  led  by  bolder  love  1 

If  I  forget  the  depth  from  whence  I  rise. 
Far  from  your  bosom  banish'd  be  my  heart; 

Or  claim  a  right  by  beauty  to  your  eyes : 
Or  proudly  think  my  chastity  desert. 

But  thus  ascending  from  your  humble  maid 
To  be  your  plighted  bride,  and  then  your  wife, 

Will  be  a  debt  that  shall  be  hourly  paid. 
Till  time  my  duty  cancel  with  my  life. 

And  fruitfully  if  heav'n  e'er  make  me  bring. 
Your  image  to  the  world,  you  then  my  pride 

No  more  shall  blame,  than  you  can  tax  the  spring 
For  boasting  of  those  flowers  she  cannot  hide. 

Orgo  I  so  received  as  I  am  taught 
By  duty  to  esteem  what'er  you  love , 

And  hope  the  joy  he  in  this  jewel  brought 
Will  luckier  than  his  former  triumphs  prove. 

For  though  but  twice  he  has  approach 'd  my  sight, 
He  twice  made  haste  to  drown  me  in  my  tear*"; 

But  now  I  am  above  his  planet's  spite. 
And  as  for  sin  beg  pardon  for  my  fears." 

Thus  spake  she :  and  with  fix'd  continued  sight, 
The  duke  did  all  her  bashful  beauties  view; 

Then  they  with  kisses  seal'd  their  sacred  plight, 
Like  flowers,  still  sweeter  as  they  thicker  grew. 

Yet  must  these  pleasures  feel,  though  innocent. 

The  sickness  of  extremes,  and  cannot  last; 
For  pow'r  (love's  shunn'd  impediment)  has  sent 

To  tell  the  duke,  his  monarch  is  in  haste : 
And  calls  him  to  that  triumph  which  he  fears 

So  as  a  saint  forgiven  (whose  breast  does  all 
Hea\  en's  joys  contain)  wisely  loved  pomp  forbears, 

Lent  tempted  nature  should  from  blessings  fall. 

He  often  takes  his  leave,  with  love's  delay. 

And  bids  her  hope  he  with  the  king  shall  find, 
By  now  appearing  forward  to  obey, 

A  means  to  serve  him  less  in  Rhodalind. 
She  weeping  to  her  closet-window  hies. 

Where  she  with  tears  doth  Rhodalind  survey ; 
As  dying  men,  who  grieve  that  they  have  eyes. 

When  they  through  curtains  spy  the  risingday.* 

[*  Sir  William  Davi-nant's  Ckmdthfrl  is  not  »  good  poem, 
if  you  take  it  on  the  whole;  but  there  are  a  great  many 
good  things  in  it. — Pope  to  <^»jce.J 


SIR  JOHN  DENHAM. 


[Bora,  1615.    Died,  1668.] 


SiE  John  Denham  was  born  in  Dublin,  where 
his  father  was  chief-baron  of  the  Irish  Exchequer. 
On  his  father's  accession  to  the  same  office  in  the 
English  Exchequer,  our  poet  was  brought  to 
London,  tuid  there  received  the  elements  of  his 
learning.  At  Oxford  he  was  accounted  a  slow, 
dreaming  young  man,  and  chiefly  noted  for  his 
attachment  to  cards  and  dice.  The  same  propen- 
sity followed  him  to  Lincoln's  Inn,  to  such  a 
degree,  that  his  father  threatened  to  disinherit 
him.  To  avert  this,  he  wrote  a  penitentiary  Essay 
on  Gaming ;  but  after  the  death  of  his  father  he 
returned  to  the  vice  that  most  easily  beset  him, 
and  irrecoverably  injured  his  patrimony.  In 
1641,  when  his  tragedy  of  The  Sophy  appeared,  it 
was  regarded  as  a  burst  of  unpromised  genius. 
In  the  better  and  bygone  days  of  the  drama,  so 


tame  a  production  would  not  perhaps  have  beer. 
regarded  as  astonishing,  even  from  a  dreaming 
young  man.  He  was  soon  after  appointed  high- 
sheriff  of  Surrey,  and  made  governor  of  Farnham 
Castle  for  the  king :  but  being  unskilled  in  mili- 
tary affairs,  he  resigned  his  command,  and  joined 
his  majesty  at  Oxford,  where  he  published  hb 
Cooper's  Hdl.*  In  the  civil  wars  he  served  the 
royal  family,  by  conveying  their  correspondence ; 
but  was  at  length  obliged  to  quit  the  kingdom, 
and  was  sent  as  ambassador,  by  Charles  II.  in  his 
exile,  to  the  king  of  Poland.  At  the  Restoration 
he  was  made  suveyor  of  the  king's  buildings, 
and  knighted  with  the  order  of  the  Bath ;  but 
his  latter  days  were  imbittered  by  a  second  mar- 
riage, that  led  to  a  temporary  derangement  of 
mind. 


COOPER'S   HILL.t 

SuRK  there  are  poets  which  did  never  dream 
Upon  Parnassus,  nor  did  taste  the  stream 
Of  Helicon;  we  therefore  may  suppose 
Those  made  not  poets,  but  the  poets  those, 
And  as  courts  make  not  kings,  but  kings  the  court, 
So  where  the  Muses  and  their  train  resort, 
Parnassus  stands ;  if  I  can  be  to  thee 
A  poet,  thou  Parnassus  art  to  me. 
Nor  wonder  if  (advantaged  in  my  flight. 
By  taking  wing  from  thy  auspicious  height) 
Through  untraced  ways  and  airy  paths  1  fly. 
More  boundless  in  my  fancy  than  my  eye ; 
My  eye,  which  swift  as  thought  contracts  the  space 
That  lies  between,  and  first  salutes  the  place 
Crown'd  with  that  sacred  pile,  so  vast,  so  high, 
That  whether  'tis  a  part  of  earth  or  sky 
Uncertain  seems,  and  may  be  thought  a  proud 
Aspiring  mountain,  or  descending  cloud ;     [flight 
Paul's,  the  late  theme  of  such  a  Muse.J  whose 
Has  bravely  reach'd  and  soar'd  above  thy  height; 
Now  shaltthou  stand,  though  sword,  or  time, or  fire. 
Or  zeal,  more  fierce  than  they,  thy  fall  conspire. 
Secure,  whilst  thee  the  best  of  poets  sings, 
Preserved  from  ruin  by  the  best  of  kings. 
Under  his  proud  survey  the  city  lies. 
And  like  a  mist  beneath  a  hill  doth  rise,   [crowd, 
Whose  state  and  wealth,  the  business  and  the 
Seems  at  the  distance  but  a  darker  cloud, 


*"*  The  earliest  edition  knoirn  was  printed  »t  London 
m  1642.] 

[t  Di-nham  haR  been  frequently  imitated  in  ihif  kind  of 
local  poetry,  hs  Johnson  citlU  it.  ami  »inoe  Gmper's  IliU 
appeared,  we  iiave  iiad  WallerV  St.Xtmet's  I^trk ;  Pope's 
JV.mhnr  F^treit ;  Qarth's  Cljirtnutnt ;  Ticliell'g  Knminf/- 
lon  Garden;  Dyer's  Grongar  Hill;  J»go'«  Elge-lfill; 
Soott's  AmioeU     Michael  Bruce's  LochUwn;  and  Kirke 


And  is,  to  him  who  rightly  things  esteems. 

No  other  in  effect  than  what  it  seems ;         [nin. 

Where,  with  like  haste,  though  several  ways  they 

Some  to  undo,  and  some  to  be  undone ; 

While  luxury  and  wealth,  like  war  and  peace, 

Are  each  the  other's  ruin  and  increase ; 

As  rivers  lost  in  seas,  some  secret  vein 

Thence  reconveys,  there  to  be  lost  again. 

Oh !  happiness  of  sweet  retired  content ! 

To  be  at  once  secure  and  innocent. 

Windsor  the  next  (where  Mars  with  Venus  dwells, 

Beauty  with  strength)  above  the  valley  swells 

Into  my  eye,  and  doth  itself  present 

With  such  an  easy  and  unforced  ascent. 

That  no  stupendous  precipice  denies  * 

Access,  no  horror  turns  away  our  eyes ; 

But  such  a  rise  as  doth  at  once  invite 

A  pleasure  and  a  reverence  from  the  sight : 

Thy  mighty  master's  emblem,  in  whose  face 

Sat  meekness,  heighten'd  with  majestic  grace ; 

Such  seems  thy  gentle  height,  made  only  proud 

To  be  the  basis  of  that  pompous  load. 

Than  which  a  nobler  weight  no  mobntain  bears. 

But  Atlas  only,  which  supports  the  spheres. 

When  Nature's  hand  this  ground  did  thus  advance, 

'Twas  glided  by  a  wber  power  than  Chance ; 

Mark'd  out  for  such  an  use,  as  if  'twere  meant 

T'  invite  the  builder,  and  his  choice  prevent 

Nor  can  we  call  it  choice,  when  what  we  choose 

Folly  or  blindness  only  could  refuse. 


White'*  ClifUm  Omre.  There  are  othera,  but  these  alone 
merit  notice.  Beaumont's  Rirmitrth  Field,  tbough  prior 
in  (lat^  to  Onnprr'n  Hill,  is  local  more  in  it*  title  than  ita 
treatment.  Drayton'."  panoramic  plan  in  bin  Poly-olbion 
woi^ld  hare  included  Oouper's  UiU,  and  iodeed  every  cornel 
of  the  island.] 
[X  Waller.] 

9M 


296 


SIR  JOHN   DENHAM. 


A  crown  of  such  majestic  towerg  doth  grace 
The  gods'  great  mother,  when  her  heav'nly  race 
Do  homage  to  her ;  yet  she  cannot  boast, 
Among  that  num'rous  and  celestial  host. 
More  heroes  than  can  Windsor ;  nor  doth  Fame's 
Immortal  book  record  more  noble  names. 
Not  to  look  back  so  far,  to  whom  this  isle 
Owes  the  first  glory  of  so  brave  a  pile, 
Whether  to  Cajsar,  Albanact,  or  Brute, 
The  British  Arthur,  or  the  Danish  C'nute ; 
(Though  this  of  old  no  less  contest  did  move 
"1  han  when  for  Homer's  birth  seven  cities  strove ;) 
(Like  him  in  birth,  thou  should'st  be  like  in  fame, 
As  thine  his  fate,  if  mine  had  been  his  flame ;) 
But  whosoe'er  it  was,  Nature  design'd 
First  a  brave  place,  and  then  as  brave  a  mind. 
Not  to  recount  those  sev'ral  kings  to  whom 
It  gave  a  cradle,  or  to  whom  a  tomb; 
But  thee,  great  Edward !  and  thy  greater  son, 
(The  lilies  which  his  fathor  wore  he  won,) 
And  thy  Bellona,  who  the  consort  came 
Not  only  to  thy  bed  but  to  thy  fame, 
She  to  thy  triumph  led  one  captive  king. 
And  brought  that  son  which  did  the  second  bring ; 
Then  didst  thou  found  that  Order,  (whether  love 
Or  victory  thy  royal  thoughts  did  move :) 
Each  was  a  noble  cause,  and  nothing  lesa 
Than  the  design  has  been  the  great  success, 
Which  foreign  kings  and  emperors  esteem 
The  second  honour  to  their  diadem. 
Had  thy  great  destiny  but  given  the  skill 
To  know,  as  well  as  pow'r  to  act  her  will. 
That  from  those  kings,  who  then  thy  captives  were, 
In  after-times  should  spring  a  royal  pair 
Who  should  possess  all  that  thy  mighty  pow'r, 
Or  thy  desires  more  mighty,  did  devour ; 
To  whom  their  better  fate  reserves  whate'er 
The  victor  hopes  for  or  the  vanquish'd  fear ; 
That  blood  which  thou  and  thy  great  grandsire 

shed. 
And  all  that  since  these  sister  nations  bled. 
Had  been  unspilt,  and  happy  Edward  known 
That  all  the  blood  he  spilt  had  been  his  own. 
When  he  that  patron  chose  in  whom  are  join'd 
Soldier  and  martyr,  and  his  arms  confined 
Within  the  azure  circle,  he  did  seem 
But  to  foretell  and  prophesy  of  him 
W  ho  to  his  realms  that  azure  round  hath  join'd, 
Which  nature  for  their  bound  at  first  design'd ; 
That  bound  which  to  the  world's  extremest  ends, 
Endless  itself,  its  liquid  arms  extends. 
Nor  doth  he  need  those  emblems  which  we  paint, 
But  is  himself  the  soldier  and  the  saint. 
Here  should  my  wonder  dwell,  and  here  my  praise ; 
But  my  fix'd  thoughts  my  wand'ring  eye  betrays, 
Viewing  a  neighb'ring  hill,  whose  top  of  late 
A  chapel  crown'd,  till  in  the  common  fate 
Th'  adjoining  abbey  fell.     (May  no  such  storm 
Fall  on  our  times,  where  ruin  must  reform  !) 
Tell  me,  my  Muse !  what  monstrous  dire  offence, 
What  crime,  could  any  Christian  king  incense 

r*  Originally : 

And  though  hig  clearer  sand  no  golden  veins 
Like  Tsgiu  or  Pactolua'  Btream  contains — 


To  such  a  rage  1     Was 't  luxury  or  lust  1 

Was  he  so  temperate,  so  chaste,  so  just  1   [more ; 

Were  these  their  crimes  1  they  were  his  own  much 

But  wealth  is  crime  enough  to  him  that's  poor, 

Who  having  spent  the  treasures  of  his  crown, 

Condemns  their  luxury  to  feed  his  own ; 

And  yet  this  act,  to  varnish  o'er  the  shame 

Of  sacrilege,  must  bear  devotion's  name. 

No  crime  so  bold  but  would  be  understood 

A  real,  or  at  least  a  seeming  good. 

Who  fears  not  to  do  ill,  yet  fears  the  name. 

And,  firee  from  conscience,  is  a  slave  to  fame. 

Thus  he  the  church  at  once  protects  and  spoils ; 

But  princes'  swords  are  sharper  than  their  styles : 

And  thus  to  th'  ages  past  he  makes  amends, 

Their  charity  destroys,  their  faith  defends. 

Then  did  Religion,  in  a  lazy  cell, 

In  empty,  airy  contemplations  dwell, 

And  like  the  block  unmoved  lay  ;  but  ours, 

As  much  too  active,  like  the  stork  devours. 

Is  there  no  temp'rate  region  can  be  known 

Betwixt  their  frigid  and  our  torrid  zonel 

Can  we  not  wake  from  that  lethartic  dream, 

But  to  be  restless  in  a  worse  extreme  1 

And  for  that  lethargy  was  there  no  cure 

But  to  be  cast  into  a  calenture  1 

Can  knowledge  have  no  bound,  but  must  advance 

So  far,  to  make  us  wish  for  ignorance. 

And  rather  in  the  dark  to  grope  our  way, 

Than  led  by  a  false  guide  to  err  by  day  ? 

Who  sees  these  dismal  heaps  but  would  demand 

What  barbarous  invader  sack'd  the  land  1 

But  when  he  hears  no  Goth,  no  Turk,  did  bring 

This  desolation,  but  a  Christian  king ; 

When  nothing  but  the  name  of  zeal  appears 

'Twixt  our  best  actions  and  the  worst  of  theirs ; 

What  does  he  think  our  sacrilege  would  spare, 

When  such  th'  effects  of  our  devotion  are  1 

Parting  from  thence  'twixt  anger,  shame,  and  fear. 

Those  for  what 's  past,  and  this  for  what 's  too  near. 

My  eye,  descending  from  the  Hill,  surveys 

Where  Thames  among  the  wanton  valleys  strays. 

Thames !  the  most  loved  of  all  the  Ocean's  sons, 

By  his  old  sire,  to  his  embraces  runs. 

Hasting  to  pay  his  tribute  to  the  sea. 

Like  mortal  life  to  meet  eternity  ; 

Though  with  those  streams  he  no  resemblance  hold, 

Whose  foam  is  amber,  and  their  gravel  gold  :* 

His  genuine  and  less  guilty  wealth  t'  explore, 

Search  not  his  bottom,  but  survey  his  shore. 

O'er  which  he  kindly  spreads  his  spacious  wing. 

And  hatches  plenty  for  th'  ensuing  spring ; 

Nor  then  destroys  it  with  too  fond  a  stay, 

Like  mothers  which  their  infants  overlay ; 

Nor  with  a  svjJden  and  impetuous  wave. 

Like  profuse  kings,  resumes  the  wealth  he  gave. 

No  unexpected  inundations  spoil 

The  mower's  hopes,  nor  mock  the  ploughman's 

toil; 
But  godhke  his  unweary  bounty  flows ; 
First  loves  to  do,  then  loves  the  good  he  does. 

which  we  quote  to  make  good  the  couplet  in  'Waller: 

Poets  lose  half  the  praise  they  should  have  get. 
Could  it  be  known  what  they  discreetly  blot.] 


SIR  JOHN  DENHAM. 


297 


Nor  are  his  blessings  to  his  banks  confined, 
But  free  and  common  as  the  sea  or  wind; 
When  he,  to  boast  or  to  disperse  his  stores. 
Full  of  the  tributes  of  his  grateful  shores, 
Visits  the  world,  and  in  his  flying  tow'rs 
Brings  home  to  us,  and  makes  both  Indies  ours; 
Finds  wealth  where  'tis,  bestows  it  where  it  wants, 
Cities  in  deserts,  woods  in  cities,  plants. 
So  that  to  us  no  thing,  no  place,  is  strange. 
While  his  lair  bosom  is  the  world's  Exchange. 
O,  couid  I  flow  like  thee,  and  make  thy  stream 
My  great  example,  as  it  is  my  theme ! 
Though  deep  yet  clear,  though  gentle  yet  not  dull ; 
Strong  without  rage,  without  o'erflowing  full.* 
Heav'n  her  Eridanus  no  more  shall  boast. 
Whose  fame  in  thine,  hke  lesser  current,  's  lost ; 
Thy  nobler  streams  shall  visit  Jove's  abodes, 
To  shine  among  the  stars,  and  bathe  the  gods. 
Here  nature,  whether  more  intent  to  please 
Us  for  herself  with  strange  varieties, 
(For  things  of  wonder  give  no  less  delight 
To  the  wise  maker's  than  beholder's  sight ; 
Though  these  delights  from  several  causes  move. 
For  so  our  children,  thus  our  friends,  we  love,) 
Wisely  she  knew  the  harmony  of  things. 
As  well  as  that  of  sounds,  firom  discord  springs. 
Such  was  the  discord  which  did  first  disperse 
Form,  order,  beauty,  through  the  universe ; 
While  dryness  moisture,  coldness  heat  resists. 
All  that  we  have,  and  that  we  are,  subsists ; 
While  the  steep,  horrid  roughness  of  the  wood 
Strives  with  th*  gentle  calmness  of  the  flood. 
Such  huge  extremes  when  Nature  doth  unite. 
Wonder  from  thence  results,  from  thence  delight. 
The  stream  is  so  transparent,  pure,  and  clear. 
That  had  the  self-enamoured  youth  gazed  here, 
So  fatally  deceived  he  had  not  been. 
While  he  the  bottom,  not  his  face  had  seen. 
But  his  proud  head  the  airy  mountain  hides 
Among  the  clouds ;  his  shoulders  and  his  sides 
A  shady  mantle  clothes ;  his  curled  brows 
Frown  on  the  gentle  stream,  which  calmy  flows, 
While  winds  and  storms  his  lofty  forehead  beat; 
The  common  fate  of  all  that 's  high  or  great. 
Low  at  his  foot  a  spacious  plain  is  placed. 
Between  the  mountain  and  the  stream  embraced, 
Which  shade  and  shelter  from  the  Hill  derives. 
While  the  kind  river  wealth  and  beauty  gives. 
And  in  the  mixture  of  all  these  appears 
Variety,  which  all  the  rest  endears. 
This  scene  had  some  bold  Greek  or  British  bard 
Beheld  of  old,  what  stories  had  we  heard 
Of  fairies,  satyrs,  and  the  nymphs  their  dames. 
Their  feasts,  their  revels,  and  their  am'rous  flames  1 
'Tis  still  the  same,  although  their  airy  shape 
All  but  a  quick  poetic  sight  escape. 


[♦  Swift  h 
loble  lines : 


has  ridiculed  the  herd  of  imitators  of  these 


"If  Anna's  happy  reign  you  praise. 
Pray  not  a  word  of  halcyon  days  I 
Nor  let  my  votaries  show  their  .<kill 
In  aping  lines  from  Cooper's  Uill ; 
For,  know  1  cannot  bear  to  bear 
The  mimicry  of  'deep  yet  clear.' " — ApoiU/t  Edict. 

In  this,  one  of  the  earliest  of  our  desoriptive  pooms, 
38 


There  Faunus  and  Sylvanus  keep  their  courts, 

And  thither  all  the  hom6d  host  resorts 

To  graze  the  ranker  mead ;  that  noble  herd 

On  whose  sublime  and  shady  fi-onts  is  rear'd 

Nature's  great  masterpiece,  to  show  how  soon 

Great  things  are  made,  but  sooner  are  undone. 

Here  have  I  seen  the  king,*  when  great  afTairs 

Gave  leave  to  slacken  and  unbend  his  cares, 

Attended  to  the  chase  by  all  the  flow'r 

Of  youth,  whose  hopes  a  nobler  prey  devour ; 

Pleasure  with  praise  and  danger  they  would  bay, 

And  wish  a  foe  that  would  not  only  fly. 

The  stag,  now  conscious  of  his  fatal  growth. 

At  once  indulgent  to  his  fear  and  sloth, 

To  some  dark  covet  his  retreat  had  made, 

Where  nor  man's  eye  nor  heaven's  should  invade 

His  soft  repose ;  when  th'  unexpected  sound 

Of  dogs  and  men  his  wakeful  ear  does  wound. 

Roused  with  the  noise,  he  scarce  believes  his  ear, 

Willing  to  think  th'  illusions  of  his  fear 

Had  given  this  false  alarm,  but  straight  his  view 

Confirms  that  more  than  all  is  true. 

Betray'd  in  all  strengths,  the  wood  beset, 

All  instruments,  all  arts  of  ruin  met. 

He   calls   to   mind  his  strength,  and  then  his 


His  winged  heels,  and  then  his  arm^d  head ; 
With  these  t'  avoid,  with  that  his  fate  to  meet ; 
But  fear  prevails,  and  bids  him  trust  his  feet 
So  fast  he  flies,  that  his  reviewing  eye 
Has  lost  the  chasers,  and  his  ear  the  cry ; 
Exulting,  till  he  finds  their  nobler  sense 
Their  disproportion'd  speed  doth  recompense ; 
Then  curses  his  conspiring  feet,  whose  scent 
Betrays  that  safety  which  their  swiftness  lent : 
Then  tries  his  friends  among  the  baser  herd, 
Where  he  so  lately  was  obey'd  and  fear'd. 
His  safety  seeks :  the  herd,  unkindly  wise. 
Or  chases  him  from  thence  or  firom  him  flies. 
Like  a  declining  statesman,  left  forlorn 
To  his  friends'  pity,  and  pursuers'  scorn. 
With  shame  remembers,  while  himself  was  one 
Of  the  same  herd,  himself  the  same  had  done. 
Thence  to  the  coverts  and  the  conscious  groves. 
The  scenes  of  his  past  triumphs  and  his  loves. 
Sadly  surveying  where  he  ranged  alone. 
Prince  of  the  soil,  and  all  the  herd  his  own, 
And  like  a  bold  knight-errant  did  proclaim 
Combat  to  all,  and  bore  away  the  dame. 
And  taught  the  woods  to  echo  to  the  stream 
His  dreadful  challenge,  and  his  clashing  beam ; 
Yet  faintly  now  declines  the  fatal  strife. 
So  much  his  love  was  dearer  than  his  life. 
Now  every  leaf  and  every  moving  breath 
Presents  a  foe,  and  ev'ry  foe  a  death. 


Denham  firom  time  to  time  made  great  alterations  and 
additions,  and  every  insertion  and  every  change  was  made 
with  admirable  judjfment.  Pojw  collHted  his  copy  with 
an  early  edition,  and  marked  the  variations;  thinking  it, 
as  he  said  in  a  note  at  the  end  of  the  volume,  "  a  very 
useful  lesson  for  a  poet  to  compare  the  editions,  an'l  con- 
sider at  each  alteration  how  and  why  it  was  altered.'' 

The  four  famous  lines  on  the  Thames  wen-  an  after 
Insertion.  an<l,  in  Mr.  Moore'."!  opinion,  one  of  the  happiest 
of  recorded  instances.— ii/e  of  Byron,  vol.  iL  p.  193.J 

[t  Originally,  Our  Otark*.} 


^^=r) 


298 


SIR  JOHN  DENHAM. 


Wearied,  forsaken,  and  pursued,  at  last 
All  safety  in  despair  of  safety  placed, 
Courage  he  thence  resumes,  resolved  to  bear 
All  their  assaults,  since  'tis  in  vain  to  fear. 
And  now,  too  late,  he  wishes  for  the  fight 
That  strength  he  wasted  in  ignoble  flight ; 
But  when  be  sees  the  eager  chase  renew'd. 
Himself  by  dogs,  the  dogs  by  men  pursued. 
He  straight  revokes  his  bold  resolve,  and  more 
Repents  his  courage  than  his  fear  before ; 
Finds  that  uncertain  ways  unsafest  are, 
And  doubt  a  greater  mischief  than  despair. 
Then  to  the  stream,  when  neither  friends,  nor 

force, 
Nor  speed,  nor  art  avail,  he  shapes  his  course ; 
Thinks  not  their  rage  so  desp'rate  to  essay 
An  element  more  merciless  than  they. 
But  fearless  they  pursue,  nor  can  the  flood 
Quench  their  dire  thirst :    alas !   they  thirst  for 

blood. 
So  t'wards  a  ship  the  oar-finn'd  galleys  ply, 
Which  wanting  sea  to  ride,  or  wind  to  fly. 
Stands  but  to  fall  revenged  on  those  that  dare 
Tempt  the  last  fury  of  extreme  despair. 
So  fares  the  stag ;  among  th'  enraged  hounds 
Repels    their    force,    and   wounds    returns    for 

wounds : 
And  as  a  hero,  whom  his  baser  foes 
In  troops  surround,  now  these  assails,  now  those, 
Though  prodigal  of  life,  disdains  to  die 
By  common  hands;  but  if  he  can  descry 
Some  nobler  foe  approach,  to  him  he  calls. 
And  begs  his  fate,  and  then  contented  falls. 
So  when  the  king  a  mortal  shaft  lets  fly 
From  his  unerring  hand,  then  glad  to  die. 
Proud  of  the  wound,  to  it  resigns  his  blood. 
And  stains  the  crystal  with  a  purple  flood. 
This  a  more  innocent  and  happy  chase 
Than  when  of  old,  but  in  the  self-same  place, 
Fair  Liberty  pursued,  and  meant  a  prey 
To  lawless  power,  here  turn'd  and  stood  at  bay ; 
When  in  that  remedy  all  hope  was  placed 
Which  was,  or  should  have  been  at  least,  the  last. 
Here  was  that  Charter  seal'd  wherein  the  crown 
All  marks  of  arbitrary  power  lays  down ; 
Tyrant  and  slave,  those  names  of  hate  and  fear. 
The  happier  style  of  king  and  subject  bear  : 
Happy  when  both  to  the  same  centre  move, 
When  kings  give  liberty  and  subjects  love. 
Therefore  not  long  in  force  this  Charter  stood ; 
Wanting  that  seal,  it  must  be  seal'd  in  blood. 
The  subjects  arm'd,  the  more  their  princes  gave, 
Th'  advantage  only  took  the  more  to  crave ; 
Till  kings,  by  giving,  give  themselves  away, 
And  ev'n  that  power  that  should  deny  betray. 

I*  This  poem  by  Denham,  though  it  may  have  been 
i«ceed<?d  by  later  attempts  in  descriptiou.  yet  deserves 
tk*  highest  applause,  as  it  far  surpasses  all  that  went 


"  Who  gives  constrain'd,  but  his  own  fear  reviles 
Not  thank'd  but  scorned  ;  nor  are  they  gifts,  but 

spoils." 
Thus  kings  by  grasping  more  than  they  could  hold 
First  made  their  subjects  by  oppression  bold ; 
And  popular  sway,  by  forcing  kings  to  give 
More  than  was  fit  for  subjects  to  receive, 
Ran  to  the  same  extremes;  and  one  excess 
Made  both,  by  striving  to  be  greater,  less. 
When  a  calm  river,  raised  with  sudden  rains. 
Or  snows  dissolved,  o'erflows  th'  adjoining  plains, 
The  husbandmen  with  high-raised  banks  secure 
Their  greedy  hopes,  and  this  he  can  endure ; 
But  if  with  bays  and  dams  they  strive  to  force 
His  channel  to  a  new  or  narrow  course. 
No  longer  then  within  his  banks  he  dwells, 
First  to  a  torrent,  then  a  deluge,  swells ; 
Stronger  and  fiercer  by  restraint,  he  roars. 
And  knows  no  bound,  but  makes  his  pow'r  his 

shores.* 


ON  THE  EARL  OF  STRAFFORD'S  TRIAL  AND 
DEATH. 

Great  Strafford  !  worthy  of  that  name,  though 

Of  thee  could  be  forgotten  but  thy  fall,  [all 

Crush'd  by  imaginary  treason's  weight. 

Which  too  much  merit  did  accumulate. 

As  chemists  gold  from  brass  by  fire  would  draw, 

Pretexts  are  into  treason  forged  by  law. 

His  wisdom  such,  at  once  it  did  appear         [fear, 

Three  kingdoms'  wonder,  and  three  kingdoms' 

While  single  he  stood  forth,  and  seem'd,  although 

Each  had  an  army,  as  an  equal  foe ; 

Such  was  his  force  of  eloquence,  to  make 

The  hearers  more  concern'd  than  he  that  spake, 

Each  seem'd  to  act  that  part  he  came  to  see. 

And  none  was  more  a  looker-on  than  he. 

So  did  he  move  our  passions,  some  were  known 

To  wish,  for  the  defence,  the  crime  their  own. 

Now  private  pity  strove  with  public  hate. 

Reason  with  rage,  and  eloquence  with  fate. 

Now  they  could  him,  if  he  could  them  forgive; 

He's  not  too  guilty,  but  too  wise,  to  live:     [bore 

Less  seem  those  facts  which  treason's  nickname 

Than  such  a  fear'd  ability  for  more. 

They  after  death  their  fears  of  him  express, 

His  innocence  and  their  own  guilt  confess. 

Their  legislative  frenzy  they  repent. 

Enacting  it  should  make  no  precedent. 

This  fate  he  could  have  'scaped,  but  would  not  lose 

Honour  for  life,  but  rather  nobly  chose 

Death  from  their  fears  than  safety  from  his  own, 

That  his  last  action  all  the  rest  might  crown. 


before  it.    The  concluding  pan,  though  a  little  too  much 
crowded,  is  very  masterly.— -Goldsmitb.J 


JOHN   BULTEEL. 


(Owii,ie89.J 


Mr.  Ritson,  in  his  collection  of  English  Songs, 
•upposes  John  Bulteel  to  have  been  secretary  to 
the  Earl  of  Clarendon,  and  to  have  died  in  1669. 
He  was  the  collector  of  a  small  miscellany,  pub- 
lished about  the  middle  of  the  seventeenth  century. 


Mr.  Park  makes  a  query  whether  he  wa«  not  the 
gentleman  mentioned  by  Wood  (Fasti)  as  having 
translated  from  French  into  English  "  A  General 
Chronological  History  of  France,  before  the  reign 
of  Pharamond." 


SONQ. 

Chlobis,  'twill  be  for  cither's  rest 
Truly  to  know  each  other's  breast; 
I'll  make  th'  obscurest  part  of  mine 
Transparent  as  I  would  have  thine : 
If  you  will  deal  but  so  with  me. 
We  soon  shall  part,  or  soon  agree. 

Know  then,  though  you  were  twice  as  fair, 
If  it  could  be,  as  now  you  are : 
And  though  the  graces  of  your  mind 
With  a  resembling  lustre  shined ; 

Yet,  if  you  loved  me  not,  you'd  see 

I'd  value  those  as  you  do  me. 

Though  I  a  thousand  times  had  sworn 
My  passion  should  transcend  your  scorn  i 


And  that  your  bright,  triumphant  eye* 

Create  a  flame  that  never  dies ; 
Yet,  if  to  me  you  proved  untrue. 
Those  oaths  should  prove  as  false  to  yoa. 

If  love  I  vow'd  to  pay  for  hate, 
'Twas,  I  confess,  a  mere  deceit ; 
Or  that  my  flame  should  deathless  prove, 
.  'Twas  but  to  render  so  your  love : 
I  bragg'd,  as  cowards  use  to  do. 
Of  dangers  they'll  ne'er  run  into. 

And  now  my  tenets  I  have  show'd. 
If  you  think  them  too  great  a  load ; 
T'  attempt  your  change  were  but  in  vain. 
The  conquest  not  being  worth  the  pain  : 

With  them  I'll  other  nymphs  subdue ; 

'Tis  too  much  to  lose  time  and  yoa. 


GEORGE   WITHER. 


[Born,  15S8     Died,  IMT.] 


Georok  Wither,  the  descendant  of  a  family  who 
had  for  several  generations  possessed  the  property 
of  Manydowne,  in  Hampshire,  was  born  in  that 
county,  at  Bentworth,  near  Alton.  About  the 
age  of  sixteen,  he  was  sent  to  Oxford,  where  he 
had  just  begun  to  fail  in  love  with  the  mysteries 
of  logic,  when  he  was  called  home  by  his  father, 
much  to  his  mortification,  to  hold  the  plough.  He 
was  even  afraid  of  being  put  to  some  mechanical 
trade,  when  he  contrived  to  get  to  London,  and 
with  great  simplicity  had  proposed  to  try  his  for- 
tune at  court.  To  his  astonishment,  however,  he 
found  that  it  was  necessary  to  flatter  in  order  to 
be  a  courtier.  To  show  his  independence,  he 
therefore  wrote  his  "Abuses  whipt  and  stript," 
and  instead  of  rising  at  court,  was  committed  for 
some  months  to  the  Marshalsea.*  But  if  his 
puritanism  excited  enemies,  his  talents  and  frank- 
ness gained  him  friends.  He  appears  to  have 
been  intimate  with  the  poet  Browne,  and  to  have 
been  noticed  by  Selden.  To  the  latter  he  inscribed 
his  translation  of  the  poem  on  the  Nature  of  Man, 


*  IIr  was  imprisoned  for  his  "  Abuses  whipt  and 
stript;''  yet  this  could  not  have  be.-n  his  first  ofTcnce, 
as  an  allusion  is  made  to  a  former  Horusjition.  [It  was 
for  the  Scourge  (Itiln)  that  his  first  known  im)<risoDm>-nt 
took  pljce  lie  liad  dealt,  as  he  U'lls  us  in  after  life,  in 
particulars  not  in  season  to  ^le  to.iched  upon,  and  the 
greatest  faultof  what  he  said  was  that  it  savoured  more  of 


from  the  Greek  of  Bishop  Nemenius,  an  ancient 
father  of  the  church.  While  in  prison,  he  wrote 
his  "  Shepherd's  Hunting,"  which  contains  perhaps 
the  very  finest  touches  that  ever  came  from  his 
hasty  and  irregular  pen,  and,  besides  those  prison 
eclogues,  composed  his  "  Satire  to  the  King,"  a 
justification  of  his  former  satires,  which,  if  it  gained 
him  his  liberation,  certainly  effected  it  without 
retracting  his  principles. 

It  is  not  probable  that  the  works  of  Wither 
will  ever  be  published  collectively,  curious  as  they 
are,  and  occasionally  marked  by  originality  of 
thought ;  but  a  detailed  list  of  them  is  given  in 
the  "  British  Bibliographer."  From  youth  to  age 
George  continued  to  pour  forth  his  lucubrations,  in 
prophesy,  remonstrance,  complaint,  and  triumph, 
through  good  and  evil  report,  through  all  vi- 
cissitudes of  fortune :  at  one  time  in  command 
among  the  saints,  an<l  at  another  scrawling  his 
thoughts  in  jail,  when  pen  and  ink  were  denied 
him,  with  red  ochre  upon  a  trencher.  It  is  gene- 
rally allowed  that  his  taste  and  genius  for  poetry 

honesty  than  discretion.  Vice  In  hi|;h  places  was  then 
more  than  ordinarily  sensitive  and  suspicious,  and  satire, 
when  dealiuK  in  general,  like  Hale,  Knvy,  Lust,  and 
Avarice,  wax  always  individualized  by  the  reader;  and 
men  appropriated,  as  l.Hmb  says,  the  most  innocent 
abstractions  to  tlieniselves.  Ben  Jotantou  complains  ol 
this  in  more  than  one  place.] 

299 


300 


GEORGE    WITHER. 


did  not  improve  in  the  political  contest.  Some 
of  his  earliest  pieces  display  the  native  amenity 
of  a  poet's  imagination ;  but  as  he  mixed  with 
the  turbulent  times,  his  fancy  grew  muddy  with 
the  stream.  While  Milton  in  the  same  cause 
brought  his  learning  and  zeal  as  a  partisan,  he 
left  the  Muse  behind  him,  as  a  mistress  too  sacred 
to  be  introduced  into  party  brawlings;  Wither, 
on  the  contrary,  took  his  Muse  along  with  him  to 
the  camp  and  the  congregation,  and  it  is  little  to 
be  wondered  at  that  her  cap  should  have  been 
torn  and  her  voice  made  hoarse  in  the  confusion. 

Soon  after  his  liberation  from  prison,  he  pub- 
lished the  Hymns  and  Songs  of  the  Church,  one 
edition  of  which  is  dedicated  to  King  James,  in 
which  he  declares  that  the  hymns  were  printed 
under  his  majesty's  gracious  protection.  One  of 
the  "highest  dignitaries  of  the  church  also  sanc- 
tioned his  performance ;  but  as  it  was  Wither's 
fate  to  be  for  ever  embroiled,  he  had  soon  after 
occasion  to  complain  that  the  booksellers,  "  those 
cruel  bee-masters,"  as  he  calls  them,  "  who  burn 
the  poor  Athenian  bees  for  their  honey,"  endea- 
voured to  subvert  his  copyright ;  while  some  of 
the  more  zealous  clergymen  complained  that  he 
had  interfered  with  their  calling,  and  slanderous 
persons  termed  his  hymns,  needless  songs  and 
popish  rhyme.  From  any  suspicion  of  popery 
his  future  labours  were  more  than  sufficient  to 
clear  him.  James,  it  appears,  encouraged  him 
to  finish  a  translation  of  the  Psalms,  and  was 
kindly  disposed  toward  him.  Soon  after  the 
decease  of  his  sovereign,  on  remembering  that 
he  had  vowed  a  pilgrimage  to  the  Queen  of  Bohe- 
mia, he  travelled  to  her  court  to  accomplish  his 
vow,  and  presented  her  highness  with  a  copy  of 
his  Psalms. 

In  1639  he  was  a  captain  of  horse  in  the  expe- 
dition against  the  Scots,  and  quartermaster-gene- 
ral of  his  regiment,  under  the  Earl  of  Arundel. 
But  as  soon  as  the  civil  wars  broke  out  he  sold 
his  estate  to  raise  a  troop  of  horse  for  the  parlia- 
ment, and  soon  afterward  rose  to  the  rank  of 
major.  In  the  month  of  October  of  the  same 
year,  1642,  he  was  appointed  by  parliament,  cap- 
tain and  commander  of  Farnhara  Castle,  in  Sur- 
rey ;  but  his  government  was  of  short  duration, 
for  the  castle  was  ceded  on  the  first  of  December 
to  Sir  WilUam  Waller.  Wither  says,  in  his  own 
justification,  that  he  was  advised  by  his  superiors 


to  quit  the  place ;  while  his  enemies  alleged  that 
he  deserted  it.  The  defence  of  his  conduct  which 
he  published,  seems  to  have  been  more  resolute 
than  his  defence  of  the  fortress.  In  the  course 
of  the  civil  war,  he  was  made  prisoner  by  the 
royalists,  and  when  some  of  them  were  desirous 
of  making  an  example  of  him,  Denham,  the  poet, 
is  said  to  have  pleaded  with  his  majesty  that  he 
would  not  hang  him,  for  as  long  as  Wither  lived 
he  (Denham)  could  not  be  accounted  the  worst 
poet  in  England.  Wood  informs  us  that  he  was 
afterward  constituted  by  Cromwell  major-gene- 
ral of  all  the  horse  and  foot  in  the  county  of 
Surrey.  In  his  addresses  to  Cromwell  there  is, 
mi.xed  with  his  usual  garrulity  of  advice  and 
solemnityof  warning,  a  considerable  degree  of  adu- 
lation. His  admonitions  probably  exposed  him 
to  little  hazard ;  they  were  the  croakings  of  the 
raven  on  the  right  hand.  It  should  be  mentioned 
however,  to  the  honour  of  his  declared  principles, 
that  in  the  "  National  Remembrancer,"  he 
sketched  the  plan  of  an  annual  and  freely  elected 
parliament,  which  differed  altogether  from  the 
shadow  of  representation  afforded  by  the  govern- 
ment of  the  usurper.  On  the  demise  of  Crom- 
well, he  hailed  the  accession  of  Richard  with 
joyful  gratulation.  He  never  but  once  in  his  life 
foreboded  good,  and  in  that  prophecy  he  was  mis- 
taken. 

At  the  Restoration,  the  estates  which  he  had 
either  acquired  or  purchased  during  the  inter- 
regnum, were  taken  from  him.  But  the  event 
which  crushed  his  fortunes  could  not  silence  his 
pen,  and  he  was  committed  first  to  Newgate  and 
afterward  to  the  Tower,  for  remonstrances, 
which  were  deemed  a  libel  on  the  new  govern- 
ment. From  the  multitude  of  his  writings, 
during  a  three  years'  imprisonment,  it  may  be 
clearly  gathered  that  he  was  treated  not  only 
with  rigour,  but  injustice ;  for  the  confiscation  of 
his  property  was  made  by  forcible  entry,  and  be- 
sides being  illegal  in  form,  was  directly  contrary 
to  the  declaration  that  had  been  issued  by  Charles 
the  Second  before  his  accession.  That  he  died 
in  prison  may  be  inferred  from  the  accounts, 
though  not  clear  from  the  dates,  of  his  biogra- 
phers ;  but  his  last  days  must  have  been  spent  in 
wretchedness  and  obscurity.*  He  was  buried 
between  the  east  door  and  the  south  end  of  the 
Savoy  church,  in  the  Strand. 


FROM  "THE  SHEPHERD'S  HUNTING." 

See'st  thou  not,  in  clearest  days. 
Oft  thick  fogs  could  heavens  raise  ] 
And  the  vapours  that  do  breathe 
From  the  earth's  gross  womb  beneath. 
Seem  they  not  with  their  black  streams 
To  pollute  the  sun's  bright  beams, 
And  yet  vanish  into  air. 
Leaving  it  (unblemish'd)  fair  1 


I*  He  WM  released  from  prison  on  the  27th  July,  1663,  on 
bU  bond  to  the  Ueuteniint  of  the  Tower  for  hi«  good  heha- 


So,  my  Willy,  shall  it  be 

With  Detraction's  breath  and  thee  • 

It  shall  never  rise  so  high 

As  to  stain  thy  poesy. 

As  that  sun  doth  oft  exhale 

Vapours  from  each  rotten  vale , 

Poesy  so  sometimes  drains 

Gross  conceits  from  muddy  brains ; 

Mists  of  envy,  fogs  of  spite, 

'Twixt  men's  judgments  and  her  light, 

Tiour;  and  died,  though  not  in  prison,  on  the  2d  of  May, 
1667.— See  WiUmoWt  Lints  of  the  Sacred  lUU,  vol.  i.] 


GEORGE   WITHER. 


301 


But  so  much  her  power  may  do 

That  she  can  dissolve  them  too. 

If  thy  verse  do  bravely  tower. 

As  she  makes  wing,  she  gets  power! 

Yet  the  higher  she  doth  soar. 

She's  affronted  still  the  more ; 

Till  she  to  the  high'st  hath  past. 

Then  she  rests  with  Fame  at  last. 

Let  nought  therefore  thee  affright, 

But  make  forward  in  thy  flight: 

For  if  I  could  match  thy  rhyme, 

To  the  very  stars  I'd  climb ; 

There  begin  again,  and  fly 

Till  I  reach'd  eternity. 

But,  alas !  my  Muse  is  slow ; 

For  thy  pace  she  flags  too  low. 

Yes,  the  more's  her  hapless  fate, 

Her  short  wings  were  clipp'd  of  late ; 

And  poor  I,  her  fortune  ruing. 

Am  myself  put  up  a  muing. 

But  if  I  my  cage  can  rid, 

I'll  fly,  where  I  never  did. 

And  though  for  her  sake  I'm  crost. 

Though  my  best  hopes  I  have  lost. 

And  kn&w  she  would  make  my  trouble 

Ten  times  more  than  ten  times  double ; 

I  would  love  and  keep  her  too, 

Spite  of  all  the  world  could  do. 

For  though  banish'd  from  my  flocks, 

And  confined  within  these  rocks, 

Here  I  waste  away  the  light. 

And  consume  the  sullen  night ; 

She  doth  for  my  comfort  stay, 

And  keeps  many  cares  away. 

Though  I  miss  the  flowery  fields, 

With  those  sweets  the  spring-tide  yields ; 

Though  I  may  not  see  those  groves. 

Where  the  shepherds  chaunt  their  loves. 

And  the  lasses  more  excel 

Than  the  sweet-voiced  Philomel ; 

Though  of  all  those  pleasures  past. 

Nothing  now  remains  at  last. 

But  remembrance,  poor  relief. 

That  more  makes  than  mends  my  grief: 

She's  my  mind's  companion  still, 

Maugre  Envy's  evil  will : 

Whence  she  should  be  driven  to, 

Were 't  in  mortals'  power  to  do. 

She  doth  tell  me  where  to  borrow 

Comfort  in  the  midst  of  sorrow ; 

Makes  the  desolatest  place 

To  her  presence  be  a  grace, 

And  the  blackest  discontents 

Be  her  fairest  ornaments. 

In  my  former  days  of  bliss. 

His  divine  skill  taught  me  this. 

That  from  every  thing  I  saw, 

I  could  some  invention  draw ; 

And  raise  pleasure  to  her  height 

Through  the  meanest  object's  sight : 

By  the  murmur  of  a  spring. 

Or  the  least  bough's  rustling ; 

By  a  daisy,  whose  leaves  spread, 

Shut  when  Titan  goes  to  bed ; 


Or  a  shady  bush  or  tree. 

She  could  more  infuse  in  me, 

Than  all  Nature's  beauties  can, 

In  some  other  wiser  man. 

By  her  help  I  also  now 

Make  this  churlish  place  allow 

Some  things  that  may  sweeten  gladness 

In  the  very  gall  of  sadness  : 

The  dull  loneness,  the  black  shade 

That  these  hanging  vaults  have  made, 

The  strange  music  of  the  waves, 

Beating  on  these  hollow  caves, 

This  black  den,  which  rocks  emboss. 

Overgrown  with  eldest  moss ; 

The  rude  portals,  that  give  light 

More  to  terror  than  delight. 

This  my  chamber  of  neglect, 

Wall'd  about  with  disrespect. 

From  all  these,  and  this  dull  air, 

A  fit  object  for  despair, 

She  hath  taught  me  by  her  might 

To  draw  comfort  and  delight. 

Therefore  then,  best  earthly  bliss, 
I  will  cherish  thee  for  this ! 
Poesy,  thou  sweet'st  content 
That  e'er  Heaven  to  mortals  lent ; 
Though  they  as  a  trifle  leave  thee. 
Whose  dull  thoughts  cannot  conceive  thee, 
Though  thou  be  to  them  a  scorn 
That  to  naught  but  earth  are  bom ; 
Let  my  life  no  longer  be 
Than  I  am  in  love  with  thee ! 
Though  our  wise  ones  call  it  madness. 
Let  me  never  taste  of  gladness 
If  I  love  not  thy  mad'st  fits 
Above  all  their  greatest  wits ! 
And  though  some,  too  seeming  holy. 
Do  account  thy  raptures  folly, 
Thou  dost  teach  me  to  contemn 
What  makes  knaves  and  fools  of  them!* 


THE  SHEPHERD'S  RESOLXTTION. 

Shall  I,  wasting  in  despair. 
Die  because  a  woman's  fair  1 
Or  make  pale  my  cheeks  with  care, 
'Cause  another's  rosy  are  1 
Be  she  fairer  than  the  day. 
Or  the  flow'ry  meads  in  May ; 
If  she  he  not  so  to  me, 
What  care  I  how  fair  she  be  t 

Shall  my  foolish  heart  be  pined, 
'Cause  I  sec  a  woman  kind  1 
Or  a  well-disposed  nature 
Joined  with  a  lovely  feature  1 


[*  Tbe  pndsei  of  pctry  hare  been  often  rang  in  ancient 
and  modern  tlmeii:  xtranpH  powers  have  N^n  i\("rrlb«i  to 
U  of  intlucnoe  OTer  aniinnte  and  inaniniate  Ruditom;  its 
forr«  over  fa«cin»t«i  rmwdn  has  heen  arknowledifi'd  :  but 
before  Wither,  no  one  had  celebrakwl  itd  power  at  home  ; 
the  wealth  aiid  the  strength  which  thin  divine  giftoon&r* 
upon  its  possessor. — Lamb.] 

2A 


OT3 


GEORGE  WITHER. 


Be  she  meeker,  kinder,  than 

The  turtle-dove  or  pelican ; 
If  she  be  not  so  to  me, 
What  care  I  how  kind  she  be  1 

Shall  a  woman's  virtues  move 
Me  to  perish  for  her  love  ? 
Or,  her  well-deservings  known, 
Make  me  quite  forget  mine  own  1 
Be  she  with  that  goodness  blest. 
Which  may  merit  name  of  Best ; 
If  she  be  not  such  to  me. 
What  care  I  how  good  she  bet 

'Cause  her  fortune  seems  too  high, 
Shall  I  play  the  fool  and  die  ? 
Those  that  bear  a  noble  mind. 
Where  they  want  of  riches  find. 
Think  what  with  them  they  would  do, 
That  without  them  dare  to  woo ; 
And,  unless  that  mind  I  see. 
What  care  I  how  g^eat  she  be  1 

Great  or  good,  or  kind  or  fair, 
I  will  ne'er  the  more  despair: 
If  she  love  me.  this  believe — 
I  wall  die  ere  she  shall  grieve. 
If  she  slight  me  when  I  woo, 
I  can  scorn  and  let  her  go  : 
If  she  be  not  fit  for  me, 
What  care  I  for  whom  she  be  1 


THE   STEADFAST  SHEPHERD. 

Hence  away,  thou  Siren,  leave  me. 

Pish  !  unclasp  these  wanton  arms ; 
Sugar'd  words  can  ne'er  deceive  me, 

(Though  thou  prove  a  thousand  charms.) 

Fie,  fie,  forbear ; 

No  common  snare 
Can  ever  my  affection  chain  : 

Thy  painted  baits. 

And  poor  deceits, 
Are  all  bestow'd  on  me  in  vain. 

I'm  no  slave  to  such  as  you  be ; 

Neither  shall  that  snowy  breast, 
Rolling  eye,  and  lip  of  ruby. 
Ever  rob  me  of  my  rest: 

Go,  go,  display 

Thy  beauty's  ray. 
To  some  more  soon-enamour'd  swain : 

Those  common  wiles 

Of  sighs  and  smiles 
Are  all  bestow'd  on  me  in  vain. 

I  have  elsewhere  vow'da  duty ; 
Turn  away  thy  tempting  eye : 
Show  not  me  a  painted  beauty : 
These  impostures  I  defy : 

My  spirit  loaths 

Where  gaudy  clothes 
And  feigned  oaths  may  love  obtain  : 

I  love  her  so. 

Whose  look  swears  No, 
That  all  your  labours  will  be  vain. 


Can  he  prize  the  tainted  posies. 

Which  on  every  breast  are  worn, 
That  may  pluck  the  virgin  roses 
From  their  never-touched  thorn  1 

I  can  go  rest 

On  her  sweet  breast. 
That  is  the  pride  of  Cynthia's  train : 

Then  stay  thy  tongue. 

Thy  mermaid  song 
Is  all  bestow'd  on  me  in  vain. 

He 's  a  fool  that  basely  dallies, 

Where  each  peasant  mates  with  him : 
Shall  I  haunt  the  thronged  valleys. 
Whilst  there's  noble  hills  to  climb  ] 

No,  no,  though  clowns 

Are  scared  with  frowns, 
I  know  the  best  can  but  disdain ; 

And  those  I'll  prove : 

So  will  thy  love 
Be  all  bestow'd  on  me  in  vain. 

I  do  scorn  to  vow  a  duty 

Where  each  lustful  lad  may  woo; 
Give  me  her  whose  sun-like  beauty, 
Buzzards  dare  not  soar  unto: 

She,  she  it  is. 

Affords  that  bliss 
For  which  I  would  refuse  no  pain : 

But  such  as  you, 

Fond  fools,  adieu ! 
You  seek  to  captive  me  in  vain. 

Leave  me  then,  you  Siren,  leave  me : 
Seek  no  more  to  work  my  harms : 
Crafty  wiles  cannot  deceive  me. 

Who  am  proof  against  your  charms : 
You  labour  may 
To  lead  astray 
The  heart  that  constant  shall  remain ; 
And  I  the  while 
Will  sit  and  smile 
To  see  you  spend  your  time  in  vain. 


FROM  A  POEM  ON  THE  ANNITERSARY  OF  HIS 
MARRIAGE  DAY. 

Lord,  living  here  are  we 

As  fast  united  yet, 
As  when  our  hearts  and  hands  by  Thee 

Together  first  were  knit. 
And  in  a  thankful  song 

Now  sing  we  will  Thy  praise, 
For  that  Thou  dost  as  well  prolong 

Our  loving  as  our  days. 

The  frowardness  that  springs 

From  our  corrupted  kind. 
Or  from  those  troublous  outward  things, 

Which  may  distract  the  mind; 
Permit  not  thou,  O  Lord, 

Our  constant  love  to  shake ; 
Or  to-disturb  our  true  accord. 

Or  make  our  hearts  to  ache. 


DR.  HENRY  KING. 


[Bo^^  1592.     Died,  IW9.1 


[Henry  King,  D.  D.,  was  the  eldest  son  of 
John  King,  Bishop  of  London,  and  was  born  in 
WarnoU,  Buckinghamshire,  and  educated  at 
Oxford.  He  became  chaplain  to  James  I.,  Arch- 
deacon of  Colchester,  Dean  of  St.  Paul's,  and 
finally  Bishop  of  Chichester.  Besides  his  polemi- 
cal works,  he  published  <<  The  Psalms  of  David 


turned  into  Metre,"  '•  Poems,  Elegies,  Paradoxes, 
and  Sonnets,"  and  ••  Various  Latin  and  Greek 
Poems."  An  edition  of  his  "  Poems  and  Psalms" 
was  published  in  London  in  1843,  with  a  me- 
moir by  the  Rev.  J.  Hannah,  B.  A.  Some  of  his 
pieces  are  remarkable  for  tenderness  and  ele- 
gance.— G.] 


SIC  VITA. 

Like  to  the  falling  of  a  star. 
Or  as  the  flights  of  eagles  are  ; 
Or  like  the  fresh  spring's  gaudy  hue, 
Or  silver  drops  of  morning  dew ; 
Or  like  a  wind  that  chafes  the  flood, 
Or  bubbles  which  on  water  stood  : 
Even  such  is  man,  whose  borrow'd  light 
Is  straight  call'd  in,  and  paid  to-night. 

The  wind  blows  out,  the  bubble  dies ; 
The  spring  entomb'd  in  autumn  lies ; 
The  dew  dries  up,  the  star  is  shot : 
The  flight  is  past — and  man  forgot. 


LIFE. 


What  is  the  existence  of  man's  life 
But  open  war  or  slumber'd  strife  1 
Where  sickness  to  his  sense  presents 
The  combat  of  the  elements. 
And  never  feels  a  perfect  peace 
Till  death's  cold  hand  signs  his  release. 

It  is  a  storm — where  the  hot  blood 
Outvies  in  rage  the  boiling  flood : 
And  each  loud  passion  of  the  mind 
Is  like  a  furious  gust  of  wind. 
Which  beats  the  bark  with  many  a  wave, 
Till  he  casts  anchor  in  the  grave. 

It  is  a  flower — which  buds  and  grows, 
And  withers  as  the  leaves  disclose ; 
Whose  spring  and  fall  faint  seasons  keep, 
Like  fits  of  waking  before  sleep, 
Then  shrinks  into  that  fatal  mould 
Where  its  first  being  was  enroU'd. 
It  is  a  dream — -whose  seeming  truth ; 
Is  moralized  in  age  and  youth ; 
Where  all  the  comforts  he  can  share 
As  wand'ring  as  his  fancies  are, 
Till  in  a  mist  of  dark  decay 
The  dreamers  vanish  quite  away. 

It  is  a  dial — which  points  out 
The  sunset  as  it  moves  about ; 
And  shadows  out  in  lines  of  night 
The  subtle  stages  of  Time's  flight, 


Till  all-obscuring  earth  had  laid 
His  body  in  perpetual  shade. 

It  is  a  weary  interlude 
Which  doth  short  joys,  long  woes  include : 
The  world  the  stage,  the  prologue  tears ; 
The  acts  vain  hopes  and  varied  fears ; 
The  scene  shuts  up  with  loss  of  breath, 
And  leaves  no  epilogue  but  Death ! 


THE  ANNIVERSART. 


So  soon  grown  old !  hast  thou  been  six  yean 
dead  1 
Poor  earth,  once  by  my  love  inhabited ! 
And  must  I  live  to  calculate  the  time 
To  which  thy  blooming  youth  could  never  climb, 
But  fell  in  the  ascent !  yet  have  not  I 
Studied  enough  thy  losses'  history. 

How  happy  were  mankind,  if  Death's  strict 
laws 
Consumed  our  lamentations  like  the  cause ! 
Or  that  our  grief,  turning  to  dust,  might  end 
With  the  dissolved  body  of  a  friend ! 

But  sacred  Heaven  !  O,  how  just  thou  art 
In  stamping  death's  impression  on  that  heart. 
Which  through  thy  favors  would  grow  insolent 
Were  it  not  physick'd  by  sharp  discontent. 
If,  then,  it  stand  resolved  in  thy  decree. 
That  still  1  must  doom'd  to  a  desert  be. 
Sprung  out  of  my  lone  thoughts,  which  know  n: 

path 
But  what  my  own  misfortune  beaten  hath : — 
If  thou  wilt  bind  me  living  to  a  corse, 
And  I  must  slowly  waste ;  I  then  of  force 
Stoop  to  thy  great  appointment,  and  obey 
That  will  which  naught  avails  me  to  gainsay. 
For  whilst  in  sorrow's  maze  I  wander  on, 
I  do  but  follow  life's  vocation. 

Sure  we  were  made  to  grieve:  at  our  first  birth, 
With  cries  we  took  possession  of  the  earth; 
And  though  the  lucky  man  reputed  be 
Fortune's  adopted  son,  yet  only  he 
Is  nature's  true-born  child,  who  sums  his  yean 
(Like  me)  with  no  arithmetic  but  tears. 

803 


304 


DR.  ROBERT  WILDE. 


SOXQ. 
Drt  those  fair,  those  crystal  eyes, 
Which  like  growing  fountains  rise 
To  drown  their  banks !  Grief's  sullen  brooks 
Would  better  flow  in  furrow 'd  looks  : 
Thy  lovely  face  was  never  meant 
To  be  the  shore  of  discontent. 


Then  clear  those  waterish  stars  again, 
Which  else  portend  a  lasting  rain ; 
Lest  the  clouds  which  settle  there 
Prolong  my  winter  all  the  year, 
And  thy  example  others  make 
In  love  with  sorrow,  for  thy  sake. 


DR.  ROBERT   WILDE 


Wa  8  a  dissenting  clergy  man.    The  dates  of  his 
birth  and  death  are  not  given  by  Jacob.     He  was 


author  of  a  poem,  entitled  "  Iter  Boreale,"  and 
"The  Benefice,"  a  comedy. 


A  COMPLAINT  OF  A  LEARNED  DIVINE  IN 
PURITAN  TIMES. 

In  a  melancholy  study, 

None  but  myself, 

Methought  my  Muse  grew  muddy  ; 

After  seven  years'  reading, 

And  costly  breeding, 

I  felt,  but  could  find  no  pelf. 

Into  learned  rags 

I  have  rent  my  plush  and  satin, 

And  now  am  fit  to  beg 

In  Hebrew,  Greek,  and  Latin : 

Instead  of  Aristotle, 

Would  I  had  got  a  patten. 

Alas,  poor  scholar,  whither  wilt  thou  go. 
I  have  bow'd,  I  have  bended. 
And  all  in  hope 
One  day  to  be  befriended ; 
I  have  preach'd,  I  have  printed, 
Whate'er  I  hinted. 
To  please  our  English  Pope : 
I  worshipp'd  toward  the  East 
But  the  sun  doth  now  forsake  me; 
I  find  that  I  am  falling, 
The  northern  winds  do  shake  me. 
Would  I  had  been  upright. 
For  bowing  now  will  break  me. 

Alas,  poor,  &c. 

At  great  preferment  I  aim'd, 
Witness  my  silk. 
But  now  my  hopes  are  maim'd. 
I  looked  lately 
To  live  most  stately. 
And  have  a  dairy  of  bell-rope's  milk; 
But  now,  alas ! 
Myself  I  must  flatter. 
Bigamy  of  steeples  is  a  laughing  matter ; 
Each  man  must  have  but  one, 
And  curates  will  grow  fatter. 
Alas,  poor,  &c. 

Into  some  country  village 

Now  I  must  go. 

Where  neither  tithe  nor  tillage 

Tne  greedy  patron. 

And  parched  matron. 

Swear  to  the  church  they  owe ; 


Yet  if  I  can  preach 
And  pray  too  on  a  sudden, 
And  confute  the  Pope 
At  adventure  without  studying. 
Then  ten  pounds  a  year. 
Besides  a  Sunday  pudding. 
Alas,  poor,  &c 

All  the  arts  I  have  skill  in. 
Divine  and  human. 
Yet  all's  not  worth  a  shilling. 
When  the  women  hear  me 
They  do  but  jeer  me. 
And  say  I  am  profane. 
Once  I  remember 
I  preached  with  a  weaver; 
I  quoted  Austin, 
He  quoted  Dod  and  Clever: 
I  nothing  got, 
He  got  a  cloak  and  beaver. 
Alas,  poor,  &c. 

Ships,  ships,  ships  I  discover, 
Crossing  the  main ; 
Shall  I  in  and  go  over, 
Turn  Jew  or  Atheist, 
Turk  or  Papist, 
To  Geneva  or  Amsterdam  1 
Bishoprics  are  void 
In  Scotland,  shall  I  thither  1 
Or  follow  Windebank 
And  Finch,  lo  see  if  either 
Do  want  a  priest  to  shrieve  themi 
0  no,  'tis  blustering  weather. 
Alas,  poor,  &c. 

Ho,  ho,  ho,  I  have  hit  it : 
Peace,  Goodman  fool ! 
Thou  hast  a  trade  will  fit  it ; 
Draw  thy  indenture. 
Be  bound  at  a  venture 
An  apprentice  to  a  free-school ; 
There  thou  may'st  commapd, 
By  William  Lilly's  charter ; 
There  thou  may'st  whip,  strip. 
And  hang,  and  draw,  and  quarter. 
And  commit  to  the  red  rod 
Both  Will,  and  Tom,  and  Arthur. 
Ay,  ay,  'tis  hither,  hither  will  I  go. 


SIR  JOHN  MENNIS  AND  JAMES  SMITH. 


[Born,  1598.    Born,  I6(M.J 


Sir  John  Mennis  was  born  in  1598.  He  was 
successively  a  military  and  naval  commander;  a 
vice-admiral  in  th«  latler  service,  governor  of 
Dover  Castle,  and  chief  comptroller  of  the  navy. 


He  composed  the  well-known  ballad  on  Sir  John 
Suckling's  defeat. — Smith  was  born  about  1604: 
was  a  military  and  naval  chaplain,  canon  of  Exe* 
ter  cathedral,  and  doctor  in  divinity. 


UPON  LUTE-STRINGS  CAT-EATEN. 

fKOM  "MXTSARXTM  SEUCIS,   OR  THE  MUSES'  RECREATION.'' 

Abe  these  the  strings  that  poets  feign 

Have  clear'd  the  air  and  calm'd  the  main  1 

Charm'd  wolves,  and  from  the  mountain  crests 

Made  forests  dance,  with  all  their  beasts  1 

Could  these  neglected  shreds  you  see 

Inspire  a  lute  of  ivory, 

And  make  it  speak  1  oh  then  think  what 

Hath  been  committed  by  my  cat ! 

Who,  in  the  silence  of  the  night. 

Hath  gnawn  these  cords,  and  marr'd  them  quite, 

Leaving  such  relics  as  may  be 

For  frets,  not  for  my  lute,  but  me. 

Puss,  I  will  curse  thee !  may'st  thou  dwell 

With  some  dry  hermit  in  a  cell. 

Where  rat  ne'er  peep'd,  where  mouse  ne'er  fed, 

And  flies  go  supperless  to  bed ; 

Or  with  some  close-pared  brother,  where 

Thou'lt  fast  each  Sabbath  in  the  year; 

Or  else,  profane,  be  hang'd  on  Monday, 

For  butchering  a  mouse  on  Sunday. 

Or  may'st  thou  tumble  from  some  tower, 

And  miss  to  light  on  all-four. 

Taking  a  fall  that  may  untie 

Eight  of  nine  lives,  and  let  them  fly. 

Or  may  the  midnight  embers  singe 

Thy  dainty  coat,  or  Jane  beswinge 

What,  was  there  ne'er  a  rat  nor  mouse, 
Nor  buttery  ope;  naught  in  the  house 
But  harmless  lute-strings,  could  suthce 
Thy  paunch,  and  draw  thy  glaring  eyes  1 
Did  not  thy  conscious  stomach  find 
Nature  profaned,  that  kind  with  kind 
Should  stanch  his  hunger  ?  think  on  that^ 
Thou  cannibal  and  cyclops  cat ! 
For  know,  thou  wretch,  that  every  string 
Is  a  cat's  gut  which  art  doth  bring 
Into  a  thread ;  and  now  suppose 
Dunstan,  that  snufTd  the  devil's  nose, 
tShould  bid  these  strings  revive,  as  onc^ 


He  did  the  calf  from  naked  bones ; 

Or  I,  to  plague  thee  for  thy  sin, 

Should  draw  a  circle,  and  begin 

To  conjure,  for  I  am,  look  to 't. 

An  Oxford  scholar,  and  can  do 't. 

Then  with  three  sets  of  mops  and  mows, 

Seven  of  odd  words,  and  motley  shows, 

A  thousand  tricks  that  may  be  taken 

From  Faustus,  Lambe,  or  Friar  Bacon ; 

I  should  begin  to  call  my  strings 

My  catlings,  and  my  minikins; 

And  they  re-catted,  straight  should  fall 

To  mew,  to  purr,  to  caterwaul ; 

From  puss's  belly,  sure  as  death, 

Puss  should  be  an  engastrumeth. 

Puss  should  be  sent  for  to  the  king, 

For  a  strange  bird  or  some  rare  thing. 

Puss  should  be  sought  to  far  and  near, 

As  she  some  cunning  woman  were. 

Puss  should  be  carried  up  and  down, 

From  shire  to  shire,  from  town  to  town. 

Like  to  the  camel  lean  as  hag, 

The  elephant,  or  apish  nag, 

For  a  strange  sight ;  puss  should  be  sung 

In  lousy  ballads  'midst  the  throng. 

At  markets,  with  as  good  a  grace 

As  Agincourt,  or  Chevy  Chace. 

The  Troy-sprung  Briton  would  forego 

His  pedigree,  he  chanteth  so, 

And  sing  that  Merlin  (long  deceased) 

Retum'd  is  in  a  nine-lived  beast. 

Thus,  puss,  thou  see'st  what  might  betide  thee ; 

But  I  forbear  to  hurt  or  chide  thee. 

For't  may  be  puss  was  melancholy, 

And  so  to  make  her  blithe  aud  jolly. 

Finding  these  strings,  she'd  have  a  fit 

Of  mirth ;  nay,  puss,  if  that  were  it. 

Thus  I  revenge  me,  that  as  thou 

Hast  play'd  on  them,  I  on  thee  now ; 

And  as  thy  touch  was  nothing  fine, 

So  I've  but  scratch'd  these  notes  of  mine. 


SaS 


806 


JASPER  MAYNE. 


[Born,  1601.     Died,  I672.J 


This  writer  has  t  cast  of  broad  humour  that  is 
amusing,  though  pione  to  extravagance.  The 
idea  in  The  City  Match  of  Captain  Quartfield 
and  his  boon  companions  exposing  simple  Timo- 
thy dead  drunk,  and  dressed  up  as  a  sea-monster 
for  a  show,  is  not  indeed  within  the  boundaries 
of  either  taste  or  credibiUty  ;  but  amends  is  made 
for  it  in  the  next  scene,  of  old  Warehouse  and 
Seathrift  witnessing  in  disguise  the  joy  of  their 
heirs  at  their  supposed  deaths.  Among  the  many 
interviews  of  this  nature  by  which  comedy  has 
sought  to  produce  merriment  and  surprise,  this 
is  not  one  of  the  worst  managed.  Plotweli's 
cool  impudence  is  well  supported,  when  he  gives 
money  to  the  waterman,  (who  tells"  that  he  had 
escaped,  by  swimming  at  the  time  the  old  citi- 
zens were  drowned,) 


There,  fHend,  there  is 
A  fare  for  you:  Fm  glad  you  'scaped;  I  had 
Not  known  the  news  so  soon  else. 

Dr.  Mayne  was  a  clergyman  in  Oxfordshire. 
He  lost  his  livings  at  the  death  of  Charles  I.  and 
became  chaplain  to  the  Earl  of  Devonshire,  who 
made  him  acquainted  with  Hobbes ;  but  the  phi- 
losopher and  poet  are  said  to  have  been  on  no 
very  agreeable  terms.  At  the  Restoration  he  was 
reinstated  in  his  livings,  made  a  canon  of  Christ- 
church,  Archdeacon  of  Chichester,  and  chaplain 
in  ordinary  to  the  king.  Besides  the  comedy  of 
the  City  Match,  he  published  a  tragi-comedy 
called  The  Amorous  War ;  several  sermons ;  dia- 
logues from  Lucian;  and  a  pamphlet  on  the 
Civil  Wars. 


A  SON  AXD  NEPHEW  RECEIVING  THE  NEWS  OF  A 
FATHER'S  AND  AN  UNCLE'S  DEATH. 

FROM   "THE  CITT  MATCH." 

Persons. — Warehouse  and  Seathrift,  ttoo  wealthy  old  mer- 
chants in  disguise;  Ctpher,  the  former's  factor,  disguised 
at  a  waterman;  1*lotwell,  nephew  to  Warehouse;  Timo- 
thy, son  to  Seathrift;  Captain  Quartfield,  Bright,  arid 
Newcut,  companions  of  Pmitwell. 

Place:— ■>!  Tavern. 

Cyph.  Then  I  must  tell  the  news  to  you,  'tis  sad. 

Plot.  I'll  hear't  as  sadly. 

Cyph.  Your  uncle,  sir,  and  Mr.  Seathrift  are 
Both  drown'd,  some  eight  miles  below  Greenwich. 

Plot.  Drown'd! 

Cyph.  They  went  i'  th'  tilt-boat,  sir,  and  I  was 
one  [us, 

O'  th'  oars  that  row'd  'em ;  a  coal-ship  did  o'er-run 
I  'scaped  by  swimming ;  the  two  old  gentlemen 
Took  hold  of  one  another,  and  sunk  together. 

Bright.  How  some  men's  prayers  are  heard  ! 
We  did  invoke  [took  'em. 

The  sea  this  morning,  and  see  the  Thames  has 

Plot.  It  cannot  be ;  such  good  news,  gentlemen, 
Cannot  be  true. 

Ware.  'Tis  very  certain,  sir ; 
'Twas  talk'd  upon  th'  Exchange. 

Sea.  We  heard  it  too 
In  Paul's  now  as  we  came. 

Plot.  There,  friend,  there  is 
A  fare  for  you ;  I'm  glad  you  'scaped ;  I  had 
Not  known  the  news  so  soon  else.   [Gives  him  money. 

Cyph.  Sir,  excuse  me. 

Plot.  Sir,  it  is  conscience ;  I  do  believe  you  might 
Sue  me  in  chancery. 

Cyph.  Sir,  you  show  the  virtues  of  an  heir. 

Ware.  Are  you  rich  Warehouse's  heir,  shl 

Plot.  Yes,  sir,  his  transitory  pelf, 
And  some  twelve  hundred  pound  a  year  in  earth, 
Is  cast  \>n  me.    Captain,  the  hour  is  come, 
ao« 


You  shall  no  more  drink  ale,  of  which  one  draught 
Makes  cowards,  and  spoils  valour ;  nor  take  off 
Your  moderate  quart-glass.     I  intend  to  have 
A  musket  for  you,  or  glass  cannon,  with 
A  most  capacious  barrel,  which  we'll  charge 
And  discharge  with  the  rich  valiant  grape 
Of  my  uncle's  cellar ;  every  charge  shall  fire 
The  glass,  and  bum  itself  i'  th'  filling,  and  look 
Like  a  piece  going  off. 

Quart.  I  shall  be  glad 
To  give  thanks  for  you,  sir,  in  pottle  draughts. 
And  shall  love  Scotch-coal  for  this  wreck  the  better 
As  long  as  I  know  fuel. 

Pbt.  Then  my  poet 
No  longer  shall  write  catches,  or  thin  sonnets, 
Nor  preach  in  verse  as  if  he  were  suborn'd 
By  him  that  wrote  the  Whip,  to  pen  lean  acts, 
And  so  to  overthrow  the  stage  for  want 
Of  salt  or  wit.     Nor  shall  he  need  torment 
Or  persecute  his  muse ;  but  I  will  be 
His  god  of  wine  t'inspire  him.     He  shall  no  more 
Converse  with  the  five-yard  butler;   who,  like 

thunder, 
Can  turn  beer  with  his  voice,  and  roar  it  sour : 
But  shall  come  forth  a  Sophocles  and  write 
Things  for  the  buskin.     Instead  of  Pegasus, 
To  strike  a  spring  with's  hoof,  we'll  have  a  steel 
Which  shall  but  touch  a  butt,  and  straight  shall 
A  purer,  higher,  wealthier  Helicon.  [flow 

Sale.  Frank,  thou  shalt  be  my  Phoebus.     My 
next  poem 
Shall  be  thy  uncle's  tragedy,  or  the  Life 
And  Death  of  two  Rich  Merchants. 

Plot.  Gentlemen, 
And  now  i'  faith  what  think  you  of  the  fish  1 

Ware.  Why  as  we  ought,  sir,  strangely. 

Bright.  But  d'you  think  it  is  a  very  fish  1 
,    Sea.  Yes. 

Neio.  'Tis  a  man. 


JASPER  MAYNE. 


807 


Plot.  This  valiant  captain  and  this  man  of  wit 
First  fox'd  him,  then  transform'd  him.     We  will 

wake  him. 
And  tell  him  the  news.     Ho,  Mr.  Timothy ! 

Tim.  Plague  take  you,  captain. 

Plot.  What !  does  your  sack  work  still  1 

Tim.  Where  am  I ! 

Plot.  Come,  y'have  slept  enough. 

Bright.  Mr.  Timothy ! 
How  in  the  name  of  fresh  cod  came  you  changed 
Into  a  sea-calf  thus  1 

New.  'Slight,  Sir,  here  be 
Two  fishmongers  to  buy  you,  beat  the  price ; 
Now  y'are  awake  yourself. 

Tim.  How's  this!  my  hands 
Transmuted  into  claws  T  my  feet  made  flounders? 
Array'd  in  fins  and  scales !     Are  n't  you 
Ashamed  to  make  me  such  a  monster  1     Pray 
Help  to  undress  me. 

Plot.  We  have  rare  news  for  you. 

Tim.  No  letter  from  the  lady,  I  hope  1 

Plot.  Your  father. 
And  my  grave  uncle,  sir,  are  cast  away. 

Tim.  How  ] 

Plot.  They  by  this  have  made  a  meal 
For  jacks  and  salmon :  they  are  drown'd. 

Briifht.  Fail  down. 
And  worship  sea-coals,  for  a  ship  of  them 
Has  made  you,  sir,  an  heir. 

Plot.  This  fellow  here 
Brings  the  auspicious  news:  and  these  two  friends 
Of  ours  confirm  it. 

Cyph.  'Tis  too  true,  sir. 

Tim.  Well, 
We  are  all  mortal ;  but  in  what  wet  case 
Had  I  been  now,  if  I  had  gone  with  him  ! 
Within  this  fortnight  I  had  been  converted 
Into  some  pike,  you  might  ha'  cheapen'd  me 
In  Fish-street ;  I  had  made  an  ordinary. 
Perchance,  at  the  Mermaid.     Now  could  I  cry 
Like  any  image  in  a  fountain  which 
Runs  lamentations.     O  my  hard  misfortune ! 

[fle  feigns  to  weep. 

f^a.  Fie,  sir !  good  truth,  it  is  not  manly  in  you, 
To  weep  for  such  a  slight  loss  as  a  father. 

Tim.  I  do  not  cry  for  that. 

bed.  No] 

7'iwi.  No,  but  to  think. 
My  mother  is  not  drown'd  too. 

Hea.  I  assure  you. 
And  that  a  shrewd  mischance. 

Tim.  For  then  might  1 
Ha'  gone  to  th'  counting-house,  and  set  at  liberty 
Those  harmless  angels,  which  for  many  years 
Have  been  condemn'd  to  darkness. 

Plot.  You'd  not  do 
Like  your  penurious  father,  who  was  wont 
To  walk  his  dinner  out  in  Paul's,  whilst  you 
Kept  Lent  at  home,  and  had,  like  folk  in  sieges, 
Your  meals  weigh'd  to  you. 

New.  Indeed  they  say  he  was  a  monument  of 
Paul's. 

Tim.  Yes,  he  was  there 
As  constant  as  Duke  Humphrey.    I  can  show 
The  prints  where  he  sate,  holes  i'  th'  logs. 


Plot.  He  wore  ., 

More  pavement  out  with  walking  than  would  mak« 
A  row  of  new  stone-saints,  and  yet  refused 
To  give  to  th'  reparation. 

Bright.  I've  heard 
He'd  make  his  jack  go  empty,  to  cozen  neighbours 

Plot.  Yes,  when  there  was  not  fire  enough  to 
warm 
A  mastich-patch  t'  apply  to  his  wife's  temples. 
In  great  extremity  of  tooth-ache.     This  is 
True,  Mr.  Timothy,  is't  not  1 

Tim.  Yes:  then  linen 
To  us  was  stranger  than  to  Capuchins. 
My  flesh  is  of  an  order,  with  wearing  shirts 
Made  of  the  sacks  that  brought  o'er  cochineal. 
Copperas,  and  indigo.     My  sister  wears 
Smocks  made  of  currant-bags. 

Sea.  I'll  not  endure  it ; 
Let's  show  ourselves. 

Ware.  Stay,  hear  all  first 

New.  Thy  uncle  was  such  another. 

Bright.  1  have  heard 
He  still  last  leftth'  Exchange,  and  would  commend 
The  wholesomeness  o'  th'  air  in  Moor-fields,  when 
The  clock  struck  three  sometimes. 

Plot.  Surely  myself 
Cypher  his  factor,  and  an  ancient  cat, 
Did  keep  strict  diet,  had  our  Spanish  fare. 
Four  olives  among  three.     My  uncle  would 
Look  fat  with  fasting;  I  ha'  known  him  surfeit 
Upon  a  bunch  of  raisins ;  swoon  at  sight 
Of  a  whole  joint,  and  rise  an  epicure 
From  half  an  orange.  [T^y  undUffuiu 

Ware.  Gentlemen,  'tis  false. 
Cast  off  your  cloud.     D'you  know  me,  sirl 

Plot.  My  uncle ! 

Sea.  And  do  you  know  me,  sir  ? 

Tim.  My  father! 

Ware.  Nay, 
We'll  open  all  the  plot,  reveal  yoursell. 

Plot.  Cyper  the  waterman ! 

Quart.  Salewit,  away ! 
I  feel  a  tempest  coming.       [Ex.  Qdabi.  and  Saliwr. 

Ware.  Are  you  struck 
With  a  torpedo,  nephew  1 

Sea.  Ha'  you  seen  too 
A  Gorgon's  head,  that  you  stand  speechless  !  or 
Are  you  a  fish  in  earnest  1 

Bright.  It  begins  to  thunder. 

New.  We  will  make  bold  to  take  our  leaves. 

Ware.  What,  is  your  captain  fled  1 

Sea.  Nay,  gentlemen,  forsake  your  company . 

Bright.  Sir,  we  have  business. 

Sea.  Troth,  it  is  not  kindly  done. 

[Enunt  Brioht,  New. 

Ware.  Now,  Mr.  Seathrift, 
You  see  what  mourners  we  had  had,  had  we 
Been  wreck'd  in  earnest.  My  grieved  nephew  here 
Had  made  my  cellar  flow  with  tears,  my  wines 
Had  chargedglass-ordnaiice,  our  funerals  had  been 
Bewail'd  in  pottle-draughts. 

Sea.  And  at  our  graves 
Your  nephew  and  my  son  had  made  a  panegyric 
And  open'd  all  our  virtues. 

Ware.  Ungrateful  monster ! 


308 


RICHARD   BRATHWAITE. 


Sea.  Unnatural  villain ! 

Ware,  Thou  enemy  to  my  blood  ! 

Sea,  Thou  worse  than  parricide ! 

Ware,  Next  my  sins,  I  do  repent  I  am  thy  uncle. 

Sea,  And  I  thy  father,  [father 

Ware.  Death  o'  my  soul !    Did  I,  when  first  thy 
Broke  in  estate,  and  then  broke  from  the  Counter, 
Where  Mr.  Seathrift  laid  him  in  the  hole 
For  debt,  among  the  ruins  of  the  city. 
And  trades  like  him  blown  up,  take  thee  from  dust, 
Give  thee  free  education,  put  thee  in 
My  own  fair  way  of  traffic ;  nay,  decree 
To  leave  thee  jewels,  land,  my  whole  estate. 
Pardon 'd  thy  former  wildness,  and  couldst  thou  sort 
Thyself  with  none  but  idle  gallants,  captains, 
•    And  poets,  who  must  plot  before  they  eat, 
And  make  each  meal  a  stratagem?    Then  could 
But  I  be  subject  of  thy  impious  scoffs  1        [none 
I  swoon  at  sight  of  meat ;  I  rise  a  glutton 
From  half  an  orange :  Wretch,  forgetful  wretch ! 
'Fore  heaven  I  count  it  treason  in  my  blood 
That  gives  thee  a  relation.     But  I'll  take 
A  full  revenge.     Make  thee  my  heir !     I'll  first 
Adopt  a  slave,  brought  from'  some  galley  ;  one 
Which  laws  do  put  into  the  inventory. 
And  men  bequeath  in  wills  with  stools,  and  brass- 
pots  ;  [heir. 
One  who  shall  first  be  household-stuff,  then  my 
Or  to  defeat  all  thy  large  aims,  I'll  marry. 
Cypher,  go  find  me  Baneswright;  he  shall  straight 
Provide  me  a  wife.     I  will  not  stay  to  let 
My  resolution  cool.     Be  she  a  wench 
That  every  day  puts  on  her  dowry,  wears 
Her  fortunes,  has  no  portion,  so  she  be 
Young  and  likely  to  be  fruitful,  I'll  have  her : 
By  all  that's  good,  I  will ;  this  afternoon  ! 
I  will  about  it  straight. 

Sea,  I  follow  you.  [Ex.  Ware.  Ctpheb. 

And  as  for  you,  Tim,  mermaid,  triton,  haddock, 
The  wond'rous  Indian  fish  caught  near  Peru, 
Who  can  be  of  both  elements,  your  sight 
Will  keep  you  well.     Here  I  do  cast  thee  off. 
And  in  thy  room  pronounce  to  make  thy  sister 
My  heir ;  it  would  be  most  unnatural 
To  leave  a  fish  on  land.     'Las  !  sir,  one  of  your 
Bright  fins  and  gills  must  swim  in  seas  of  sack, 
Spout  rich  canaries  up  like  whales  in  maps ; 


I  know  you'll  not  endure  to  see  my  jack 
Go  empty,  nor  wear  shirts  of  copperas-bags, 
Nor  fast  in  Paul's,  you.     I  do  hate  thee  now, 
Worse  than  a  tempest,  quicksand,  pirate,  rock. 
Or  fatal  lake,  ay,  or  a  privy-seal. 
Go  let  the  captain  make  you  drunk,  and  let 
Your  next  change  be  into  some  ape,  ('tis  stale 
To  be  a  fish  twice,)  or  some  active  baboon. 
And  when  you  can  find  money  out,  betray 
What  wench  i'  th'  room  has  lost  her  maidenhead, 
Can  mount  to  th'  king,  and  can  do  all  your  feats. 
If  your  fine  chain  and  yellow  coat  come  near 
Th'  Exchange,  I'll  see  you  ;  so  I  leave  you. 

Plot.   Now  [Er.SzjL. 

Were   there  a  dext'rous  beam   and   two-pence 

hemp. 
Never  had  man  such  cause  to  hang  himself. 
Tim.  I  have  brought  myself  to  a  fine  pass  too 

Now 
Am  I  fit  only  to  be  caught,  and  put 
Into  a  pond  to  leap  carps,  or  beget 
A  goodly  race  of  pickrel. 


SONG  IN  "TIIE  AMOROUS  WAR." 

Time  is  the  feather'd  thing, 

And  whilst  I  praise 

The  sparklings  of  thy  locks,  and  call  them  raya, 

Takes  wing — 

Leaving  behind  him,  as  he  flies, 

An  unperceived  dimness  in  thine  eyes; 

His  minutes,  whilst  they're  told, 
Do  make  us  old ; 
And  every  sand  of  his  fleet  glass, 
Increasing  ago  as  it  doth  pass. 
Insensibly  sows  wrinkles  there 
Where  flowers  and  roses  do  appear. 

Whilst  we  do  speak,  our  fire 

Doth  into  ice  expire ; 

Flames  turn  to  frost ;  and  ere  we  can 

Know  how  our  cheek  turns  pal^  and  wan. 

Or  how  a  silver  snow 

Springs  there  where  jet  did  grow. 

Our  fading  spring  is  in  dull  winter  lost. 


RICHARD  BRATHWAITE. 


[Born,  1588.     Died,  1873.] 


RiCHABD  Bkathwaite,  mentioned  incidentally 
by  Warton  as  a  pastoral  poet,  but  more  valuable 
as  a  fluent  though  inelegant  satirist,  was  the  son 
of  Thomas  Brathwaite  of  Warcop,  near  Appleby, 
in  Westmoreland.  When  he  had  finished  his 
education  at  both  universities,  his  father  gave  him 
the  estate  oi  Barnside,  in  Westmoreland,  where 
he  held  a  commission  in  the  militia,  and  was 


deputy-lieutenant  of  the  county.  His  latter  dayn 
were  spent  near  Richmond,  in  Yorkshire,  where 
he  died,  with  a  highly  respectable  character.  To 
the  list  of  his  pieces  enumerated  by  Wood  two 

I  have  been  since  added  by   Mr.  I  His  and   Mr. 

I  Malone,  amounting  in  all  to  nineteen,  among 
which  are  two  tragi-comedies,  Men  urius  Britan* 

'  nicus  and  the  Regicidium. 


JOHN  MILTON. 


80€ 


FROM  A  "STRAPPADO  FOR  THB  DEVIL."* 

A  MAN  there  was  who  had  lived  a  merry  life 
Till  in  the  end  he  took  to  him  a  wife, 
One  that  no  image  was,  for  she  could  speak, 
And  now  and  then  her  husband's  costrel  break; 
This  drove  the  poor  man  to  a  discontent, 
And  oft  and  many  times  did  he  repent 
That  e'er  he  changed  his  former  quiet  state; 
But  'las !  repentance  then  did  come  too  late, 
No  cure  he  finds  to  heal  this  malady, 
But  makes  a  virtue  of  necessity. 
The  common  cure  for  care  to  every  man, 
A  pot  of  nappy  ale,  where  he  began 
To  fortify  his  brains  'gainst  all  should  come, 
'Mongst  which  the  clamour  of  his  wife's  loud 
tongue. 


This  habit  grafted  in  him  grew  so  strong, 
That  when  he  was  from  ale  an  hour  seem'd  long, 
So  well  he  liked  the  potion.     On  a  time, 
Having  staid  long  at  pot — for  rule  or  line 
Limits  no  drunkard — even  from  morn  to  night. 
He  hasted  home  apace  by  the  moonlight. 
Where  as  he  went  what  phantasies  were  bred, 
I  do  not  know,  in  his  distemper'd  head. 
But  a  strange  ghost  appear'd  and  forced  him  stay 
With  which  perplext  he  thus  began  to  say : 
♦♦  Good  spirit  if  thou  be,  I  need  no  charm. 
For  well  I  know  thou  wilt  not  do  me  harm ; 
And  if  the  devil,  sure  thou  shouldst  not  hu  t* 
I  wed  thy  sister,  and  am  plagued  for'u" 

The  spirit,  well  approving  what  he  said, 
Dissolved  to  air  and  quickly  vanished. 


JOHN  MILTON. 


CBorn,  1608.     Dial,  1874.] 


If  the  memory  of  Milton  has  been  outraged 
by  Dr.  Johnson's  hostility,  the  writings  of  Black- 
burne,  Hayley,  and,  above  all,  of  Symmons,  may 
be  deemed  sufficient  to  have  satisfied  the  poet's 
injured  shade.  The  apologies  for  Milton  have 
indeed  been  rather  full  to  superfluity  than  defec- 
tive. Dr.  Johnson's  triumphant  regret  at  the 
supposed  whipping  of  our  g^^eat  poet  at  the  uni- 
versity, is  not  more  amusing  than  the  alarm  of 
his  favourable  biographers  at  the  idea  of  admit- 
ting it  to  be  true.  From  all  that  has  Ijeen  writ- 
ten on  the  subject,  it  is  perfectly  clear  that  Milton 
committed  no  offence  at  college  which  could  de- 
serve an  ignominious  punishment.  Admitting 
Aubrey's  authority  for  the  anecdote,  and  his  au- 
thority is  not  very  high,  it  points  out  the  punish- 
ment not  as  a  public  infliction,  but  as  the  personal 
act  of  his  tutor,  who  resented  or  imagined  some 
unkindnes-ses. 

The  youthful  history  of  Milton,  in  despite  of 
this  anecdote,  presents  him  in  an  exalted  and 
amiable  light.  His  father,  a  man  of  no  ordinary 
attainments,  and  so  accomplished  a  musicianf  as 
to  rank  honourably  among  the  composers  of  his 
age,  intended  him  for  the  ministry  of  the  church, 
and  furnished  him  with  a  private  tutor,  who 
probably  seconded  his  views ;  but  the  piety  that 
was  early  instilled  into  the  poet's  mind  grew  up, 
with  the  size  of  his  intellect,  into  views  of  reli- 
.  gious  independence  that  would  not  have  suited 
any  definite  ecclesiastical  pale;  and  if  Milton 
had  become  a  preacher,  he  must  have  founded  a 


[*  There  in,  perhiips,  no  work  in  Kngliuli  which  illus- 
trates more  fully  and  an)upin;rly  the  mHniiun<,  oc«upap 
tioiiB,  and  opiniouB  of  the  time  wlien  it  was  written 
tlinn  BruithwHitc's  Sirapp  id" ;  but  it  is  a  strange,  undi- 
gested and  ill-urritngel  (O'.lection  of  poems,  of  various 
kimlK  ami  of  different  degrees  of  merit,  some  of  them 
i'0nipo8ed  considerably  before  the  rest,  but  few  without 
claims  to  notice.  The  prim  ipal  part  consists  of  satires  and 
«pit;rams,  although  the  author  purposely  confounds  the 
diaiinclion  between  the  two: 


church  of  his  own.  Whilst  a  boy,  the  intensity 
of  his  studies  laid  the  seeds  of  his  future  blind- 
ness; and  at  that  period  the  Latin  verses  ad- 
dressed to  his  father  attest  not  only  the  prema- 
turity of  his  attainments,  but  the  endearing 
strength  of  his  aiTections. 

The  few  years  which  he  spent  at  his  father's 
house,  at  Horton,  in  Buckinghamshire,  after 
leaving  the  university,  and  before  setting  out  on 
his  travels,  were  perhaps  the  happiest  in  his  life. 
In  the  beautiful  scenery  of  that  spot,  disinclined 
to  any  profession  by  his  universal  .capacity,  and 
thirst  for  literature,  he  devoted  himself  to  study, 
and  wrote  the  most  exquisite  of  his  minor  poems. 
Such  a  mind,  in  the  opening  prime  of  its  genius, 
enjoying  rural  leisure  and  romantic  walks,  and 
luxuriating  in  the  production  of  Comus  and  the 
Arcades,  presents  an  inspiring  idea  of  human 
beatitude. 

When  turned  of  thirty  he  went  to  Italy,  the 
most  accomplished  Englishman  that  ever  visited 
her  classical  shores.  The  attentions  that  were 
shown  to  him  are  well  known.  We  find  him 
at  the  same  time,  though  a  stranger  and  a  heretic, 
boldly  expressing  his  opinions  within  the  verge 
of  the  Vatican.  There,  also,  if  poetry  ever 
deigns  to  receive  assistance  from  the  younger 
art,  his  imagination  may  have  derived  at  least 
congenial  impressions  from  the  frescoes  of 
Michael  Angelo,  and  the  pictures  of  Raphael ; 
and  those  impressions  he  may  have  possibly  re- 
called in  the  formation  of  his  great  poem,  when 

I  r»ll't  kn  Epigram  which  is  a  Satire. 

He  never  scruples  to  use  the  plalneat  terms,  and  though 
he  seldom  inserts  names,  he  spares  neither  rank  nor  con- 
dition.— CoLLihR.  Bi-idi/t.  Cat.  p.  3i] 

t  .Milton  was  early  in8tru<te<l  in  music.  As  a  poet  he 
speaks  like  one  habituated  to  inrpiratlon  under  its  influ- 
ence, and  seems  to  tmve  alta<-hed  considerable  importa&o* 
to  the  acienoe  in  his  system  of  nducatiiin. 


310 


JOHN   MILTON. 


his  eyes  were  shut  upon  the  world,  and  when 
he  looked  inwardly  for  "  godlike  shapes  and 
forms." 

In  the  eventful  year  after  his  return  from  the 
Continent,  the  fate  of  Episcopacy,  which  was  yet 
undecided,  seemed  to  depend  chiefly  on  the  in- 
fluence which  the  respective  parties  could  exer- 
cise upon  the  public  mind,  through  the  medium 
of  the  press,  which  was  now  set  at  liberty  by 
the  ordinance  (ff  the  Long  ParUament.  Mil- 
ton's strength  led  him  foremost  on  his  own  side 
of  the  controversy ;  he  defended  the  five  minis- 
ters, whose  book  was  entitled  Smectymnus,* 
against  the  learning  and  eloquence  of  Bishop 
Hall  and  Archbishop  Usher,  and  became,  in 
literary  warfare,  the  bulwark  of  his  party.  It  is 
performing  this  and  similar  services,  which  Dr. 
Johnson  calls  Milton's  vapouring  away  his  patriot- 
ism in  keeping  a  private  boarding-house  ;  and  such 
are  the  slender  performances  at  which  that  critic 
proposes  that  we  should  indulge  in  some  de- 
gree of  merriment.  Assuredly,  if  Milton  wielded 
the  pen  instead  of  the  sword,  in  public  dispute, 
his  enemies  had  no  reason  to  regard  the  former 
weapon  as  either  idle  or  impotent  in  his  hand. 
An  invitation  to  laugh  on  such  an  occasion,  may 


remind  us  of  what  Sternhold  and  Hopkins  de 
nominate  "  awful  mirth  ;"  for  of  all  topics  which 
an  enemy  to  Milton's  principles  could  select,  his 
impotence  in  maintaining  them  is  the  most  un- 
propitious  to  merriment. 

The  most  difficult  passage  of  his  life  for  his 
biographers  to  comment  upon  with  entire  satis- 
faction, is  his  continued  acceptani-e  of  Cromwell's 
wages  after  Cromwell  had  become  a  tyrant.  It 
would  be  uncandid  to  deny,  that  his  fear  of  the 
return  of  the  Stuarts,  the  symptoms  of  his  having 
been  seldom  at  the  usurper's  court,  and  the  cir- 
cumstance of  his  having  given  him  advice  to 
spare  the  liberties  of  the  people,  form  some  apology 
for  this  negative  adherence.  But  if  the  people, 
according  to  his  own  ideas,  were  capable  of  li- 
berty after  Cromwell's  death,  they  were  equally 
so  before  it;  and  a  renunciation  of  his  profits 
under  the  despot  would  have  been  a  nobler  and 
fuller  sacrifice  to  public  principles,  than  any  ad- 
vice. From  ordinary  men  this  was  more  than 
could  be  expected;  but  Milton  prescribed  to 
others  such  austerity  of  duty,  that  in  proportion 
to  the  altitude  of  his  character,  the  world,  which 
looked  to  him  for  example,  had  a  right  to  expect 
his  practical  virtue  to  be  severe. 


UPON  THE  CIRCUMCISION. 

Ye  flaming  powers,  and  winged  warriors  bright, 
That  erst  with  music  and  triumphant  song, 
First  heard  by  happy  watchful  shepherd's  ear, 
So  sweetly  sung  your  joy  the  clouds  along. 
Through  the  soft  silence  of  the  list'ning  night ; 
Now  mourn,  and  if  sad  share  with  us  to  bear 
Your  fiery  essence  can  distil  no  tear, 
Burn  in  your  sighs,  and  borrow 
Seas  wept  from  our  deep  sorrow ; 
He  who  with  all  Heaven's  heraldry  whilere 
Enter'd  the  world,  now  bleeds  to  give  us  ease ; 
Ala.s,  how  soon  our  sin 
Sore  doth  begin 

His  infancy  to  seize  ! 
O  more  exceeding  love,  or  law  more  just  ? 
Just  law  indeed,  but  more  exceeding  love  ! 
For  we  by  rightful  doom  remediless 
Were  lost  in  death,  till  he  that  dwelt  above 
High  throned  in  secret  bliss,  for  us  frail  dust 
Emptied  his  glory,  even  to  nakedness; 
And  that  great  covenant  which  we  still  transgress 
Entirely  satisfied. 
And  the  full  wrath  beside 
Of  vengeful  justice  bore  for  our  excess, 
And  seals  obedience  first  with  wounding  smart 
This  day,  but,  0  !  ere  long 
Huge  pangs  and  strong 

Will  pierce  more  near  his  heart. 

*  From  the  iiJtial  letters  of  their  names. 


SONNET  TO  THE  NIGHTINGALE. 

0  NIGHTINGALE,  that  on  yon  bloomy  spray 
Warblest  at  eve,  when  all  the  woods  are  still, 
Thou  with  fresh  hope  the  lover's  heart  dost 
fill. 

While  the  jolly  Hours  lead  on  propitious  May. 

Thy  liquid  notes  that  close  the  eye  of  day, 
First  heard  before  the  shallow  cuckow's  bill, 
Portend  success  in  love ;  0  if  Jove's  will 

Have  link'd  that  amorous  power  to  thy  soft  lay. 
Now  timely  sing,  ere  the  rude  bird  of  hate 

Foretell  my  hopeless  doom  in  some  grove  nigh  ; 
As  thou  from  year  to  year  hast  sung  too  late 

For  my  relief,  yet  hadst  no  reason  why  : 

Whether  the  Muse  or  Love  call  thee  his  mate, 

Both  of  them  I  serve,  and  of  their  train  am  I. 


SOXQ 


ON  MAY  MORNINO. 


Now  the  bright  morning  Star,  day's  harbinger, 
Comes  dancing  from  the  east,  and  leads  with  her 
The  flow'ry  May,  who  from  her  green  lap  throws 
The  yellow  cowslip,  and  the  pale  primrose. 
Hail,  bounteous  May  !   that  dost  inspire 
Mirth,  and  youth,  and  warm  desire; 
Woods  and  groves  are  of  thy  dressing. 
Hill  and  dale  doth  boast  thy  blessing ! 
Thus  we  salute  thee  with  our  early  song, 
And  welcome  thee,  and  wish  thee  long. 


JOHN   MILTON. 


811 


AN  EPITAPH  ON  THE   ADMIRABLE  DRAMATICK 
POET,  WILLIAM  SHAKSPEARE* 

What  needs  my  Shakspeare  for  his  honour'd 

bones, 
The  labour  of  an  age  in  piled  stones, 
Or  that  his  hallow'd  relics  should  be  hid 
Under  a  star-y  pointing  pyramid  ! 
Dear  son  of  Memory,  great  heir  of  fame, 
What  need'st  thou  such   weak  witness  of  thy 

name? 
Thou  in  our  wonder  and  astonishment 
Hast  built  thyself  a  live-Iong  monument. 
For  whilst  to  the  shame  of  slow-endeavouring 

art 
Thy  easy  numbers  flow,  and  that  each  heart 
Hath  from  the  leaves  of  thy  unvalued  book 
Those  Delphic  lines  with  deep  impression  took ; 
Then  thou  our  fancy  of  itself  bereaving. 
Dost  make  us  marble  with  too  much  conceiving ; 
And  so  sepulchred,  in  such  pomp  dost  lie, 
That  kings,  for  such  a  tomb  would  wish  to  die. 


SONNET  ON  HIS  BLINDNESS. 

Whek  I  consider  how  my  light  is  spent 

Ere  half  my  days  in  this  dark  world  and  wide, 
And  that  one  talent  which  is  death  to  hide, 

Lodged  with  me  useless,  though  my  soul  more  bent 

To  serve  therewith  my  Maker,  and  present 
My  true  account,  lest  He  returning  chide; 
"  Doth  God  exact  day-labour,  light  denied," 

I  fondly  ask  1  but  Patience  to  prevent 

That  murmur,  soon  replies, "  God  doth  not  need 

Either  man's  work  or  his  own  gifts ;  who  best 
Bear  His  mild  yoke,  they  serve  Him  best:  His 
state. 
Is  kingly ;  thousands  at  His  bidding  speed. 

And  post  o'er  land  and  ocean  without  rest ; 

They  also  serve  who  only  stand  and  wait." 


SONNET  ON  HIS  DECEASED  WIFE. 

Methoitoht  I  saw  my  late  espoused  saint 
Brought  to  me  like  Alcestis  from  the  grave. 
Whom  Jove's  great  son  to  her  glad  husband  gave 

Rescued  from  death  by  force,  though  pale  and  faint. 

Mine,  as  whom  wash'd  from  spot  of  child-bed  taint. 
Purification  in  the  old  Law  did  save. 
And  such,  as  yet  once  more  I  trust  to  have 

Full  sight  of  her  in  Heaven  without  restraint. 
Came  vested  all  in  white,  pure  as  her  mind: 

Her  face  was  veil'd,  yet  to  my  fancied  sight 
Love,  sweetness,  goodness,  in  her  person  shined 

So  clear,  as  in  no  face  with  more  delight. 
But,  O  !  as  to  embrace  me  she  inclined, 

I  waked,  she  fled,  and  day  brought  back  my  night 

[*  We  have  copied  this  title  at  full  lentrth  from  the  ptK'in 
ao  it  wa.<  first  printed:  "  It  is  true.'"  s-iyg  Sir  Walter  S<-ott, 
-''that  Milton  de8cen<led  to  iiphraid  the  unfortunate 
Ch;u-le8  1..  that  the  chusen  coin|ianion  of  hisprivato  hours 
was  ont  William  Shakspfore,  a  player."  (Life  nf  l>ri/(Un, 
p.  9.)  Nothing  is  more  untrue,  and  we  quote  the  pa.'8»i:e: 
''The  poets,  and  some  iCugit'<h.  bare  been  so  mindful  of 
decorum,  as  to  put  never  more  piou.i  won  Is  in  the  mouth 
of  auy  person  than  of  a  tyrant.    I  shall  not  iustanco  an 


ATUENS. 
rBOx  BOOK  rv.  of  paradise  RBOAnnD. 
Look  once  more  ere  we  leave  this  specular  mount. 
Westward,  much  nearer  by  south-west  behold 
Where  on  the  ^Egean  shore  a  city  stands 
Built  nobly,  pure  the  air  and  light  the  soil, 
Athens,  the  eye  of  Greece,  mother  of  art^ 
And  eloquence,  native  to  famous  wits 
Or  hospitable,  in  her  sweet  recess. 
City  or  suburban,  studious  walks  and  shades  ; 
See  there  the  olive  grove  of  Academe, 
Plato's  retirement,  where  the  Attic  bird 
Trills  her  thick-warbled  notes  the  summer  long; 
There,  flowery  hill,  Hymettus,  with  the  soand 
Of  bees'  industrious  murmur,  oft  invites 
To  studious  musing  ;  there  Ilissus  roils 
His  whispering  stream :  within  the  walls  then  view 
The  schools  of  ancient  sages  ;  his  who  bred 
Great  Alexander  to  subdue  the  world, 
Lyceum  there,  and  painted  Stoa  next : 
There  shalt  thou  hear  and  learn  the  secret  power 
Of  harmony  in  tones  and  numbers  hit 
By  voice  or  hand,  and  various-measured  verse, 
j£olian  charms,  and  Dorian  lyric  odes. 
And  his  who  gave  them  breath,  but  higher  sung, 
Blind  Melesigenes,  thence  Homer  call'd. 
Whose  poem  Phoebus  challenged  for  his  own. 
Thence  what  the  lofty  grave  tragedians  taught 
In  chorus  or  iambic,  teachers  best 
Of  moral  prudence,  with  delight  received 
In  brief  sententious  precepts,  while  they  treat 
Of  fate,  and  chance,  and  change  in  human  life ; 
High  actions  and  high  passions  best  describing ; 
Thence  to  the  famous  orators  repair. 
Those  ancient,  whose  resistless  eloquence 
Wielded  At  will  that  fierce  democratie. 
Shook  the  arsenal,  and  fulmined  over  Greece, 
To  Macedon  and  Artaxerxea'  throne. 


SAMSON  BEWAIUNO  HIS  BLINDNESS  AND 

CAPTIVITY. 

(Attendant  leading  him.) 

FROM   SAMSOW  AliONISTBS. 

A  LITTLE  onward  lend  thy  guiding  hand 
To  these  dark  steps,  a  little  further  on : 
For  yonder  bank  hath  choice  of  sun  or  shade; 
There  I  am  wont  to  sit,  when  any  chance 
Relieves  me  from  my  ta.sk  of  servile  toil. 
Daily  in  the  common  prison  else  enjoin'd  me. 
Where  I  a  prisoner  chain'd,  scarce  freely  draw 
The  air  imprison'd  also,  close  and  damp, 
Unwholsome  draught :  but  here  I  feel  amends. 
The  breath  of  heaven  fresh  blowing,  pure  and  sweet, 
With  day-spring  born;  here  leave  me  to  respire. — 
This  day  a  solemn  feast  the  people  hold 

abstruse  author,  wherein  the  kin;;  [Charle.<<  I.]  might  be 
less  i-onvursaut,  but  one  whom  we  well  know  was  the 
closet  companion  of  those,  his  lolitudes.  William  8hak- 
S(H>.ire.  who  iutrodures  the  perxon  of  Uicbard  lU."  Ac, 
S)>«aking  such  stujf,  he  goes  on  to  say,  as  the  king  has 
written,  and  deep  di'^semblers  indulge  in.  M'hat  is  thers 
in  this  dir^respei'tful  to  the  "sweetest  Shakspeare,  Fancr's 
child,''  of  his  juTenile  verses  ?■ 


To  Dagon  their  sea-idol,  and  forbid 
Laborious  works  ;  unwillingly  this  rest 
Their  superstition  yields  me ;  hence  with  leave 
Retiring  from  the  popular  noise,  I  seek 
This  unfrequented  place  to  find  some  ease, 
Ease  to  the  body  some,  none  to  the  mind, 
From  restless  thoughts,  that  like  a  deadly  swarm 
Of  hornets  arm'd,  no  sooner  found  alone. 
But  rush  upon  me  thronging,  and  present 
Times  past,  what  once  I  was,  and  what  am  now. 
0  wherefore  was  my  birth  from  Heaven  foretold 
Twice  by  an  angel,  who  at  last  in  sight 
Of  both  my  parents  all  in  flames  ascended 
From  off  the  altar,  where  an  offering  burn'd, 
As  in  a  fiery  column,  charioting 
His  godlike  presence,  and  from  some  great  act 
Or  benefit  reveal'd  to  Abraham's  race  1 
Why  was  my  breeding  order'd  and  prescribed 
As  of  a  person  separate  to  God, 
Design'd  for  great  exploits ;  if  I  must  die 
Betray'd,  captived,  and  both  my  eyes  put  out. 
Made  of  my  enemies  the  scorn  and  gaze ; 
To  grind  in  brazen  fetters  under  task 
With  this  heaven-gifted  strength  ]      0  glorious 
Put  to  the  labour  of  a  beast,  debased     [strength 
Lower  than  bond-slave !     Promise  was  that  I 
Should  Israel  from  Philistian  yoke  deliver ; 
Ask  for  this  great  deliverer  now,  and  find  him 
Eyeless  in  Gaza,  at  the  mill  with  slaves, 
Himself  in  bonds,  under  Philistian  yoke. 
•  •  »  * 

O  loss  of  sight,  of  thee  I  most  complain  ! 

Blind  among  enemies,  0  worse  than  chains, 

Dungeon,  or  beggary,  or  decrepit  age  ! 

Light,  the  prime  work  of  God,  to  me  is  extinct. 

And  all  her  various  objects  of  delight 

AnnuU'd,  which  might  in  part  my  grief  have 

Inferior  to  the  vilest  now  become  [eased. 

Of  man  or  worm  :  the  vilest  here  excel  me  ; 

They  creep,  yet  see ;  I,  dark  in  light,  exposed 

To  daily  fraud,  contempt,  abuse,  and  wrong, 

Within  doors  or  without,  still  as  a  fool. 

In  power  of  others,  never  in  my  own ; 

Scarce  half  I  seem  to  live,  dead  more  than  half. 

O  dark,  dark,  dark,  amid  the  blaze  of  noon, 

Irrecoverably  dark,  total  eclipse 

Without  all  hope  of  day  ! 

0  first  created  Beam,  and  thou  great  Word, 

"  Let  there  be  light,  and  light  was  over  all ;" 

Why  am  I  thus  bereaved  thy  prime  decree  1 

The  sun  to  me  is  dark 

And  silent  as  the  moon. 

When  she  deserts  the  night, 

Hid  in  her  vacant  interlunar  cave. 

Since  light  so  necessary  is  to  life, 

And  almost  life  itself,  if  it  be  true 

That  light  is  in  the  soul. 

She  all  in  every  part ;  why  was  the  sight 

To  such  a  tender  ball  as  the  eye  confined. 

So  obvious  and  so  easy  to  be  quench'd  ? 

And  not  as  feeling  through  all  parts  diffused, 

'J'hat  she  might  look  at  will  through  every  pore  1 

Then  had  I  not  been  thus  exiled  from  light, 

As  in  the  land  of  darkness  yet  in  light. 

To  hve  a  life  half  dead,  a  living  death. 


And  buried  :  but  0  yet  more  miserable  ! 

Myself  my  sepulchre,  a  moving  grave. 

Buried,  yet  not  exempt 

By  privilege  of  death  and  burial, 

From  worst  of  other  evils,  pains,  and  wrongs  ; 

But  made  hereby  obnoxious  more 

To  all  the  miseries  of  life, 

Ijife  in  captivity 

Among  inhuman  foes. 


SPEECHES,  OF  MANOAH  THE  FATHER  OF  SAMSOX, 
AND  OF  TIXE  CHORUS,  OX  HEARING  OF  HIS 
LAST  ACHIEVEMENT  AND  DEATH. 

Manoah.  Samson  hath  quit  himself 
Like  Samson,  and  heroically  hath  finish'd 
A  life  heroic ;  on  his  enemies 
Fully  revenged,  hath  left  them  years  of  mourning, 
And  lamentation  to  the  sons  of  Caphtor 
Through  all  Philistian  bounds,  to  Israel 
Honour  hath  left,  and  freedom,  let  but  them 
Find  courage  to  lay  hold  on  this  occasion  ; 
To  himself  and  father's  house  eternal  fame. 
And  which  is  best  and  happiest  yet,  all  this 
With  God  not  parted  from  him,  as  was  fear'd, 
But  favouring  and  assisting  to  the  eiid. 
Nothing  is  here  for  tears,  nothing  to  wail 
Or  knock  the  breast ;  no  weakness,  no  contempt, 
Dispraise,  or  blame,  nothing  but  well  and  fair, 
And  what  may  quiet  us  in  a  death  so  noble. 
Let  us  go  find  the  body  where  it  lies 
Soak'd  in  his  enemies'  blood,  and  from  the  stream. 
With  lavers  pure,  and  cleansing  herbs,  wash  off 
The  clotted  gore.     I  with  what  speed  the  while 
(Gaza  is  not  in  plight  to  say  us  nay,) 
Will  send  for  all  my  kindred,  all  my  friends, 
To  fetch  him  hence,  and  solemnly  attend 
With  silent  obsequy,  and  funeral  train. 
Home  to  his  father's  house :  there  will  I  build  him 
A  monument,  and  plant  it  round  with  shade 
Of  laurel  ever  green,  and  branching  palm, 
With  all  his  trophies  hung,  and  acts  inroU'd 
In  copious  legend,  or  sweet  lyric  song. 
Thither  shall  all  the  valiant  youth  resort. 
And  from  his  memory  inflame  their  breasts 
To  matchless  valour,  and  adventures  high  : 
The  virgins  also  shall  on  feastful  days 
Visit  his  tomb  with  flowers,  only  bewailing 
His  lot  unfortunate  in  nuptial  choice. 
From  whence  captivity  and  loss  of  eyes. 

Chorus,  All  is  best,  though  we  oft  doubt 
What  th'  unsearchable  dispose 
Of  highest  Wisdom  brings  about. 
And  ever  best  found  in  the  close. 
Oft  he  seems  to  hide  his  face, 
But  unexpectedly  returns. 
And  to  his  faithful  champion  hath  in  place 
Bore  witness  gloriously  ;  whence  Gaza  mourns. 
And  all  that  band  them  to  resist 
His  uncontrollable  intent; 
His  servants  he  with  new  acquist 
Of  true  experience  from  this  great  event. 
With  peace  and  consolation  hath  dismiss'd 
And  calm  of  mind  all  passion  spent. 


JOHN   MILTON. 


813 


FROM  COMUS. 

Tin  first  Scene  discovers  a  wild  wood. 

The  Attendant  Spirit  descends  or  enters. 

Before  the  starry  threshold  of  Jove's  court 
My  mansion  is,  where  tliose  immortal  shapes 
Of  bright  aerial  spirits  live  insphered 
In  regions  mild  of  calm  and  serene  air, 
Above  the  smoke  and  stir  of  this  dim  spot   [care 
Which  men  call  Earth,  and  with  low-thoughted 
Confined,  and  pester'd  in  this  pin-fold  here, 
Strive  to  keep  up  a  frail  and  feverish  being, 
Unmindful  of  the  crown  that  Virtue  gives. 
After  this  mortal  change,  to  her  true  servants. 
Amongst  the  enthron'd  gods,  on  sainted  seats. 
Yet  some  there  be  that  by  due  steps  aspire 
To  lay  their  just  hands  on  that  golden  key 
That  opes  the  palace  of  Eternity  : 
To  such  my  errand  is;  and  but  for  such, 
I  would  not  soil  these  pure  ambrosial  weeds 
With  the  rank  vapours  of  this  sin-worn  mould. 

But  to  my  task.     Neptune,  besides  the  sway 
Of  every  salt-flood,  and  each  ebbing  stream, 
Took  in  by  lot  'twixt  high  and  nether  Jove, 
Imperial  rule  of  all  the  sea-girt  isles. 
That  like  to  rich  and  various  gems  inlay 
The  unadorned  bosom  of  the  deep, 
Which  he  to  grace  his  tributary  gods 
By  course  commits  to  several  government. 
And   gives   them  leave  to  wear  their  sapphire 

crowns, 
And  wield  their  little  tridents :  but  this  isle, 
The  greatest  and  the  best  of  all  the  main. 
He  quarters  to  his  blue-hair'd  deities ; 
And  all  this  tract  that  fronts  the  falling  sun, 
A  noble  peer  of  mickle  trust  and  power 
Has  in  his  charge,  with  temper'd  awe  to  guide 
An  old  and  haughty  nation  proud  in  arms: 
Where  his  fair  offspring,  nursed  in  princely  lore. 
Are  coming  to  attend  their  father's  state. 
And  new-entrusted  sceptre  ;  but  their  way   [wood, 
Lies  through  the  perplex'd  paths  of  this  drear 
The  nodding  horror  of  whose  shady  brows 
Threats  the  forlorn  and  wandering  passenger ; 
And  here  their  tender  age  might  suffer  peril. 
But  that  by  quick  command  from  sovereign  Jove 
I  was  despatch'd  for  their  defence  and  guard ; 
And  listen  why ;  for  I  will  tell  you  now 
What  never  yet  was  heard  in  tale  or  song. 
From  old  or  modern  bard,  in  hall  or  bower. 

Bacchus,  that  first  from  out  the  purple  grape 
Crush'd  the  sweet  poison  of  misused  wine. 
After  the  Tuscan  mariners  transform'd. 
Coasting  the  Tyrrhene  shore,  as  the  winds  listed, 
On  Circe's  island  fell :  (Who  knows  not  Circe, 
The  daughter  of  the  SunT  whose  charmed  cup 
Whoever  tasted,  lost  his  upright  shape. 
And  downward  fell  into  a  groveling  swine,) 
This  nymph,  that  gazed  upon  his  clust' ring  locks 
With  ivy  berries  wreath'd,  and  his  blythe  youth. 
Had  by  him,  ere  he  parted  thence,  a  son 
Much  like  his  father,  but  his  mother  more. 
Whom  therefore  she   brought   up,  and  Comus 

named. 
Who  ripe,  and  frolic  of  his  full  grown  age, 
40 


Roving  the  Celtic  and  Iberian  fields. 

At  last  betakes  him  to  this  ominous  wood. 

And  in  thick  shelter  of  black  shades  imbower'd. 

Excels  his  mother  at  her  mighty  art, 

Offering  to  every  weary  traveller 

His  orient  liquor  in  a  crystal  glass,  [taste. 

To  quench  the  drought  of  Phoebus,  which  as  they 

(For  most  do  taste,  through  fond  intemp'rate  thirnt) 

Soon  as  the  potion  works,  their  human  count'nance, 

Th'  express  resemblance  of  the  gods,  is  changed 

Into  some  brutish  form  of  wolf  or  bear. 

Or  ounce  or  tiger,  hog  or  bearded  goat, 

All  other  parts  remaining  as  they  were ; 

And  they,  so  perfect  is  their  misery. 

Not  once  perceive  their  foul  disfigurement, 

But  boast  themselves  more  comely  than  before 

And  all  their  friends  and  native  home  forget, 

To  roll  with  pleasure  in  a  sensual  sty. 

Therefore,  when  any  favour'd  of  high  Jove 

Chances  to  pass  through  this  advent'rous  glade, 

Swift  as  the  sparkle  of  a  glancing  star 

I  shoot  from  heaven  to  give  him  safe  convoy, 

As  now  I  do :  but  first  I  must  put  ofT 

These  my  sky-robes,  spun  out  of  Iris'  woof. 

And  take  the  weeds  and  likeness  of  a  swain 

That  to  the  service  of  this  house  belongs. 

Who  with  his  soft  pipe,  and  smooth-ditfied  song, 

Well  knows  to  still  the  wild  winds  when  they  roar, 

And  hush  the  waving  woods ;  nor  of  less  faith. 

And  in  this  oflice  of  his  mountain  watch. 

Likeliest,  and  nearest  to  the  present  aid 

Of  this  occasion.     But  I  hear  the  tread 

Of  hateful  steps.     I  must  be  viewless  now. 

Comus  enters  with  a  charmlnR-rod  in  one  hand,  his  glass 
in  the  other ;  with  him  a  rout  of  monsters,  headed  lik(  . 
sundry  sorts  of  wild  l)eiisl8,  but  otherwise  like  men  and 
womeu,  their  upparel  xlistenin^;  they  <-ome  in,  making 
a  riotous  and  unruly  noi^e,  with  torches  in  their  hands. 

Comus.  The  star  that  bids  the  shepherd  fold. 
Now  the  top  of  heaven  doth  hold, 
And  the  gilded  car  of  Day, 
His  glowing  axle  doth  allay 
In  the  steep  Atlantic  stream, 
And  the  slope  sun  his  upward  beam 
Shoots  against  the  dusky  pole, 
Pacing  toward  the  other  goal 
Of  his  chamber  in  the  East. 
Meanwhile,  welcome  Joy  and  Feast, 
Midnight  Shout  and  Revelry, 
Tipsy  Dance,  and  Jollity. 
Braid  your  locks  with  rosy  twine, 
Dropping  odours,  dropping  wine. 
Rigour  now  is  gone  to  bed. 
And  Advice  with  scrupulous  head, 
Strict  Age,  and  sour  Severity, 
With  their  grave  saws  in  slumber  li<i. 
We  that  sure  of  purer  fir« 
Imitate  the  starry  quire. 
Who  in  their  nightly  watchful  spheres. 
Lead  in  swift  round  the  months  and  years. 
The  sounds  and  seas,  with  all  their  finny  drovn 
Now  to  the  moon  in  wavering  morrice  move ; 
And  on  the  tawny  sands  and  shelves 
Trip  the  pert  fairies  and  the  dapper  elves. 
By  dimpled  btook  and  fountain  brim, 
2B 


814 


JOHN   MILTON. 


The  wood-nymphs,  deck'd  with  d^ies  trim, 

Their  merry  wakes  and  pastimes  keep ; 

What  hath  night  to  do  with  sleep  1 

Night  hath  better  sweets  to  prove, 

Venus  now  wakes,  and  wakens  Love. 

Come,  let  us  our  rites  begin, 

'Tis  only  day-light  that  makes  sin, 

Which  these  dun  shades  will  ne'er  report. — 

Hail,  goddess  of  nocturnal  sport, 

Dark-veil'd  Cotytto !  t'  whom  the  secret  flame 

Of  midnight  torches  burns;  mysterious  dame! 

That  ne'er  art  call'd,  but  when  the  dragon  womb 

Of  Stygian  darkness  spets  her  thickest  gloom, 

And  makes  one  blot  of  all  the  air. 

Stay  thy  cloudy  ebon  chair, 

Wherein  thou  ridest  with  Hecate,  and  befiriend 

Us  thy  vow'd  priests,  till  utmost  end 

Of  all  thy  dues  be  done,  and  none  left  out; 

Ere  the  blabbing  eastern  scout. 

The  nice  morn  on  the  Indian  steep 

From  her  cabin'd  loophole  peep, 

And  to  the  tell-tale  sun  descry 

Our  conceal'd  solemnity. 

Come,  knit  hands,  and  beat  the  ground 

In  a  light  fantastic  round. 

IJu  Jleature. 
Break  off,  break  off,  I  feel  the  different  pace 
Of  some  chaste  footing  near  about  this  ground. 
Run  to  your  shrouds,  within  these  brakes  and  trees ; 
Our  number  may  affright  ■,  some  virgin  sure 
(For  so  I  can  distinguish  by  mine  art) 
Benighted  in  these  woods      Now  to  my  charms, 
And  to  my  wily  trains :  I  shall  ere  long 
Be  well  stock'd  with  as  fair  a  herd  as  grazed 
About  my  mother  Circe.     Thus  I  hurl 
My  dazzling  spells  into  the  spungy  air, 
Of  power  to  cheat  the  eye  with  blear  illusion. 
And  give  it  false  presentments,  lest  the  place 
And  my  quaint  habits  breed  astonishment. 
And  put  the  damsel  to  suspicious  flight ; 
Which  must  not  be,  for  that's  against  my  course : 
I  under  fair  pretence  of  friendly  ends. 
And  well-placed  words  of  glozing  courtesy. 
Baited  with  reasons  not  unplausible. 
Wind  me  into  the  easy-hearted  man, 
And  hug  him  into  snares.     When  once  her  eye 
Hath  met  the  virtue  of  this  magic  dust, 
I  shall  appear  some  harmless  villager, 
Whom  thrift  keeps  up  about  his  country  gear. 
But  here  she  comes;  I  fairly  step  aside, 
And  hearken,  if  I  may,  her  business  here. 

The  Ladt  Enters. 

Lady.  This  way  the  noise  was,  if  mine  ear  be  true, 
My  best  guide  now ;  methought  it  was  the  sound 
Of  riot  and  ill-managed  merriment. 
Such  as  the  jocund  flute,  or  gamesome  pipe. 
Stirs  up  among  the  loose  unletter'd  hinds, 
When  for  their  teeming  flocks,  and  granges  full, 
In  wanton  dance  they  praise  the  bounteous  Pan, 
And  thank  the  gods  amiss.     I  should  be  loth 
To  meet  the  rudeness  and  swill'd  insolence 
Ot  such  late  wassailers;  yet  O,  where  else 
Shall  I  inform  my  unacquainted  feet 


In  the  blind  mazes  of  this  tangled  wood  ? 
My  brothers,  when  they  saw  me  wearied  out 
With  this  long  way,  resolving  here  to  lodge 
Under  the  spreading  favour  of  these  pines, 
Stept,  as  they  said,  to  the  next  thicket  side, 
To  bring  me  berries,  or  such  cooling  fruit 
As  the  kind  hospitable  woods  provide. 
They  left  me  then,  when  the  gray-hooded  Even, 
Like  a  sad  votarist  in  palmer's  weed. 
Rose  from  the  hindmost  wheels  of  Phoebus'  wain. 
But  where  they  are,  and  why  they  came  not  back. 
Is  now  the  labour  of  my  thoughts;  'tis  likeliest 
They  had  engag'd  their  wand'ring  steps  too  far. 
And  envious  darkness,  ere  they  could  return. 
Had  stole  them  from  me;  else,  O  thievish  Night, 
Why  wouldst  thou,  but  for  some  felonious  end, 
In  thy  dark  lantern  thus  close  up  the  stars 
That  Nature  hung  in  heaven,  and  fill'd  their  lampa 
With  everlasting  oil,  to  give  due  light 
To  the  misled  and  lonely  traveller! 
This  is  the  place,  as  well  as  I  may  guess, 
Whence  even  now  the  tumult  of  loud  mirth 
Was  rife  and  perfect  in  my  list'ning  ear ; 
Yet  naught  but  single  darkness  do  I  find. 
What  might  this  be  ]     A  thousand  fantasies 
Begin  to  throng  into  my  memory, 
Of  calling  shapes,  and  beck'ning  shadows  dire. 
And  airy  tongues  that  syllable  men's  names 
On  sands,  and  shores,  and  desert  wildernesses. 
These  thoughts  may  startle  well,  but  not  astound 
The  virtuous  mind,  that  ever  walks  attended 
By  a  strong-siding  champion.  Conscience. 

0  welcome  pure-eyed  Faith,  white-handed  Hope, 
Thou  hovering  Angel,  girt  with  golden  wings. 
And  thou,  unblemish'd  form  of  Chastity  ! 

1  see  ye  visibly,  and  now  believe 

That  He,  the  Supreme  Good,  t'  whom  all  things  ill 

Are  but  as  slavish  officers  of  vengeance, 

Would  send  a  glist'ring  guardian,  if  need  were. 

To  keep  my  life  and  honour  unassail'd. 

Was  I  deceived,  or  did  a  sable  cloud 

Turn  forth  her  silver  lining  on  the  night  1 

I  did  not  err ;  there  does  a  sable  cloud 

Turn  forth  her  silver  lining  on  the  night, 

And  casts  a  gleam  over  this  tufted  grove. 

I  cannot  halloo  to  my  brothers,  but 

Such  noise  as  I  can  make  to  be  heard  farthest 

I'll  venture  ;  for  my  new  enliven'd  spirits 

Prompt  me  ;  and  they  perhaps  are  not  far  off. 


Sweet  Echo,  sweetest  nymph,  that  lives  unseen 
Within  thy  airy  shell 
By  slow  Meander's  margent  green, 
And  in  the  violet-embroider'd  vale. 

Where  the  love-lorn  nightingale 
Nightly  to  thee  her  sad  song  mourneth  well ; 
Canst  thou  not  tell  me  of  a  gentle  pair 
That  likest  thy  Narcissus  are! 
O  if  thou  have 
Hid  them  in  some  flow'ry  cave. 
Tell  me  but  where. 
Sweet  queen  of  parly,  daughter  of  the  Sphere  ; 
So  mayst  thou  be  translated  to  the  skies,    [nies. 
And  give  resounding  grace  to  all  Heaven's  harmo- 


JOHN    MILTON. 


815 


Enter  CoMUS. 

Conius.  Can  any  mortal.mixtureof  earth'smould, 
Breathe  such  divine  enchanting  ravishment  ? 
Sure  something  holy  lodges  in  that  breast. 
And  with  these  raptures  moves  the  vocal  air 
To  testify  his  hidden  residence : 
How  sweetly  did  they  float  upon  the  wings 
Of  silence,  through  the  empty  vaulted  night, 
At  every  fall  smoothing  the  raven  down 
Of  darkiiess  till  it  smiled !     I  have  oft  heard 
My  mother  Circe,  with  the  Sirens  three, 
Amidst  the  flow'ry-kirtled  Naiades, 
CuHing  their  potent  herbs  and  baleful  drugs, 
Who  as  they  sung,  would  take  the  prison'd  soul. 
And  lap  it  in  Elysium  ;  Scyila  wept. 
And  chid  her  barking  waves  into  attention. 
And  fell  Charybdis  murmur'd  soft  applause  : 
Yet  they  in  pleasing  slumber  lull'd  the  sense, 
And  in  sweet  madness  robb'd  it  of  itself. 
But  such  a  sacred  and  home-felt  delight, 
Such  sober  certainty  of  waking  bliss, 
I  never  heard  till  now.     I'll  speak  to  her. 
And  she  shall  be  my  qtieen.  Hail,  foreign  wonder! 
Whom  certain  these  rough  shades  did  never  breed. 
Unless  the  goddess  that  in  rural  shrine 
Dwell'st  here  with  Pan,  or  Sylvan,  by  blest  song 
Forbidding  every  bleak  unkindly  fog 
To  touch  the  prosp'rous  growth  of  this  tall  wood. 

Lady.  Nay,  gentle  shepherd,  ill  is  lost  that  praise 
That  is  address'd  to  unattending  ears ; 
Not  any  boast  of  skill,  but  extreme  shift 
How  to  regain  my  sever'd  company, 
Compell'd  me  to  awake  the  courteous  Echo 
To  give  me  answer  from  her  mossy  couch. 

Comus.  What  chance,  good  lady,  hath  bereft 
you  thur? 

Lady.  Dim  darkness  and  this  leafy  labyrinth. 

Comus.    Could    that   divide   you    from    near- 
ushering  guides! 

Lady.  They  left  me  weary  on  a  grassy  turf. 

Conius.  By  falsehood,  or  discourtesy,  or  why  ? 

Lady.  To  seek  i'  th'  valley  some  cool  friendly 
spring. 

Comus.  And  left  your  fair  side  all  unguarded, 
lady? 

Lady  They  were  but  twain,  and  purposed  quick 
return. 

Conius.   Perhaps  forestalling  Night  prevented 
them. 

Lady.  How  easy  my  misfortune  is  to  hit! 

Conjus.  Imports  their  loss,  beside  the  present 
need] 

Lady.  No  less  than  if  I  should  my  brothers 
lose. 

Contus.  Were  they  of  manly  prime,  or  youthful 
bloom  1 

Lady.  As  smooth  as  Hebe's  their  unrazor'd  lips, 

Cotnut.  Two  such  I  saw,  what  time  the  labour'd 
In  his  loose  traces  from  the  furrow  came,         [ox 
And  the  swinkt  hedger  at  his  supper  sat ; 
I  saw  them  under  a  green  mantling  vine 
That  crawls  along  the  side  of  yon  small  hill, 
Plucking  ripe  clusters  from  the  tender  shoots. 
Their  port  was  more  than  human  as  they  stood ; 


I  took  it  for  #  faery  vision 

Of  some  gay  creatures  of  the  element, 

That  in  the  colours  of  the  rainbow  live. 

And  play  i'  th'  plighted  clouds.     I  was  awe-struck, 

And  as  I  pass'd,  I  worshipp'd ;  if  those  you  seek, 

It  were  a  journey  like  a  path  to  heaven. 

To  help  you  find  them. 

Lady.  Gentle  villager. 
What  readiest  way  would  bring  me  to  that  place  ' 

Comus.  Due  west  it  rises  from  this  shrubby  point. 

Lady.  To  find  out  that,  good  shepherd,  I  sup- 
In  such  a  scant  allowance  of  star-light,        [pose, 
Would  over-task  the  best  land-pilot's  art. 
Without  the  sure  guess  of  well-practised  feet. 

Comus.  I  know  each  lane,  and  every  alley  green. 
Dingle,  or  bushy  dell  of  this  wild  wood. 
And  every  bosky  bourn  from  side  to  side. 
My  daily  walks  and  ancient  neighbourhood  ; 
And  if  your  stray  attendants  be  yet  lodged, 
Or  shroud  within  these  limits,  I  shall  know 
Ere  morrow  wake,  or  the  low-roosted  lark 
From  her  thatch'd  pallet  rouse ;  if  otherwise, 
I  can  conduct  you,  lady,  to  a  low 
But  loyal  cottage,  where  you  may  be  safe 
Till  further  quest. 

Lady.  Shepherd,  I  take  thy  word. 
And  trust  thy  honest  offer'd  courtesy. 
Which  oft  is  sooner  found  in  lowly  sheds 
With  smoky  raflers,  than  in  tap'stry  halls. 
And  courts  of  princes,  where  it  first  was  named, 
And  yet  is  most  pretended  :  in  a  place 
Less  warranted  than  this,  or  less  secure, 
I  cannot  be,  that  I  should  fear  to  change  it 
Eye  me,  blest  Providence,  and  square  my  *rial 
To  my  proportion'd  strength.     Shepherd,  Jead  on 


CHASTITT. 

FROM  THE  BAMB. 

Mt  sister  is  not  so  defenceless  left 

As  you  imagine ;  she  has  a  hidden  strength 

Which  you  remember  not. 

•  •  •  • 

'Tis  Chastity,  my  brother,  Chastity : 
She  that  has  that  is  clad  in  c6mplete  steel, 
And  like  a  quiver'd  nymph,  with  arrows  keen. 
May  trace  huge  forests,  and  unharbour'd  heaths, 
Infamous  hills  and  sandy  perilous  wilds. 
Where  through  the  sacred  rays  of  Chastity, 
No  savage  fierce,  bandit,  or  mountaineer, 
Will  dare  to  soil  her  virgin  purity : 
Yea,  there,  where  very  desolation  dwells. 
By  grots,  and  caverns  shagg'd  with  horrid  shades. 
She  may  pass  on  with  unblench'd  majesty. 
Be  it  not  done  in  pride,  or  in  presumption. 
Some  say  no  evil  thing  that  walks  by  night. 
In  fog  or  fire,  by  lake  or  moorish  fen. 
Blue  meagre  hag,  or  stubborn  unlaid  ghost. 
That  breaks  his  magic  chains  at  curfew  time 
No  goblin  or  swart  fairy  of  the  mine. 
Hath  hurtful  power  o'er  true  virginity. 
Do  ye  believe  me  yet.  or  shall  I  call 
Antiquity  from  the  old  schools  of  Greece, 
To  testify  the  arms  of  Chastity  1 


816 


JOHN  MILTON. 


Hence  had  the  huntress  Dian  her  diead  bow. 
Fair  silver-shafted  queen,  for  ever  chaste, 
Wherewith  she  tamed  the  brinded  lioness 
And  spotted  mountain  pard,  but  set  at  naught 
The  frivolous  bolt  of  Cupid ;  gods  and  men 
Fear'd  her  stern  frown,  and  she  was  Queen  o'  th' 

Woods. 
What  was  that  snaky-headed  Gorgon  shield, 
That  wise  Minerva  wore,  unconquer'd  virgin. 
Wherewith  she  freezed  her  foes  to  c6ngeard  stone. 
But  rigid  looks  of  chaste  austerity. 
And  noble  grace  that  dash'd  brute  violence 
With  sudden  adoration,  and  blank  awe] 
So  dear  to  Heaven  is  saintly  Chastity, 
That  when  a  soul  is  found  sincerely  so, 
A  thousand  liveried  angels  lacquey  her, 
Driving  far  off  each  thing  of  sin  and  guilt. 
And  in  clear  dream  and  solemn  vision, 
Tell  her  of  things  that  no  gross  ear  can  hear, 
Till  oft  converse  with  heavenly  habitants 
Begin  to  cast  a  beam  on  th'  outward  shape, 
The  unpolluted  temple  of  the  mind, 
And  turns  it  by  degrees  to  the  soul's  essence, 
1  ill  all  be  made  immortal, 


SONG. 


Sabrina  fair, 

Listen  where  thou  art  sitting 
Under  the  glassy,  cool,  translucent  wave, 

In  twisted  braids  of  lilies  knitting 
The  loose  train  of  thy  amber-dropping  hair; 

Listen,  for  dear  Honour's  sake, 

Goddess  of  the  Silver  lake, 
Listen  and  save ; 
Listen  and  appear  to  us, 
In  name  of  great  Oceanus; 
By  th'  earth-shaking  Neptune's  mace, 
And  Tethys'  grave  majestic  pace; 
By  hoary  Nereus'  wrinkled  look. 
And  the  Carpathian  wizard's  hook; 
By  scaly  Triton's  winding  shell, 
And  old  sooth-saying  Glaucus'  spell ; 
By  Leucothea's  lovely  hands, 
And  her  son  that  rules  the  strands; 
By  Thetis'  tinsel-slipper'd  feet. 
And  the  songs  of  Sirens  sweet ; 
By  dead  Parthenope's  dear  tomb. 
And  fair  Ligea's  golden  comb. 
Wherewith  she  site  on  diamond  rocks, 
Sleeking  her  soft  alluring  locks  ; 
By  all  the  nymphs  that  nightly  dance 
f Jpon  thy  streams,  with  wily  glance ; 
Rise,  rise,  and  heave  thy  rosy  head 
From  thy  coral-paven  bed. 
And  bridle  in  thy  headlong  wave. 
Till  thou  our  summons  answer'd  have. 
Listen  and  save. 


THE  DANCES  ENDED,  THE  SPIRIT  EPILOGUIZES, 
Spirit.  To  the  ocean  now  I  fly. 
And  those  happy  climes  that  lie 


Where  Day  never  shuts  his  eye. 

Up  in  the  broad  fields  of  the  sky ; 

There  I  suck  the  liquid  air. 

All  amidst  the  gardens  fair 

Of  Hesperus  and  his  daughters  three, 

That  sing  about  the  golden  tree  : 

Along  the  crisped  shades  and  bowers 

Revels  the  spruce  and  jocund  Spring ; 

The  Graces,  and  the  rosy-bosom'd  Hours, 

Thither  all  their  bounties  bring ; 

That  there  eternal  Summer  dwells, 

And  west-winds  with  musky  wing 

About  the  cedar'd  alleys  fling 

Nard  and  cassia's  balmy  smells. 

Iris  there  with  humid  bow 

Waters  the  odorous  banks,  that  blow 

Flowers  of  more  mingled  hue 

Than  her  purfled  scarf  can  show. 

And  drenches  with  Elysian  dew 

(List,  mortals,  if  your  ears  be  true) 

Beds  of  hyacinth  and  roses, 

Where  young  Adonis  oft  reposes, 

Waxing  well  of  his  deep  wound 

In  slumber  soft,  and  on  the  ground 

Sadly  sits  th'  Assyrian  queen  ; 

But  far  above,  in  spangled  sheen, 

Celestial  Cupid,  her  famed  son,  advanced, 

Holds  his  dear  Psyche  sweet  intranced. 

After  her  wand'ring  labours  long. 

Till  free  consent  the  gods  among 

Make  her  his  eternal  bride. 

And  from  her  fair  unspotted  side 

Two  blissful  twins  are  to  be  born. 

Youth  and  Joy;  sq  Jove  hath  sworn. 

But  now  my  task  is  smoothly  done, 
I  can  fly,  or  I  can  run 
Quickly  to  the  green  earth's  end, 
Where  the  bow'd  welkin  slow  doth  bend, 
And  from  thence  can  soar  as  soon 
To  the  corners  of  the  moon. 

Mortals  that  would  follow  me. 
Love  Virtue,  she  alone  is  free : 
She  can  teach  ye  how  to  climb 
Higher  than  the  sphery  chime ; 
Or  if  Virtue  feeble  were. 
Heaven  iteelf  would  stoop  to  her. 


SPEECH  OF  THE  GENIUS  OF  THE  WOOD,  IN  "THE 
ARCADES." 

Stay,  gentle  swains;  for  though  in  this  disguise 
I  see  bright  honour  sparkle  through  your  eyes; 
Of  famous  Arcaday  ye  are,  and  sprung 
Of  that  renowned  flood,  so  often  sung. 
Divine  Alpheus,  who  by  secret  sluice 
Stole  under  seas  to  meet  his  Arethuse ; 
And  3-e,  the  breathing  roses  of  the  wood. 
Fair  silver  buskin'd  nymphs  as  great  and  good, 
I  know  this  quest  of  yours,  and  free  intent. 
Was  all  in  honour  and  devotion  meant 
To  the  great  mistress  of  yon  princely  shrine, 
Whom,  with  low  reverence,  I  adore  as  mine, 
And  with  all  helpful  service  will  comply 
To  further  this  night's  glad  si/lemnity ; 


ANDREW  MARVELL. 


317 


And  lead  ye,  where  ye  may  more  near  behold 
What  shallow  searching  Fame  hath  left  untold ; 
Which  I  full  oft,  amidst  these  shades  alone, 
Have  sat  to  wonder  at,  and  gaze  upon  : 
For  know,  by  lot  from  Jove  I  am  the  power 
Of  this  fair  wood,  and  live  in  oaken  bower, 
To  nurse  the  saplings  tall,  and  curl  the  grove 
With  ringlets  quaint,  and  wanton  windings  wove. 
And  all  my  plants  I  save  from  nightly  ill 
Of  noisome  winds,  and  blasting  vapours  chill : 
And  from  the  boughs  brush  off  the  evil  dew, 
And  heal  the  harms  of  thwarting  thunder  blue, 
Or  what  the  cross  dire-looking  planet  smites, 
Or  hurtful  worm  with  canker'd  venom  bites, 
When  Evening  gray  doth  rise,  I  fetch  my  round 
Over  the  mount,  and  all  this  hallow'd  ground, 
And  early,  ere  the  odorous  breath  of  Morn 
Awakes  the  slumb'ring  leaves,  or  tassel'd  horn 


Shakes  the  high  thicket,  haste  I  all  about. 
Number  my  ranks,  and  visit  ev'ry  sprout 
With   puissant  words,  and  murmurs   made    to 

bless: 
But  else  in  deep  of  night,  when  drowsiness 
Hath  lock'd  up  mortal  sense,  then  listen  I 
To  the  celestial  Sirens'  harmony. 
That  sit  upon  the  nine  infolded  spheres. 
And  sing  to  those  that  hold  the  vital  shears, 
And  turn  the  adamantine  spindle  round. 
On  which  the  fate  of  gods  and  men  is  wound. 
Such  sweet  compulsion  doth  in  music  lie, 
To  lull  the  daughters  of  Necessity, 
And  keep  unsteady  Nature  to  her  law, 
And  the  low  world  in  measured  motion  draw 
After  the  heav'nly  tune,  which  none  can  hear 
Of  human  mould  with  gross  unpurged  ear. 


ANDREW  MARVELL. 


[Born,  1620.     Died,  1678.] 


A  BETTER  edition  of  Marvell's  works  than  any 
that  has  been  given,  is  due  to  his  literary  and  pa- 
triotic character.  He  was  the  champion  of  Mil- 
ton's living  reputation,  and  the  victorious  sup- 
porter of  free  principles  against  Bishop  Parker, 
when  that  venal  apostate  to  bigotry  promulgated, 
in  his  Ecclesiastical  Polity,  "  that  it  was  more  ne- 
cessary to  set  a  severe  government  over  men's  con- 
sciences and  religious  persuasions,  than  over  their 
vices  and  immoralities."  The  humour  and  elo- 
quence of  Marvell's  prose  tracts  were  admired 
and  probably  imitated  by  Swift.*  In  playful  ex- 
uberance of  figure  he  sometimes  resembles  Burke. 
For  consistency  of  principles,  it  is  not  so  easy  to 
find  his  parallel.  His  few  poetical  pieces  betray 
some  adherence  to  the  school  of  conceit,  but  there 
is  much  in  it  that  comes  from  the  heart  warm, 
pure,  and  affectionate. 

He  was  a  native  of  Hull.  At  the  age  of  fif- 
teen he  was  seduced  from  Cambridge  by  the 
proselytising  Jesuits,  but  was  brought  back  from 
London  by  his  father,  returned  to  the  university, 
and  continued  for  ever  after  an  enemy  to  super- 
stition and  intrigue.  In  1640  his  father,  who 
was  a  clergyman  of  Hull,  embarked  on  the  Hum- 
ber  in  company  with  a  youthful  pair  whom  he 
was  to  marry  at  Barrow,  in  liincolnshire.  Though 
the  weather  was  calm  when  they  entered  the 
boat,  the  old  gentleman  expressed  a  whimsical 
presentiment  of  danger,  by  throwing  his  cane 
ashore,  and  crying  out,  "Ho  for  heaven!"!  A 
■torm  came  on,  and  the  whole  company  perished. 

In  consequence  of  this  catastrophe  the  gentle- 
man whose  daughter  was  to  have  been  married, 
adopted  young  Marvell  as  his  son,  conceiving  his 

[  *  We  8till  rend  Marrell's  answer  to  Parker  with  plca- 
Bure,  though  the  book  it  iiiiswers  l>e  sunk  loiiK  ajto. 

Swifts  Apoli^yjor  A  TuU  of  a  Tub.] 
t  The  story  U  told  differently  iu  the  Bio^apbia  Britan- 


father  to  have  sacrificed  his  life  in  performing  an 
act  of  friendship.  Marvell's  education  was  thus 
enlarged:  he  travelled  for  his  improvement  ove» 
a  considerable  part  of  Europe,  and  was  for  soma 
time  at  Constantinople  as  secretary  to  the  Eng- 
lish embassy  at  that  court.  Of  his  residence  and 
employments  for  several  years  there  is  no  account, 
till  in  1653  he  was  engaged  by  the  Protector  to 
superintend  the  education  of  a  Mr.  Dutton,  at 
Eton ;  and  for  a  year  and  a  half  before  Milton's 
death,  he  was  assistant  to  Milton  in  the  office  of 
Latin  Secretary  to  the  Protector.  He  sat  in  the 
Parliament  of  1060  as  one  of  the  representatives 
of  the  city  of  Hull,  and  was  re-elected  as  long 
as  he  lived.  At  the  beginning  of  the  reign,  in- 
deed, we  find  him  absent  for  two  years  in  Ger- 
many and  Holland,  and  on  his  return,  having 
sought  leave  from  his  constituents,  he  accompa- 
nied Lord  Carlisle  as  ambassador's  secretary  to 
the  Northern  Courts;  but  from  the  year  1665 
till  his  death,  his  attendance  in  the  House  of 
Commons  was  uninterrupted,  and  exhibits  a  zeal 
in  parliamentary  duty  that  was  never  surpassed. 
Constantly  corresponding  with  his  constituents, 
he  was  at  once  earnest  for  their  public  rights  and 
for  their  local  interests.  After  the  most  fatiguing 
attendances,  it  was  his  practice  to  send  them  a 
minute  statement  of  public  proceedings,  before 
he  took  either  sleep  or  refreshment.  Though  he 
rarely  spoke,  his  influence  in  both  houses  was  so 
considerable,  that  when  Prince  Rupert  (who, 
often  consulted  him)  voted  on  the  popular  side, 
it  used  to  be  said  that  the  prince  had  been  with 
his  tutor.  He  was  one  of  the  last  members  who 
received  the  legitimate  stipend    for   attendance, 

nira ;  but  the  circumstance  rclatflil  thcrf,  of  n  beautiful 
1  oy  appearing  to  the  mother  of  the  drownod  liidy.  and 
disuppearing  with  the  mygter>'  of  a  supernatural  being, 
gives  an  air  of  incredibility  to  the  other  aocouut. 


818 


ANDREW  MARVELL. 


and  his  grateful  constituents  would  often  send 
him  a  barrel  of  ale  as  a  token  of  their  regard. 
The  traits  that  are  recorded  of  his  public  spirit 
and  simple  manners  give  an  air  of  probability  to 
the  popular  story  of  his  refusal  of  a  courtbribe. 
Charles  the  Second  having  met  with  Marvell  in  a 
private  company,  found  his  manners  so  agreeable, 
that  he  could  not  imagine  a  man  of  such  com- 
placency to  possess  inflexible  honesty  ;  he  accord- 
ingly, as  it  is  said,  sent  his  lord-treasurer,  Danby, 
lo  him  next  day,  who,  after  mounting  several  dark 
staircases,  found  the  author  in  a  very  mean  lodg- 
ing, and  proffered  him  a  mark  of  his  majesty's 
consideration.     Marvell  assured  the  lord-treasurer 


that  he  v/aM  not  in  want  of  the  king's  assistance, 
and  humorously  illustrated  his  independence  by 
calling  his  servant  to  witness  that  he  had  dined 
for  three  days  successively  on  a  shoulder  of  mut- 
ton ;  and  having  given  a  dignified  and  rational 
explanation  of  his  motives  to  the  minister,  went 
to  a  friend  and  borrowed  a  guinea.  The  story 
of  his  death  having  been  occasioned  by  poison- 
ing, it  is  to  be  hoped,  was  but  a  party  fable.  It 
is  certain,  however,  that  he  had  been  threatened 
with  assassination.  The  corporation  of  Hull 
voted  a  sum  for  his  funeral  expenses,  and  for  an 
appropriate  monument. 


THE  EMIGKAVTS. 

Where  the  remote  Bermudas  ride, 
In  th'  ocean's  bosom  unespied, 
From  a  small  boat  that  row'd  along. 
The  hst'ning  winds  received  this  song. 

«  What  should  we  do,  but  sing  His  praise 
That  led  us  through  the  wat'ry  maze, 
Unto  an  isle  so  long  unknown, 
And  yet  far  kinder  than  our  own ! 

••  Where  he  the  huge  sea-monsters  racks, 
That  lift  the  deep  upon  their  backs ; 
He  lands  us  on  a  grassy  stage, 
Safe  from  the  storms  and  prelates'  rage. 

"He  gave  us  this  eternal  spring 
Which  here  enamels  every  thing. 
And  sends  the  fowls  to  us  in  care, 
On  daily  visits  through  the  air. 

•'  He  hangs  in  shades  the  orange  bright. 
Like  golden  lamps  in  a  green  night, 

•  •  •  • 

And  in  these  rocks  for  us  did  frame 
A  temple  where  to  sound  his  name. 

«•  Oh  !  let  our  voice  His  praise  exalt 
Till  it  arrive  at  heaven's  vault. 
Which  then  perhaps  rebounding  may 
Echo  beyond  the  Mexique  bay." 

Thus  sang  they  in  the  English  boat, 
A  holy  and  a  cheerful  note ; 
And  all  the  way,  to  guide  their  chime. 
With  falling  oars  they  kept  the  time. 


rUE  NTBIPH  COMPLAINING  FOR  THE  DEATH  OF 
HER  FAWN. 

The  wanton  troopers  riding  by 
Have  shot  my  fawn,  and  it  will  die. 
Ungentle  men  !  they  cannot  thrive 
Who  killed  thee.     Thou  ne'er  didst  alive 
Them  any  harm;  alas!  nor  could 
Thy  death  to  them  do  any  good. 


I'm  sure  I  never  wish'd  them  ill ; 
Nor  do  I  for  all  this :  nor  will : 
But,  if  my  simple  prayers  may  yet 
Prevail  with  heaven  to  forget 
Thy  murder,  I  will  join  my  tears. 
Rather  than  fail.     But,  O  my  fears  ! 
It  cannot  die  so.     Heaven's  king 
Keeps  register  of  every  thing. 
And  nothing  may  we  use  in  vain : 
Ev'n  beasts  must  be  with  justice  slain. 
*  *  *  ♦ 

Inconstant  Sylvio,  when  yet 
I  had  not  found  him  counterfeit, 
One  morning  (I  remember  well,) 
Tied  in  this  silver  chain  and  bell, 
Gave  it  to  me :  nay,  and  I  know 
What  he  said  then :  I'm  sure  I  do. 
Said  he,  "  Look  how  your  huntsman  here 
Hath  taught  a  Fawn  to  hunt  his  Deer." 
But  Sylvio  soon  had  me  beguiled. 
This  waxed  tame  while  he  grew  wild. 
And,  quite  regardless  of  my  smart. 
Left  me  his  Fawn,  but  took  his  heart. 
Thenceforth  I  set  myself  to  play 
My  solitary  time  away 
With  this,  and  very  well  content 
Could  so  my  idle  life  have  spent; 
For  it  was  full  of  sport,  and  light 
Of  foot,  and  heart;  and  did  invite 
Me  to  its  game ;  it  seem'd  to  bless 
Itself  in  me.     How  could  I  less 
Than  love  it  1     Oh,  I  cannot  be 
Unkind  t'  a  beast  that  loveth  me. 
Had  it  lived  long,  I  do  not  know 
Whether  it  too  might  have  done  so 
As  Sylvio  did :  his  'gifts  might  be 
Perhaps  as  false,  or  more,  than  he. 
But  I  am  sure,  for  aught  that  I 
Could  in  so  short  a  time  espy, 
Thy  love  was  far  more  better  than 
The  love  of  false  and  cruel  man. 
With  sweetest  milk  and  sugar  first 
I  it  at  my  own  fingers  nursed  ; 
And  as  it  grew,  so  every  day 
It  wax'd  more  white  and  sweet  than  they: 
It  had  so  sweet  a  breath.     And  oft 
I  blush'd  to  see  its  foot  more  soft 


THOMAS   STANLEY. 


819 


And  white,  shall  I  say  than  ray  handl 

Nay,  any  lady's  of  the  land. 

It  is  a  wondrous  thing  how  fleet 

'Twas  on  those  little  silver  feet ; 

With  what  a  pretty  skipping  grace 

It  oft  would  challenge  me  the  race : 

And  when't  had  left  me  far  away, 

'Twould  stay,  and  run  again,  and  stay ; 

For  it  was  nimbler  much  than  hinds. 

And  trod  as  if  on  the  four  winds. 

I  have  a  garden  of  my  own, 

But  so  with  roses  overgrown, 

And  lilies,  that  you  would  it  guess 

To  be  a  little  wilderness. 

And  all  the  spring  time  of  the  year 

It  only  lov^d  to  be  there. 

Among  the  beds  of  lilies  I 

Have  sought  it  oft  where  it  should  lie. 

Yet  could  not,  till  itself  would  rise, 

Find  it,  although  before  mine  eyes ; 

For  in  the  flaxen  lilies'  shade  « 

It  like  a  bank  of  lilies  laid  ; 

Upon  the  roses  it  would  feed 

Until  its  lips  e'en  seem'd  to  bleed  ; 

And  then  to  me  'twould  boldly  trip, 

And  print  those  roses  on  my  lip. 

But  all  its  chief  delight  was  still 

On  roses  thus  itself  to  fill, 

And  its  pure  virgin  limbs  to  fold 

In  whitest  sheets  of  lilies  cold. 

Had  it  lived  long,  it  would  have  been 

Lilies  without,  roses  within. 

*  »  *  * 


YOUNG  LOVE. 
Come,  little  infant,  love  me  now, 
While  thine  unsuspected  years 


Clear  thine  aged  father's  brow 
From  cold  jealousy  and  fears. 

Pretty,  surely,  'twere  to  see 

By  young  Love  old  Time  beguiled ; 
While  our  sportings  are  as  free 

As  the  nurse's  with  the  child. 

Common  beauties  stay  fifteen ; 

Such  as  yours  should  swifter  move, 
Whose  fair  blossoms  are  too  green 

Yet  for  lust,  but  not  for  love. 

Love  as  much  the  snowy  lamb, 
Or  the  wanton  kid,  does  prize. 

As  the  lusty  bull  or  ram. 
For  his  morning  sacrifice. 

Now  then  love  me:  Time  ma/  take 
Thee  before  thy  time  away : 

Of  this  need  we'll  virtue  make, 
And  learn  love  before  we  ma) 

So  we  win  of  doubtful  fate ; 

And  if  good  to  us  she  meant. 
We  that  good  shall  antedate ; 

Or,  if  ill,  that  ill  prevent 

Thus  do  kingdoms,  frustrating 
Other  titles  to  their  crown. 

In  the  cradle  crown  their  king, 
So  all  foreign  claims  to  drown. 

So  to  make  all  rivals  vain. 

Now  I  crown  thee  with  my  love ; 

Crown  me  with  thy  love  again. 
And  we  both  shall  monarchs  prove. 


THOMAS  STANLEY. 


[Born,  16U.     Born,  1678.] 


Thomas  Stanley,  the  learned  editor  of  .iEschy- 
lus,  and  author  of  the  History  of  Philosophy.  He 
made  poetical  versions  of  considerable  neatness 


from  Anacreon,  Bion,  and  Moschus,  and  the 
"  Kisses"  of  Secundus.  He  also  translated  from 
Tristan,  Marino,  Boscan,  and  Gongora. 


CELIA  SINGING. 
RoaES  in  breathing  forth  their  scent, 
Or  stars  their  borrow'd  ornament : 
Nymphs  in  their  wat'ry  sphere  that  move. 
Or  angels  in  their  orbs  above; 
The  winged  chariot  of  the  light. 
Or  the  slow  silent  wheels  of  night ; 
The  shade  which  from  the  swifter  sun 
Doth  in  a  swifter  motion  run. 
Or  souls  that  their  eternal  rest  do  keep. 
Make  far  leas  noise  than  Celia's  breatii  in  sleep. 


But  if  the  angel  which  inspires 

This  subtle  flame  with  active  fires. 

Should  mould  this  breath  to  words,  and  those 

Into  a  harmony  dispose,  * 

The  music  of  this  heavenly  sphere 

Would  steal  each  soul  (in)  at  the  ear. 

And  into  plants  and  stones  infuse 

A  life  that  cherubim  would  chuse. 

And  with  new  powers  invert  the  laws  of  fete. 

Kill  those  that  live,  and  dead  things  animate. 


820 


JOHN  WILMOT,  EARL  OF  ROCHESTER. 


SPEAKING  AND  KISSING. 
Thb  air  which  thy  smooth  voice  doth  break, 

Into  my  soul  like  lightning  flies; 
My  life  retires  while  thou  dost  speak, 

And  thy  soft  breath  its  room  supplies. 

Lost  in  this  pleasing  ecstacy, 
I  join  my  trembling  lips  to  thine. 

And  back  receive  that  life  from  thee 
Which  I  so  gladly  did  resign. 

Forbear,  Platonic  fools  !  t'  inquire 
What  numbers  do  the  soul  compose  ; 

No  harmony  can  life  inspire. 

But  that  which  from  these  accents  flows. 


LA  BELLE  CONFIDANTE. 

You  earthly  souls  that  court  a  wanton  flame 

Whose  pale,  weak  influence 
Can  rise  no  higher  than  the  humble  name 

And  narrow  laws  of  sense. 
Learn  by  our  friendship  to  create 

An  immaterial  fire. 
Whose  brightness  angels  may  admire, 

But  cannot  emulate. 
Sickness  may  fright  the  roses  from  her  cheek, 

Or  make  the  lilies  fade. 
But  all  the  subtle  ways  that  death  doth  seek 

Cannot  my  love  invade. 


JOHN  WILMOT,  EARL  OF  ROCHESTER. 


[Born,  1647.     Died,  1680.] 


[To  tell  all  the  stories  that  are  told  of  this  dis- 
solute but  witty  nobleman,  would  be  to  collect 
what  few  would  believe,  what  the  good  would  re- 
frain from  reading,  and  "  to  fabricate  furniture  for 
the  brothel."  Pepys  calls  him  an  idle  rogue;  the 
excellent  Evelyn,  a  very  profane  wit.  He  was 
both,  and  something  more. 

Of  his  sayings  many  are  still  on  the  tongue 
top,  and  told, 

When  the  ■wine-cup  shines  in  light; 

while  his  poems  are  oftener  read  for  the  sake 
of  their  indecency  than  for  their  wit,  though  his 
satire  was  at  all  times  lively,  felicitous,  and  search- 
ing. His  "  Nothing"  is,  as  Addison  says,  "an 
admirable  poem  on  a  barren  subject."  (Spec.  No. 
305.) 

"  The  very  name  of  Rochester,"  says  Hume, 
"  is  offensive  to  modest  ears ;  yet  does  his  poetry 
discover  such  energy  of  style  and  such  poignancy, 
as  give  ground  to  imagine  what  so  fine  a  genius, 
had  he  fallen  in  a  more  happy  age  and  had  fol- 
lowed better  models,  was  capable  of  producing. 
The  ancient  satirists  often  used  great  liberties  in 


their  expressions ;  but  their  freedom  no  more 
resembles  the  licentiousness  of  Rochester,  than 
the  nakedness  of  an  Indian  does  that  of  a  com- 
mon prostitute."     (Hist,  of  Eng.  ch.  Ixxi.) 

His  poems  were  castrated  by  Stevens  for 
Johnson's  Collection ;  but  this  had  been  done 
before  by  Tonson,  who  while  he  did  much,  left 
very  much  to  do.  Could  his  satire  be  cleansed 
from  its  coarseness,  a  selection  of  his  best  pieces, 
many  of  which  are  still  in  manuscript,  would  be 
a  desideratum,  and  the  name  of  Wilmot  would 
then  stand  high  in  the  list  of  British  satirists. 
But  indecency  is  in  the  very  nature  of  many  of 
his  subjects :  there  is  more  obscenity  than  wit 
in  his  verse,  as  was  well  observed  by  Walpole, 
more  wit  than  poetry,  more  poetry  than  polite 
ness. 

Unwilling  to  tell  one  story  of  diverting  or  re- 
volting profligacy  upon  another,  Johnson  "has 
written  the  life  of  Lord  Rochester  in  a  few  pages, 
said  enough,  and  has  indicated  more  than  he  has 
said.  His  Death  has  been  given  us  by  Bishop 
Burnet  in  one  of  the  most  readable  books  in  the 
English  language.] 


SONG. 

My  dear  mistress  has  a  heart 

Soft  as  those  kind  looks  she  gave  me. 
When  with  love's  resistless  art. 

And  her  eyes,  she  did  enslave  me. 
But  her  constancy's  so  weak, 

She's  so  wild  and  apt  to  wander. 
That  my  jealous  heart  would  break 

Should  we  live  one  day  asunder. 

Melting  joys  about  her  move, 

Killing  pleasures,  wounding  blisses : 

She  can  dress  her  eyes  in  love, 

.^nd  her  lips  can  warm  with  kisses. 

Angels  listen  when  she  speaks. 

She's  my  delight,  all  mankind's  wonder ; 


But  my  jealous  heart  would  break, 
Should  we  live  one  day  asunder. 


SONG. 


Too  late,  alas  !  I  must  covifess. 
You  need  not  arts  to  move  me ; 

Such  charms  by  nature  you  possess, 
'Twere  madness  not  to  love  ye. 

Then  spare  a  heart  you  may  surprise, 
And  give  my  tongue  the  glory 

To  boast,  though  my  unfaithful  eves 
Betray  a  tender  story. 


SAMUEL  BUTLER. 


CBorn,  1612.    Died,  1680.] 


The  merit  of  Hudibras,  excellent  as  it  is,  cer- 
tainly lies  in  its  style  and  execution,  and  by  no 
means  in  the  structure  of  the  story.  The  action 
of  the  poem  as  it  stands,  and  interrupted  as  it  is, 
occupies  but  three  days  ;  and  it  is  clear  from  the 
opening  line,  "  When  civil  dudgeon  first  grew 
high,"  that  it  was  meant  to  bear  date  with  the 
civil  wars.  Yet  after  two  days  and  nights  are 
completed,  the  poet  skips  at  once,  in  the  third 
part,  to  Oliver  Cromwell's  death,  and  then  re- 
turns  to   retrieve    his   hero,    and    conduct    him 


through  the  last  canto.  Before  the  third  part  of 
Hudibras  appeared,  a  great  space  of  time  had 
elapsed  since  the  publication  of  the  first.  Charles 
II.  had  been  fifteen  years  asleep  on  the  throne, 
and  Butler  seems  to  have  felt  that  the  ridicule  of 
the  sectaries  had  grown  a  stale  subject.  The 
final  interest  of  the  piece,  therefore,  dwindles  into 
the  widow's  repulse  of  Sir  Hudibras,  a  topic 
which  has  been  suspected  to  allude,  not  so  much 
to  the  Presbyterians,  as  to  the  reigning  monarch's 
dotage  upon  his  mistresses. 


HUDIBRAS,  PART  I.  CANTO.  I. 

When  civil  dudgeon  first  grew  high, 
And  men  fell  out,  they  knew  not  why ; 
When  hard  words,  jealousies,  and  fears, 
Set  folks  together  by  the  ears, 
And  made  them  fight,  like  mad  or  drunk, 
For  Dame  Religion  as  for  punk  ; 
Whose  honesty  they  all  durst  swear  for. 
Though  not  a  man  of  them  knew  wherefore ; 
When  Gospel-trumpeter,  surrounded 
With  long-ear'd  rout,  to  battle  sounded ; 
And  pulpit,  drum-ecclesiastic. 
Was  beat  with  fist  instead  of  a  stick ; 
Then  did  Sir  Knight  abandon  dwelling, 
And  out  he  rode  a  colonelling. 
A  wight  he  was,  whose  very  sight  would 
Entitle  him  Mirror  of  Knighthood, 
That  never  bow'd  h-s  stubborn  knee 
To  any  thing  but  chivalry. 
Nor  put  up  blow,  but  that  which  laid 
Right  worshipful  on  shoulder-blade; 
Chief  of  domestic  knights  and  errant, 
Either  for  chartel  or  for  warrant ; 
Great  on  the  bench,  great  in  the  saddle, 
That  could  as  well  bind  o'er  as  swaddle ; 
Mighty  he  was  at  both  of  the>e, 
And  styled  of  War,  as  well  as  Peace : 
(So  some  rats,  of  amphibious  nature. 
Are  either  for  the  land  or  water.) 
But  here  our  authors  make  a  doubt 
Whether  he  were  more  wise  or  stout : 
Some  hold  the  one,  and  some  the  other, 
But,  howsoe'er  they  make  a  pother. 
The  dilTrence  was  so  small,  his  brain 
Outweigh'd  his  rage  but  half  a  grain : 
Which  made  some  take  him  for  a  tool 
That  knaves  do  work  with,  call'd  a  Fool. 
For't  has  been  held  by  many,  that 
As  Montaigne,  playing  with  his  cat, 
Complains  she  thought  him  but  an  ass, 
Much  more  she  would  Sir  Hudibras  ; 
(For  that's  the  name  our  valiant  knight 
To  all  his  challenges  did  write ;} 


But  they're  mistaken  very  much, 
'Tis  plain  enough  he  was  not  such. 
We  grant,  although  he  had  much  wit, 
H'  was  very  shy  of  using  it, 
As  being  loth  to  wear  it  out, 
And  therefore  bore  it  not  about; 
Unless  on  holidays  or  so, 
As  men  their  best  apparel  do. 
Beside,  'tis  known  he  could  speak  Greek 
As  naturally  as  pigs  squeak  ; 
That  Latin  was  no  more  difiScile, 
Than  to  a  blackbird  'tis  to  whistle ; 
Being  rich  in  both,  he  never  scanted 
His  bounty  unto  such  as  wanted ; 
But  much  of  either  would  afford 
To  many  that  had  not  one  word. 
For  Hebrew  roots,  although  they're  foand 
To  flourish  most  in  barren  ground. 
He  had  such  plenty  as  sufficed 
To  make  some  think  him  circumcised : 
And  truly  so  he  was  perhaps 
Not  as  a  proselyte,  but  for  claps. 
He  was  in  logic  a  great  critic. 
Profoundly  skill'd  in  analytic : 
He  could  distinguish,  and  divide 
A  hair  'twixt  south  and  south-west  side : 
On  either  which  he  would  dispute. 
Confute,  change  hands,  and  still  confute : 
He'd  undertake  to  prove,  by  force 
Of  argument,  a  man's  no  horse  ; 
He'd  prove  a  buzzard  is  no  fowl. 
And  that  a  lord  may  be  an  owl ; 
A  calf  an  alderman,  a  goose  a  justice, 
And  rooks  committee-men  and  trustees. 
He'd  run  in  debt  by  disputation. 
And  pay  with  ratiocination : 
All  this  by  syllogism  true. 
In  mood  and  figure  he  would  do. 
For  rhetoric,  he  could  not  ope 
His  mouth,  but  out  there  flew  a  trope  : 
And  when  he  happen'd  to  break  of^ 
I'  th'  middle  of  his  speech  or  cougn, 
H'  had  hard  words  ready  to  show  why. 
And  tell  what  rules  he  did  it  by  ; 

321 


822 


SAMUEL   BUTLER. 


Else  when  with  greatest  art  he  spoke, 

You'd  think  he  taik'd  like  other  folk ; 

For  all  a  rhetorician's  rules 

Teach  nothing  but  to  name  his  tools. 

But,  when  he  pleased  to  show't,  his  speech, 

In  loftiness  of  sound,  was  rich  ; 

A  Babylonish  dialect, 

Which  learned  pedants  much  affect ; 

It  was  a  party -colour'd  dress 

Of  patch'd  and  piebald  languages; 

'Twas  English  cut  on  Greek  and  Latin, 

Like  fustian  heretofore  on  satin  ; 

It  had  an  old  promiscuous  tone. 

As  if  h'  had  taik'd  three  parts  in  one; 

Which  made  some  think,  when  he  did  gabble, 

Th'  had  heard  three  labourers  of  Babel, 

Or  Cerberus  himself  pronounce 

A  leash  of  languages  at  once. 

This  he  as  volubly  would  vent. 

As  if  his  stock  would  ne'er  be  spent: 

And  truly,  to  support  that  charge, 

He  had  supplies  as  vast  and  large ; 

For  he  could  coin  or  counterfeit 

New  words,  with  little  or  no  wit; 

Words  so  debased  and  hard,  no  stone 

Was  hard  enough  to  touch  them  on ; 

And  when  with  hasty  noise  he  spoke  'em, 

The  ignorant  for  current  took  'em ; 

That  had  the  orator,  who  once 

Did  fill  his  mouth  with  pebble-stones 

When  he  harangued,  but  known  his  phrase, 

He  would  have  used  no  other  ways. 

In  mathematics  he  was  greater 

Than  Tycho  Brahe  or  Erra  Pater  ; 

For  he,  by  geometric  scale. 

Could  take  the  size  of  pots  of  ale ; 

Resolve  by  sines  and  tangents  straight 

If  bread  or  butter  wanted  weight ; 

And  wisely  tell  what  hour  o'  th'  day 

The  clock  does  strike,  by  algebra. 

Beside,  he  was  a  shrewd  philosopher. 

And  had  read  ev'ry  text  and  gloss  over ; 

Whate'er  the  crabbed'st  author  hath, 

He  understood  b'  implicit  faith : 

Whatever  sceptic  could  inquire  for. 

For  ev'ry  why  he  had  a  wherefore  ; 

Knew  more  than  forty  of  them  do, 

As  far  as  words  and  terms  could  go; 

All  which  he  understood  by  rote. 

And,  as  occasion  served,  would  quote : 

No  matter  whether  right  or  wrong. 

They  might  be  either  said  or  sung. 

His  notions  fitted  things  so  well. 

That  which  was  which  he  could  not  tell, 

But  oftentimes  mistook  the  one 

For  th'  other,  as  great  clerks  have  done. 

He  could  reduce  all  things  to  acts. 

And  knew  their  natures  by  abstracts ; 

Where  Entity  and  Quiddity, 

The  ghosts  of  defunct  bodies,  fly  ; 

Where  truth  in  person  does  appear. 

Like  words  congeal'd  in  northern  air. 

He  knew  what's  what,  and  that's  as  high 

As  Dietapbjsic  wit  can  flv  ■ 


In  school-divinity  as  able 

As  he  that  hight  Irrefragable  ; 

A  second  Thomas,  or,  at  once 

To  name  them  all,  another  Dunce: 

Profound  in  all  the  Nominal 

And  Real  ways  beyond  them  all: 

For  he  a  rope  of  sand  could  twist 

As  tough  as  learned  Sorbonist, 

And  weave  fine  cobwebs,  fit  for  scull 

That's  empty  when  the  moon  is  fiill; 

Such  as  take  lodgings  in  a  head 

That's  to  be  let  unfurnished. 

He  could  raise  scruples  dark  and  nice, 

And  after  solve  'em  in  a  trice ; 

As  if  Divinity  had  catch'd 

The  itch,  on  purpose  to  be  scratch'd: 

Or,  like  a  mountebank,  did  wound 

And  stab  herself  with  doubts  profound. 

Only  to  show  with  how  small  pain 

The  sores  of  Faith  are  cured  again ; 

Although  by  woful  proof  we  find 

They  always  leave  a  scar  behind. 

He  knew  the  seat  of  Paradise, 

Could  tell  in  what  degree  it  lies. 

And,  as  he  was  disposed,  could  prove  it 

Below  the  moon,  or  else  above  it ; 

What  Adam  dreamt  of,  when  his  bride 

Came  fi-om  her  closet  in  his  side; 

Whether  the  devil  tempted  her 

By  a  High  Dutch  interpreter ; 

If  either  of  them  had  a  navel; 

Who  first  made  music  malleable  ; 

Whether  the  serpent,  at  the  fall, 

Had  cloven  feet,  or  none  at  all : 

All  this,  without  a  gloss  or  comment, 

He  could  unriddle  in  a  moment. 

In  proper  terms,  such  as  men  smatter. 

When  they  throw  out,  and  miss  the  matter. 

For  his  religion,  it  was  fit 
To  match  his  learning  and  his  wit ; 
'Twas  Presbyterian  true  blue  ; 
For  he  was  of  that  stubborn  crew 
Of  errant  saints,  whom  all  men  grant 
To  be  the  true  Church  Militant ; 
Such  as  do  build  their  faith  upon 
The  holy  text  of  pike  and  gun ; 
Decide  all  controversies  by 
Infallible  artillery ; 
And  prove  their  doctrine  orthodox. 
By  apostolic  blows  and  knocks  ; 
Call  tire,  and  sword,  and  desolation, 
A  godly,  thorough  Reformation, 
Which  always  must  be  carried  on. 
And  still  be  doing,  never  done; 
As  if  Religion  were  intended 
For  nothing  else  but  to  be  mended : 
A  sect  whose  chief  devotion  lies 
In  odd  perverse  antipathies; 
In  falling  out  with  that  or  this. 
And  finding  somewhat  still  amiss; 
More  peevish,  cross,  and  splenetic. 
Than  dog  distract,  or  monkey  sick , 
That  with  more  care  keep  holiday 
The  wrong,  than  others  the  right  way ; 


SAMUEL  BUTLER.                                                          828 

Compound  for  sins  they  are  inclined  to, 

But  with  his  rusty  sickle  mow 

By  damning  those  they  have  no  mind  to  : 

Both  down  together  at  a  blow. 

Still  so  perverse  and  opposite, 

So  learned  Taliacotius,  from 

As  if  they  worshipp'd  God  for  spite ; 

The  brawny  part  of  porter's  bum, 

The  self-same  thing  they  will  abhor 

Cut  supplemental  noses,  which 

One  way,  and  long  another  for: 

Would  last  as  long  as  parent  breech ; 

Freewill  they  one  way  disavow ; 

But  when  the  date  of  Nock  was  out, 

Another,  nothing  else  allow  : 

Off  dropp'd  the  sympathetic  snout. 

All  piety  consists  therein 

His  back,  or  rather  burden,  show'd 

Li  them,  in  other  men  all  sin  : 

As  if  it  stoop'd  with  its  own  load : 

Rather  than  fail,  they  will  defy 

For  as  .(Eneas  bore  his  sire 

That  which  they  loved  most  tenderly  ; 

Upon  his  shoulders  through  the  fire. 

Quarrel  with  minced-pies,  and  disparage 

Our  knight  did  bear  no  less  a  pack 

Their  best  and  dearest  friend,  plum-porridge ; 

Of  his  own  buttocks  on  his  back ; 

Fat  pig  and  goose  itself  oppose. 

Which  now  had  almost  got  the  upper- 

And  blaspheme  custard  through  the  nose. 

Hand  of  his  head  for  want  of  crupper : 

Th'  apostles  of  this  fierce  religion. 

To  poise  this  equally,  he  bore 

Like  Mahomet's,  wore  ass  and  widgeon, 

A  paunch  of  the  same  bulk  before, 

To  whom  our  Knight,  by  fast  instinct 

Which  still  he  had  a  special  care 

Of  wit  and  temper,  was  so  link'd. 

To  keep  well-cram  m'd  with  thrifty  fare ; 

As  if  hypocrisy  and  nonsense 

As  white-pot,  butter-milk,  and  cards, 

Had  got  th'  advowson  of  his  conscience. 

Such  as  a  country  house  affords ; 

Thus  was  he  gifted  and  accouter'd. 

With  other  victual,  which  anon 

We  mean  on  th'  inside,  not  the  outward : 

We  further  shall  dilate  upon. 

That  next  of  all  we  shall  discuss ; 

When  of  his  hose  we  come  to  treat, 

Then  listen,  sirs,  it  follows  thus. 

The  cupboard  where  he  kept  his  meat. 

His  tawny  beard  was  th'  equal  grace 

His  doublet  was  of  sturdy  buff. 

Both  of  his  wisdom  and  his  face ; 

And  though  not  sword,  yet  cudgel  proof, 

In  cut  and  dye  so  like  a  tile, 

Whereby  'twas  fitter  for  his  use. 

A  sudden  view  it  would  beguile; 

Who  fear'd  no  blows  but  such  as  bruise. 

The  upper  part  whereof  was  whey, 

His  breeches  were  of  rugged  woollen. 

The  nether  orange,  mix'd  with  gray. 

And  had  been  at  the  siege  of  Bullen; 

This  hairy  meteor  did  denounce 

To  old  King  Harry  so  well  known. 

The  fall  of  sceptres  and  of  crowns ; 

Some  writers  held  they  were  his  own : 

With  grisly  type  did  represent 

Through  they  were  lined  with  many  a  piece 

Declining  age  of  government, 

Of  ammunition  bread  and  cheese. 

And  tell,  with  hieroglyphic  spade, 

And  fat  black-puddings,  proper  food 

Ite  own  grave  and  the  state's  were  made : 

For  warriors  that  delight  in  blood  • 

Like  Samson's  heart-breakers,  it  grew 

For,  as  we  said,  he  always  chose 

In  time  to  make  a  nation  rue  ; 

To  carry  victual  in  his  hose, 

Though  it  contributed  its  own  fall, 

That  often  tempted  rats  and  mice 

To  wait  upon  the  public  downfal : 

The  ammunition  to  surprise  ; 

It  was  monastic,  and  did  grow 

And  when  he  put  a  hand  but  in 

In  holy  orders  by  strict  vow  ; 

The  one  or  t'other  magazine, 

Of  rule  as  sullen  and  severe. 

They  stoutly  in  defence  on't  stood, 

As  that  of  rigid  Cordelier  : 

And  from  the  wounded  foe  drew  blood. 

'Twas  bound  to  suffer  persecution, 

And  till  they  were  storm'd,  and  beaten  out. 

And  martyrdom,  with  resolution  ; 

Ne'er  left  the  fortified  redoubt : 

T'  oppose  itself  against  the  hate 

And  though  knights  errant,  as  some  think. 

And  vengeance  of  th'  incensed  state, 

Of  old  did  neither  eat  nor  drink. 

In  whose  defiance  it  was  worn. 

Because  when  thorough  deserts  vast. 

Still  ready  to  be  pull'd  and  torn. 

And  regions  desolate,  they  past. 

With  red-hot  irons  to  be  tortured, 

Where  belly-timber  above  ground. 

Reviled,  and  spit  upon,  and  martyr'd; 

Or  under,  was  not  to  be  found. 

Maugre  all  which  'twas  to  stand  fast 

Unless  they  grazed,  there's  not  one  word 

As  long  as  Monarchy  should  last : 

Of  their  provision  on  record  ; 

But  when  the  state  should  hap  to  reel, 

Which  made  some  confidently  write. 

'Twas  to  submit  to  fatal  steel, 

They  had  no  stomachs  but  to  fight. 

And  fall,  as  it  was  consecrate. 

'Tis  false  ;  for  Arthur  wore  in  hall 

A  sacrifice  to  fall  of  state, 

Round  table  like  a  farthingal, 

Whose  thread  of  life  the  Fatal  Sisters 

On  which,  with  shirt  pull'd  out  behind. 

Did  twist  together  with  its  whiskers, 

And  eke  before,  his  good  knights  dined  . 

And  twine  so  close,  that  Time  should  never, 

Though  'twas  no  table,  some  suppose 

In  life  or  death,  their  fortunes  sever. 

But  a  huge  pair  of  round  trunk  ho«e. 

324 


SAMUEL  BUTLER. 


In  which  he  carried  as  much  meat 

As  he  and  all  the  knights  could  eat, 

When  laying  by  their  swords  and  truncheons, 

They  took  their  breakfasts,  or  their  nunchepns. 

But  let  that  pass  at  present,  lest 

We  should  forget  where  we  digress'd, 

As  learned  authors  use,  to  whom 

We  leave  it,  and  to  the  purpose  come. 

His  puissant  sword  unto  his  side, 
Near  his  undaunted  heart,  was  tied, 
With  basket-hilt  that  would  hold  broth. 
And  serve  for  fight  and  dinner  both ; 
In  it  he  melted  lead  for  bullets 
To  shoot  at  foes,  and  sometimes  pullets, 
To  whom  he  bore  so  fell  a  grutch, 
He  ne'er  gave  quarter  to  any  such. 
The  trenchant  blat'e,  Toledo  trusty, 
For  want  of  fighting  was  grown  rusty. 
And  ate  into  itself,  for  lack 
Of  somebody  to  hew  and  hack : 
The  peaceful  scabbard,  where  it  dwelt, 
The  rancour  of  its  edge  had  felt ; 
For  of  the  lower  end  two  handful 
It  had  devoured,  'twas  so  manful, 
And  so  much  scorn'd  to  lurk  in  case, 
As  if  it  durst  not  show  its  face. 
In  many  desperate  attempts 
Of  warrants,  exigents,  contempts. 
It  had  appear'd  with  courage  bolder 
Than  Serjeant  Bum  invading  shoulder: 
Oft  had  it  ta'en  possession. 
And  pris'ners  too,  or  made  them  run. 

'I'his  sword  a  dagger  had,  his  page, 
That  was  but  little  for  his  age ; 
And  therefore  waited  on  him  so, 
As  dwaffs  upon  knights  errant  do : 
It  was  a  serviceable  dudgeon, 
Either  for  fighting  or  for  drudging : 
When  it  had  stabb'd,  or  broke  a  head, 
It  would  scrape  trenchers,  or  chip  bread  ; 
Toast  cheese  or  bacon,  though  it  were 
To  bait  a  mouse-trap,  'twould  not  care  : 
'Twould  make  clean  shoes,  and  in  the  earth 
Set  leeks  and  onions,  and  so  forth : 
It  had  been  'prentice  to  a  brewer. 
Where  this  and  more  it  did  endure, 
But  left  the  trade,  as  many  more 
Have  lately  done  on  the  same  score. 

In  th'  holsters,  at  his  saddle-bow, 
Two  aged  pistols  he  did  stow. 
Among  the  surplus  of  such  meat 
As  in  his  hose  he  could  not  get : 
These  would  inveigle  raU  with  th'  scent, 
To  forage  when  the  cocks  were  bent. 
And  sometimes  catch  'em  with  a  snap. 
As  cleverly  as  the  ablest  trap : 
They  were  upon  hard  duty  still, 
And  ev'ry  night  stood  sentinel. 
To  guard  th'  magazine  i'  th'  hose 
From  two-Iegg'd  and  from  four-legg'd  foes. 

Thus  clad  and  fortified.  Sir  Knight, 
From  peaceful  home,  set  forth  to  fight. 
But  first  with  nimble  active  force 
He  got  on  th'  outeide  of  his  horse : 


For  having  but  one  stirrup  tied 
T'  his  saddle  on  the  further  side. 
It  was  so  short,  h'  had  much  ado 
To  reach  it  with  his  desp'rate  toe ; 
But  after  many  strains  and  heaves. 
He  got  up  to  the  saddle-eaves. 
From  whence  he  vaulted  into  th'  seat 
With  so  much  vigour,  strength,  and  heat, 
That  he  had  almost  tumbled  over 
With  his  own  weight,  but  did  recover 
By  laying  hold  on  tail  and  main. 
Which  oft  he  used  instead  of  rein. 

But  now  we  talk  of  mounting  steed. 
Before  we  further  do  proceed. 
It  doth  behoove  us  to  say  something. 
Of  that  which  bore  our  valiant  bumkin. 
The  beast  was  sturdy,  large,  and  tall, 
With  mouth  of  meal,  and  eyes  of  wall ; 
I  wou'd  say  eye  ;  for  h'  had  but  one. 
As  most  agree,  though  some  say  none. 
He  was  well  stay'd,  and  in  his  gait 
Preserved  a  grave,  majestic  state  ; 
At  spur  or  switch  no  more  he  skipt. 
Or  mended  pace,  than  Spaniard  whipt ; 
And  yet  so  fiery  he  would  bound  . 

As  if  he  grieved  to  touch  the  ground ; 
That  Ccesar's  horse,  who  as  fame  goes. 
Had  corns  upon  his  feet  and  toes. 
Was  not  by  half  so  tender  hooft. 
Nor  trod  upon  the  ground  so  soft ; 
And  as  that  beast  would  kneel  and  stoop 
-^Some  write)  to  take  his  rider  up. 
So  Hudibras  his  ('tis  well  known) 
Would  often  do  to  set  him  down. 
We  shall  not  need  to  say  what  lack 
Of  leather  was  upon  his  back  ; 
For  that  was  hidden  under  pad, 
And  breech  of  Knight  gall'd  full  as  bad: 
His  strutting  ribs  on  both  sides  show'd 
Like  furrows  he  himself  had  plough'd ; 
For  underneath  the  skirt  of  pannel, 
'Twixt  ev'ry  two  there  was  a  channel : 
His  draggling  tail  hung  in  the  dirt. 
Which  on  his  rider  he  would  flirt. 
Still  as  his  tender  side  he  prick'd. 
With  arm'd  heel,  or  with  unarm 'd,  kick'd ; 
For  Hudibras  wore  but  one  spur. 
As  wisely  knowing,  could  he  stir 
To  active  trot  one  side  of 's  horse, 
The  other  would  not  hang  an  arse. 

A  Squire  he  had,  whose  name  was  Ralph, 
That  in  th'  adventure  went  his  half. 
Though  writers,  for  more  stately  tone, 
Do  call  him  Ralpho,  'tis  all  one ; 
And  when  we  can,  with  metre  safe. 
We'll  call  him  so ;  if  not,  plain  Ralph : 
(For  rhyme  the  rudder  is  of  verses, 
With  which,  like  ships,  they  steer  their  courses) 
An  equal  stock  of  wit  and  valour 
He  had  laid  in,  by  birth  a  tailor. 
The  mighty  Tyrian  queen,  that  gaii  d, 
With  subtle  shreds,  a  tract  of  land. 
Did  leave  it  with  a  castle  fair 
To  his  great  ancestor,  her  heir ; 


SAMUEL 

BUTLER.                                                          825 

From  him  descended  cross-legg'd  knights, 

And  much  of  Terra  Incognita, 

Famed  for  their  faith  and  warlike  fights 

Th'  intelligible  world,  could  say; 

Against  the  bloody  Cannibal, 

A  deep  occult  philosopher. 

Whom  they  destroy'd  both  great  and  small. 

As  learn'd  as  the  wild  Irish  are, 

This  sturdy  Squire  he  had,  as  well 

Or  Sir  Agrippa,  for  profound 

As  the  bold  Trojan  knight,  seen  hell, 

And  solid  lying  much  renown'd ; 

Not  with  a  counterfeited  pass 

He  Anthroposophus,  and  Floud, 

Of  golden  bough,  but  true  gold  lace; 

And  Jacob  Behmen  understood  ; 

His  knowledge  was  not  far  behind 

Knew  many  an  amulet  and  charm. 

The  knight's,  but  of  another  kind, 

That  would  do  neither  good  nor  harm ; 

And  he  another  way  came  by  't: 

In  Rosycrucian  lore  as  learned. 

Some  call  it  Gifts,  and  some  New-light; 

As  he  that  Veri  aileplus  earned  : 

A  lib'ral  art,  that  costs  no  pains 

He  understood  the  speech  of  birds 

Of  study,  industry,  or  brains. 

As  well  as  they  themselves  do  words ; 

His  wit  was  sent  him  for  a  token, 

Could  tell  what  subtlest  parrots  mean, 

But  in  the  carriage  crack'd  and  broken ; 

That  speak  and  think  contrary  clean ; 

Like  commendation  ninepence  crook'd 

What  meml>er  'tis  of  whom  they  talk 

With  "  To  and  from  my  love"  it  look'd. 

When  they  cry  'Rope,'  and  'Walk,  Knave,  walk. 

He  ne'er  consider'd  it,  as  loth 

He'd  extract  numbers  out  of  matter. 

To  look  a  gitl-horse  in  the  mouth, 

And  keep  them  in  a  glass,  like  water. 

And  very  wisely  would  lay  forth 

Of  sov' reign  power  to  make  men  wise ; 

No  more  upon  it  than  'twas  worth ; 

For,  dropp'd  in  blear  thick-sighted  eyes. 

But  as  he  got  it  freely,  so 

They'd  make  them  see  in  darkest  night. 

He  spent  it  frank  and  freely  too: 

Like  owls,  though  purblind  in  the  light. 

For  saints  themselves  will  sometimes  be 

By  help  of  these  (as  he  profest) 

Of  gifte  that  cost  them  nothing  free. 

He  had  First  Matter  seen  undrest; 

By  means  of  this,  with  hem  and  cough, 

He  took  her  naked,  all  alone. 

Prolongers  to  enlighten'd  stuff. 

Before  one  rag  of  form  was  on. 

He  could  deep  mysteries  unriddle, 

The  Chaos,  too,  he  had  descried. 

As  easily  as  thread  a  needle  ; 

And  seen  quite  through,  or  else  he  lied; 

For  as  of  vagabonds  we  say. 

Not  that  of  pasteboard,  which  men  show 

That  they  are  ne'er  beside  their  way, 

For  groats,  at  fair  of  Barthol'mew  ; 

What'er  men  speak  by  this  new  light, 

But  its  great-grandsire,  first  o'  th'  name, 

Still  they  are  sure  to  l)e  i'  th'  right. 

Whence  that  and  Reformation  came, 

'Tis  a  dark  lantern  of  the  Spirit, 

Both  cousin-germans,  and  right  able 

Which  none  see  by  but  those  that  bear  it ; 

T'  inveigle  and  draw  in  the  rabble ; 

A  light  that  falls  down  from  on  high, 

But  Reformation  was,  some  say, 

For  spiritual  trades  to  cozen  by ; 

0'  th*  younger  horse  to  puppet-play. 

An  ignis  fill uus,  that  bewitches. 

He  could  foretel  whats'ever  was 

And  leads  men  into  pools  and  ditches. 

By  consequence  to  come  to  pass; 

To  make  them  dip  themselves,  and  sound 

As  death  of  great  men,  alterations, 

For  Christendom  in  dirty  pond ; 

Diseases,  battles,  inundations : 

To  dive,  like  wild  fowl,  for  salvation, 

All  this  without  th'  eclipse  of  th'  sun. 

And  fish  to  catch  regeneration. 

Or  dreadful  comet,  he  hath  done 

This  light  inspires  and  plays  upon 

By  inward  light,  a  way  as  good. 

The  noise  of  saint,  like  bagpipe  drone, 

And  easy  to  be  understood  : 

And  speaks  through  hollow  empty  soul. 

But  with  more  lucky  hit  than  those 

As  through  a  trunk,  or  whisp'ring  hole, 

That  use  to  make  the  stars  depose, 

Such  language  as  no  mortal  ear 

Like  Knights  o'  th'  Post,  and  falsely  charge 

But  spirit'al  eaves-droppers  can  hear; 

Upon  themselves  what  others  forge  ; 

So  Phoebus,  or  some  friendly  Muse, 

As  if  they  were  consenting  to 

Into  small  poets  song  infuse. 

All  mischiefs  in  the  world  men  do ; 

Which  they  at  second-hand  rehearse. 

Or,  like  the  devil,  did  tempt  and  sway  'em 

Through  reed  or  bagpipe,  verse  for  verse. 

To  ro>iueries,  and  then  betray  *om. 

Thus  Ralph  became  infallible 

They'll  search  a  planet's  house,  to  kno"' 

As  three  or  four  legg'd  oracle, 

Who  broke  and  robb'd  a  house  below ; 

The  ancient  cup.  or  modern  chair; 

Examine  Venus,  and  the  Moon, 

Spoke  truth  point  blank,  though  unaware. 

Who  stole  a  thimble  or  a  spoon ; 

For  mystic  learning,  wondrous  able 

And  though  they  nothing  will  confew. 

In  magic,  talisman,  and  cabal. 

Yet  by  their  very  looks  can  guess. 

Whose  primitive  tradition  reaches 

And  tell  what  guilty  aspect  (khIcs, 

As  far  as  Adam's  first  green  breeches ; 

Who  stole,  and  who  received  the  goods ; 

Deep-sighted  in  intelligences, 

They'll  question  Mars,  and,  by  his  look, 

Ideas,  atoms,  influences ; 

Detect  who  'twas  that  nimm'd  a  cloak; 
2C 

326 


SAMUEL   BUTLER. 


Make  Mercury  confess,  and  'peach 

Those  thieves  which  he  himself  did  teach. 

They'll  find,  in  th'  physiognomies 

O'  th'  planets,  all  m^n's  destinies  : 

Like  him  that  took  the  doctor's  bill, 

And  swallow'd  it  instead  o'  th'  pill, 

Cast  th'  nativity  o'  th'  question. 

And  from  positions  to  be  guess'd  on, 

As  sure  as  if  they  knew  the  moment 

Of  Wative's  birth,  tell  what  will  come  on't. 

They'll  feel  the  pulses  of  the  stars. 

To  find  out  agues,  coughs,  catarrhs ; 

And  tell  what  crisis  does  divine 

The  rot  in  sheep,  or  mange  in  swine ; 

In  men,  what  gives  or  cures  the  itch, 

What  makes  them  cuckolds,  poor  or  rich  ; 

What  gains  or  loses,  hangs  or  saves. 

What  makes  men  great,  what  fools  or  knaves, 

But  not  what  wise,  for  only  'f  those 

The  stars  (they  say)  cannot  dispose, 

No  more  than  can  the  astrologians : 

There  they  say  right,  and  like  true  Trojans. 

This  Ralpho  knew,  and  therefore  took 

The  other  course,  of  which  we  spoke. 

Thus  was  th'  accomplish'd  Squire  endued 
With  gifts  and  knowledge  per'lous  shrewd; 
Never  did  trusty  squire  with  knight. 
Or  knight  with  squire,  e'er  jump  more  right. 
Their  arms  and  equipage  did  fit. 
As  well  as  virtues,  parts,  and  wit : 
Their  valours,  too,  were  of  a  rate; 
And  out  they  sallied  at  the  gate. 
Few  miles  on  horseback  had  they  jogg'd, 
But  Fortune  unto  them  turn'd  dogg'd ; 
For  they  a  sad  adventure  met. 
Of  which  anon  we  mean  to  treat: 
But  ere  we  venture  to  unfold 
Achievements  so  resolved  and  bold, 
We  should,  as  learned  poetd  use. 
Invoke  th'  assistance  of  some  Muse, 
However  critics  count  it  sillier 
Than  jugglers  talking  too  familiar ; 
We  think  'tis  no  great  matter  which, 
They're  all  alike,  yet  we  shall  pitch 
On  one  that  fits  our  purpose  most. 
Whom  therefore  thus  do  we  accost. 

Thou  that  with  ale,  or  viler  liquors. 
Didst  inspire  Withers.  Prynne,  and  Vickars, 
And  force  them,  though  it  was  in  spite 
Of  Nature,  and  their  stars,  to  write; 
Who  (as  we  find  in  sullen  writs, 
And  cross-grain'd  works  of  modern  wits) 
With  vanity,  o])inion,  want. 
The  wonder  of  the  ignorant, 
The  praises  of  the  author,  penn'd 
B'  himself,  or  wit-insuring  friend  ; 
The  itch  of  picture  in  the  front. 
With  bays  and  wicked  rhyme  upon't, 
All  that  is  left  o'  th'  Forketl  hill 
T»  make  men  scribMe  without  skill; 
Canst  make  a  poet,  spite  of  Fate, 
And  teach  all  people  to  translate, 
Though  out  of  languages  in  which 
Thty  understand  no  part  of  speech  ; 


Assist  me  but  this  once,  I  'mplore. 
And  I  shall  trouble  thee  no  more. 

In  western  cHme  there  is  a  town. 
To  those  that  dwell  therein  well  known. 
Therefore  there  needs  no  more  be  said  here, 
We  unto  them  refer  our  reader ; 
For  brevity  is  very  good. 
When  w'  are,  or  are  not  understood. 
To  this  town  people  did  repair 
On  days  of  market  or  of  fair. 
And  to  crack'd  fiddle  and  hoarse  tabor, 
In  merriment  did  drudge  and  labour; 
But  now  a  sport  more  formidable 
Had  raked  together  village  rabble ; 
'Twas  an  old  way  of  recreating. 
Which  learned  butchers  call  Bear-baiting; 
A  bold  advent'rous  exercise. 
With  ancient  heroes  in  high  prize ; 
For  authors  do  aifirm  it  came 
From  Isthmian  or  Nemsean  game; 
Others  derive  it  from  the  Bear 
That's  fixed  in  northern  hemisphere. 
And  round  about  the  Pole  does  make 
A  circle  like  a  bear  at  stake. 
That  at  the  chain's  end  wheels  about. 
And  overturns  the  rabble  rout: 
For  after  solemn  proclamation 
In  the  bear's  name,  (as  is  the  fashion 
According  to  the  law  of  arms. 
To  keep  men  from  inglorious  harms) 
That  none  presume  to  come  so  near 
As  forty  foot  of  stake  and  bear, 
If  any  yet  be  so  fool-hardy, 
T'  expose  themselves  to  vain  jeopardy. 
If  they  come  wounded  off,  and  lame, 
No  honour's  got  by  such  a  maim. 
Although  the  bear  gain'd  much,  b'ing  bound 
In  honour  to  make  good  his  ground 
When  he's  engaged,  and  takes  no  notice. 
If  any  press  upon  him,  who  'tis. 
But  lets  them  know,  at  their  own  cost, 
That  he  intends  to  keep  his  post. 
This  to  prevent,  and  other  harms. 
Which  always  wait  on  feats  of  arms, 
(For  in  the  hurry  of  a  fray 
'Tis  hard  to  keep  out  of  harm's  way) 
Thither  the  knight  his  course  dia  steer, 
To  keep  the  peace  'twixt  dog  and  bear, 
As  he  believed  he  was  bound  to  do 
In  conscience  and  commission  too. 


PART  I.  CANTO  II. 

Hudibras  eommenoin^  Buttle  with  the  Rabble,  and 
leailiug  off  Crowdero  prisoner. 

This  said,  with  hasty  rage  he  snatch'd 
His  gunshot,  that  in  holsters  watch'd. 
And  bending  cock,  he  levell'd  full 
Against  th'  outside  of  Talgol's  skull. 
Vowing  that  he  should  ne'er  stir  further. 
Nor  henceforth  cow  nor  bullock  murdtr; 
But  Pallas  came  in  shape  of  Rust, 
And  'twixt  the  spring  and  hamme    thi  ust 


SAMUEL 

1 

BUTLER.                                                            827 

Her  gorgon  shield,  which  made  the  cock 

Began  to  kick,  and  fling,  and  wince 

Stand  stiff,  as  'twere  transform'd  to  stock. 

As  if  he'd  been  beside  his  sense, 

Meanwhile  fierce  Talgol,  gathering  might, 

Striving  to  disengage  from  thistle. 

With  rugged  truncheon  charged  the  Knight; 

That  gail'd  him  sorely  under  his  tail; 

But  he  with  petronel  upheaved, 

Instead  of  which,  he  threw  the  pack 

Instead  of  shield,  the  blow  received : 

Of  Squire  and  baggage  from  his  back; 

The  gun  recoil'd,  as  well  it  might, 

And  blundering  still,  with  smarting  rump. 

Not  used  to  such  a  kind  of  fight. 

He  gave  the  Knight's  steed  such  a  thump 

And  shrunk  from  its  great  master's  gripe, 

As  made  him  reel.     The  Knight  did  stoop. 

Knock'd  down  and  stunn'd  with  mortal  stripe. 

And  sat  on  further  side  aslope ; 

Then  Hudibras,  with  furious  haste. 

This  Talgol  viewing,  who  had  now 

Drew  out  his  sword  ;  yet  not  so  fast 

By  flight  escaped  the  fatal  blow. 

But  Talgol  first,  with  hardy  thwack. 

He  rallied,  and  again  fell  to't ; 

Twice  bruised  his  head,  and  twice  his  back; 

For  catching  foe  by  nearest  foot. 

But  when  his  nut-brown  sword  was  out, 

He  lifted  with  such  might  and  strength, 

With  stomach  huge  he  laid  about, 

As  would  have  hurl'd  him  thrice  his  length, 

Imprinting  many  a  wound  upon 

And  dash'd  his  brains  (if  any)  out ; 

His  mortal  foe,  the  truncheon : 

But  Mars,  that  still  protects  the  stout. 

The  crusty  cudgel  did  oppose 

In  pudding-time  came  to  his  aid, 

Itself  against  dead-doing  blows. 

And  under  him  the  Bear  convey'd ; 

To  guard  his  leader  from  fell  bane, 

The  Bear,  upon  who-e  soft  fur-gown 

And  then  revenged  itself  again. 

The  Knight  with  all  his  weight  fell  down. 

And  though  the  sword  (some  understood) 

The  friendly  rug  preserved  the  ground. 

In  force  had  much  the  odds  of  wood. 

And  headlong  Knight,  from  bruise  or  wound : 

'Twas  nothing  so;  both  sides  were  balanc't    • 

Like  feather  bed  betwixt  a  wall. 

So  equal,  none  knew  which  was  valiant'st : 

And  heavy  brunt  of  cannon-ball. 

For  wood,  with  honour  b'ing  engaged. 

As  Sancho  on  a  blanket  fell, 

Is  so  implacably  enraged, 

And  had  no  hurt,  ours  fared  as  well 

Though  iron  hew  and  mangle  sore, 

In  body,  though  his  mighty  spirit. 

Wood  wounds  and  bruises  honour  more. 

B'ing  heavy,  did  not  so  well  bear  it. 

And  now  both  knights  were  out  of  breath. 

The  Bear  was  in  a  greater  fright, 

Tired  in  the  hot  pursuiu  of  death. 

Beat  down,  and  worsted  by  the  Knight ; 

Whilst  all  the  rest  amazed  stood  still. 

He  roar'd,  and  raged,  and  flung  about. 

j                Expecting  which  should  take,  or  kill. 

To  shake  off  bondage  from  his  snout : 

1                This  Hudibras  observed;  and  fi-etting. 

His  wrath  inflamed,  boil'd  o'er,  and  from 

Conquest  should  be  so  long  a-getting. 

His  jaws  of  death  he  threw  the  foam  ; 

He  drew  up  all  his  force  into 

Fury  in  stranger  postures  threw  him, 

One  body,  and  that  into  one  blow ; 

And  more  than  ever  herald  drew  him : 

But  Talgol  wisely  avoided  it 

He  tore  the  earth  which  he  had  saved 

By  cunning  sleight ;  for  had  it  hit 

From  squelch  of  Knight,  and  storm'd  andraveil, 

The  upper  part  of  him,  the  blow 

And  vex'd  the  more,  because  the  harms 

Had  slit  as  sure  as  that  below. 

He  felt  were  'gainst  the  law  of  arms: 

Meanwhile  the  incomparable  Colon, 

For  men  he  always  took  to  be 

To  aid  his  friend,  l)egan  to  fall  on  ; 

His  friends,  and  dogs  the  enemy ; 

Him  Ralph  encounter'd,  and  straight  g^rew 

Who  never  so  much  hurt  had  done  him, 

A  dismal  combat  'twixt  them  two ; 

As  his  own  side  did  falling  on  him : 

Th'  one  arni'd  with  metal,  th'  other  with  wood, 

It  grieved  him  to  the  guts  that  they 

This  fit  for  bruise,  and  that  for  blood. 

For  whom  he'd  fought  so  many  a  fray. 

With  many  a  stiff  thwack,  many  a  bang. 

And  served  with  loss  of  blood  so  long, 

Hard  crabtree  and  old  iron  rang, 

Shou'd  ofier  such  inhuman  wrong  ; 

While  none  that  saw  them  could  divine 

Wrong  of  unsoldier-like  condition. 

To  which  side  conquest  would  incline ; 

For  which  he  flung  down  his  commission  ' 

Until  Magnano,  who  did  envy 

And  laid  about  him  till  his  nose 

That  two  should  with  so  many  men  vie. 

From  thrall  of  ring  and  cord  broke  loose. 

By  subtle  stratagem  of  brain 

Soon  as  he  felt  himself  enlarged, 

Perform'd  what  force  could  ne'er  attain ; 

Through  thickest  of  his  foes  he  charged, 

For  he,  by  foul  hap,  having  found 

And  made  way  through  th'  amazed  crew 

Where  thistles  grew  on  barren  ground. 

Some  he  o'erran,  and  some  o'erthrew, 

In  haste  he  drew  his  weapon  out, 

But  took  none ;  for  by  hasty  flight 

And  having  cropt  them  from  the  root. 

He  strove  t'  escape  pursuit  of  Knight, 

He  ciapt  them  underneath  the  tail 

From  whom  he  fled  with  as  much  haste 

Of  steed,  with  pricks  as  sharp  as  nail : 

And  dread  as  he  the  rabble  chased ; 

The  angry  beast  did  straight  resent 

In  haste  he  fled,  and  so  did  they, 

The  wrong  done  to  his  fundament. 

Each  and  his  fear  a  dcv'ral  way. 

828 


SAMUEL   BUTLER. 


Crowdero  only  kept  the  field, 
Not  stirring  from  the  place  he  held, 
Though  beaten  down,  and  wounded  sore 
r  th'  Fiddle  and  a  leg  that  bore 
One  side  of  him,  not  that  of  bone, 
But  much  its  better,  th'  wooden  one. 
He  spying  Hudibras  lie  strew'd 
Upon  tlie  ground,  like  log  of  wood, 
With  fright  of  fall,  supposed  wound, 
And  loss  of  urine,  in  a  swound, 
In  haste  he  snatch'd  the  wooden  limb 
That,  hurt  i'  th'  ancle,  lay  by  him, 
And  fitting  it  for  sudden  fight. 
Straight  drew  it  up,  t'  attack  the  Knight; 
For  getting  up  on  stump  and  huckle, 
He  with  the  foe  began  to  buckle. 
Vowing  to  be  revenged  for  breach 
Of  Crowd  and  skin,  upon  the  wretch, 
Sole  author  of  all  detriment 
He  and  his  Fiddle  underwent. 

But  Ralpho,  (who  had  now  begun 
T'  adventure  resurrection 
From  heavy  squelch,  and  had  got  up 
Upon  his  legs,  with  sprained  crup,) 
Looking  about,  beheld  pernicion 
Approaching  Knight  from  fell  musician; 
He  snatch'd  his  whinyard  up,  that  fled 
When  he  was  falling  off  his  steed, 
(As  rats  do  from  a  falling  house,) 
To  hide  itself  from  rage  of  blows ; 
And,  wing'd  with  speed  and  fury,  flew 
To  rescue  Knight  from  black  and  blue; 
Which  ere  he  could  achieve,  his  sconce 
The  leg  encounter'd  twice  and  once, 
And  now  't  was  raised  to  smite  agen, 
When  Ralpho  thrust  himself  between  : 
He  took  the  blow  upon  his  arm. 
To  shield  the  Knight  from  further  harm, 
And  joining  wrath  with  force,  bestow'd 
On  th'  wooden  member  such  a  load, 
That  down  it  fell,  and  with  it  bore 
Crowdero,  whom  it  propp'd  before. 
To  him  the  Squire  right  nimbly  run. 
And  setting  conqu'ring  foot  upon 
His  trunk,  thus  spoke :  What  desp'rate  frenzy 
Made  thee,  thou  wKtelp  of  Sin,  to  fancy 
Thyself,  and  all  that  coward  rabble, 
T'  encounter  us  in  battle  ablel 
How  durst  th',  I  say,  oppose  thy  Curship 
'Gainst  arms,  authority,  and  worship. 
And  Hudibras  or  me  provoke. 
Though  all  thy  limbs  were  heart  of  oak, 
And  th'  other  half  of  thee  as  good 
To  bear  out  blows  as  that  of  wood  7 
Could  not  the  whipping-post  prevail, 
With  all  its  rhetoric,  nor  the  jail, 
To  keep  from  flaying  scourge  thy  skin. 
And  ankle  free  from  iron  gin  1 
Which  now  thou  shah — but  first  our  care 
Must  see  how  Hudibras  does  fare. 
This  said,  he  gently  raised  the  Knight, 
And  set  him  on  his  bum  upright. 
To  rouse  him  from  lethargic  dump. 
He  Iweak'd  his  nose,  with  gentle  thump 


Knock'd  on  his  breast,  as  ift  had  been 

To  raise  the  spirits  lodged  within ; 

They,  waken'd  with  the  noise,  did  fly 

From  inward  room  to  window  eye, 

And  gently  op'ning  lid,  the  casement, 

Look'd  out,  but  yet  with  some  amazement. 

This  gladded  Ralpho  much  to  see, 

Who  thus  bespoke  the  Knight.     Quoth  he. 

Tweaking  his  nose,  You  are,  great  Sir, 

A  self-denying  conqueror ; 

As  high,  victorious,  and  great, 

As  e'er  fought  for  the  churches  yet, 

If  you  will  give  yourself  but  leave 

To  make  out  what  y'  already  have ; 

That's  victory.     The  foe,  for  dread 

Of  your  nine-worthiness,  is  fled. 

All  save  Crowdero,  for  whose  sake 

You  did  th'  espoused  cause  undertake, 

And  he  lies  pris'ner  at  your  feet. 

To  be  .disposed  as  you  think  meet. 

Either  for  life,  or  death,  or  sale, 

The  gallows,  or  perpetual  jail ; 

For  one  wink  of  your  powerful  eye 

Must  sentence  him  to  live  or  die. 

His  fiddle  is  your  proper  purchase, 

Won  in  the  service  of  the  churches; 

And  by  your  doom  must  be  allow'd 

To  be,  or  be  no  more,  a  Crowd ; 

For  though  success  did  not  confer 

Just  title  on  the  conqueror ; 

Though  dispensations  were  not  strong 

Conclusions,  whether  right  or  wrong  ; 

Although  Outgoings  did  confirm. 

And  Owning  were  but  a  mere  term ; 

Yet  as  the  wicked  have  no  right 

To  th'  creature,  though  usurp'd  by  might. 

The  property  is  in  the  saint. 

From  whom  th'  injuriously  detain  't! 

Of  him  they  hold  their  luxuries, 

Their  dogs,  their  horses,  whores,  and  dice. 

Their  riots,  revels,  masks,  delights. 

Pimps,  buffoons,  fiddlers,  parasites  ; 

All  which  the  saints  have  title  to. 

And  ought  t'  enjoy  if  they  'ad  their  due. 

What  we  take  from  'em  is  no  more 

Than  what  was  ours  by  right  before ; 

For  we  are  their  true  landlords  still. 

And  they  our  tenants  but  at  will. 

At  this  the  Knight  began  to  rouse. 

And  by  degrees  grow  valorous : 

He  stared  about,  and  seeing  none 

Of  all  his  foes  remain  but  one. 

He  snatch'd  his  weapon,  that  lay  near  him, 

And  from  the  ground  began  to  rear  him. 

Vowing  to  make  Crowdero  pay 

For  all  the  rest  that  ran  away. 

But  Ralpho  now,  in  colder  blood. 

His  fury  mildly  thus  withstood  ; 

Great  Sir,  quoth  he,  your  mighty  spirit 

Is  raised  too  high  ;  this  slave  does  merit 

To  be  the  hangman's  bus'ness,  sooner 

Than  from  your  hand  to  have  the  honour 

Of  his  destruction  ;  I  that  am 

A  nothingness  in  deed  and  name. 


SAMUEL   BUTLER. 


829 


Did  scorn  to  hurt  his  forfeit  carcase, 
Or  ill  entreat  his  Fiddle  or  case : 
Will  you,  great  Sir,  that  glory  blot 
In  cold  blood,  which  you  gain'd  in  hoti 
Will  you  employ  your  conquering  sword 
To  break  a  Fiddle,  and  your  wordi 


PART  n.  CANTO  H. 

VicwiotiB  Justice  exemplified  by  Ralpho  in  the  ease  of  the 

Cobbler  that  killed  the  Indian. 

Justice  gives  sentence  many  times 
On  one  man  for  another's  crimes ; 
Our  brethren  of  New  England  use 
Choice  malefactors  to  excuse, 
And  hang  the  guiltless  in  their  stead. 
Of  whom  the  churches  have  less  need ; 
As  lately  't  happened :  In  a  town 
There  lived  a  cobbler,  and  but  one, 
That  out  of  doctrine  could  cut  use. 
And  mend  men's  lives,  as  well  as  shoes. 
'This  precious  brother  having  slain, 
In  times  of  peace,  an  Indian, 
Not  out  of  malice,  but  mere  zeal, 
(Because  he  was  an  Infidel,) 
The  mighty  Tottipottymoy 
Sent  to  our  elders  an  envoy. 
Complaining  sorely  of  the  breach 
Of  league,  held  forth  by  Brother  Patch, 
Against  the  articles  in  force 
Between  both  churches,  his  and  ours. 
For  which  he  craved  the  saints  to  render 
Into  his  hands,  or  hang  th'  offender: 
But  they  maturely  having  weigh'd 
They  had  no  more  but  him  o'  th'  trade, 
(A  man  that  served  them  in  a  double 
Capacity,  to  teach  and  cobble,) 
Resolved  to  spare  him  :  yet,  to  do 
The  Indian  Hoghan  Moghan  too 
Impartial  justice,  in  his  stead  did 
Hang  an  old  weaver  that  was  bedrid. 


PART  III.   CANTO  HI. 
Iludibras  consulting  the  Lawyer. 

An  old  dull  sot,  who  toU'd  the  clock 
For  many  years  at  Bridewell-dock, 
At  Westminster,  and  Hicks'-hall, 
And  hicrius  dorlius  play'd  in  all ; 
Where  in  all  governments  and  times, 
He'd  been  both  friend  and  foe  to  crimes. 
And  used  to  equal  ways  of  gaining. 
By  hind'ring  justice,  or  maintaining: 
'i'o  many  a  whore  gave  privilege. 
And  whipp'd,  for  want  of  quarterage, 
Cart-loads  of  bawds  to  prison  sent, 
For  being  behind  a  fortnight's  rent; 
And  many  a  trusty  pimp  and  crony 
To  Puddle-dock,  for  want  of  money : 
Engaged  the  constable  to  seize 
All  those  that  would  not  break  the  peace; 
Nor  give  him  back  his  own  foul  words. 
Though  sometimes  commoners,  or  lords, 
i2 


And  kept  'em  prisoners  of  course, 

For  being  sober  at  ill  hours ; 

That  in  the  morning  he  might  free 

Or  bind  'em  over  for  his  fee : 

Made  monsters  fine,  and  puppet-plays, 

For  leave  to  practise  in  their  ways; 

Farm'd  out  all  cheats,  and  went  a  share 

With  th'  headborough  and  scavenger; 

And  made  the  dirt  i'  th'  streets  compound 

For  taking  up  the  public  ground; 

The  kennel  and  the  king's  highway. 

For  being  unmolested,  pay  ; 

Let  out  the  stocks,  and  whipping-post, 

And  cage,  to  those  that  gave  him  most ; 

Imposed  a  task  on  baker's  ears. 

And,  for  false  weights,  on  chandelers ; 

Made  victuallers  and  vintners  fine 

For  arbitrary  ale  and  wine ; 

But  was  a  kind  and  constant  firiend 

To  all  that  regularly  offend, 

As  residentiary  bawds. 

And  brokers  that  receive  stol'n  goods  ; 

That  cheat  in  lawful  mysteries, 

And  pay  church  duties  and  his  fees: 

But  was  implacable  and  awkward 

To  all  that  interloped  and  hawker'd. 

To  this  brave  man  the  Knight  repairs 
For  counsel  in  his  law-affairs. 
And  found  him  mounted  in  his  pew, 
With  books  and  money  placed,  for  show. 
Like  nest-eggs  to  make  clients  lay. 
And  for  his  false  opinion  pay  : 
To  whom  the  Knight,  with  comely  grace, 
Put  off  his  hat,  to  put  his  case ; 
Which  he  as  proudly  entertain'd 
As  th'  other  courteously  strain'd; 
And,  to  assure  him  't  was  not  that 
He  look'd  for,  bid  him  put  on  's  hat. 

Quoth  he,  there  is  one  Sidrophel, 
Whom  I  have  cudgeli'd — Very  well. 
And  now  he  brags  to  've  beaten  me — 
Better  and  better  still,  quoth  he. 
And  vows  to  stick  me  to  a  wall. 
Where'er  he  meets  me — Best  of  all. 
'Tis  true  the  knave  has  taken  's  oath 
That  I  robb'd  him — Well  done,  in  troth. 
When  he's  confess'd  he  stole  my  cloak, 
And  pick'd  my  fob,  and  what  he  took  ; 
Which  was  the  cause  that  made  me  bang  him, 
And  take  my  goods  again — Marry,  hang  him- 
Now,  whether  I  should  beforehand 
Swear  he  robb'd  me  1 — I  understand. 
Or  bring  my  action  of  conversion 
And  trover  for  my  goods  ? — Ah,  whoreson  ! 
Or,  if  't  is  better  to  endite. 
And  bring  him  to  his  trial  ? — Right, 
Prevent  what  he  designs  to  do. 
And  swear  for  th'  state  against  him  T — Tru«». 
Or  whether  he  that  is  defendant 
In  this  ease  has  tlie  better  end  on't ; 
Who,  putting  in  a  new  cross-bill, 
May  traverse  th'  action  ? — Better  still. 
Then  there's  a  lady  too — Ay,  marry  ! 
That's  easily  proved  accessary  ; 
2c2 


S80 


SAMUEL  BUTLER. 


A  widow  who  by  solemn  vows 
Contracted  to  me,  for  my  spouse, 
Combined  with  him  to  breaii  her  word, 
And  has  abetted  all — Good  Lord! 
Suborn'd  th'  aforesaid  Sidrophel 
To  tamper  with  the  dev'l  of  hell, 
Who  put  m'  into  a  horrid  fear. 
Fear  of  my  life — Make  that  appear. 
Made  an  assault  with  fiends  and  men 
Upon  my  body — Good  agen. 
And  kept  me  in  a  deadly  fright, 
And  false  imprisonment,  all  night. 
Meanwhile  they  robb'd  me,  and  my  horse, 
And  stole  my  saddle — Worse  and  worse. 
And  made  me  mount  upon  the  bare  ridge, 
T'  avoid  a  wretcheder  miscarriage. 

Sir,  (quoth  the  lawyer,)  not  to  flatter  ye, 
You  have  as  good  and  fair  a  battery 
As  heart  can  wish,  and  need  not  shame 
The  proudest  man  alive  to  claim  ; 
For  if  they've  used  you  as  you  say. 
Marry,  quoth  I,  God  give  you  joy  ; 
I  would  it  were  my  case,  I'd  give 
More  than  I'll  say,  or  you'll  believe : 
I  would  so  trounce  her,  and  her  purse, 
I'd  make  her  kneel  for  better  or  worse : 
For  matrimony,  and  hanging  here. 
Both  go  by  destiny  so  clear, 
That  you  as  sure  may  pick  and  choose, 
As  cross  I  win,  and  pile  you  lose  : 
And  if  I  durst,  I  would  advance 
As  much  in  ready  maintenance, 
As  upon  any  case  I've  known ; 
But  we  that  practise  dare  not  own  : 
The  law  severely  contrabands 
Our  taking  bus'ness  off  men's  hands: 
'Tis  common  barratry,  that  bears 
Point-blank  an  action  'gainst  our  ears. 
And  crops  them  till  there  is  not  leather. 
To  stick  a  pin  in,  left  of  either ; 
For  which  some  do  the  summer-sault, 
And  o'er  the  bar,  like  tumblers,  vault: 
But  you  may  swear,  at  any  rate, 
Things  not  in  nature,  for  the  state ; 
For  in  all  courts  of  justice  here 
A  witness  is  not  said  to  swear. 
But  make  oath  ;  that  is,  in  plain  terms, 
To  forge  whatever  he  affirms. 

I  thank  you  (quoth  the  Knight)  for  that, 
Because  'tis  to  my  purpose  pat — 
For  Justice,  though  she's  painted  blind. 
Is  to  the  weaker  side  inclined. 
Like  Charity  ;  else  right  and  wrong 
Could  never  hold  it  out  so  long. 
And,  like  blind  Fortune,  with  a  sleight, 
Conveys  men's  interest  and  right 
Frorn  Stiles's  pocket  into  Nokes's, 
As  easily  as  Horns  Pocus  ; 
Plays  fast  and  loose,  makes  men  obnoxious. 
And  clear  again  like  hircius  docliut. 
Then,  whether  you  would  take  her  life, 
Or  but  recover  her  for  your  wife, 


Or  be  content  with  what  she  has. 

And  let  all  other  matters  pass. 

The  bus'ness  to  the  law's  alone. 

The  proof  is  all  it  looks  upon  ; 

And  you  can  want  no  witnesses 

To  swear  to  any  thing  you  please, 

That  hardly  get  their  mere  expenses 

By  th'  labour  of  their  consciences. 

Or  letting  out  to  hire  their  ears 

To  affidavit  customers. 

At  inconsiderable  values. 

To  serve  for  jurymen,  or  tallies. 

Although  retain'd  in  th'  hardest  matters 

Of  trustees  and  administrators. 

For  that  (quoth  he)  let  me  alone ; 
We've  store  of  such,  and  all  our  own. 
Bred  up  and  tutor'd  by  our  Teachers, 
The  ablest  of  conscience-stretchers. 

That's  well  (quoth  he,)  but  I  should  gaetss, 
By  weighing  all  advantages. 
Your  surest  way  is  first  to  pitch 
On  Bongey  for  a  water-witch ; 
And  when  you've  hang'd  the  conjurer. 
Ye  've  time  enough  to  deal  with  her. 
In  th'  int'rim  spare  for  no  trepans 
To  draw  her  neck  into  the  bans ; 
Ply  her  with  love-letters  and  billets. 
And  bait  'em  well,  for  quirks  and  quillets. 
With  trains  t'  inveigle  and  surprise 
Her  heedless  answers  and  replies  ; 
And  if  she  miss  the  mouse-trap  lines. 
They'll  serve  for  other  by-designs ; 
And  make  an  artist  understand 
To  copy  out  her  seal,  or  hand ; 
Or  find  void  places  in  the  paper 
To  steal  in  something  to  entrap  her ; 
Till  with  her  worldly  goods,  and  body, 
Spite  of  her  heart,  she  has  endow'd  ye : 
Retain  all  sorts  of  witnesses. 
That  ply  i'  th'  Temple,  under  trees, 
Or  walk  the  round,  with  Knights  o'  th'  Posts, 
About  the  cross-legg'd  knights,  their  hosts; 
Or  wait  for  customers  between 
The  pillar-rows  in  Lincoln's  Inn  ; 
Where  vouchers,  forgers,  common-bail. 
And  affidavit-men,  ne'er  fail 
T'  expose  to  sale  all  sorts  of  oaths, 
According  to  their  ears  and  clothes, 
Their  only  necessary  tools. 
Besides  the  Gospel  and  their  souls : 
And  when  ye  're  furnish'd  with  all  purveys, 
I  shall  be  ready  at  your  service. 

I  would  not  give  (quoth  Hudibras)' 
A  straw  to  understand  a  case, 
Without  the  admirable  skill 
To  wind  and  manage  it  at  will ; 
To  veer,  and  tack,  and  steer  a  cause 
Against  the  weathergage  of  laws. 
And  ring  the  changes  upon  cases, 
As  plain  as  noses  upon  faces, 
As  you  have  well  instructed  me. 
For  which  you  've  earn'd  (here  'tis)  your  fee 


ISAAK  WALTON. 


[Bora,  1593.    Died,  16S3.] 


IsAAK  Walton,  who  in  the  humble  profession 
of  a  sempster  in  London  had  some  of  the  most 
eminent  men  of  his  age  for  his  intimate  friends, 
was  born  at  Stafford,  and  made  his  first  settle- 
ment in  London  in  a  shop  which  was  but  seven 


feet  and  a  half  long  and  five  feet  wide.  His  la- 
vourite  amusement  was  angling,  on  which  he  has 
left  a  treatise,  together  with  some  interesting  bio- 
graphical memoirs,  which  have  been  made  well 
known  by  many  modern  and  elegant  editions. 


THB  ANGLER'S  WISH. 

I  IN  these  flowery  meads  would  be : 
These  crystal  streams  should  solace  me. 
To  whose  harmonious  bubbling  noise 
I  with  my  angle  would  rejoice ; 
Sit  here  and  see  the  turtle  dove 
Court  his  chaste  mate  to  acts  of  love: 

Or  on  that  bank  feel  the  west  wind 
Breathe  health  and  plenty :  please  my  mind 
To  see  sweet  dew-drops  kiss  these  flowers. 
And  then  wash'd  off  by  April  showers; 
Here  hear  my  Kenna  sing  a  song. 
There  see  a  blackbird  feed  her  young, 


Or  a  leverock  build  her  nest : 

Here  give  my  weary  spirits  rest. 

And  raise  my  low-pitch'd  thoughts  above 

Earth,  or  what  poor  mortals  love: 

Or,  with  my  Bryan*  and  my  book. 

Loiter  long  days  near  Shawford  brook: 

There  sit  by  him  and  eat  my  meat. 
There  see  the  sun  both  rise  and  set. 
There  bid  good  morning  to  next  day, 
There  meditate  my  time  away. 
And  angle  on,  and  beg  to  have 
A  quiet  passage  to  the  grave. 


WENTWORTH  DILLON,  EARL  OF  ROSCOMMON. 


[Born,  16S3     DM,  ie8«-6.] 


Wentworth  Dii.L0N,Earl  of  Roscommon,  was 
the  maternal  nephew  of  the  unfortunate  Earl  of 
Strafford.  He  was  born  in  Ireland,  educated  at 
Caen  in  Normandy,  travelled  into  Italy,  and,  re- 
turning to  England  at  the  Restoration,  was  made 


a  captain  of  the  Band  of  Pensioners.  "  It  may 
be  remarked,"  says  Dr.  Warton,  "  to  the  praise 
of  Roscommon,  that  he  was  the  first  critic  who 
had  taste  and  spirit  enough  publicly  to  praise  the 
Paradise  Lo8t."t 


FROM  «  AN  ESSAY  ON  TRANSLATED  VERSE." 

Immodest  words  admit  of  no  defence; 
For  want  of  decency  is  want  of  sense. 
What  moderate  fop  would  rake  the  park  or  stews. 
Who  among   troops   of  faultless    nymphs  may 
Variety  of  such  is  to  be  found  :  [choose  1 

Take  then  a  subject  proper  to  expound ; 
But  moral,  great,  ^nd  worth  a  poet's  voice ; 
t  or  men  of  sense  despise  a  trivial  choice : 
And  sucli  applause  it  must  expect  to  meet, 
As  would  some  painter  busy  in  a  street, 
To  ropy  bulls  and  bears,  and  every  sign 
That  calls  the  staring  sots  to  nasty  wine. 
Yet,  'tis  not  all  to  have  a  subject  good: 
it  must  delight  us  when  'tis  understood, 
lie  that  brings  fulsome  objects  to  my  view, 
'As  many  old  have  done,  and  many  new,) 

•  Probably  his  dog. 


With  nauseous  images  my  fancy  fills. 
And  all  goes  down  like  oxymel  of  squills. 
Instruct  the  listening  world  how  Maro  sings 
Of  useful  subjects  and  of  lofty  things. 
These  will  such  true,  such  bright  ideas  raise. 
As  merit  gratitude,  as  well  as  praise : 
But  foul  descriptions  are  offensive  still. 
Either  for  being  like,  or  being  ill : 
For  who,  without  a  qualm,  hath  ever  look'd 
On  holy  garbage,  though  by  Homer  cook'd  ? 
Whose  railing  heroes,  and  whose  wounded  gods 
Makes  some  8us|:>ect  he  snores,  as  well  as  nods. 
But  I  oflend — Virgil  begins  to  frown, 
And  Horace  looks  with  indignation  down  : 
My  blushing  Muse  with  conscious  fear  retires. 
And  whom  they  like  implicitly  admires. 

On  sure  foundations  let  your  fabric  rise, 
And  with  attractive  majesty  surprise; 

[t  Dryden  wa«  before  him,  but  Kowmnmou  was  t*'e  first 
to  write  in  imitatioa  of  Milton's  manner.] 

S.'U 


S32 


WENTWORTH  DILLON,  EARL  OF  ROSCOMMON. 


'Vot  by  affected  meretricious  arts, 

But  strict  harmonious  symmetry  of  parts  ; 

Which  through  the  whole  insensibly  must  pass. 

With  vital  heat  to  animate  the  mass: 

A  pure,  an  active,  an  auspicious  flame ;     [came : 

And  bright  as  heaven,  from  whence  the  blessing 

But  few,  oh  !  few  souls,  pre-ordain'd  by  fate. 

The  race  of  gods,  have  reach'd  that  envied  height. 

No  Rebel-Titan's  sacrilegious  crime. 

By  heaping  hills  on  hills  can  hither  climb : 

The  grizly  ferryman  of  hell  denied 

.^neas  entrance,  till  he  knew  his  guide. 

How  justly  then  will  impious  mortals  fall. 

Whose  pride  would  soar  to  heaven  without  a  call ! 

Pride  (of  all  others  the  most  dangerous  fault) 
Proceeds  from  want  of  sense,  or  want  of  thought. 
1'he  men  who  labour  and  digest  things  most. 
Will  be  much  apter  to  despond  than  boast : 
For  if  your  author  be  profoundly  good, 
'Twill  cost  you  dear  before  he's  understood. 
How  many  ages  since  has  Virgil  writ ! 
How  few  are  they  who  understand  him  yet ! 
Approach  his  altars  with  religious  fear  : 
No  vulgar  deity  inhabits  there. 
Heaven  shakes  not  more  at  Jove's  imperial  nod, 
Than  poets  should  before  their  Mantuan  god. 
Hail,  mighty  Maro  !  may  that  sacred  name 
Kindle  my  breast  with  thy  celestial  flame, 
Sublime  ideas  and  apt  words  infuse ;         [Muse ! 
The  Muse  instruct  my  voice,  and  thou  inspire  the 

What  I  have  instanced  only  in  the  best, 
Is,  in  proportion,  true  of  all  the  rest. 
Take  pains  the  genuine  meaning  to  explore  ! 
There  sweat,  there  strain ;  tug  the  laborious  oar; 
Search  every  comment  that  your  care  can  find ; 
Some  here,  some  there,  may  hit  the  poet's  mind: 
Yet  be  not  blindly  guided  by  the  throng : 
The  multitude  is  always  in  the  wrong. 
When  things  appear  unnatural  or  hard. 
Consult  your  author,  with  himself  compared. 
Who  knows  what  blessing  Phoebus  may  bestow, 
And  future  ages  to  your  labour  owe] 
Such  secrets  are  not  easily  found  out ; 
But,  once  discover'd,  leave  no  room  for  doubt. 
Truth  stamps  conviction  in  your  ravish'd  breast ; 
And  peace  and  joy  attend  the  glorious  guest. 

Truth  still  is  one ;  truth  is  divinely  bright ; 
No  cloudy  doubts  obscure  her  native  light; 
While  in  your  thoughts  you  find  the  least  debate. 
You  may  confound,  but  never  can  translate. 
Your  style  will  this  through  all  disguises  show; 
For  none  explain  more  clearly  than  they  know. 
He  only  proves  he  understands  a  text. 
Whose  exposition  leaves  it  unperplex'd. 
They  who  too  faithfully  on  names  insist, 
Rather  create  than  dissipate  the  mist ; 
And  grow  unjust  by  being  over  nice, 
(For  superstitious  virtue  turns  to  vice.) 
Let  Crassus'  ghost  and  Labienus  tell 
How  twic«  in  Parthian  plains  their  legions  fell. 
Since  Rome  hath  been  so  jealous  of  her  fame, 
That  few  know  Pacorus'  or  Monseses'  name. 

Words  in  one  language  elegantly  used, 
Will  hardly  in  another  be  excused ; 


And  some  that  Rome  admired  in  Csesar's  time, 
May  neither  suit  our  genius  nor  our  clime. 
The  genuine  sense,  intelligibly  told. 
Shows  a  translator  both  discreet  and  bold. 

Excursions  are  inexpiably  bad; 
And  'tis  much  safer  to  leave  out  than  add. 
Abstruse  and  mystic  thought  you  must  express 
With  painful  care,  but  seeming  easiness  ; 
For  truth  shines  brightest  through  the  plainest 

dress. 
Th'  ^nean  Muse,  when  she  appears  in  state, 
Makes  all  Jove's  thunder  on  her  verses  wait ; 
Yet  writes  sometimes  as  soft  and  moving  things 
As  Venus  speaks,  or  Philomela  sings. 
Your  author  always  will  the  best  advise. 
Fall  when  he  falls,  and  when  he  rises,  rise. 
Affected  noise  is  the  most  wretched  thing. 
That  to  contempt  can  empty  scribblers  bring. 
Vowels  and  accents,  regularly  placed, 
On  even  syllables  (and  still  the  last) 
Though  gross  innumerable  faults  abound, 
In  spite  of  nonsense,  never  fail  of  sound. 
But  this  is  meant  of  even  verse  alone. 
As  being  most  harmonious  and  most  known: 
For  if  you  will  unequal  numbers  try, 
There  accents  on  odd  syllables  must  lie. 
Whatever  sister  of  the  learned  Nine 
Does  to  your  suit  a  willing  ear  incline. 
Urge  your  success,  deserve  a  lasting  name. 
She'll  crown  a  grateful  and  a  constant  flame. 
But,  if  a  wild  uncertainty  prevail. 
And  turn  your  veering  heart  with  every  gale, 
You  lose  the  fruit  of  all  your  former  care. 
For  the  sad  prospect  of  a  just  despair. 

A  quack  (too  scandalously  mean  to  name) 
Had,  by  man-midwilery,  got  wealth  and  fame ; 
As  if  Lucina  had  forgot  her  trade. 
The  labouring  wife  invokes  his  surer  aid. 
Well-season'd  bowls  the  gossip's  spirits  raise. 
Who,   wlule    she    guzzles,   chats    the    doctor' 

praise ; 
And  largely,  what  she  wants  in  words,  supplies, 
W^ith  maudlin  eloquence  of  trickling  eyes. 
But  what  a  thoughtless  animal  is  man  ! 
(How  very  active  in  his  own  trepan !) 
For,  greedy  of  physicians'  frequent  fees. 
From  female  mellow  praise  he  takes  degrees , 
Struts  in  a  new  unlicensed  gown,  and  then 
From  saving,  women  falls  to  killing  men. 
Another  such  had  left  the  nation  thin. 
In  spite  of  all  the  children  he  brought  in. 
His  pills  as  thick  as  hand  grenadoes  flew ; 
And  where  they  fell,  as  certainly  they  slew : 
His  name  struck  everywhere  as  great  a  damp. 
As  Archimedes'  through  the  Roman  camp. 
With  this,  the  doctor's  pride  began  to  cool ; 
For  smarting  soundly  may  convince  a  fool. 
But  now  repentance  came  too  late  for  grace ; 
And  meagre  famine  stared  him  in  the  face : 
Fain  would  he  to  the  wives  be  reconciled. 
But  found  no  husband  left  to  own  a  child. 
The  firiends,  that  got  the  brats,  were  poison'd 

too: 
In  this  sad  case,  what  could  our  vermin  do  1 


THOMAS   OTWAY. 


833 


Worried  with  debts,  and  past  all  hope  of  bail, 
Th'  unpitied  wretch  lies  rotting  in  a  jail  : 
And  there  with  basket-alms,  scarce  kept  alive, 
Shows  how  mistaken  talents  ought  to  thrive. 

I  pity,  from  my  soul,  unhappy  men, 
Compcll'd  by  want  to  prostitute  their  pen ; 
Who  must,  like  lawyers,  either  starve  or  plead, 
And  follow,  right  or  wrong,  where  guineas  lead ! 
But  you,  Pompilian,  wealthy,  pamper'd  heirs. 
Who  to  your  country  owe  your  swords  and  cares, 
Let  no  vain  hope  your  easy  mind  seduce. 
For  rich  ill  poets  are  without  excuse ; 
*Tis  very  dangerous  tampering  with  the  Muse, 
The  profit  's  small  and  you  have  much  to  lose  ; 
For  though  true  wit  adorns  your  birth  or  place, 
Degenerate  lines  degrade  th'  attainted  race. 
No  poet  any  passion  can  excite, 
But  what  they  feel  transport  them  when  they  write. 
Have  you  been  led  through  the  Cumsean  cave, 
And  heard  th'  impatient  maid  divinely  rave  1 
I  hear  her  now ;  I  see  her  rolling  eyes ; 
And  panting,  Lo !  the  God,  the  God,  she  cries: 
"With  words  not  hers,   and   more   than   human 

sound, 
She  makes  th'  obedient   ghosts  peep  trembling 

through  the  ground. 


But  though  we  most  obey  when  Heaven  com 

mands, 
And  man  in  vain  the  sacred  call  withstandB, 
Beware  what  spirit  rages  in  your  breast ; 
For  ten  inspired,  ten  thousand  are  possest : 
Thus  make  the  proper  use  of  each  extreme, 
And  write  with  fury,  but  correct  with  phlegm. 
As  when  the  cheerful  hours  too  freely  pass, 
And  sparkling  wine  smiles  in  the  tempting  glass, 
Your  pulse  advises,  and  begins  to  beat 
Through  every  swelling  vein  a  loud  retreat: 
So  when  a  Muse  propitiously  invites, 
Improve  her  favours,  and  indulge  her  flights ; 
But  when  you  find  that  vigorous  heat  abate. 
Leave  off,  and  for  another  summons  wait. 
Before  the  radiant  sun,  a  glimmering  lamp, 
Adulterate  measures  to  the  sterling  stamp, 
Appear  not  meaner  than  mere  human  lines. 
Compared  with  those  whose  inspiration  shines : 
These,  nervous,  bold  ;  those,  languid  and  remiss; 
There  cold  salutes ;  but  here  a  lover's  kiss. 
Thus  have  I  seen  a  rapid  headlong  tide, 
With  foaming  waves  the  passive  Saone  divide ; 
Whose  lazy  waters  without  motion  lay. 
While  he  with  eager  force,  urged  his  impetuoni 

way. 


THOMAS  OTWAY. 


[Born,  1651.     Died,  1685.] 


FROM  "XnE  ORPHAN." 

chamont's  suspictoss  of  his  sister. 

persons — AcASTO,  the  guardian  of  Mojomia;  Mojomia,  and 
her  brother  Chamost. 

Enter  Servant. 
Serv.  My  lord,  th'  expected  guests  are  just  arrived. 
jlcag.  Go  you,  and  give  them  welcome  and  re- 
ception. 
Cham.  My  lord,Istandinneed  of  your  assistance 
In  something  that  concerns  my  peace  and  honour. 
^Scas.  Spoke  like  the  son  of  that  brave  man  I 
loved : 
So  freely  friendly  we  conversed  together. 
Whate'er  it  be,  with  confidence  impart  it. 
Thou  shalt  command  my  fortune  and  my  sword. 
Cham.  I  dare  not  doubt  your  friendship  nor 
your  justice. 
Your  bounty  shown  to  what  I  hold  most  dear, 
My  orphan  sister,  must  not  be  forgotten ! 

Jlcas.  Pr'ythee,  no  more  of  that ;  it  grates  my 

nature. 
Cham.  When  our  dear  parents  died,  they  died 
together,  [them : 

One  fate  surprised  them,  and  one  grave  received 
My  father  with  his  dying  breath  bequeathed 


Her  to  my  love  :  my  mother,  as  she  lay 
Languishing  by  him,  call'd  me  to  her  side. 
Took  me  in   her  fainting  arms,  wept,  and  em- 
braced me,  [tears 
Then  press'd  me  close,  and  as  she  observed  my 
Kiss'd  them  away ;  said  she,  Chamont,  my  son, 
By  this,  and  all  the  love  I  ever  show'd  thee. 
Be  careful  of  Monin)ia,  watch  her  youth. 
Let  not  her  wants  betray  her  to  dishonour; 
Perhaps  kind   Heaven  may  raise  some  friend. 

Then  sigh'd, 
Kiss'd  me  again  ;  so  bless'd  us  and  expired. 
Pardon  my  grief. 

Mai.  It  speaks  an  honest  nature. 

Cham.  The  friend  Heaven  raised  was  you,  you 
took  her  up. 
An  infant,  to  tiie  desert  world  exposed. 
And  proved  another  parent. 

.Aras.  I've  not  wrong'd  her. 

Cham.  Far  be  it  from  my  fears. 
Mas.  Then  why  this  argument  t 

Cham.  My  lord,  my  nature's  jealous,  and  you'll 
Mat.  Go  on.  [bear  it 

Cham.  Great  spirits  bear  misfortunes  hard  y  • 
Good  offices  claim  gratitude  ;  and  pride. 
Where  power  is  wanting,  will  usurp  a  littln 


And  makeus  (rather  than  be  thought  behind-hand) 
Pay  over-price. 

Acai.  I  cannot  guess  your  drift ; 

Distrust  you  me  1 

Cham.  No,  but  I  fear  her  weakness 

May  make  her  pay  a  debt  at  any  rate ; 
And  to  deal  freely  with  your  lordship's  goodness, 
I've  heard  a  story  lately  much  disturbs  me. 
Acas.  Then  first  charge  her  ;  and  if  the  offence 
be  found 
Within  my  reach,  though  it  should  touch  my 

nature, 
In  my  own  offspring,  by  the  dear  remembrance 
Of  thy  brave  father,  whom  my  heart  rejoiced  in, 
I'd  prosecute  it  with  severest  vengeance.        lExU. 
Cham.  I  thank  you  from  my  soul. 
Mon.  Alas,  my  brother ! 

What  have  I  done  1  and  why  do  you  abuse  me  1 
My  heart  quakes  in  me ;  in  your  settled  face 
And  clouded  brow  methinks  I  see  my  fate  : 
You  will  not  kill  me  ! 

Cham.  Pr'ythee,  why  dost  talk  so  ! 

Mon.  Look  kindly  on  me,  then.     I  cannot  bear 
Severity;  it  daunts,  and  does  amaze  me: 
My  heart's  so  tender,  should  you  charge  me  rough, 
I  should  but  weep,  and  answer  you  with  sobbing. 
But  use  me  gently  like  a  loving  brother, 
And  search  through  all  the  secrets  of  my  soul. 

Cham.  Fear  nothing,  I  will  show  myself  a  brother, 
A  tender,  honest,  and  a  loving  brother. 
You've  not  forgot  our  father  ] 

Moti.  I  shall  never. 

Cham.  Then  you'll  remember  too,  he  was  a  man 
That  lived  up  to  the  standard  of  his  honour, 
And  prized  that  jewel  more  than  mines  of  wealth : 
He'd  not  have  done  a  shameful  thing  but  once, 
Though  kept  in  darkness   from   the  world,  and 
He  could  not  have  forgiven  it  to  himself:  [hidden, 
'I'his  was  the  only  portion  that  he  left  us ; 
And  I  more  glory  in  it,  than  if  possess'd 
Of  all  that  ever  fortune  threw  on  fools. 
'Twas  a  large  trust,  and  must  be  managed  nicely: 
Now  if  by  any  chance,  Monimia, 
You  have  soil'd  this  gem,  and  taken  from  its  value. 
How  will  you  account  with  mel 

Mon.  I  challenge  envy. 

Malice,  and  all  the  practices  of  hell. 
To  censure  all  the  actions  of  my  past 
Unhappy  life,  and  taint  me  if  they  can  ! 

Chum.  I'll  tell  thee,  then  :  three  nights  ago,  as  I 
Lay  musing  in  my  bed,  all  darkness  round  me, 
A  sudden  damp  struck  to  my  heart,  cold  sweat 
Dew'd  ail  my  face, and  trembling  seized  my  limbs: 
My  bed  shook  under  me,  the  curtains  started, 
And  to  my  tortured  fancy  there  appear'd 
The  form  of  thee,  thus  beauteous  as  thou  art, 
Thy  garments  flowing  loose,  and  in  each  hand 
A  wanton  lover,  who  by  turns  caress'd  thee 
V\'ith  all  the  freedom  of  unbounded  pleasure: 
I  snatch'd  my  sword,  and  in  the  very  moment 
Darted  at  the  phantom,  straight  it  left  me; 
Then  rose  and  call'd  for  lights,  when,  O  dire  omen ! 
I  found  my  weapon  had  the  arras  pierced. 
Just  where  that  famous  tale  was  interwoven. 
How  the  unhappy  Theban  slew  his  father. 


Mon.  And  for  this  cause  my  virtue  is  suspected  ! 
Because  in  dreams  your  fancy  has  been  ridden, 
I  must  be  tortured  waking  ! 

Cham.  Have  a  care. 

Labour  not  to  be  justified  too  fast : 
Hear  all,  and  then  let  justice  hold  the  scale. 
What  follow'd  was  the  riddle  that  confounds  me : 
Through  a  close  lane,  as  I  pursued  my  journey, 
And  meditated  on  the  last  night's  vision, 
I  spied  a  wrinkled  hag,  with  age  grown  double, 
Picking  dry  sticks,  and  mumbling  to  herself; 
Her  eyes  with  scalding  rheum  were  gall'd  and  red; 
Cold  palsy  shook   her  head,  her  hands  seem'd 

wither'd. 
And  on  her  crook'd  shoulders  had  she  wrapt 
The  tatter'd  remnant  of  an  old  striped  hanging, 
Which  served  to  keep  her  carcass  from  the  cold ; 
So  there  was  nothing  of  a  piece  about  her; 
Her  lower  weeds  were  all  o'er  coarsely  patch'd 
With  different  colour'd  rags,  black,  red,  white,  yeU 
Andseeni'd  to  speak  variety  of  wretchedness,  [low, 
I  asked  her  of  my  way,  which  she  inform'd  me;  . 
Then  craved  my  charity,  and  bade  me  hasten 
To  save  a  sifter :   at  that  word  I  started. 

Mon.  'i'he  common  cheat  of  beggars  every  day  ! 
They  flock  about  our  doors,  pretend  to  gifts 
Of  prophecy,  and  telling  fools  their  fortunes. 

Cham.  Oh !  but  she  told  me  such  a  tale,  Monimia, 
As  in  it  bore  great  circumstance  of  truth ; 
Castalio  and  Polydore,  my  sister. 

Mon.  Hah! 

Cham.  What,  alter'd !  does  your  courage  fail  you? 
Now  by  my  father's  soul  the  witch  was  honest ; 
Answer  me,  if  thou  hast  not  lost  to  them 
Thy  honour  at  a  sordid  game. 

Mon.  I  will, 

I  must,  so  hardly  my  misfortune  loads  me. 
That  both  have  offer'd  me  their  loves,  most  true. — 

Cham.  A  nd  'tis  as  true  too,  they  have  both  un- 
done thee. 

Mon.  Thoiagh  they  both  with  earnest  vows 
Have  press'd  my  heart,  if  e'er  in  thought  I  yielded 
To  any  but  Castalio — 

Cham.  But  Castalio! 

Mon.  Still  will  you  cross  the  line  of  my  discourse! 
Yes,  I  confess  that  he  has  won  my  soul 
By  generous  love,  and  honourable  vows; 
Which  he  this  day  appointed  to  complete. 
And  make  himself  by  holy  marriage  mine. 

Cham.  Art  thou  then  spotless  1  hast  thou  still 
preserved 
Thy  virtue  white  without  a  blot  untainted  1 

Mon.   When  I'm  unchaste,  may  Heaven  reject 
my  prayers ! 
Or  more,  to  make  me  wretched,  may  you  know  it! 

Churn.  Oh  then,  Monimia,  art  thou  dearer  to  me 
Than  all  the  i  omforts  ever  yet  bless'd  man. 
But  let  not  marriage  bait  thee  to  thy  ruin. 
Trust  not  a  man  ;  we  are  by  nature  false. 
Dissembling,  subtle,  cruel,  and  inconstant: 
When  a  man  talks  of  love,  with  caution  trust  him ; 
But  if  he  swears,  he'll  certainly  deceive  thee: 
I  charge  thee  let  no  more  Castalio  soothe  thee : 
Avoid  it  as  thou  wouldst  preserve  the  peace 
Of  a  poor  brother,  to  whose  soul  thou'rt  precious. 


THOMAS  OTWAT. 


83S 


PROM  THE  SAME. 

Chamont  finding  Monimia  in  tears,  dixcoypring  the  caow 
of  her  grief,  and  remonstrating  trith  Acasto. 

Enter  Chamont. 

Cham.  In  tears,  Monimia  ! 

Mon.  Whoe'er  thou  art, 

Leave  me  alone  to  my  beloved  despair. 

Cham.  Lift  up  thy  eyes,  and  see  who  comes  to 
cheer  thee. 
Tell  me  the  story  of  thy  wrongs,  and  then 
See  if  my  soul  has  rest  till  thou  hast  justice. 

Mon.  My  brother ! 

Cham.  Yes,  Monimia,  if  thou  think'st 

That  I  deserve  the  name,  I  am  thy  brother. 

•  •  •  • 

Mo7u  Oh,  shouldst  thou  know  the  cause  of  my 
lamenting,  [me ; 

I'm  satisfied,  Chamont,  that  thou  wouldst  scorn 
Thou  wouldst  despise  the  abject,  lost  Monimia, 
No  more  wouldst  praise  this  hated  beauty  ;  but 
When  in  some  cell  distracted,  as  I  shall  be. 
Thou  seest  me  lie ;  these  unregarded  locks 
Matted  like  furies'  tresses ;  my  poor  limbs 
Chain'd  to  the  ground,  and  'stead  of  the  delights 
Which  happy  lovers  taste,  my  keeper's  stripes, 
A  bed  of  straw,  and  a  coarse  wooden  dish 
Of  wretched  sustenance;  when  thus  thou  seest 

me. 
Pr'ythee,  have  charity  and  pity  for  me. 
Let  me  enjoy  this  thought. 

Cham,  Why  wilt  thou  rack 

My  soul  so  long,  Monimia  T  ease  me  quickly  ; 
Or  thou  wilt  run  me  into  madness  first. 

Mmi.  Could  you  be  secret  1 

Cham,  Secret  as  the  grave. 

Mon,  But  when  I've  told  you,  will  you  keep 
your  fury 
Within  its  bounds  1     Will  you  not  do  some  rash 
And  horrid  mischief?   for  indeed,  Chamont, 
You  would  not  think  how  hardly  I've  been  used 
From  a  near  friend:  from  one  that  has  my  soul 
A  slave,  and  therefore  treats  it  like  a  tyrant. 

*  *  «  * 

Cham.  Go  on ! 

Mon,  He  threw  me  from  his  breast, 

Like  a  detested  sin. 

Cham.  How  ? 

Mon.  As  I  hung  too 

Upon  his  knees,  and  begg'd  to  know  the  cause, 
He  dragg'd  me  like  a  slave  upon  the  earth. 
And  had  no  pity  on  my  cries. 

Cham.  How!  did  he 

Dash  thee  disdainfully  away  with  scorn  ? 

Man,  He  did ;  and,  more,  I  fear,  will  ne'er  be 
friends. 
Though  I  still  love  him  with  unbated  passion. 

Chum,  What,  throw  thee  from  him  1 

Mon.  Yes,  indeed  he  did. 

Cham,  So  may  this  arm 
Throw  him  to  th'  earth,  like  a  dead  dog  despised ; 
Lameness  and  leprosy,  blindness  and  lunacy. 
Poverty,  shame,  pride,  and  the  name  of  villain 
Light  on  me,  if,  Castalio,  I  forgive  ihee. 


Enter  Acasto. 

.Srat.  Sure  some  ill  fate  is  towards  me ;  in  my 
I  only  meet  with  oddness  and  disorder ;      [house 
Each  vassal  has  a  wild  distracted  face ; 
And  looks  as  full  of  business  as  a  blockhead 
In  times  of  danger ;  Just  this  very  moment 
I  met  Castalio — 

Cham.  Then  you  met  a  villain. 

.^cas.  Hah  ! 

Cham.  Yes,  a  villain. 

.^cas.  Have  a  care,  young  soldier, 

How  thou'rt  too  busy  with  Acasto's  fame; 
I  have  a  sword,  my  arm's  good  old  acquaintance. 
Villain  to  thee — 

Cham.  Curse  on  thy  scandalous  age, 

Which  hinders  me  to  rush  upon  thy  throat, 
And  tear  the  root  up  of  that  cursed  bramble ! 

.^cus.  Ungrateful  ruffian!  sure  my  good  old  friend 
Was  ne'er  thy  father;  nothing  of  him's  in  thee  • 
What  have  I  done  in  my  unhappy  age. 
To  be  thus  used  ?  I  scorn  to  upbraid  thee,  boy. 
But  I  could  put  thee  in  remembrance — 

Cham,  Do. 

,£cas.  I  scorn  it — 

Cham.  No.  I'll  calmly  hear  the  story, 

For  I  would  fain  know  all,  to  see  which  scale 
Weighs  most — Hah,  is  not  that  good  old  Acastol 
What  have  I  done  1     Can  you  forgive  this  folly  1 

Jlcas.  Why  dost  thou  ask  it  1 

Cham.  "I'was  the  rude  o'erflowing 

Of  too  much  passion ;  pray,  my  lord,  forgive  me. 

[Kneel*. 

Acas,  Mock  me  not,  youth ;  I  can  revenge  n 
wrong. 

Cham,  I  know  it  well ;  but  for  this  thought  ol 
Pity  a  madman's  frenzy,  and  forget  it.        [mine, 

,Acas,  I  will ;  but  henceforth,  pr'ythee  be  moro 
kind.  [Raiut  him 

Whence  came  the  cause  ? 

Cham,  Indeed  I've  been  to  blame, 

But  I'll  learn  better ;  for  you've  been  my  father  : 
You've  been  her  father  too — 

[Tiiket  MoxmA  by  Ut«  liand 

,^cas.  Forbear  the  prologue — 
And  let  me  know  the  substance  of  thy  tale. 

Cham,  You  took  her  up  a  little  tender  flowoi 
Just  sprouted  on  a  bank,  which  the  next  frost 
Had  nipp'd  ;  and,  with  a  careful  loving  hand. 
Transplanted  her  into  your  own  fair  garden. 
Where  the  sun  always  shines:  There  long  bhe 

flourish'd. 
Grew  sweet  to  sense,  and  lovely  to  the  eye, 
Till  at  the  last  a  cruel  spoiler  came, 
Croppd  this  fair  rose,  and  rifled  all  its  sweetness, 
Then  cast  it  like  a  loathsome  weed  away. 

jiras.  You  talk  to  me  in  parables ;  Chamont, 
You  may  have  known  that  I'm  no  wordy  man ; 
Fine  speeches  are  the  instruments  of  knaves 
Or  fouls,  that  use  them,  when  they  want  good 
But  honesty  [sense  • 

Needs  no  disguise  nor  ornament;  be  plain. 

Cham.  Your  son — 


Aca$. 


How  has  Castalio  wrong'd  her  ^ 


886 


THOMAS  OTWAY. 


Cham.   Ask   that   of  him :  I  say,  my  sister's 
Monimia,  my  sister,  born  as  high  [wrong'd : 

And  noble  as  Castalio — Do  her  justice. 
Or,  by  the  Gods,  I'll  lay  a  scene  of  blood. 
Shall  make  this  dwelling  horrible  to  nature. 
I'll  do't ;  hark  you,  my  lord,  your  son  Castalio, 
Take  him  to  your  closet,  and  there  teach  him 
manners. 


FROM  "VENICE  PRESERVED." 

ACT  V.  SCENE  I. 

Belvidera  reTcaling  to  her  Father  the  secret  of  the 

CoDBpiracy. 

Enter  Priuu  tolus. 

Pri.  Wht,  cruel  Heaven,  have  my  unhappy  days 
Been  lengthen'd  to  this  sad  one  ?  Oh  !  dishonour 
And  deathless  infamy  are  fallen  upon  me. 
Was  it  my  fault?     Am  I  a  traitor?     No. 
But  then,  my  only  child,  my  daughter,  wedded ; 
There  my  best  blood  runs  foul,  and  a  disease 
Incurable  has  seized  upon  my  memory. 
To  make  it  rot,  and  stink  to  after  ages. 
Cursed  be  the  fatal  minute  when  I  got  her, 
Or  would  that  I'd  been  any  thing  but  man, 
And  raised  an    issue  which  would    ne'er  have 

wrong'd  me. 
The  miserable  creatures,  man  excepted. 
Are  not  the  less  esteem'd,  though  their  posterity 
Degenerate  from  the  virtues  of  their  fathers ; 
The  vilest  beasts  are  happy  in  their  offspring's. 
While  only  man  gets  traitors,  whores,  and  villains. 
Cursed  be  the  names,  and  some  swift  blow  from 

fate 
Lay  his  head  deep,  where  mine  may  be  forgotten. 

Enter  Belvibera,  in  a  long  mourning  veil. 

Bel.  He's  there,  my  father,  my  inhuman  father, 
That  for  three  years  has  left  an  only  child 
Exposed  to  all  the  outrages  of  fate. 
And  cruel  ruin — oh  ! — 

Pri,  What  child  of  sorrow 

Art  thou  that  com'st  thus  wrapp'd  in  weeds  of 

sadness. 
And  movest  as  if  thy  steps  were  towards  a  grave  ? 

Bel.  A  wretch,  who  from  the  very  top  of  hap- 
piness 
Am  fallen  into  the  lowest  depths  of  misery. 
And  want  your  pitying  hand  to  raise  me  up. 

Pri.  Indeed  thou  talk'st  as  thou  hadst  tasted 
Would  I  could  help  thee.  [sorrows  ; 

Bel.  'Tis  greatly  in  your  power : 

The  world  too  speaks  you  charitable ;  and  I, 
Who  ne'er  ask'd  alms  before,  in  that  dear  hope 
Am  come  a  begging  to  you,  sir. 

Pri.  For  what  ? 

Bel.  Oh,  well  regard  me  ;  is  this  voice  a  strange 
Consider  too,  when  beggars  once  pretend  [one  ? 
A  case  like  mine,  no  little  will  content  them. 

Pri.   What  wouldst  thou  beg  for  ? 

Pel.   Pity  and  forgiveness.        [Tlirnwn  up  her  veil. 
By  the  kind  tender  names  of  child  and  father. 
Hear  ray  complaints,  and  take  me  to  your  love. 

Pri.  Mv  daughter? 


Bel.  Yes,  your  daughter,  by  a  mother 

Virtuous  and  noble,  faithful  to  your  honour, 
Obedient  to  your  will,  kind  to  your  wishes, 
Dear  to  your  arms.     By  all  the  joys  she  gave  you, 
When  in  her  blooming  years  she  was  your  trea- 
Look  kindly  on  me ;  in  my  face  behold       [sure, 
The  lineaments  of  hers  you've  kiss'd  so  often, 
Pleading  the  cause  of  your  poor  cast-off  child. 

Pri.  'I'hou  art  my  daughter. 

Bel.  Yes — and  you've  oft  told  me, 

With  smiles  of  love,  and  chaste  paternal  kisses, 
I'd  much  resemblance  of  my  mother. 

Pri.  Oh ! 

Hadst  thou  inherited  her  matchless  virtues, 
I  had  been  too  bless'd. 

Bel.  Nay,  do  not  call  to  memory 

My  disobedience,  but  let  pity  enter 
Into  your  heart,  and  quite  deface  the  impression. 
For  could  you  think  how  mine's  perplex'd,  what 

sadness. 
Fears,  and  despairs  distract  the  peace  within  me. 
Oh  !  you  would  take  me  in  your  dear,  dear  arms, 
Hover  with  strong  compassion  o'er  your  young 

one. 
To  shelter  me  with  a  protecting  wing 
From  the  black  gather'd  storm,  that's  just,  just 
breaking. 

Pri.  Don't  talk  thus. 

Bel.  Yes,  I  must,  and  you  must  hear  too. 

I  have  a  husband. 

Pri.  Damn  him. 

Bel.  Oh !  do  not  curse  him ; 

He  would  not  speak  so  hard  a  word  towards  you 
On  any  terms,  howe'er  he  deal  with  me. 

Pri.  Hah  !  what  means  my  child  ? 

Bel.             Oh  !  there's  but  this  short  moment 
'Twixt  me  and  fate ;  yet  send  me  not  with  curses 
Down  to  my  grave  ;  afford  me  one  kind  blessing 
Before  we  part:  just  take  me  in  your  arms. 
And  recommend  me  with  a  prayer  to  Heaven, 
That  I  may  die  in  peace  ;  and  when  I'm  dead 

Pri.  How  my  soul's  catch'd  ! 

Bel.  Lay  me,  I  beg  you,  lay  me 

By  the  dear  ashes  of  my  tender  mother. 
She  would  have  pitied  me,  had  fate  yet  spared 
her. 

Pri.  By  Heaven,  my  aching  heart  forebodes 
much  mischief: 
Tell  me  thy  story,  for  I'm  still  thy  father. 

Bel.  No,  I'm  contented. 

Pri.  Speak. 

Bel.  No  matter. 

Pn.  Tell  me. 

By  yon  bless'd  heaven,  my  heart  runs  o'er  with 

Bel.  Oh !  [fondness. 

Pri.  Utter  it. 

Bel.  Oh  my  husband,  my  dear  husband 

Carries  a  dagger  in  his  once  kind  bosom, 
To  pierce  the  heart  of  your  poor  Belvidera. 

Pri.  Kill  thee ! 

Bel.  Yes,  kill  me.     When  he  pass'd  his  faith 
And  covenant  against  your  state  and  senate. 
He  gave  me  up  as  hostage  for  his  truth : 
With  me  a  dagger,  and  a  dire  commission, 
W  hene'er  he  fail'd,  to  plunge  it  through  this  bosoir. 


ANONYMOUS. 


837 


I  learnt  the  danger,  chose  the  hour  of  love 
T'  attempt  his  heart,  and  bring  it  back  to  honour. 
Great  love  prevail'd,  and  bless'd  me  with  success; 
He  came,  confess'd,  betray'd  his  dearest  friends, 
For  promised  mercy.  Now  they're  doora'd  to  suiTer. 
Gall'd  with  remembrance  of  what  then  was  sworn, 
If  they  are  lost,  he  vows  to  appease  the  gods 
With  this  poor  life,  and  make  my  blood  the  atone- 

PrL  Heavens !  [ment. 

Bel.  Think  you  saw  what  past  at  our  last  part- 
Think  you  beheld  him  like  a  raging  lion,     [ing ; 
Pacing  the  earth,  and  tearing  up  his  steps. 
Fate  in  his  eyes,  and  roaring  with  the  pain 
Of  burning  fury ;  think  you  saw  one  hand 
Fix'd  on  my  throat,  whilst  the  extended  other 
Grasp'd  a  keen  threateningdagger:  Oh !  'twas  thus 
We  lastembraced ;  when,  trembling  with  revenge, 
He  dragg'd  me  to  the  ground,  and  at  my  bosom 
Presented  horrid  death ;  cried  out,  My  friends  ! 
Where   are   my  friends  ?    swore,   wept,   raged, 

threaten'd,  loved. 
For  yet  he  loved,  and  that  dear  love  preserved  me 
To  this  last  trial  of  a  father's  pity. 
I  fear  not  death,  but  cannot  bear  a  thought 
Th  at  that  dear  hand  should  do  the  u  nfriendly  office. 
If  I  was  ever  then  your  care,  now  hear  me ; 
Fly  to  the  senate,  save  the  promised  lives 
Of  his  dear  friends,  ere  mine  be  made  the  sacrifice. 

PrL  Oh,  my  heart's  comfort ! 

Bel.  Will  you  not,  my  father  1 

Weep  not,  but  answer  me. 


Pri.  By  Heaven,  I  will. 

Not  one  of  them  but  what  shall  be  immortaL 
Canst  thou  forgive  me  all  my  follies  past, 
I'll  henceforth  be  indeed  a  father ;  never. 
Never  more  thus  expose,  but  cherish  thee, 
Dear  as  the  vital  warmth  that  feeds  my  life : 
Dear  as  these  eyes  that  weep  in  fondness  o'er  thee 
Peace  to  thy  heart.     Farewell. 

liel.  Go,  and  remember 

'Tis  Belvidera's  life  her  father  pleads  for. 

[Exeunt  teteraUf. 


SONG. 

FROM   "the  OBPHAX." 

Come  all  ye  youths  whose  hearts  e'er  bled 

By  cruel  beauty's  pride. 
Bring  each  a  garland  on  his  head. 

Let  none  his  sorrows  hide  : 
But  hand  in  hand  around  me  move. 
Singing  the  saddest  tales  of  love ; 
And  see,  when  your  complaints  ye  join, 
If  all  your  wrongs  can  equal  mine. 
The  happiest  mortal  once  was  I, 

My  heart  no  sorrow  knew  ; 
Pity  the  pain  with  which  I  die, 

But  ask  not  whence  it  grew  ; 
Yet  if  a  tempting  fair  you  find. 
That's  very  lovely,  very  kind,  [bears, 

Though  bright  as  heaven  whose  stamp  she 
Think  on  my  fate  and  shun  her  snares. 


ANONYMOUS. 


SONG. 

FROM  THE  LOYAL  OAKLAND.*  EDIT.  1685. 

Beauty  and  Love  fell  once  at  odds. 
And  thus  reviled  each  other ; 
Quoth  Love,  I  am  one  of  the  gods. 
And  thou  wait'st  on  my  mother ; 
Thou  hadst  no  power  on  man  at  all 
But  what  I  gave  to  thee  ; 
Nor  are  you  longer  sweet,  or  fair. 
Than  men  acknowledge  me. 

Away,  fond  boy,  then  Beauty  cried. 

We  know  that  thou  art  blind ; 

And  men  of  nobler  parts  they  can 

Our  graces  better  find  : 

'Twas  I  begot  the  mortal  snow, 

And  kindled  men's  desires ; 

I  made  thy  quiver  and  thy  bow, 

And  wings  to  fan  thy  fires. 

Cupid  in  anger  flung  away. 

And  thus  to  Vulcan  pray'd. 

That  he  would  tip  his  shails  with  scorn, 

To  punish  his  proud  maid. 


•  These  extracts  from  the  Loyal  Garland  have  been 
placed  amoni;  the  SpecimeDB  acconling  to  the  date  of  the 
edition.  Most  of  the  poetry  in  that  miscellany  is  of  a 
much  older  date. 

43 


So  ever  since  Beauty  has  been 
But  courted  for  an  hour ; 
To  love  a  day  is  held  a  sin 
'Gainst  Cupid  and  his  power. 


SEAMAN'S  SONG. 

FROM  THE  SAME. 

O'er  the  rolling  waves  we  go, 
Where  the  stormy  winds  do  blow, 
To  quell  with  fire  and  sword  the  foe 

That  dares  give  us  vexation. 
Sailing  to  each  foreign  shore, 
Despising  hardships  we  endure, 
Wealth  we  often  do  bring  o'er. 

That  does  enrich  the  nation. 
Noble-hearted  seamen  are. 
Those  that  do  no  labour  spare. 
Nor  no  danger  shun  or  fear 

To  do  their  country  pleasure. 
In  loyalty  they  do  abound, 
Nothing  base  in  them  is  found ; 
But  they  bravely  stand  their  ground 

In  calm  and  stormy  weather. 
In  their  love  and  constancy 
None  above  them  e'er  can  be  • 
As  the  maidens  daily  see, 

Who  are  by  seamen  courted: 
2D 


838 


PHILIP  ATRES. 


Nothing  for  them  is  too  good 
That  is  found  in  land  or  flood ; 
Nor  with  better  flesh  and  blood 
Has  any  ever  sported. 


SONG.    TYRANNIC  LOVE.» 

FBOH  THI  SAME. 


Love  in  fantastic  triumph  sat, 
While  bleeding  hearts  around  him  flow'd, 
For  whom  fresh  pains  he  did  create, 
Ard  strange  tyrannic  power  he  show'd : 


From  thy  bright  eyes  he  took  his  fires. 
Which  round  about  in  sport  he  1;  jrl'd; 
But  'twas  from  mine  he  took  desires, 
Enough  't  undo  the  amorous  world. 

From  me  he  took  his  sighs  and  tears, 
From  thee  his  pride  and  cruelty ; 
From  me  his  languishment  and  fears. 
And  every  killing  dart  from  thee  : 
Thus  thou,  and  I,  the  god  have  arm'd, 
And  set  him  up  a  deity  : 
But  my  poor  heart  alone  is'  harm'd. 
Whilst  thine  the  victor  is  and  free. 


N.  HOOK, 

Of  Trinity  College,  Cambridge,  published  a  volume  of  poems  of  the  date  1685. 


FROM  A  POEM  ENTITLED  "AMANDA." 
I  HATE  an  eye  for  her  that's  fair, 
An  ear  for  her  that  sings ; 
Yet  don't  I  care  for  golden  hair, 
I  scorn  the  portion  lech'ry  brings 
To  bawdy  Beauty.     I'm  a  churl. 
And  hate,  though  a  melodious  girl, 
Her  that  is  naught  but  air. 

I  have  a  heart  for  her  that's  kind, 
A  lip  for  her  that  smiles  ; 
But  if  her  mind  be  like  the  wind, 
I'd  rather  foot  it  twenty  miles. 

«  «  «  » 


Is  thy  voice  mellow,  is  it  smart  1 

Art  Venus  for  thy  beauty  1 

If  kind,  and  tart,  and  chaste  thou  art, 

I'm  bound  to  do  thee  duty. 

Though  pretty  Mall  or  bonny  Kate, 

Hast  thou  one  hair  adulterate, 

I'm  blind,  and  deaf,  and  out  of  heart. 

Amanda,  thou  art  kind,  well-bred. 
Harmonious,  sweetly  kind ; 
If  thou  wilt  wed  my  virgin  bed. 
And  taste  my  love,  thou'rt  to  my  mind ; 
Take  hands,  lips,  heart,  and  eyes, 
Are  all  too  mean  a  sacrifice. 


PHILIP  AYERS, 

Published  Lyric  Poems,  dated  1687,  London. 


TO  THE  NIGHTINGALE. 
Why,  little  charmer  of  the  air. 
Dost  thou  in  music  spend  the  mom. 
While  I  thus  languish  in  despair, 
Oppress'd  by  Cynthia's  hate  and  scorn  1 
Why  dost  thou  sing  and  hear  me  cry  ] 
Tell,  wanton  songster,  tell  me  why. 

*  *  *  * 

Great  to  the  ear,  though  small  to  sight. 
The  happy  lover's  dear  delight ; 
Fly  to  the  bowers  where  such  are  laid, 
And  there  bestow  thy  serenade : 
Haste  thee  from  sorrow,  haste  away, 
Alas,  there's  danger  in  thy  stay. 
Lest  hearing  me  so  oft  complain 
Should  make  thee  change  thy  cheerful  strain. 

*  *  *  * 

Then  cease,  thou  charmer  of  the  air. 
No  more  in  music  spend  the  morn 

[*  This  song  is  by  Aphm  Behn,  the  Astnea  of  Pope — 
»'  The  stage  how  loosely  does  Astnea  tread," 
and  is  in  "  Abdelazer,  or  the  Moor's  Revenge."] 

[f  X.  Hook  and  Philip  Ayres  are  writers  very  little  known, 
and  scarcely  meriting  a  place  in  these  Selections.  In  no 
collection  of  our  poets  (and  our  so-called  "  British  Poets" 
hare  been  made  general  and  mediocre  enough),  have  they 
evfir  found  a  place,  in  no  Biographical  Dictionary  are  their 
name*  included,  and  without  Mr.  Campbell's  returrection 


With  me  that  languish  in  despair, 
Oppress'd  by  Cynthia's  hate  and  scorn  ; 
And  do  not  this  poor  boon  deny, 
I  ask  but  silence  while  I  die. 


ON  THE  SIGHT  OF  HIS  MISTRESS'S  HOUSE. 

FROM  TH£  8AM£. 

To  view  these  walls  each  night  I  come  alone, 
And  pay  my  adoration  to  the  stone ; 
Whence  joy  and  peace  are  influenced  on  me. 
For  'tis  the  temple  of  my  deity. 

As  nights  and  days  an  anxious  wretch  by  stealth 
Creeps  out  to  view  the  place  which  hoards  bis 

wealth, 
So  to  this  house,  that  keeps  from  me  my  heart, 
I  come,  look,  traverse,  weep,  and  then  depart-t 


of  them  they  must  have  slept  with  "  Time  and  with  Tom 
Hearne."  A  reader  may  be  allowed  to  smile  at  Mr.  Camp- 
bell's very  general  love  for  poetry  in  its  essence,  and  his 
endeavours  to  recover  and  embalm  decayed  bodies,  at  his 
taste,  and  his  general  goodnature.  Mr.  Campbell's  criti- 
cisms are  everywhere  distinguished  by  a  discerning  and 
cultivated  mind,  his  selections  at  times  by  a  kindness  for 
the  dead,  and  an  anxiety  to  give  what  Mr.  Kllis  had  not 
given.] 


'2^j:kmz^>^J€kzy 


J  B  Lippiucott  &  Co.PJjilad'^ 


EDMUND    WALLER. 


841 


LOVE'S  FAREWELL. 

Teeading  the  path  to  nobler  ends, 

A  long  farewell  to  love  I  gave, 
Resolved  my  country  and  my  friends 

All  that  remain'd  of  me  should  have. 

And  this  resolve  no  mortal  dame, 

None  but  those  eyes  could  have  o'erthrown ; 
The  nymph  I  dare  not,  need  not  name, 

So  high,  so  like  herself  alone. 

Thus  the  tall  oak,  which  now  aspires 

Above  the  fear  of  private  fires. 
Grown  and  design 'd  for  nobler  use, 

Not  to  make  warm,  but  build  the  house, 
Though  from  our  meaner  flames  secure, 
Must  that  which  falls  from  heaven  endure. 


ON  A  GIRDLE. 

That  which  her  slender  waist  confined 
Shall  now  my  joyful  temples  bind  : 
No  monarch  but  would  give  his  crown, 
His  arms  might  do  what  this  has  done. 

It  was  my  heaven's  extremest  sphere, 
The  pale  which  held  that  lovely  deer. 
My  joy,  my  grief,  my  hope,  my  love, 
Did  ail  within  this  circle  move ! 

A  narrow  compass  !  and  yet  there 
Dwelt  all  that's  good,  and  all  that's  fair; 
Give  me  but  what  this  riband  bound, 
Take  ail  the  rest  the  sun  goes  round. 


GO,  LOVELY  ROSE. 

Go,  lovely  Rose ! 

Tell  her  that  wastes  her  time  and  me, 

That  now  she  knows 

When  I  resemble  her  to  thee, 
How  sweet  and  fair  she  seems  to  be. 

Tell  her  that's  young, 

And  shuns  to  have  her  graces  spied. 

That  hadst  thou  sprung 

In  deserts,  where  no  men  abide. 
Thou  must  have  uncommended  died. 

Small  is  the  worth 

Of  beauty  from  the  light  retired : 

Bid  her  come  forth, 

Suffer  herself  to  be  desired, 
And  not  blush  so  to  be  admired. 

Then  die !  that  she 

The  common  fate  of  all  things  rare 

May  read  in  thee, 

How  small  a  part  of  time  they  share 
That  are  so  wondrous  sweet  and  fair.*' 


[  *  The  following  veroe  wan  added  by  Kirke  White  in  a 
npy  of  Waller's  I'oema : 

Yet  tbouirh  tliou  fide. 

From  thy  iloiid  leaves  let  fragrance  rise ; 
And  teach  the  maid 
That  (loodni'ss  time's  rude  hand  defies, 
That  virtue  lives  when  l>eauty  dies.] 


OF  LOVING  AT  FIRST  SIGHT. 
Not  caring  to  observe  the  wind. 
Or  the  new  sea  explore, 
Snatch'd  from  myself  how  far  behind 
Already  I  behold  the  shore ! 

May  not  a  thousand  dangers  sleep 
In  the  smooth  bosom  of  this  deep  ? 
No :  'tis  so  rockless  and  so  clear. 
That  the  rich  bottom  does  appear 
Paved  all  with  precious  .things  ;  not  torn 
From  shipwreck'd  vessels,  but  there  bom. 

Sweetness,  truth,  and  every  grace. 
Which  time  and  use  are  wont  to  teach. 
The  eye  may  in  a  moment  reach 
And  read  distinctly  in  her  face. 

Some  other  nymphs,  with  colours  faint, 
And  pencil  slow,  may  Cupid  paint. 
And  a  weak  heart  in  time  destroy ; 
She  has  a  stamp,  and  prints  the  boy ; 
Can  with  a  single  look  inflame 
The  coldest  breast,  the  rudest  tame. 


THE  SELF-BANISH£D. 
It  is  not  that  I  love  you  less. 

Than  when  before  your  feet  I  lay ; 
But  to  prevent  the  sad  increase 

Of  hopeless  love,  I  keep  away. 

In  vain,  alas !  for  every  thing 

Which  I  have  known  belong  to  you 

Your  form  does  to  my  fancy  bring, 

And  makes  my  old  wounds  bleed  anew. 

Who  in  the  spring,  from  the  new  sun. 

Already  has  a  fever  got. 
Too  late  begins  those  shaf\«  to  shun, 

Which  Phoebus  through  his  veins  has  shot. 

Too  late  he  would  the  pain  assuage. 
And  to  thick  shadows  does  retire ; 

About  with  him  he  bears  the  rage, 
And  in  his  tainted  blood  the  fire. 

But  vow'd  I  have,  and  never  must 
Your  banish'd  servant  trouble  you  * 

For  if  I  break,  you  may  mistrust 
The  vow  I  made — to  love  you  too. 


THE  NIGHT-PIECE,  OR  A  PICTURE  DRAWN  IN  THS 
DARK. 

Darkness,  which  fairest  nymphs  disarms, 
Defends  us  ill  from  Mira's  charms : 
Mira  can  lay  her  lieauty  by. 
Take  no  advantage  of  the  eye. 
Quit  all  that  Lely's  art  can  take, 
And  yet  a  thousand  captives  make. 

Her  speech  is  gniced  with  sweeter  sound 
Than  in  another's  song  is  found  ; 
And  all  her  well-plai-ed  words  are  darts, 
Which  need  no  light  to  reach  our  heartfl 

As  the  bright  stars  and  Milky-way, 
Show'd  by  the  night,  are  aid  by  day ; 


842 


CHARLES   COTTON. 


So  we,  in  that  accomplish'd  mind, 
Help'd  by  the  night,  new  graces  find, 
Which  by  the  splendour  of  her  view, 
Dazzled  before,  we  never  knew. 

While  we  converse  with  her,  we  mark 
No  want  of  day,  nor  think  it  dark; 
Her  shining  image  is  a  light 
Fix'd  in  our  hearts,  and  conquers  night. 

Like  jewels  to  advantage  set. 
Her  beauty  by  the  shade  does  get ; 
There  blushes,  frowns,  and  cold  disdain. 
All  that  our  passion  might  restrain, 
Is  hid,  and  our  indulgent  mind 
Presents  the  fair  idea  kind. 

Yet  friended  by  the  night,  we  dare 
Only  in  whispers  tell  our  care: 
He  that  on  her  his  bold  hand  lays. 
With  Cupid's  pointed  arrows  plays ; 
They  with  a  touch  (they  are  so  keen !) 
Wound  us  unshot,  and  she  unseen. 


All  near  approaches  threaten  death ; 
We  may  be  shipwreck'd  by  her  breath : 
Love  favour'd  once  with  that  sweet  gale. 
Doubles  his  baste,  and  fills  his  sail. 
Till  he  arrive  where  she  must  prove 
The  haven  or  the  rock  of  love. 

So  we  th'  Arabian  coast  do  know 
At  distance,  when  the  spices  blow ; 
By  the  rich  odour  taught  to  steer, 
Tho'ugh  neither  day  nor  stars  appear. 


THE  NATAL  GLORY  OF  ENGLAND. 

FROM  VERSES  OX  A   WAR  WITH   SPAIN. 

Others  may  use  the  ocean  as  their  road, 
Only  the  English  make  it  their  abode. 
Whose  ready  sails  with  every  wind  can  fly, 
And  make  a  covenant  with  th'  inconstant  sky : 
Our  oaks  secure  as  if  they  there  took  root, 
We  tread  on  billows  with  a  steady  foot. 


CHARLES  COTTON. 


[Boni,  1630.    Died,  1687.] 


There  is  a  careless  and  happy  humour  in  this 
poet's  Voyage  to  Ireland,  which  seems  to  antici- 
pate the  manner  of  Anstey,  in  the  Bath  Guide. 
The  tasteless  indelicacy  of  his  parody  of  the 
^neid  has  found  but  too  many  admirers.  His 
imitations  of  Lucian  betray  the  grossest  miscon- 
ception of  humorous  effect  when  he  attempts  to 
burlesque  that  which  is  ludicrous  already.  He 
was  acquainted  with  French  and  Italian ;  and, 
among  several  works  from  the  former  language, 
translated  "  The  Horace"  of  Corneille,  and  Mon- 
taigne's Essays. 

The  father  of  Cotton  is  described  by  Lord 
Clarendon  as  an  accomplished  and  honourable 
man,  who  was  driven  by  domestic  afflictions  to 
habits  which  rendered  his  age  less  reverenced 
than  his  youth,  and  made  his  best  friends  wish 
that  he  had  not  lived  so  long.  From  him  our 
poet  inherited  an  encumbered  estate,  with  a  dis- 
position to  extravagance  little  calculated  to  im- 
prove it.  After  having  studied  at  Cambridge, 
and  returned  from  his  travels  abroad,  he  married 


the  daughter  of  Sir  Thomas  Owthorp,  in  Not- 
tinghamshire. He  went  to  Ireland  as  a  captain 
in  the  army,  but  of  his  military  progress  nothing 
is  recorded.  Having  embraced  the  soldier's  life 
merely  as  a  shift  in  distress,  he  was  not  likely  to 
pursue  it  with  much  ambition.  It  was  probably 
in  Ireland  that  he  met  with  his  second  wife,  Mary 
Countess  Dowager  of  Ardglass,  the  widow  of 
Lord  Cornwall.  She  had  a  jointure  of  £1500  a 
year,  secured  fi-om  his  imprudent  management. 
He  died  insolvent  at  Westminster.  One  of  his 
favourite  recreations  was  angling  ;  and  his  house, 
which  was  situated  on  the  Dove,  a  fine  trout 
stream  which  divides  the  counties  of  Derby  and 
Stafford,  was  the  frequent  resort  of  Ris  friend 
Isaak  Walton.  There  he  built  a  fishing-house, 
"  Piscatoribus  sacrum,"  with  the  initials  of  honest 
Isaak's  name  and  his  own  united  in  ciphers  over 
the  door.  The  walls  were  painted  with  fishing 
scenes,  and  the  portraits  of  Cotton  and  Walton 
were  upon  the  beaufet. 


A  VOYAGE  TO  IRELAND  IN  BURLESQUE. 
CANTO  I. 
The  lives  of  frail  men  are  compared  by  the  sages 
Or  unto  short  journies,  or  pilgrimages, 
As  men  to  their  inns  do  come  sooner  or  later. 
That  is  to  their  ends  (to  be  plain  in  my  matter)  ; 
From  whence  when  one  dead   is,  it  currently 

follows, 
He  has  run  his  race,  though  his  goal  be  the  gallows ; 
And  this  'tis,  I  fancy,  set  folks  so  a  madding. 
And  makes  men  and  women  so  eager  of  gadding  ; 


Truth  is,  in  my  youth  I  was  one  of  these  people 
Would  have  gone  a  great  way  to  have  seen  an 

high  steeple. 
And  though  I  was  bred  'mongst  the  wonders  o' 

th'  Peak, 
Would  have  thrown  away  money,  and  ventured 

my  neck 
To  have  seen  a  great  hill,  a  rock,  or. a  cave. 
And  thought  there  was  nothing  so  pleasant  and 

brave  : 
But  at  forty  years  old  you  may  (if  you  please) 
Think  me  wiser  than  run  such  errands  as  these : 


CHARLES   COTTON. 


843 


Or,  had  the  same,  humour  still  run  in  my  toes, 
A  voyage  to  Ireland  I  ne'er  should  have  chose ; 
But  to  tell  you  the  truth  on't,  indeed  it  was  neither 
Improvement   nor   pleasure    for   which    I    went 

thither ; 
I  know  then  you'll  presently  ask  me  for  what  1 
Why,  faith,  it  was  that  makes  the  old  woman 

trot; 
And  therefore  I  think  I'm  not  much  to  be  blamed 
If  I  went  to  the  place  whereof  Nick  was  ashamed. 

O  Coryate  !  thou  traveller  famed  as  Ulysses, 
In  such  a  stupendous  labour  as  this  is, 
Come  lend  me  the  aids  of  thy  hands  and  thy  feet. 
Though  the  first  be  pedantic,  the  other  not  sweet. 
Yet  both  are  so  restless  in  peregrination. 
They'll  help  both  my  journey,  and  eke  my  relation. 
'Twas  now  the  most  beautiful  time  of  the  year, 
The  days  were  now  long,  and  the  sky  was  now 

clear. 
And  May,  that  fair  lady  of  splendid  renown, 
Had  dress'd  herself  fine,  in  her  flower'd  tabby 

gown. 
When  about  some  two  hours  and  a  half  after  noon. 
When  it  grew  something  late,  though  I  thought 

it  too  soon. 
With  a  pitiful  voice,  and  a  most  heavy  heart, 
I  tuned  up  my  pipes  to  sing  "  loth  to  depart ;" 
The  ditty  concluded,  I  call'd  for  my  horse. 
And  with  a  good  pack  did  the  jument  endorse, 
Till  he  groan'd  and  he  f — d  under  the  burden, 
For  sorrow  had  made  me  a  cumbersome  lurden; 
And  now  farewell  Dove,  where  I've  caught  such 

brave  dishes 
Of  over-grown,  golden,  and  silver-scaled  fishes ; 
Thy  trout  and  thy  grailing  may  now  feed  securely, 
I've  left  none  behind  me  can  take  'em  so  surely ; 
Feed  on  then,  and  breed  on,  until  the  next  year. 
But  if  I  return  I  expect  my  arrear. 

By  pacing  and  trotting  betimes  in  the  even. 
Ere  the  sun  had  forsaken  one-half  of  the  Heaven, 
We  all  at  fair  Congerton  took  up  our  inn, 
Where  the  sign  of  a  king  kept  a  king  and  his 

queen: 
But  who  do  you  think  came  to  welcome  me  there  ! 
No  worse  a  man,  marry,  than  good  mast«r  mayor. 
With  his  staff  of  command,  yet  the  man  was  not 

lame. 
But  he  needed  it  more  when  he  went,  than  he 

came ; 
After  three  or  four  hours  of  friendly  potation 
We  took  leave  of  each  other  in  courteous  fashion. 
When  each  one,  to  keep  bis  brains  fast  in  his 

head. 
Put  on  a  good  nightcap,  and  straightway  to  bed. 
Next  morn,  having  paid  for  boil'd,  roasted,  and 

bacon, 
A  nd  of  sovereign  hostess  our  leaves  kindly  taken, 
(For  her  king  (as  'twas  rumour'd)  by  late  pour- 
ing down, 
This  morning  had  got  a  foul  flaw  in  his  crown,) 
We  mounted  again,  and  full  soberly  riding. 
Three  miles  we  had  rid  ere  we  met  with  a  biding ; 
But  there  (having  over-night  plied  the  tap  well) 
We  now  must  needs  water  at  place  call'd  Holmes 

Chapel : 


«  A  hay!"  quoth  the  foremost, "ho!  who  keeps 

the  house?" 
Which  said,  out  an  host  comes  as  brisk  as  a 

louse ; 
His  hair'comb'd  as  sleek  as  a  barber  he'd  been, 
A  cravat  with  black  ribbon  tied  under  his  chin; 
Though  by  what  I  saw  in  him,  I  straight  'gan  to 

fear 
That  knot  would  be  one  day  slipp'd  under  his  ear. 
Quoth  he  (with  low  cong6)  "  What  lack  you,  my 

lord !" 
«« The  best  liquor,"  quoth  I,  «  that  the  house  will 

afford." 
"  You  shall  straight,"  quoth  he ;  and  then  calls 

out,  "  Mary, 
Come  quickly,  and  bring  us  a  quart  of  Canary." 
"  Hold,  hold,  my  spruce  host !  for  i'  th'  morning 

so  early, 
I  never  drink  liquor  but  what's  made  of  barley." 
Which  words  were  scarce  out,  but,  which  made 

me  admire. 
My  lordship  was  presently  tum'd  into  'squire  : 
"Ale,  'squire,  you  meani'  quoth  he  nimbly 

again, 
"  What,  must  it  be  purl'd!" — "No,  I  love  it  best 

plain." 
"  Why,  if  you'll  drink  ale,  sir,  pray  take  my  ad- 
vice. 
Here's  the  best  ale  i'  th'  land,  if  you'll  go  to  the 

price ; 
Better,  I  sure  am,  ne'er  blew  out  a  stopple ; 
But  then,  in  plain  truth,  it  is  sixpence  a  bottle." 
"  Why,  faith,"  quoth  I, "  friend,  if  your  hquor  be 

such. 
For  the  best  ale  in  England,  it  is  not  too  much : 
Let's  have  it,  and  quickly." — "  O  sir  !  you  may 

stay  ; 
A  pot  in  your  pate  is  a  mile  in  your  way  : 
Come,  bring  out  a  bottle  here  presently,  wife. 
Of  the  best  Cheshire  hum  he  e'er  drank  in  his 

life." 
Straight  out  comes  the  mistress  in  waistcoat  of 

silk, 
As  clear  as  a  milkmaid,  as  white  as  her  milk. 
With  visage  as  oval  and  sleek  as  an  egg. 
As  straight  as  an  arrow,  as  right  as  my  leg : 
A  curtsey  she  made,  as  demure  as  a  sister, 
I  could  not  forbear,  but  alighted  and  kissed  her : 
Then  ducking  another  with  most  modest  mien, 
The  first  word  she  said,  was, «  Will't  please  you 

walk  in?" 
I  thank'd  her ;  but  told  her,  I  then  could  not  stay, 
For  the  haste  of  my  bus'ness  did  call  me  away. 
She  said,  she  was  sorry  it  fell  out  so  odd. 
But  if,  when  again  I  should  travel  that  road, 
I  would  stay  there  a  night,  she  assured  me  the 

nation 
Should  nowhere  afford  better  accommodation; 
Meanwhile  my  spruce  landlord  has  broken  the  cork, 
And  call'd  for  a  bodkin,  though  he  had  a  fork; 
But  I  show'd  him  a  screw,  which  I  told  my  brisk 

gull 
A  trepan  was  for  bottles  had  broken  their  scull ; 
Which,  as  it  was  true,  he  believed  without  doubt. 
But  'twas  I  that  apply'd  it,  and  pull'd  the  cork  out 


844 


CHARLES  COTTON. 


Bounce,  quoth  the  bottle,  the  work  being  done, 
It  roar'd,  and  it  smoked,  like  a  new-fired  gun ; 
But  the  shot  miss'd  us  all,  or  else  we'd  been 

routed. 
Which  yet  was  a  wonder,  we  were  so  &bout  it- 
Mine  host  pour'd  and  filld,  till  he  could  fill  no 

fuller: 
«<  Look  here,  sir,"  quoth  he,  «'  both  for  nap  and 

for  colour. 
Sans  bragging,  I  hate  it,  nor  will  I  e'er  do't ; 
I  defy  Leek,  and  Lambhith,  and  Sandwich,  to 

boot."      , 
By  my  troth,  he  said  true,  for  I  speak  it  with 

tears. 
Though  I  have  been  a  toss-pot  these  twenty  good 

years. 
And  have  drank  so  much  liquor  has  made  me  a 

debtor, 
I  my  days,  that  I  know  of,  I  never  drank  better : 
We  found  it  so  good,  and  we  drank  so  profoundly. 
That  four  good  round  shillings  were  whipt  away 

roundly  ; 
And  then  I  conceived  it  was  time  to  be  jogging, 
For   our  work  had  been   done,  had  we   stay'd 
t'  other  noggin. 
From  thence  we  set  forth  with  more  mettle  and 
spright. 
Our  horses  were  empty,  our  coxcombs  were  light ; 
O'er  Dellamore  forest  we,  tantivy,  posted, 
Till  our  horses  were  basted  as  if  they  were  roasted : 
In  truth,  we  pursued  might  have  been  by  our 

haste. 
And  I  think  Sir  George  Booth  did  not  gallop  so 

fast. 
Till  about  two  o'clock  after  noon,  God  be  blest, 
We  came,  safe  and  sound,  all  to  Chester  i'  th'  west. 
And  now  in  high  time  'twas  to  call  for  some 
meat, 
Though  drinking  does  well,  yet  some  time  we 

must  eat ; 
And  i'  faith  we  had  victuals  both  plenty  and  good. 
Where  we  all  laid  about  us  as  if  we  were  wood : 
Go  thy  ways,  mistress  Anderton,  for  a  good  woman. 
Thy  guests  shall  by  thee  ne'er  be  turn'd  to  a 

common ; 
And  whoever  of  thy  entertainment  complains. 
Let  him  lie  with  a  drab,  and  be  pox'd  for  his 
pains. 
And  here  I  must  stop  the  career  of  my  Muse, 
The  poor  jade  is  weaiy,  'las !  how  should  she 

choose  1 
And  if  I  should  farther  here  spur  on  my  course, 
I  should,  questionless,  tire  both  my  wits  and  my 

horse : 
To-night  let  us  rest,  for  'tis  good  Sunday's  even, 
To-uiorrow  to  church,  and  ask  pardon  of  Heaven. 
Thus  far  we  our  time  spent,   as   here  I  have 

penn  d  it. 
An  odd  kind  of  life,  and  'tis  well  if  we  mend  it: 
But  to-morrow  (God  willing)  we'll  have  t  other 

bout. 
And  better  or  worse  be't,  for  murder  will  out, 
Our  future  adventures  we  11  lay  down  before  ye. 
Fur  my  Muse  is  deep  sworn  to  use  truth  of  the 
story. 


CANTO  n. 

Afteb  seven  hours'  sleep,  to  commute  for  paina 

taken, 
A  man  of  himself,  one  would  think,  might  awaken; 
But  riding,  and  drinking  hard,  were   two  such 

spells, 
I  doubt  I'd  slept  on,  but  for  jangling  of  bells, 
Which,  ringing  to  matins  all  over  the  town. 
Made  me  leap  out  of  bed,  and  put  on  my  gown. 
With  intent  (so  God  mend  me)  I  have  gone  to 

the  choir. 
When  straight  I  perceived  myself  all  on  a  fire  ; 
For  the  two  fore-named  things  had  so  heated  my 

blood. 
That  a  little  phlebotomy  would  do  me  good : 
I  sent  for  chirurgion,  who  came  in  a  trice. 
And  swift  to  shed  blood,  needed  not  to  be  called 

twice. 
But  tilted  stiletto  quite  through  the  vein. 
From  whence  issued  out  the  ill  humours  amain ; 
When  having  twelve  ounces,  he  bound  up  my  arm, 
And  I  gave  him  two  Georges,  which  did  him  no 

harm : 
But  after  my  bleeding,  I  soon  understood 
It  had  cool'd  my  devotion  as  well  as  my  blood ; 
For  I  had  no  more  mind  to  look  on  my  psalter, 
Than  (saving  your  presence)  I  had  to  a  halter ; 
But,  like  a  most  wicked  and  obstinate  sinner. 
Then  sat  in  my  chamber  till  folks  came  to  dinner: 
I  dined  with  good  stomach,  and  very  good  cheer. 
With  a  very  fine  woman,  and  good  ale  and  beer ; 
When  myself  having  stuflTd  ttan  a  bagpipe  more 

fuU, 
I  fell  to  my  smoking  until  I  grew  dull ; 
And,  therefore,  to  take  a  fine  nap  thought  it  best, 
For  when  belly  full  is,  bones  would  be  at  rest : 
I  tumbled  me  down  on  my  bed  like  a  swad. 
Where,  O  !  the  delicious  dream  that  I  had  ! 
Till  the  bells,  that  had  been  my  morning  molesters. 
Now  waked  me  again,  chiming  all  in  to  vespers ; 
With  that  starting  up,  for  my  man  I  did  whistle, 
And  comb'd  out  and  powder'd  my  locks  that 

were  grizzle ; 
Had  my  clothes  neatly  brush'd,  and  then  put  on 

my  sword. 
Resolved  now  to  go  and  attend  on  the  word. 

Thus  trick'd,  and  thus  trim,  to  set  forth  1  begin. 
Neat   and    cleanly   without,  but   scarce  cleanly 

within ; 
For  why.  Heaven  knows  it,  I  long  time  had  been 
A  most  humble  obedient  servant  to  sin  : 
And  now  in  devotion  was  even  so  proud, 
I  scorn'd  (forsooth)  to  join  pray'r  with  the  crowd ; 
For  though  courted  by  all  the  bells  as  I  went, 
I  was  deaf,  and  regarded  not  the  compliment. 
But  to  the  cathedral  still  held  on  my  pace. 
As  't  were,  scorning  to  kneel  but  in  the  best  place. 
I  there  made  myself  sure  of  good  music  at  least. 
But  was  something  deceived,  for  'twas  none  of 

the  best : 
But  however,  I  stay'd  at  the  church's  command- 
ing 
Till  we  came  to  the  "  Peaco  passes  all  under- 
standing," - 


CHARLES   COTTON. 


345 


Which  no  sooner  was  ended,  but  whir  and  away, 
Like  boys  in  a  school  when  they've  leave  got  to 

play ; 
All  save  master  mayor,  who  still  gravely  stays 
Till  the  rest  had  left  room  for  his  worship  and  's 

mace : 
Then  he  and  his  brethren  in  order  appear, 
I  out  of  my  stall,  and  fell  into  his  rear ; 
For  why,  'tis  much  safer  appearing,  no  doubt, 
In  authority's  tail,  than  the  head  of  a  rout 

In  this  rev'rend  order  we  marched  from  pray'r ; 
The  mace  before  me  borne  as  well  as  the  may'r ; 
Who  looking  behind  him,  and  seeing  most  plain 
A  glorious  gold  belt  in  the  rear  of  his  train. 
Made  such  a  low  cong4,  forgetting  his  place, 
I  was  never  so  honour'd  l)efore  in  my  days  : 
But  then  off  went  my  scalp-case,  and  down  went 

my  fist, 
Till  the  pavement,  too  hard,  by  my  knuckles  was 

kiss'd ; 
By  which,  though  thick-skull'd,  he  must  under- 
stand this. 
That  I  was  a  most  humble  servant  of  his ; 
Which  also  so  wonderfully  kindly  he  took, 
(As  I  well  perceived  both  b'  his  gesture  and  look,) 
That  to  have  me  dogg'd  home  he  straitway  ap- 
pointed. 
Resolving,  it  seems,  to  be  better  acquainted. 
I  was  scarce  in  my  quarters,  and  set  down  on 

crupper, 
But  his  man  was  there  too,  to  invite  me  to  supper ; 
I  start  up,  and  after  most  respective  fashion 
Gave  his  worship  much  thanks  for  his  kind  in- 
vitation ; 
But  begg'd  his  excuse,  for  my  stomach  was  small, 
And  I  never  did  eat  any  supper  at  all ; 
But  that  after  supper  I  would  kiss  his  hands. 
And  would  come  to  receive  his  worship's  com- 
mands. 
Sure  no  one  will  say,  but  a  patron  of  slander. 
That  this  was  not  pretty  well  for  a  Moorlander : 
And  since  on  such  reasons  to  sup  I  refused, 
I  nothing  did  doubt  to  be  holden  excused ; 
But  my  quaint  repartee  had  his  worship  possess'd 
With  so  wonderful  good  a  conceit  of  the  rest. 
That  with  more  impatience  he  hop'd  in  his  breeches 
To  see  the  fine  fellow  that  made  such  fine  speeches: 
"  Go,  sirrah !"  quoth  he,  "  get  you  to  him  again. 
And  will  and  require,  in  hib  majesty's  name. 
That  he  come  ;  and  tell  him,  obey  he  were  best,  or 
I'll  teach  him  to  know  that  he's  now  in  West- 
Chester." 
The  man,  upon  this,  comes  me  running  again. 
But  yet  minced  his  message,  and  was  not  so 

plain ; 
Saying  to  me  only,  "  Good  sir,  I  am  sorry 
To  tell  you  my  master  has  sent  again  for  you  ; 
And  has  such  a  longing  to  have  you  his  guest, 
That  I,  with  these  ears,  heard    him  swear  and 

protest. 
He  would  neither  say  grace,  nor  sit  down  on  his 

bum. 
Nor  open  his  napkin,  until  you  do  come." 
With  that  I  perceived  no  excuse  would  avail, 
And,  seeing  there  was  no  defence  for  a  flail, 
44 


I  said  I  was  ready  master  may'r  to  obey, 
And  therefore  desired  him  to  lead  me  the  way. 
We  went,  and  ere  Malkin  could  well  lick  her  ear, 
(For  it  but  the  next  door  was,  forsooth)  we  were 

there ; 
Where  lighte  being  brought  me,  I  mounted  the 

stairs. 
The  worst  I  e'er  saw  in  my  life  at  a  mayor's: 
But  every  thing  else  must  be  highly  commended. 
I  there  found  his  worship  most  nobly  attended. 
Besides  such  a  supper  as  well  did  convince, 
A  may'r  in  his  province  to  be  a  great  prince ; 
As  he  sat  in  his  chair,  he  did  not  much  vary. 
In  state  nor  in  face,  from  our  eighth  English 

Harry ; 
But  whether  his  face  was  swell'd  up  with  &t, 
Or  puff'd  up  with  glory,  I  cannot  tell  that. 
Being  enter'd  the  chamber  half  length  of  a  pike, 
And  cutting  of  faces  exceedingly  like       [Indies, 
One  of  those  little  gentlemen  brought  from  the 
And  screwing  myself  into  congas  and  cringes, 
By  then  I  was  half  way  advanced  in  the  room. 
His  worship  most  rev'rendly  rose  from  his  bum. 
And  with  the  more  honour  to  grace  and  to  greet 

me. 
Advanced  a  whole  step  and  an  half  for  to  meet 

me; 
Where  leisurely  dofBng  a  hat  worth  a  tester, 
He  bade  me  most  heartily  welcome  to  Chester. 
I  thank'd  him  in  language  the  best  I  was  able, 
And  so  we  forthwith  sat  us  all  down  to  table. 
Now  here  you  must  note,  and  'tis  worth  ob- 
servation. 
That  as  his  chair  at  one  end  o'  th'  table  had 

station ; 
So  sweet  mistress  may'ress,  in  just  such  another. 
Like  the  fair  queen  of  hearts,  sat  in  state  at  the 

other ; 
By  which  I  perceived,  though  it  seemed  a  riddle. 
The  lower  end  of  this  must  be  just  in  the  middle : 
But  perhaps  'tis  a  rule  there,  and  one  that  would 

mind  it 
Amongst  the  town-statutes  'tis  likely  might  find  it. 
But  now  intoth'  pottage  each  deep  his  spoon  claps. 
As  in  truth  one  might  safely  for  burning  one's 

chaps. 
When  straight,  with  the  look  and  the  tone  of  a 

scold. 
Mistress  may'ress  complain °d  that  the   pottage 

was  cold ; 
«« And  all  long  of  your  fiddle-faddle,"  quoth  she. 
"  W  hy ,  what  then.  Goody  Two-Shoes,  what  if  it  be? 
"  Hold  you,  if  you  can,  your  tittle-tattle,"  quoth  he. 
I  was  glad  she  was  snapp'd  thus,  and  guess'd  by 

th'  discourse. 
The  may'r,  not  the  gray  mare,  wa»  the  better 

horse. 
And  yet  for  all  that,  there  is  reason  to  fear. 
She  submitted  but  out  of  respect  to  his  year: 
!  However  'twas  well  she  had  now  so  much  grace. 
Though  not  to  the  man,  to  submit  to  his  place ; 
For  had  she  proceeded,  I  verily  thought 
I  My  turn  would  the  next  be,  for  I  was  in  fault: 
i  But  this  brush  being  past,  we  fell  to  our  diet, 
I  And  ev'ry  one  there  fill'd  his  belly  in  quiet. 


846 


CHARLES   COTTON. 


Supper  being  ended,  and  things  away  taken, 
Master  mayor's  curiosity  'gan  to  awaken  ;  [chair, 
Wherefore  making  me  draw  something  nearer  his 
He  will'd  and  required  me  there  to  declare 
My  country,  my  birth,  my  estate,  and  my  parts, 
And  whether  I  was  not  a  master  of  arts  ; 
And  eke  what  the  business  was  had  brought  me 

thither. 
With  what  I  was  going  about  now,  and  whither: 
Giving  me  caution,  no  lie  should  escape  me. 
For  if  I  should  trip,  he  should  certainly  trap  me. 
I  answer'd,  my  country  was  famed  Staffordshire ; 
That  in  deeds,  bills,  and  bonds,  I  was  ever  writ 

squire ; 
That  of  land  I  had  both  sorts,  some  good,  and 

some  evil, 
But  that  a  great  part  on't  twas  pa wn'd  to  the  Devil ; 
That  as  for  my  parts,  they  were  such  as  he  saw ; 
That,  indeed,  I  had  a  small  smatt'ring  of  law, 
Which  I  lately  had  got  more  by  practice  than 

reading. 
By  sitting  o'th'  bench,  whilst  others  were  pleading; 
But  that  arms  I  had  ever  more  studied  than  arts. 
And  was  now  to  a  captain  raised  by  my  deserts ; 
That  the  bus'ness  which  led  me  through  Palatine 

ground 
Into  Ireland  was,  whither  now  I  was  bound ; 
Where  his  worship's  great  favour  I  loud  will  pro- 
And  in  all  other  places  wherever  I  came,  [claim. 
He  said,  as  to  that,  I  might  do  what  I  list. 
But  that  I  was  welcome,  and  gave  me  his  fist; 
When  having  my  fingers  made  crack  with  his 

gripes, 
He  call'd  to  his  man  for  some  bottles  and  pipes. 
To  trouble  you  here  with  a  longer  narration 
Of  the  several  parts  of  our  confabulation. 
Perhaps  would  be  tedious ;  I'll  therefore  remit  ye 
Even  to  the  most  rev'rend  records  of  the  city, 
Where  doubtless,  the  acts  of  the  may'rs  are  re- 
corded, 
And  if  not  more  truly,  yet  much  better  worded. 

In  short,  then,  we  piped  and  we  tippled  Canary, 
Till  my  watch  pointed  one  in  the  circle  horary ; 
When  thinking  it  now  was  high  time  to  depart, 
His  worship  I  thank'd  with  a  most  grateful  heart ; 
And  because  to  great  men  presenu  are  acceptable, 
I  presented  the  may'r,  ere  I  rose  from  the  table, 
With  a  certain  fantastical  box  and  a  stopper ; 
And  he  having  kindly  accepted  my  offer, 
I  took  my  fair  leave,  such  my  visage  adorning. 
And  to  bed,  for  I  was  to  rise  early  i'  th'  morning. 


CANTO  ni. 
The  Sun  in  the  morning  disclosed  his  light. 
With  complexion  as  ruddy  as  mine  over  night; 
And  o'er  th'  eastern  mountains  peeping  up 's  head. 
The  casement  being  open,  espied  me  in  bed  ; 
With  bis  rays  he  so  tickled  my  lids  that  I  waked, 
And  was  half  ashamed,  for  I  found  myself  naked ; 
But  up  I  soon  start,  and  was  dress'd  in  a  trice. 
And  call'd  for  a  draught  of  ale,  sugar,  and  spice ; 
Which  having  turn'd  off,  I  then  call  to  pay. 
And  packingmy  nawk,  whipp'd  to  horse,  and  away. 


A  guide  I  had  got,  who  demanded  great  vails. 
For  conducting  me  over  the  mountains  of  Wales 
Twenty  good  shillings,  which  sure  very  large  is; 
Yet  that  would  not  serve,  but  I  must  bear  his 

charges ; 
And  yet  for  all  that,  rode  astride  on  a  beast. 
The  worst  that  e'er  went  on  three  legs,  I  protest 
It  certainly  was  the  most  ugly  of  jades. 
His  hips  and  his  rump  made  a  right  ace  of  spades 
His   sides  were    two    ladders,  well   spurr-gall't 

withal ; 
His  neck  was  a  helve,  and  his  head  was  a  mall 
For  bis  colour,  my  pains  and  your  trouble  I 

spare. 
For  the  creature  was  wholly  denuded  of  hair ; 
And,  except  for  two  things,  as  bare  as  my  nail, 
A  tuft  of  a  mane,  and  a  sprig  of  a  tail ; 
And  by  these  the  true  colour  one  can  no  more 

know. 
Than  by  mouse-skins  above  stairs,  the  merkin 

below, 
Now  such  as  the  beast  was,  even  such  was  the 

rider. 
With  a  head  like  a  nutmeg,  and  legs  like  a  spider 
A  voice  like  a  cricket,  a  look  like  a  rat, 
The  brains  of  a  goose,  and  the  heart  of  a  cat : 
Even  such  was  my  guide  and  his  beast ;  let  them 
The  one  for  a  horse,  and  the  other  an  ass.  [pass, 
But  now  with  our  horses,  wnat  sound  and  what 

rotten, 
Down  to  the  shore,  you  must  know,  we  were 

gotten ; 
And  there  we  were  told,  it  concem'd  us  to  ride, 
Unless  we  did  mean  to  encounter  the  tide ; 
And  then  my  guide  lab'ring  with  heels  and  with 

hands, 
With  two  up  and  one  down,  hopp'd  over  the  sands. 
Till  his  horse,  finding  the  labour  for  three  legs  too 
Fol'd  out  a  new  leg,  and  then  he  had  four:  [sore, 
And  now  by   plain  dint  of  hard  spurring   and 

whipping. 
Dry-shod  we  came  where  folks  sometimes  take 

shipping ; 
And  where  the  salt  sea,  as  the  Devil  were  in't. 
Game  roaring  'to  have  hinder'd  our  journey  to 

Flint; 
But  we,  by  good  luck,  before  him  got  thither. 
He  else  would  have  carried  us,  no  man  knows 

whither. 
And  now  her  in  Wales  is,  saint  Taph  be  her 

speed, 
Gott  splutter  her  taste,  some  Welsh  ale  her  had 

need; 
For  her  ride  in  great  haste,  and         *  * 

For  fear  of  her  being  catch'd  up  by  the  fishes : 
But  the  lord  of  Flint  castle's  no  lord  worth  a  louse. 
For  he  keeps  ne'er  a  drop  of  good  drink  in  his 

house ; 
But  in  a  small  house  near  unto  't  there  was  store 
Of  such  ale  as  (thank  God)  I  ne'er  tasted  before 
And  surely  the  Welsh  are  not  wise  of  their  fuddle 
For  this  had  the  taste  and  complexion  of  puddle 
From  thence  then  we  march'd,  full  as  dry  as  we 

came, 
My  guide  before  pran.ing,  his  steed  no  more  laine, 


CHARLES  COTTON. 


847 


O'er  hills  and  o'er  valleys  uncouth  and  uneven, 
Until  'twixt  the  hours  of  twelve  and  eleven, 
More  hungry  and  thirsty  than  tongue  can  well  tell, 
We  happily  came  to  St.  Winifred's  well : 
I  thought  it  the  pool  of  Bethesda  had  been, 
By  the  cripples  lay  there ;  but  I  went  to  my  inn 
To  speak  for  some  meat,  for  so  stomach  did  motion, 
Before  I  did  farther  proceed  in  devotion : 
I  went  into  th'  kitchen,  where  victuals  I  saw, 
Both  beef,  veal,  and  mutton,  but  all  on't  was  raw; 
And  some  on't  alive,  but  soon  went  to  slaughter, 
For  four  chickens  were  slain  by  my  dame  and 

her  daughter ; 
Of  which  to  saint  Win.  ere  my  vows  I  had  paid. 
They  said  I  should  find  a  rare  fricas^e  made : 
I  thank'd  them,  and  straight  to  the  well  did  repair. 
Where  some  I  found  cur8ing,and  others  at  pray'r ; 
Some  dressing,  some  stripping,  some  out  and  some 

in. 
Some  naked,  where  botches  and  boils  might  be 

seen; 
Of  which  some  were  fevers  of  Venus  I'm  sure. 
And  therefore  unfit  for  the  virgin  to  cure  : 
But  the  fountain,  in  truth,  is  well  worth  the  sight. 
The  beautiful  virgin's  own  tears  not  more  bright ; 
Nay,  none  but  she  ever  shed  such  a  tear. 
Her  conscience,  her  name,  nor  herself,  were  more 

clear. 
In  the  bottom  there  lie  certain  stones  that  look 

white, 
But  streaked  with  pure  red,  as  the  morning  with 

light. 
Which  they  say  is  her  blood,  and  so  it  may  be. 
But  for  that,  let  who  shed  it  look  to  it  for  me. 
Over  the  fountain  a  chapel  there  stands, 
Which  I  wonder   has  'scaped    master    Oliver's 

hands; 
The  floor's  not  ill  paved,  and  the  margin  o'  th' 
Is  inclosed  with  a  certain  octagonal  ring ;  ["spring 
From  each  angle  of  which  a  pillar  does  rise, 
Of  strength  and  of  thickness  enough  to  suffice 
To  support  and  uphold  from  failing  to  ground 
A  cupola  wherewith  the  virgin  is  crown'd. 
Now  'twixt  the  two  angles  that  fork  to  the  north, 
.\nd  where  the  cold  nymph  does  her  basin  pour 

forth, 
Under  ground  is  a  place  where  they  bathe,  as  'tis 

said. 
And  'tis   true,  for  I  heard  folks'  teeth   hack  in 

their  head ; 
For  you  are  to  know,  that  the  rogues  and  the  •  * 
Are  not  let  to  pollute  the  spring-head  with  their 

sores. 
But  one  thing  I  chiefly  admired  in  the  place. 
That  a  saint  and  a  virgin  endued  with  such  grace, 
Should  yet  be  so  wonderful  kind  a  well-vviller 
To  that  whoring  and  filching  trade  of  a  miller, 
As  within  a  few  paces  to  furnish  tbe  wheels 
Of  I  cannot  tell  how  many  water-mills : 
I've  studied  that  point  much,  you  cannot  guess 

why, 
But   the  virgin  was,  doubtless   more   righteous 

than  I. 
And  now  for  my  welcome,  four,  five,  or  six  lasses. 
With  as  many  crystalline  liberal  glasses, 


Did  all  importune  me  to  drink  of  the  water 
Of  Saint  Winifreda,  good  Thewith's  fair  daughter. 
A  while  I  was  doubtful,  and  stood  in  a  muse. 
Not  knowing,  amidst  all   that  choice,  where  to 

choose. 
Till  a  pair  of  black  eyes,  darting  full  in  my  sight. 
From  the  rest  o'  th'  fair  maidens  did  carry  me 

quite : 
I  took  the  glass  from  her,  and  whip,  off  it  went, 
I  half  doubt  I  fancied  a  health  to  the  saint : 
But  he  was  a  great  villain  committed  the  slaughter. 
For  St.  Winifi-ed  made  most  delicate  water. 
I  slipp'd  a  hard  shilling  into  her  soft  hand, 
Which  had  like  to  have  made  me  the  place  have 

profaned ; 
And  giving  two  more  to  the  poor  that  were  there, 
Did,  sharp  as  a  hawk,  to  my  quarters  repair. 

My  dinner  was  ready,  and  to  it  I  fell, 
I  never  ate  better  meat,  that  I  can  tell ; 
When  having  half  dined,  there  comes  in  my  host, 
A  catholic  good,  and  a  rare  drunken  toast : 
This  man,  by  his  drinking,  inflamed  the  scot. 
And  told  me  strange  stories,  which  I  have  forgot ; 
But  this  I  remember,  'twas  much  on  's  own  life, 
And  one  thing,  that  he  had  converted  his  wife. 

But  now  my  guide  told  me,  it  time  was  to  go, 
For  that  to  our  beds  we  must  both  ride  and  row; 
Wherefore  calling  to  pay,  and  having  accounted, 
I  soon  was  down  stairs,  and  as  suddenly  mounted: 
On  then  we  travell'd,  our  guide  still  before. 
Sometimes  on  three  legs,  and  sometimes  on  four, 
Coasting  the  sea,  and  over  hills  crawling. 
Sometimes  on  all  four,  for  fear  we  should  fall  in; 
For  underneath  Neptune  lay  skulking  to  watch 

us. 
And,  had  we  but  slipp'd  once,  was  ready  to  catch 

us. 
Thus  in  places  of  danger  taking  more  heed, 
And  in  safer  travelling  mending  our  speed: 
Redland  Castle  and  Abergoney  we  past. 
And  o'er  against  Connoway  came  at  the  last : 
Just  over  against  a  castle  there  stood, 
0'  th'  right  hand  the  town,  and  o'  th'  left  hand  a 

wood; 
'Twixt  the  wood  and  the  castle  they  see  at  high 

water 
The  storm,  the  place  makes  it  a  dangerous  matter ; 
And  besides,  upon  such  a  steep  rock  it  is  founded. 
As  would  break  a  man's  neck,  should  he  'scape 

being  drowned : 
Perhaps  though  in  time  one  may  make  them  to 

yield, 
But  'tis  pretti'st  Cob-castle  e'er  I  beheld. 

The  Sun  now  was  going  t'  unharness  his  steeds, 
When  the  ferry-boat  brasking  her  sides  'gainst 

the  weeds. 
Came  in  as  good  time  as  good  time  could  he. 
To  give  us  a  cast  o'er  an  arm  of  the  sea; 
And  bestowing  our  horses  before  and  abaft. 
O'er  god  Neptune's  wide  cod-piece  gave  us  a 

waft ; 
Where  scur^'iIy  landing  at  foot  of  the  fort, 
Within  very  few  paces  we  enter'd  the  port. 
Where  another  King's  Head  invited  me  down. 
For  indeed  I  have  ever  been  true  to  the  cr>  wn. 


DR.  HENRY  MORE. 


[Born,  1614.     Died,  1687.1 


Dr.  Hknkt  Mobe  was  the  son  of  a  respect- 
able gentleman  at  Grantham,  in  Lincolnshire. 
He  spent  the  better  part  of  a  long  and  intensely 
studious  life  at  Cambridge,  refusing  even  the 
mastership  of  his  college,  and  several  offers  of 
preferment  in  the  church,  for  the  sake  of  un- 
broken leisure  and  retirement.  In  1640  he  com- 
posed his  Psychozoia,  or  Life  of  the  Soul,  which 
he  afterward  republished  with  other  pieces,  in  a 
volume  entitled  Philosophical  Poems.  Before 
the  appearance  of  the  former  work  he  had  stu- 
died the  Platonic  writers  and  mystic  divines,  till 
his  frame  had  become  emaciated,  and  his  facul- 
ties had  been  strained  to  such  enthusiasm,  that 
he  began  to  talk  of  holding  supernatural  commu- 
nications, and  imagined  that  his  body  exhaled  the 
perfume  of  violets.  With  the  exception  of  these 
innocent  reveries,  his  life  and  literary  character 
were  highly  respectable.  He  corresponded  with 
Des  Cartes,  was  the  friend  of  Cudworth,  and  as 
a  divine  and  moralist  was  not  only  popular  in  his 
own  time,  but  has  been  mentioned  with  admira- 


tion both  by  Addison  and  Blair.    In  the  heat  oi 

rebellion  he  was  spared  even  by  the  fanatics,  who, 
though  he  refused  to  take  the  covenant,  left  him 
to  dream  with  Plato  in  his  academic  bower.  As 
a  poet  he  has  woven  together  a  singular  texture 
of  Gothic  fancy  and  Greek  philosophy,  and  made 
the  Christiano-Platonic  system  of  metaphysics  a 
ground-work  for  the  fables  of  the  nursery.  His 
versification,  though  he  tells  us  that  he  was  won 
to  the  Muses  in  his  childhood  by  the  melody  of 
Spenser,  is  but  a  faint  echo  of  the  Spenserian 
tune.  In  fancy  he  is  dark  and  lethargic.  Yet 
his  Psychozoia  is  not  a  common-place  production  : 
a  certain  solemnity  and  earnestness  in  his  tone 
leaves  an  impression  that  he  "  believed  the  niag^k 
wonders  which  he  sung."*  His  poetry  is  not,  in- 
deed, like  a  beautiful  landscape  on  which  the  eye 
can  repose,  but  may  be  compared  to  some  curious 
grotto,  whose  gloomy  labyrinths  we  might  be 
curious  to  explore  for  the  strange  and  mystic  as- 
sociations they  excite. 


THE  PRE-EXISTEXCY  OF  THE  SOUL. 
Rise  then,  Aristo's  son,  assist  my  Muse; 
Let  that  high  sprite  which  did  enrich  thy  brains 
With  choice  conceits,  some  worthy  thoughts  infuse 
Worthy  thy  title  and  the  reader's  pains. 
And  thou,  0  Lycian  sage !  whose  pen  contains 
Treasures  of  heavenly  light  with  gentle  fire, 
Give  leave  awhile  to  warm  me  at  thy  flames, 
That  I  may  also  kindle  sweet  desire 
In  holy  minds  that  unto  highest  things  aspire. 

For  I  would  sing  the  pre-existency 

Of  human  souls,  and  live  once  o'er  again, 

By  recollection  and  quick  memory, 

All  that  is  past  since  first  we  all  began ; 

But  all  too  shallow  be  my  wits  to  scan 

So  deep  a  point,  and  mind  too  dull  to  clear 

So  dark  a  matter.     But  thou,  more  than  man, 

Aread,  thou  sacred  soul  of  Plotin  dear,       [were. 

Tell  me  what  mortals  are — tell  what  of  old  they 

A  spark  or  ray  of  the  divinity. 
Clouded  with  early  fogs,  yclad  in  clay, 
A  precious  drop  sunk  from  eternity. 
Spilt  on  the  ground,  or  rather  slunk  away ; 
For  then  we  fell  when  we  'gan  first  t'  assay, 
By  stealth  of  our  own  selves,  something  to  been 
Uncentering  ourselves  from  our  great  stay. 
Which  fondly  we  new  liberty  did  ween,    [deem. 
And  from  that  prank  right  jolly  wits  ourselves  did 

*  *  *      .  « 

818 


Show  fitly  how  the  pre-existent  soul 

Enacts  and  enters  bodies  here  below, 

And  then  entire  unhurt  can  leave  this  moul, 

And  thence  her  airy  vehicle  can  draw. 

In  which  by  sense  and  motion  they  may  know, 

Better  than  we,  what  things  transacted  be 

Upon  the  earth,  and  when  they  list  may  show 

Themselves  to  friend  or  foe,  their  phantasie 

Moulding  their  airy  orb  to  gross  consistency. 

***** 

Wherefore  the  soul  possess'd  of  matter  meet. 
If  she  hath  power  to  operate  thereon. 
Can  eath  transform  this  vehicle  to  sight, 
Dight  with  due  colour  figuration. 
Can  speak,  can  walk,  and  then  dispear  anon, 
Spreading  herself  in  the  dispersed  air. 
Then,  if  she  please,  recall  again  what's  gone  : 
Those  th'  uncouth  mysteries  of  fancy  are — 
Than  thunder  far  more  strong,  more  quick  than 
lightning  far. 

Some  heaving  toward  this  strange  activity 
We  may  observe  ev'n  in  this  mortal  state ; 
Here  health  and  sickness  of  the  phantasie 
Often  proceed,  which  working  minds  create. 
And  pox  and  pestilence  do  malleate. 
Their  thoughts  still  beating  on  those  objects  ill, 
Which  doth  the  master's  blood  contaminate, 

[•Collins.] 


GEORGE  ETHEREGE. 


349 


And  with  foul  poisonous  impressions  fill, 

And  last,  the  precious  life  with  deadly  dolour  kill. 

*  »  *  «  * 

All  these  declare  the  force  of  phantasie, 
Though  working  here  upon  this  stubborn  clay ; 
But  th'  airy  vehicle  yields  more  easily, 
Unto  her  beck  more  nimbly  doth  obey, 
Which  truth  the  joint  confessions  bewray 
Of  damned  hags  and  masters  of  bold  skill. 
Whose  hellish  mysteries  fully  to  display,  [o'erspill. 
The  earth  would  groan,  trees  sigh,  and  horror  all 

But  he  that  out  of  darkness  giveth  light. 
He  guide  my  steps  in  this  so  uncouth  way ; 
And  ill-done  deeds  by  children  of  the  night 
Convert  to  good,  while  I  shall  hence  assay 
The  noble  soul's  condition  ope  to  lay. 
And  show  her  empire  on  her  airy  sphere. 
By  what  of  sprites  and  spectres  stories  say ; 
For  sprites  and  spectres  that  by  night  appear 
Be  or  all  with  the  soul,  or  of  a  nature  near. 

Up  then,  renowned  wizard,  hermit  sage. 
That  twice  ten  years  didst  in  the  desert  won. 
With  sprites  conversing  in  thy  hermitage. 
Since  thou  of  mortals  didst  the  commerce  shun; 
Well  seen  in  these  foul  deeds  that  have  foredone 
Many  a  bold  wit.     Up,  Marcus,  tell  again 
That  story  to  thy  Thrax,  who  has  thee  won 
To  Christian  faith ;  the  guise  and  haunts  explain 
Of  all  air-trampling  ghosts   that  in  the  world 

[remain. 
There  be  six  sorts  of  sprites  :  Lelurion 
Is  the  first  kind,  the  next  are  named  from  air; 
The  first  aloft,  yet  far  beneath  the  moon, 
The  other  in  this  lower  region  fare ; 
The  third  terrestrial,  the  fourth  watery  are; 
The  fifth  be  subterranean ;  the  last 
And  worst,  light-hating  ghosts,  more  cruel  far 
Than  bear  or  wolf  with  hunger  hard  oppress'd, 
But  doltish  yet,  and  dull,  like  an  unwieldy  beast. 

***** 
Cameleon-like  they  thus  their  colour  change, 
And  size  contract,  and  then  dilate  again, 
Like  the  soft  earth-worm  hurt  by  heedless  chance, 
Shrinks  in  herself  to  shun  or  ease  her  pain. 
Nor  do  they  only  thus  themselves  constrain 
Into  less  bulk,  but  if  with  courage  bold,    [twain. 
And  flaming  brand,  thou  strike  these  shades  in 
Close  quick  as  cloven  air.  So  sang  that  wizard  old. 


And  truth  he  said,  whatever  he  has  told. 

As  even  this  present  age  may  verify, 

If  any  lists  its  stories  to  unfold, 

Of  Hugo,  of  hobgoblins,  of  incubi, 

Abhorred  dugs  by  devils  sucken  dry ; 

Of  leaping  lamps,  and  of  fierce  flying  stones, 

Of  living  wool  and  such  like  witchery; 

Or  proved  by  sight  or  self-confessions,         [tions. 

Which  things  much  credence  gain  to  past  tradi- 

Wherefore  with  boldness  we  will  now  relate 
Some  few  in  brief;  as  of  th'  Astorgan  lad 
Whose  peevish  mother,  in  fell  ire  and  hate. 
With  execration  bold,  the  devil  bad 
Take  him  alive.  Which  mood  the  boy  n'  ote  bear. 
But  quits  the  room — walks  out  with  spirit  sad. 
Into  the  court,  where  lo!  by  night  appear 
Two  giants  with  grim  looks,  rough  limbs,  black 
grisly  hair. 
***** 

The  walking  skeleton  in  Bolonia, 
Laden  with  rattling  chains,  that  show'd  his  grave 
To  the  watchful  student,  who  without  dismay 
Bid  tell  his  wants  and  speak  what  he  would  have. 
Thus  cleared  he  the  bouse  by  courage  brave. 
Nor  may  I  pass  the  fair  Cerdinian  maid 
Whose  love  a  jolly  swain  did  kindly  crave. 
And  oft  with  mutual  solace  with  her  staid. 
Yet  he  no  jolly  swain,  but  a  deceitful  shade. 
***** 
In  arctic  climes  an  isle  that  ThuI6  hight. 
Famous  for  snowy  monts,  whose  hoary  heads 
Sure  sign  of  cold ;  yet  from  their  fierv  feet 
They  strike  out  Duming  stones  with  thunders  dread. 
And  all  the  land  with  smoke  and  ashes  spread; 
Here  wand'ring  ghosts  themselves   have   often 

shown. 
As  if  it  were  the  region  of  the  dead. 
And  met  departed,  met  with  whom  they've  known, 
In  seemly  sort  shake  hands,  and  ancient  friend- 
ship own. 

A  world  of  wonders  hither  might  be  thrown 

Of  sprites  and  spectres,  as  that  frequent  noise 

Oft  heard  upon  the  plain  of  Marathon, 

Of  neighing  horses  and  of  martial  boys ; 

The  Greek  the  Persian  nightly  here  destroys 

In  hot  assault  embroil'd  in  a  long  war; 

Four  hundred  years  did  last  those  dreadful  toys. 

As  doth  by  Attic  records  plain  appear, 

The  seeds  of  hate  by  death  so  little  slaked  are. 


GEORGE   ETHEREGE. 


[Born,  1638.    DM,  ie94T] 


Geokge  Ethereqk  first  distinguished  himself 
among  the  libertine  wits  of  the  age  by  his  "  Comi- 
cal Revenge,  or  Love  in  a  Tub."  He  after- 
ward gained  a  more  deserved  distinction  in  the 
comic  drama  by  his  "  Man  of  Mode,  or  Sir  Fop- 
Jng  Flutter,"  a  character  which  has  been  the 
model  of  all  succeeding  stage  petits-maitres.  By 
his  wit  he  obtained  a  rich  widow  and  the  title  of 


I  knighthood,  and,  what  was  ill-suited  to  his  disso- 
lute habits,  the  appointment  of  plenipotentiary 
I  at  Ratisl>on.     At  that  place  he  had  occasion  to 
1  give  a  convivial  party  to  some  friends,  of  whom 
>  George  was  politely  taking  his  leave  at  the  door 
of  his  house,  but  having  drunk  freely,  he  had  the 
I  misfortune    to    conclude    the    entertainment   bt 
'  falling  down  stairs  and  breaking  his  neck. 
2K 


850 


THOMAS  FLATMAN. 


SONG. 

raOM  "LOVB  IN  A  TUB." 

Ladies,  though  to  your  conquering  eyea 
Love  owes  his  chiefest  victories, 
And  borrows  those  bright  arms  from  you 
With  which  he  does  the  world  subdue ; 
Yet  you  yourselves  are  not  above 
The  empire  nor  the  griefs  of  love. 

Then  rack  not  lovers  with  disdain, 
Lest  love  on  you  revenge  their  pain : 
You  are  not  free  because  you're  fair, 
The  boy  did  not  his  mother  spare : 
Though  beauty  be  a  killing  dart, 
It  is  no  armour  for  the  heart. 


SONG. 


»iu)M  sodtherne's  "  disappouttment,  oe  the  motheb  nr 

FASHION." 

See,  how  fair  Corinna  lies. 
Kindly  calling  with  her  eyes: 
In  the  tender  minute  prove  her; 
Shepherd !  why  so  dull  a  lover 
Prithee,  why  so  dull  a  lover  1 

In  her  blushes  see  your  shame,— 
Anger  thej'  with  love  proclaim; 
You  too  coldly  entertain  her: 
Lay  your  pipe  a  little  by  ; 
If  no  other  charms  you  try, 
You  will  never,  never  gain  her. 

While  the  happy  minute  is. 
Court  her,  you  may  get  a  kiss, 
May  be,  favours  that  are  greater: 
Leave  your  piping  to  her  fly  ; 
When  the  nymph  for  love  is  nigh, 
Is  it  with  a  tune  you  treat  her  1 

Dull  Amintor!  fie,  O  !  fie: 
Now  your  Shepherdess  is  nigh 
Can  you  pass  your  time  no  better  1 


SONG. 

FEOM  "LOVE  nr  A  TOB." 

When  Phillis  watch'd  her  harmless  sheep, 

Not  one  poor  lamb  was  made  a  prey ; 
Yet  she  had  cause  enough  to  weep, 

Her  silly  heart  did  go  astray, 
Then  flying  to  the  neighbouring  grove. 

She  left  the  tender  flock  to  rove, 
And  to  the  winds  did  breathe  her  love. 
She  sought  in  vain 
To  ease  her  pain  ; 
The  heedless  winds  did  fan  her  fire ; 
Venting  her  grief 
Gave  no  relief. 
But  rather  did  increase  desire. 
Then  sitting  with  her  arms  across. 

Her  sorrows  streaming  from  each  eye  ; 
She  fix'd  her  thoughts  upon  her  loss. 
And  in  despair  resolved  to  die. 


SONG. 


Tell  me  no  more  I  am  deceived 
While  Sylvia  seems  so  kind. 

And  takes  such  care  to  be  believed. 
The  cheat  I  fear  to  find. 

To  flatter  me  should  falsehood  lie 
Conceal'd  in  her  soft  youth, 

A  thousand  times  I'd  rather  die 
Than  see  th'  unhapy  truth. 

My  love  all  malice  shall  outbrave, 

Let  fops  in  libels  rail ; 
If  she  th   appearances  will  save, 

No  scandal  can  prevail. 

She  makes  me  think  I  have  her  heart. 

How  much  for  that  is  due ; 
Though  she  but  act  the  tender  part, 

The  joy  she  gives  is  true. 


THOMAS.  FLATMAN. 


CBorn,  1635.    Died,  1688.] 


Thomas  Flatman,   an  imitator  of  Cowley, 
who  had  also  a  respectable  talent  for  painting. 


Granger  says  that  one  of  his  heads  is  worth  a 
ream  of  his  pindarics.* 


FOR  THOUGHTS. 

FBOM   POEMS   AXD  S0NO8. 

Thoughts  !  what  are  they  1 

They  are  my  constant  friends ; 

Who.  when  harsh  fate  its  dull  brow  bends, 

Uncloud  me  with  a  smiling  ray, 

And  in  the  depth  of  midnight  force  a  day. 

When  I  retire  and  flee 

The  busy  throngs  of  company 

To  hug  myself  in  privacy. 


O  the  discourse,  the  pleasant  talk 

'Twixt  us,  my  thoughts,  along  a  lonely  walk! 

You  like  the  stupefying  wine, 

The  dying  malefactors  sip, 

With  shivering  lip, 

T'  abate  the  rigour  of  their  doom 

By  a  less  troublous  cut  to  their  long  home, 

[*  Jlis  Terse  wag  buried  with  its  author  In  a  fourth  edi- 
tion :  no  one  has  thought  fit  to  revive  it,  and  in  no  col- 
lection of  HritUb  Poetry  has  Flatman  found,  or  is  likely  to 
fknd,  a  place.] 


APHRA   BEHN. 


8r>i 


Make  me  slight  crosses  though  they  piled  up  lie, 
All  by  th'  enchantments  of  an  ecstasy. 

Do  I  desire  to  see 

The  throne  and  majesty 

Of  that  proud  one, 

Brother  and  uncle  to  the  stars  and  sun, 

Those  can  conduct  me  where  such  joys  reside. 

And  waft  me  cross  the  main,  sans  wind  and  tide. 

Would  I  descry 

Those  radiant  mansions  'hove  the  sky. 

Invisible  by  mortal  eye, 

My  thoughts,  my  thoughts  can  lay 

A  shining  track  there  to, 

And  nimbly  fleeting  go ; 

Through  all  the  eleven  orbs  can  shove  away ; 

These  too  like  Jacob's  ladder  are, 

A  most  angelic  thoroughfare. 

The  wealth  that  shines 

In  the  oriental  mines. 

Those  sparkling  gems  which  nature  keeps 

Within  her  cabinet  the  deeps, 

The  verdant  fields. 

The  rarities  the  rich  world  yields. 

Rare  structures,  whose  each  gilded  spire 

Glimmers  hke  lightning,  which  while  men  admire 

'I'hey  deem  the  neighb'ring  sky  on  fire : 

These  can  I  gaze  upon,  and  glut  mine  eyes 

With  myriads  of  varieties. 

As  on  the  front  of  Pisgah  I 

Can  th'  Holy  Land  through  those  my  optics  spy. 

Contemn  we  then 

The  peevish  rage  of  men. 


Whose  violence  ne'er  can  divorce 

Our  mutual  amity, 

Or  lay  so  damn'd  a  curse 

As  non-addresses  'twixt  my  thoughts  and  me; 

For  though  I  sigh  in  irons  they. 

Use  their  old  freedom,  readily  obey. 

And  when  my  bosom  friends  desert  me  stay. 

Come  then,  my  darlings,  I'll  embrace 

My  privilege ;  make  known 

The  high  prerogative  I  own 

By  making  all  allurements  give  you  place; 

Whose  sweet  society  to  me 

A  sanctuary  and  a  shield  shall  be 

'Gainst  the  full  quivers  of  my  destiny. 


SONQ  FBOM  THE  SAME. 

How  happy  a  thing  were  a  wedding. 

And  a  bedding. 

If  a  man  might  purchase  a  wife 

For  a  twelvemonth  and  a  day ; 

But  to  live  with  her  all  a  man's  life, 

For  ever  and  for  aye, 

Till  she  grow  as  gray  as  a  cat, 

Good  faith,  Mr.  Parson,  excuse  me  for  that. 


EXTRACT. 


When  on  my  sick  bed  I  Itmguish, 
Full  of  sorrow,  full  of  anguish ; 
Fainting,  gasping,  trembhng,  crying. 
Panting,  groaning,  speechless,  dying — 
Methinks  I  hear  some  gentle  spirit  say, 
Be  not  fearful,  come  away  !* 


APHRA   BEHN. 


[Born,  16307    Died,  1889.] 


This  authoress  of  many  plays,  novels,  and 
poems,  was  the  daughter  of  a  Mr.  Johnson,  who 
died  on  his  passage  to  Surinam,  of  which  he  had 
been  appointed  governor.  His  family,  however, 
reached  the  settlement,  and  there  our  poetess 
became  acquainted  with  the  famous  Indian  chief 
Oroonoko,  whose  story  she  has  related  in  one 
of  her  novels.  On  her  return  to  England  she 
married  Mr.  Behn,  a  London  merchant.     After 


his  death  the  Court  of  Charles  II.  employed  ht. 
to  send  over  intelligence  from  Antwerp  respect- 
ing the  Dutch,  and  by  the  aid  of  her  lovei 
Vander  Albert,  she  gave  them  a  most  important 
warning  of  De  Ruyter's  intended  descent  upon 
the  English  coast;  but  she  was  treated  with  in- 
gratitude  by  the  government,  and  on  returning 
to  England  was  left  to  subsist  by  her  gallantry 
and  her  pen. 


BONG,  IN  THE  FARCE  OP  «THE  EMPEROR  OF  THE 
MOON." 
A  CURSE  upon  that  faithless  maid 
Who  first  her  sex's  liberty  betray 'd; 
Born  free  as  man  to  love  and  range, 
Till  nobler  nature  did  to  custom  change ; 
Custom,  that  dull  excuse  for  fools. 
Who  think  all  virtue  to  consist  in  rules. 

From  love  our  fetters  never  sprung. 
That  smiling  god,  all  wanton,  gay  and  young, 
Shows  by  his  wings  he  cannot  be 
Confined  to  artless  slavery ; 


But  here  and  there  at  random  roves, 

Not  fix'd  to  glittering  courts  or  shady  groves. 

Then  she  that  constancy  profess'd 
Was  brt  a  well  dissembler  at  the  best ; 
And  that  imaginary  sway 
She  seem'd  to  give  in  feigning  to  obey. 
Was  but  the  height  of  prudent  art 
To  deal  with  greater  liberty  her  bean. 


[*  Pope  hsf  done  nomething  more  thui  imitate  thia  in 
his  "  Djing  Chriatlan  to  his  Soal."J 


NATHANIEL  LEE. 


[Died,  16M.T 


Ma?;t  of  the  Bedlam  witticisms  of  this  unfor- 
tunate man  have  been  recorded  by  those  who  can 
derive  mirth  from  the  most  humiliating  shape  of 
human  calamity.  His  rant  and  turgidity  as  a 
writer  are  proverbial ;  but  those  who  have  wit- 
nessed justice  done  to  the  acting  of  his  Theodo- 
sius  must  have  felt  that  he  had  some  powers  in 
the  pathetic.  He  was  the  son  of  a  clergyman  in 
Hertfordshire.  He  was  bred  at  Westminster, 
under  Dr.  Busby,  and  became  a  scholar  on  the 
foundation  at  Trinity  College,  Cambridge.  From 
thence  he  came  to  London,  and  attempted  the 
profession  of  an  actor.  The  part  which  he  per- 
formed was  Duncan,  in  Sir  William  Davenant's 
alteration  of  Macbeth.  He  was  completely  un- 
successful. "  Yet  Lee,"  says  Gibber,  "  was  so 
pathetic  a  reader  of  his  own  scenes,  that  I  have 
been  informed  by  an  actor  who  was  present,  that 
while  Lee  was  reading  to  Major  Mohun,  at  a 
rehearsal,  Mohun,  in  the  warmth  of  his  admira- 
tion, threw  down  his  part,  and  said,  '  Unless  I 
were  able  to  play  it  as  well  as  you  read  it,  to 


what  purpose  should  I  undertake  it  V  And  yet," 
continues  the  laureate,  "this  very  author,  whose 
elocution  raised  such  admiration  in  so  capital  an 
actor,  when  he  attempted  to  be  an  actor  himself, 
soon  quitted  the  stage  in  an  honest  despair  of 
ever  making  any  profitable  figure  there."  Failing 
in  this  object,  he  became  a  writer  for  the  stage, 
and  his  first  tragedy  of  "  Nero,"  which  came  out 
in  1675,  was  favourably  received.  In  the  nine 
subsequent  years  of  his  life  he  produced  as  many 
plays  of  his  own,  and  assisted  Dryden  in  two  ;  at 
the  end  of  which  period  an  hereditary  taint  of 
madness,  aggravated  by  habits  of  dissipation,^ 
obliged  him  to  be  consigned  for  four  years  to  the 
receptacle  at  Bethlem.  He  recovered  the  use  of 
his  faculties  so  far  as  to  compose  two  pieces,  the 
Princess  of  Cleves,  and  the  Massacre  of  Paris ; 
but  with  all  the  profits  of  his  invention  his  cir- 
cumstances were  so  reduced  that  a  weekly  stipend 
of  ten  shillings  was  his  principal  support  toward 
the  close  of  his  life,  and  to  the  last  he  was  not 
free  from  occasional  derangement. 


FROM  "THEODOSIUS;  OR,  THE  FORCE  OF  LOVE." 

The  characters  in  the  following  scenes  are  Varanes,  a 
Persian  prince,  who  comes  to  visit  the  Emperor  Tlieodo- 
sius;  Aranthes,  his  confidant;  Leontine,  the  prince's 
tutor;  and  Athenaig,  daughter  of  that  philosopher,  with 
whom  Viiranes  is  in  love.  Her  father.  Leontine.  jealous 
for  his  dftughter's  honour,  brings  his  royal  pupil  to  an 
explanation  respecting  his  de.«i^ns  toward  .\thcuais ;  and 
Varaues,  in  a  moment  of  ra.«h  pride,  at  tie  instigation 
of  Aranlhes,  spurns  at  the  idea  of  marrying  the  philoso- 
pher's daughter  and  sharing  with  her  the  throne  of 
Cyrus.  Athenais,  however,  is  seen  by  the  Emperor 
Theodosius,  who  himself  offers  her  his  hand.  The  re- 
pentance of  Varanes  for  her  loss,  and  the  despair  of 
Athenais,  form  the  catastrophe  of  the  tragedy. 

Leoti.  So,  Athenais ;  now  our  compliment 
To  the  young  Persian  prince  is  at  an  end ; 
What  then  remains,  but  that  we  take  our  leave, 
And  bid  him  everlastingly  farewell  1 

^ihen.  My  lord  !       ^ 

Lecm.  I  say,  that  decency  requires 
We  should  be  gone,norcanyou  stay  with  honour. 

Jtthen.  Most  true,  my  lord, 

Leo)!.  The  court  is  now  at  peace. 
The  emperor's  sisters  are  retired  for  ever, 
And  he  himself  composed;  what  hinders  then. 
But  that  we  bid  adieu  to  prince  Varanes  1 

^ihen.  Ah,  sir,  why  will  you  break  my  heart  1 

Leon.  I  would  not ; 
Thou  art  the  only  comfort  of  my  age  ; 


[•  The  period  of  Lee's  decease  hag  not  been  hitherto 
■ncertuined.  That  he  was  buried  in  St.  Clement's  Danes 
was  a  clue  to  the  period,  and  searching  the  liuiial  Itegistcr 
there  the  other  day,  for  some  assistance,  we  foui.d  the  fol- 
►•wing  entry: 

"  6  April,  1802,  Nathaniel  Lee  a  man  bur."] 
S52 


Like  an  old  tree  I  stand  among  the  storms, 
Thou  art  the  only  limb  that  I  have  left  me, 
My  dear  green  branch ;  and  how  I  prize  thee,  child, 
Heaven  only  knows !    Why  dost  thou  kneel  and 
weep  1  [hope, 

Alhen.  Because  you  are  so  good,  and  will,  I 
Forgive  my  fault,  who  first  occasioned  it.  [prince. 

Leon.  I  charged  thee  to  receive  and  hear  the 

Alhen.  You  did,  and,  oh,  my  lord  !  I  heard  too 
much! 
Too  much,  I  fear,  for  my  eternal  quiet. 

Leon.  Rise,  Athenais !  Credit  him  who  bears 
More  years  than  thou:  Varanes  has  deceived  thee. 

jllheu.  How  do  we  differ  then  !  You  judge  the 

prince  [ness, 

Impious  and  base ;  while  I  take  Heaven  to  wit- 

I  think  him  the  most  virtuous  of  men: 

Therefore,  take  heed,  my  lord,  how  you  accuse 

him, 
Before  you  make  the  trial. — Alas,  Varanes, 
If  thou  art  false,  there's  no  such  thing  on  earth 
As  solid  goodness  or  substantial  honour. — 
A  thousand  times,  my  lord,  he  has  sworn  to  give  me 
(And  I  believe  his  oaths)  his  crown  and  empire, 
That  day  I  make  him  master  of  my  heart. 

Leon.  That  day  he'll  make  thee  mistress  of  hia 
power. 
Which  carries  a  foul  name  among  the  vulgar. 
No,  Athenais !  let  me  see  thee  dead. 
Borne  a  pale  corpse,  and  gently  laid  in  earth, 
So  I  may  say  she's  chaste,  and  died  a  virgin. 
Rather  than  view  thee  with  these  wounded  eyai 
Seated  upon  the  throne  of  Isdigerdes, 


The  blast  of  common  tongues,  the  nobles'  scorn, 
Thy  father's  curse ;  that  is,         *  * 

jllhe.i.  O  horrid  supposition  !  how  I  detest  it, 
Be  witness,  Heaven,  that  sees  my  secret  thoughts ! 
Have  I  for  this,  my  lord,  been  taught  by  you 
The  nicest  justice,  and  severest  virtue, 
To  fear  no  death,  to  know  the  end  of  life, 
And,  with  long  search,  discern  the  highest  good  ? 
IVo,  Athenais !  when  the  day  beholds  thee 
So  scandalously  raised,  pride  cast  thee  down, 
The  scorn  of  honour,  and  the  people's  prey  1 
No,  cruel  Leontine,  not  to  redeem 
That  aged  head  from  the  descending  axe, 
Not,  though  I  saw  thy  trembling  body  rack'd. 
Thy  wrinkles  about  thee  fiU'd  with  blood, 
Would  I  for  empire  to  the  man  I  love, 
Be  made  the  object  of  unlawful  pleasure. 

Leon.  O  greatly  said !  and  by  the  blood  which 
warms  me, 
Which  runs  as  rich  as  any  Athens  holds. 
It  would  improve  the  virtue  of  the  world, 
If  every  day  a  thousand  votaries, 
And  thousand  virgins  came  from  far  to  hear  thee. 

.Athen.  Look  down,  ye  powers,  take  notice  we 
obey 
The  rigid  principles  ye  have  infused ! 
Yet  oh,  my  noble  father,  to  convince  you, 
8ince  you  will  have  it  so,  propose  a  marriage ; 
Though  with  the  thought  I'm  cover'd  o'er  with 

blushes. 
Not  that  I  doubt  the  prince, — ^that  were  to  doubt 
The  heavens  themselves ;  I  know  he  is  all  truth : 
But  modesty. 

The  virgin's  troublesome  and  constant  guest, 
That,  that  alone  forbids. 

Leon.  I  wish  to  heaven 
There  prove  no  greater  bar  to  my  belief. 
Behold  the  prince ;  1  will  retire  a  while. 
And,  when  occasion  calls,  come  to  thy  aid. 

[Exit  LsoN. 
Enter  Varanes  and  ARAvrnES. 

Vara.  To  fix  her  on  the  throne,  to  me,  seems 
little  ; 
Were  I  a  god,  yet  would  I  raise  her  higher. 
This  is  the  nature  of  thy  prince :  But,  oh ! 
As  to  the  world,  thy  judgment  soars  above  me, 
And  I  am  dared  with  this  gigantic  honour. 
Glory  forbids  her  prospect  to  a  crown, 
Nor  must  she  gaze  that  way  ;  my  haughty  soul. 
That  day  when  she  ascends  the  throne  of  Cyrus, 
Will  leave  my  body  pale,  and  to  the  stars 
Retire  in  blushes,  lost,  quite  lost  for  ever, 

.Aran.  What  do  you  purpose,  then  1 
Vara.  I  know  not  what : 
But,  see,  she  comes,  the  glory  of  my  arms, 

Bnter  Athexais. 
The  only  business  of  my  instant  thought, 
My  soul's  best  joy,  and  all  my  true  repose  ! — 
I  swear  I  cannot  bear  these  strange  desires, 
These  strong  impulses,  which  will  shortly  leave  m« 
Dead  at  thy  feet. 

Jihen.  What  have  you  found,  my  lord, 
In  me  so  harsh  or  cruel,  that  you  fear 
To  speak  your  griefs  1 


Vara.  First  let  me  kneel  and  swear. 
And  on  thy  hand  seal  my  religious  vow. 
Straight  let  the  breath  of  gods  blow  me  from  earth. 
Swept  from  the  book  of  fame,  forgotten  ever. 
If  I  prefer  thee  not,  O  Athenais, 
To  all  the  Persian  greatness! 

./?  hen.  I  believe  you 
For  I  have  heard  you  swear  as  much  before,  [again ! 

Vara.  Hast  thouT    0  why  then  did  I  swear 
But  that  my  love  knew  nothing  worthier  of  thee, 
And  could  no  better  way  express  my  passion. 
Mhen.  O  rise,  my  lord  ! 

Vara.  I  will  do  every  thing 
Which  Athenais  bids :  if  there  be  more 
In  nature  to  convince  thee  of  my  love. 
Whisper  it,  oh  some  god,  into  my  ear ! 
And  on  her  breasts  thus  to  her  listening  soul 
I'll  breathe  the  inspiration  !  Wilt  thou  not  speak  ? 
What,  but  one  sigh,  no  more !  Can  that  suffice 
For  all  my  vast  exj»ense  of  prodigal  love  1 
Oh,  Athenais !  what  shall  I  say  or  do. 
To  gain  the  thing  I  wish  1 

Mhen.  What's  that,  my  lord  1  [hold  thee. 

Vara.  Thus  to  approach  thee  still !  thus  to  be- 
Yet  there  is  more — 

Jtthen.  My  lord,  I  dare  not  hear  you. 

Vara.  Why  dost  thou  frown  at  what  thou  dost 
not  know  1 
'Tis  an  imagination  which  ne'er  pierced  thee ; 
Yet,  as  'tis  ravishing,  'tis  full  of  honour. 

.Allien.  I  must  not  doubt  you,  sir :  But  oh  I 
tremble 
To  think  if  Isdigerdes  should  behold  you. 
Should  hear  you  thus  protesting  to  a  maid 
Of  no  degree,  but  virtue,  in  the  world — 

Vara.  No  more  of  this,  no  more ;  for  I  disdain 
All  pomp  when  thou  art  by  ;  far  be  the  noise 
Of  king  and  courts  from  us,  whose  gentle  souls 
Our  kinder  stars  have  steer'd  another  way  ! 
Free  as  the  forest-birds,  we'll  pair  together. 
Without  remembering  who  our  fathers  were ; 
Fly  to  the  arbours,  grots,  and  flowry  meads. 
And  in  soft  murmurs  interchange  our  souls  ; 
Together  drink  the  crystal  of  the  stream. 
Or  taste  the  yellow  fruit  which  autumn  yields, 
And  when  the  golden  evening  calls  us  home. 
Wing  to  our  downy  nest,  and  sleep  till  morn. 

Athen.  Ah,  prince;  no  more! 
Forbear,  forbear  to  charm  me. 
Since  I  am  doomed  to  leave  you,  sir,  for  ever. 

Vara.  Hold,  Athenais — 

Jtthen.  I  know  your  royal  temper. 
And  that  high  honour  reigns  within  your  breast. 
Which  would  disdain  to  waste  so  many  hours 
With  one  of  humble  blood  compared  to  you. 
Unless  strong  passion  sway'd  your  thoughts  to 

love  her; 
Therefore  receive,  0  prince,  and  take  it  kindly, 
For  none  on  earth  but  you  could  win  it  from  me, 
Receive  the  gift  of  my  eternal  love ! 
'Tis  all  I  can  bestow,  nor  is  it  little ; 
For  sure  a  heart  so  coldly  chaste  as  mine. 
No  charms  but  yours,  my  lord,  could  e'er  have 
warm'd.  [comfort 

Vara.  Well  have  you  made  amends,  by  this  last 
2s2 


854 


NATHANIEL  LEE. 


For  the  cold  dart  you  shot  at  me  before. 
For  this  last  goodness,  0  my  Athenais ! 
(For  now,  methinks,  I  ought  to  call  you  mine,) 
I  empty  all  my  soul  in  thanks  before  you : 
Yet  oh !  one  fear  remains,  like  death  it  chills  me; 
Why  my  relenting  love  did  talk  of  parting ! 
Allien.  Look  there,  and  cease  your  wonder ;  I 
have  sworn 
To  obey  my  father,  and  he  calls  me  hence. 

Enter  Leontine. 

Vara.  Ha,  Leontine !  by  which  of  all  my  actions 
Have  I  so  deeply  injured  thee,  to  merit 
The  smartest  wound  revenge  could  form  to  end  me  1 
Lecm.  Answer  me  now,  oh  prince  !  for  virtue 
prompts  me. 
And  honesty  will  dally  now  no  longer : 
What  can  the  end  of  all  this  passion  be  1 
Glory  requires  this  strict  account,  and  asks 
What  you  intend  at  last  to  Athenais. 

Vara.  How,  Leontine  1  [loved  her ; 

Leon.  You  saw  her,  sir,  at  Athens ;  said  you 

I  charged  her  humbly  to  receive  the  honour,  [me  1 

And  hear  your  passion  :  Has  she  not,  sir,  obey'd 

Vara.  She  has,  I  thank  the  gods !  but  whither 

would'st  thou  1 
Leon.  Having  resolved  to  visit  Theodosius, 
Youswore  you  wouldnotgo  withoutmy  daughter, 
Whereon  I  gave  command  that  she  should  follow. 

Vara.  Yes,  Leontine,  my  old  remembrancer, 
Most  learn'd  of  all  philosophers,  you  did. 

Leon.  Thus  long  she  has  attended,  you  have 
seen  her. 
Sounded  her  virtues  and  her  imperfections  ; 
Therefore,  dread  sir,  forgive  this  bolder  charge, 
Which  honour  sounds,  and  now  let  me  demand 
you — 
Vara.  Now  help,  Aranthes,  or  I'm  dash'd  for 

ever. 
Aran.  Whatever  happens,  sir,  disdain  the  mar- 
riage. 
Leon.  Can  your  high  thoughts  so  far  forget 
themselves, 
To  admit  this  humble  virgin  for  your  bride  1 
Vara.  Ha! 

Alhen.  He  blushes,  gods!    and  stammers   at 
the  question.  [my  lordl 

Leon.  Why  do  you  walk,  and  chafe  yourself. 
The  business  is  not  much. 
Vara.  How,  Leontine ! 
Not  much  1  I  know  that  she  deserves  a  crown ; 
Yet  'tis  to  reason  much,  though  not  to  love ; 
And  sure  the  world  would  blush  to  see  the  daughter 
Of  a  philosopher  on  the  throne  of  Cyrus. 
Mhen.  Undone  for  ever ! 
Iaou.  Is  this  your  answer,  sir  1  [me  to 

Vara.  Why  dost  thou  urge  me  thus,  and  push 
The  very  brink  of  glory  1  where,  alas  ! 
I  look  and  tremble  at  the  vast  descent : 
Yet  even  there,  to  the  vast  bottom  down, 
My  rash  adventurous  love  would  have  me  leap, 
And  grasp  my  Athenais  with  my  ruin. 
Lemu  'Tis  well,  my  lord. 
Vara.  Why  dost  thou  thus  provoke  me  1 
I  thought  that  Persia's  court  had  store  of  honour 


To  satisfy  the  height  of  thy  ambition. 
Besides,  old  man,  my  love  is  too  well  grown, 
To  want  a  tutor  for  his  good  behaviour ; 
What  he  will  do,  he  will  do  of  himself, 
And  not  be  taught  by  you. — 

Leon.  I  know  he  will  not : 
Fond  tears,  away  !  I  know,  I  know  he  will  not; 
But  he  would  buy  with  his  old  man's  pref«^rmenl 
My  daughter  *  *  *  * 

Vara.  Away,  I  say,  my  soul  disdains  the  motion ! 

Leon.  The  motion  of  a  marriage  ;  yes,  I  see  it; 
Your  angry  looks  and  haughty  words  betray  it : 
I  found  it  at  the  first.     I  thank  you,  sir, 
You  have  at  least  rewarded  your  old  tutor 
For  all  his  cares,  his  watchings,  services  ; 
Yet,  let  me  tell  you,  sir,  this  humble  maid, 
This  daughter  of  a  poor  philosopher. 
Shall,  if  she  please,  be  seated  on  a  throne 
As  high  as  that  of  the  immortal  Cyrus. 

Vara.  I  think  that  age  and  deep  philosophy 
Have  crack'd  thy  brain  :  Farewell,  old  Leontine, 
Retire  to  rest ;  and  when  this  brawling  humour 
Is  rock'd  asleep,  I'll  meet  my  Athenais, 
And  clear  the  accounts  of  love,  which  thou  hast 
blotted.  [Extt. 

Leon.  Old  Leontine !  perhaps  I  am  mad  indeed. 
But  hold,  my  heart,  and  let  that  solid  virtue. 
Which  I'so  long  adored,  still  keep  the  reins. 

0  Athenais  !  But  I  will  not  chide  thee : 
Fate  is  in  all  our  actions,  and,  methinks, 
At  least  a  father  judges  so,  it  has 
Rebuked  thee  smartly  for  thy  easiness : 

There  is  a  kind  of  mournful  eloquence   [sorrow. 

In  thy  dumb  grief,  which  shames  all  clamorous 

Athen.  Alas!  my  breast  is  full  of  death;  methinks 

1  fear  even  you — 

Leon,  Why  shouldst  thou  fear  thy  father  1 

Athen.  Because  you  have  the  figure  of  a  man ! 
Is  there,  O  speak,  a  possibility 
To  be  forgiven  1 

Leon.  Thy  father  does  forgive  thee. 
And  honour  will ;  but  on  this  hard  condition, 
Never  to  see  him  more — 

Athen.  See  him !  Oh  heavens ! 

Leon.  Unless  it  be,  my  daughter,  to  upbraid 
him: 
Not  though  he'  should  repent  and  straight  return, 
Nay,  proffer  thee  his  crown — No  more  of  that. 
Honour  too  cries  revenge,  revenge  thy  wrongs  ; 
Revenge  thyself,  revenge  thy  injured  father; 
For  'tis  revenge  so  wise,. so  glorious  too, 
As  all  the  world  shall  praise. 

Alhen.  O  give  me  leave. 
For  yet  I  am  all  tenderness :  the  woman, 
The  weak,  the  mild,  the  fond,  the  coward  woman, 
Dares  not  look  forth  ;  but  runs  about  my  breast. 
And  visits  all  the  warmer  mansions  there, 
Where  she  so  ofl  has  harbour'd  false  Varanes ! 
Cruel  Varanes !  false,  forsworn  Varanes ! 

Leon.  Is  this  forgetting  him  ?  Is  this  the  course 
Which  honour  bids  thee  take  ? 

Alhen.  Ah,  sir,  allow 
A  little  time  for  love  to  make  his  way  ; 
Hardly  he  won  the  place,  and  many  sighs. 
And  many  tears,  and  thousand  oaths  it  cost  him ; 


HENRY  VAUGHAN. 


855 


And,  oh  !  I  find  he  will  not  be  dislodged 
Without  a  groan  at  parting  hence  for  ever. 
No,  no !  he  vows  he  will  not  yet  be  razed 
Without  whole  floods  of  grief  at  his  farewell. 
Which  thus  I  sacrifice !  and  oh,  I  swear, 
Had  he  proved  true,  I  would  as  easily 
Kave  emptied  all  my  blood,  and  died  to  serve 

hkn, 
As  now  I  shed  these  drops,  or  vent  these  sighs. 
To  show  how  well,  how  perfectly  I  loved  him. 
Leon.  No  woman  sure,  but  thou,  so  low  in  for- 
tune, 
Therefore  the  nobler  is  thy  fair  example. 


Would  thus  have  g^rieved,  because  a  prince  adored 
Nor  will  it  be  believed  in  after  times,  [her.* 

That  there  was  ever  such  a  maid  in  being ; 
Yet  do  I  still  advise,  preserve  thy  virtue ; 
And  since  he  does  disdain  thee  for  his  bride, 
Scorn  thou  to  be— — 

Mhen,  Hold,  sir,  oh  hold,  forbear. 

For  my  nice  soul  abhors  the  very  sound ; 
Yet  with  the  shame  of  that,  and  the  desire 
Of  an  immortal  name,  I  am  inspired : 
All  kinder  thoughts  are  fled  for  ever  fi-om  me, 
All  tenderness,  as  if  I  ne'er  had  loved. 
Has  left  my  bosom  colder  than  the  grave. 


THOMAS  SHADWELL. 


[Born,  ie<a    Dieii,  1601.] 


Thomas  Shadwell,  the  laureate  of  William 
HI.  and  the  Mac  Flecknoe  of  Dryden,  was  born 
1640,  and  died  1692.  Rochester  said  of  him, 
that  if  he  had  burnt  all  be  wrote,  and  printed  all 


he  spoke,  he  would  have  had  more  wit  and  hu- 
mour  than  any  other  poet.  He  left  seventeer 
plays,  besides  other  poems.* 


FROM  « THE  RAPE,  OR  INNOCENT  IMPOSTORS." 

How  long  must  women  wish  in  vain 

A  constant  love  to  find  1 
No  art  can  fickle  man  retain, 

Or  fix  a  roving  mind. 
Yet  fondly  we  ourselves  deceive, 

And  empty  hopes  pursue : 
Though  false  to  others,  we  believe 

They  will  to  us  prove  true. 


But  oh  !  the  torment  to  discern 

A  perjured  lover  gone  ; 
And  yet  by  sad  experience  learn 

That  we  must  still  love  on. 

How  strangely  are  we  fool'd  by  fate. 
Who  tread  the  maze  of  love; 

When  most  desirous  to  retreat. 
We  know  not  how  to  move. 


HENRY  VAUGHAN. 


CBorn,  1611.     Died,  169S.] 


Henry  Vaughan  was  a  Welsh  gentleman, 
born  on  the  banks  of  the  Uske,  in  Brecknock- 
shire, who  was  bred  to  the  law,  but  relinquished 
it  for  the  profession  of  physic     He  Ts  one  of  the 


harshest  even  of  the  inferior  order  of  the  school 
of  conceit ;  but  he  has  some  few  scattered  thoughts 
that  meet  our  eye  amidst  his  harsh  pages,  like 
wild  flowers  on  a  barren  heath. 


EARLY.  RlSrxa  AND  PRAYER. 

FROM   "Sn-EX  SaNTTLlIANS,   OE  SACRED   POEMS." 

When  first  thy  eyes  unveil,  give  thy  soul  leave 

To  do  the  like ;  our  bodies  but  forerun 

The  spirit's  duty:  true  hearts  spread  and  heave 

Unto  their  God  as  flowers  do  to  the  sun; 

Give  him  thy  first  thoughts  then,  so  shalt  thou  keep 

Him  company  all  day,  and  in  him  sleep. 

Yet  never  sleep  the  sun  up ;  prayer  should 
Dawn  with  the  day  :  there  are  set  awful  hours 
'Twixt  heaven  and  us;  the  manna  was  not  good 
After  sun-rising;  far  day  sullies  flowers: 
Rise  to  prevent  the  sun  ;  sleep  doth  sins  glut, 
And  heaven's  gate  opens  when  the  world's  is  shut. 


Walk  with  thy  fellow-creatures :  note  the  hush 
And  whisperings  amongst  them.     Not  a  spring 
Or  leaf  but  hath  his  morning  hymn  ;  each  bush 
And  oak  doth  know  I  am. — Canst  thou  not  sing ! 
O  leave  thy  cares  and  follies !  go  this  way. 
And  thou  art  sure  to  prosper  all  the  day. 

Serve  God  before  the  world :  let  him  not  go 
Until  thou  hast  a  blessing ;  then  resign 
The  whole  unto  him,  anil  remember  who 
Prevail'd  by  wrestling  ere  the  sun  did  shine : 


[*  Nahum  Tate,  of  all  my  predecesoorg.  mui<t  have  mnked 
the  lowest  of  the  laureates.  If  he  hud  not  nucceeded  ^liad: 
well.    Suuthey's  Life  cif  Cowptr,  vol.  il.  p.  \Vi.\ 


Pour  oil  upon  the  stones,  weep  for  thy  sin, 
Then  journey  on,  and  have  an  eye  to  heaven. 

Mornings  are  mysteries :  the  first,  world's  youth, 
Man's  resurrection,  and  the  future's  hud. 
Shroud  in  their  births ;  the  crown  of  life,  light, 

truth. 
Is  styled  their  star ;  the  stone  and  hidden  food : 
Three  blessings  wait  upon  them,  one  of  which 
Should  move — they  make  us  holy,  happy,  rich. 

When  the  world's  up  and  every  swarm  abroad. 
Keep  well  thy  temper,  mix  not  with  each  clay  ; 
Despatch  necessities ;  life  hath  a  load 
Which  must  be  carried  on,  and  safely  may : 
Yet  keep  those  cares  without  thee ;  let  the  heart 
Be  God's  alone,  and  choose  the  better  part. 


THE  TIMBEK. 

FROM   THE  SAME. 

SuEB  thou  didst  flourish  once,  and  many  springs, 
Many  bright  mornings,  much  dew,  many  show- 
ers, 

Pass'd  o'er  thy  head ;  many  light  hearts  and  wings. 
Which  are  now  dead,  lodged  in  thy  living  towers. 

And  still  a  new  succession  sings  and  flies,  [shoot 
Fresh  groves  grow  up,  and  their  green  branches 

Toward  the  old  and  still  enduring  skies. 
While  the  low  violet  thrives  at  their  root. 


THE  RAINBOW. 

FROM  THE  SAME. 


Still  young  and  fine,  but  what  is  still  in  view 
We  slight  as  old  and  soil'd,  though  fresh  and  new. 
How  bright  wert  thou  when  Shem's  admiring  eye 
Thy  bumish'd  flaming  arch  did  first  descry ; 


When  Zerah,  Nahor,  Haran,  Abram,  Lot, 
The  youthful  world's  gray  fathers,  in  one  knot 
Did  with  intentive  looks  watch  every  hour 
For  thy  new  light,  and  trembled  at  each  shower ! 
When  thou  dost  shine,  darkness  looks  white  and 

fair; 
Forms  turn  to  music,  clouds  to  smiles  and  air ; 
Rain  gently  spends  his  honey-drops,  and  pours 
Balm  on  the  cleft  earth,  milk  on  grass  and  flowers. 
Bright  pledge  of  peace  and  sunshine,  the  sure  tie 
Of  thy  Lord's  hand,  the  object*  of  his  eye ! 
When  I  behold  thee,  though  my  light  be  dim, 
Distant  and  low,  I  can  in  thine  see  him. 
Who  looks  upon  thee  from  his  glorious  throne, 
And  minds  the  covenant  betwixt  all  and  One. 


THE  WREATH.    (TO  THE  REDEEMER.) 

FROM  THE  SAME. 

Since  I  in  storms  most  used  to  be, 

And  seldom  yielded  flowers, 
How  shall  I  get  a  wreath  for  thee 

From  those  rude  barren  hours  1 

The  softer  dressings  of  the  spring. 

Or  summer's  later  store, 
I  will  not  for  thy  temples  bring. 

Which  thorns,  not  roses,  wore: 

But  a  twined  wreath  of  grief  and  praise 

Praise  soil'd  with  tears,  and  tears  again 
Shining  with  joy,  like  dewy  days, 

This  day  I  bring  for  all  thy  pain, 
Thy  causeless  pain ;  and  as  sad  death, 

Which  sadness  breeds  in  the  most  vain, 
0  not  in  vain  !  now  beg  thy  breath. 
Thy  quick'ning  breath,  which  gladly  bears 

Through  saddest  clouds  to  that  glad  place 
Where  cloudless  quires  sing  without  tears, 

Sing  thy  just  praise,  and  see  thy  face. 


JOHN   DRYDEN. 


[Born,  1C31.    Died,  1700.] 


CHARACTER  OF  SHAFTESBURY. 

FROM   "  ABSALOM   A.VD  ACHITOPHEl." 

Of  these  the  false  Achitophel  was  first, 

A  name  to  all  succeeding  ages  curst : 

For  close  designs,  and  crooked  counsels  fit ; 

Sagacious,  bold,  and  turbulent  of  wit ; 

Restless,  unfix'd,  in  principles  and  place  ; 

In  power  unpleased,  impatient  of  disgrace : 

A  fiery  soul,  which  working  out  its  way. 

Fretted  the  pigmy  body  to  decay, 

And  o'er  inform'd  the  tenement  of  clay. 

A  daring  pilot  in  extremity  ;  [high, 

I'lCaspd  with  the  danger  when  the  waves  went 


He  sought  the  storms ;  but  for  a  calm  unfit. 
Would  steer  too  nigh  the  sands  to  boast  his  wit. 
Great  wits  are  sure  to  madness  near  allied, 
And  thin  partitions  do  their  bounds  divide ; 
Else  why  should  he,  with  wealth  and  honour 
Refuse  his  age  the  needful  hours  of  rest  ?  [blest, 
Punish  a  body  which  he  could  not  please ; 
Bankrupt  of  life,  yet  prodigal  of  ease  1 
And  all  to  leave  what  with  his  toil  he  won, 
To  that  unfeather'd  two-legg'd  thing,  a  son  ; 
Got  while  his  soul  did  huddled  notions  try, 
And  born  a  shapeless  lump,  like  anarchy. 

*  Gen.  ch.  ix.  ver.  16. 


JOHN   DRTDEN. 


357 


In  friendship  false,  implacable  in  hate; 

Resolved  to  ruin,  or  to  rule  the  state. 

To  compass  this  the  triple  bond  he  broke, 

The  pillars  of  the  public  safety  shook, 

And  fitted  Israel  for  a  foreign  yoke ; 

Then  sezied  with  fear,  yet  still  affecting  fame, 

Usurp'd  a  patriot's  all-atoning  name. 

So  easy  still  it  proves  in  factious  times, 

With  public  zeal  to  cancel  private  crimes. 

How  safe  is  treason,  and  how  sacred  ill. 

Where  none  can  sin  against  the  people's  will ! 

Where  crowds  can  wink,  and  no  offence  be  known. 

Since  in  another's  guilt  they  find  their  own  ! 

Yet  fame  deserved  no  enemy  can  grudge ; 

The  statesman  we  abhor,  but  praise  the  judge. 

In  Israel's  courts  ne'er  sat  an  Abethdin 

With  more  discerning  eyes,  or  hands  more  clean, 

Unbribed,  unsought,  the  wretched  to  redress ; 

Swift  of  despatch,  and  easy  of  access. 

Oh !  had  he  been  content  to  serve  ihe  crown. 

With  virtues  only  proper  to  the  gown  ; 

Or  had  the  rankness  of  the  soil  been  freed 

From  cockle,  that  oppress'd  the  noble  seed ; 

David  for  him  his  tuneful  harp  had  strung, 

And  heaven  had  wanted  one  immortal  song. 

But  wild  ambition  loves  to  slide,  not  stand. 

And  fortune's  ice  prefers  to  virtue's  land.* 

Achitophel,  grown  weary  to  possess 

A  lawful  fame,  and  lazy  happiness, 

Disdain'd  the  golden  fruit  to  gather  free, 

And  lent  the  crowd  his  arm  to  shake  the  tree. 


CHARACTER  OF  GEORGE  VILLIERS,  THE  SECOND 
DUKE  OF  BUCKINGHAM. 

FKOM  THE   SAME. 

Some  of  their  chiefs  were  princes  of  the  land ; 
In  the  first  rank  of  these  did  Zimri  stand : 
A  man  so  various,  that  he  seera'd  to  be 
Not  one,  but  all  mankind's  epitome  : 
Stiff  in  opinions,  always  in  the  wrong; 
Was  every  thing  by  starts,  and  nothing  long; 
But,  in  the  course  of  one  revolving  moon. 
Was  chemist,  fiddler,  statesman,  and  buffoon  : 
Then  all  for  women,  painting,  rhyming,  drinking. 
Besides  ten  thousand  freaks  that  died  in  thinking. 
Blest  madman,  who  could  every  hour  employ 
With  something  new  to  wish,  or  to  enjoy  ! 
Raising  and  praising  were  his  usual  themes. 
And  both  to  show  his  judgment,  in  extremes; 
So  over  violent,  or  over  civil. 
That  every  man  with  him  was  God  or  Devil. 
In  squandering  wealth  was  his  peculiar  art; 
Nothing  went  unrewarded  but  desert. 

[*  Thig  lajit  couplet  Is  borrowed  from  some  lines  under 
a  portriiit  of  the  i^ultan  Mustapha  I.,  before  KnoUes'  Ilia- 
tory  of  the  Turks: 

Grciitncsse  on  gno<lnessc  lovpg  to  slide,  not  stand. 
And  fortune's  ice  prefers  to  virtue's  land.] 

rt  The  chararter  of  Zimri  in  my  Absalom  is  in  my  opi 
nion  worth  the  whole  poem :  it  is  not  bloody,  but  it  is 
riiii'-uloug  enoui;h  :  and  he  for  whom  it  was  intended  was 
too  witty  to  regent  it  a"  nn  injury.  If  I  bail  niiled.  I 
might  have  sulTured  for  it  Justly:  but  I  mana^^ed  my  own 


Beggar'd  by  fools,  whom  still  he  found  too  late ; 
He  had  his  jest,  and  they  had  his  estate. 
He  laugh'd  himself  from  court,  then  sought  reliel 
By  forming  parties,  but  could  ne'er  be  chief; 
For  spite  of  him  the  weight  of  business  fell 
On  Absalom  and  wise  Achitophel : 
Thus,  wicked  but  in  will,  of  means  bereft, 
He  left  not  faction,  but  of  that  was  left-t 


CHARACTER  OF  DOBOj  OR  ELKANAH  SETTLE. 

FaOM  THE  SAME. 

DoEO,  though  without  knowing  how  or  why. 

Made  still  a  blundering  kind  of  melody ;      [thin, 

Spurr'd  boldly  on,  and  dash'd  through  thick  and 

Through  sense  and  nonsense,  never  out  nor  in ; 

Free  from  all  meaning,  whether  good  or  bad. 

And,  in  one  word,  heroically  mad  : 

He  was  too  warm  on  picking-work  to  dwell. 

But  fagoted  his  notions  as  they  fell. 

And  if  they  rhymed  and  rattled,  all  was  welL 

Spiteful  he  is  not,  though  he  wrote  a  satire : 

For  still  there  goes  some  thinking  to  ill  nature : 

He  needs  no  more  than  birds  and  beasts  to  think. 

All  his  occasions  are  to  eat  and  drink. 

If  he  call  rogue  and  rascal  from  a  garret. 

He  means  you  no  more  mischief  than  a  parrot : 

The  words  for  friend  and  foe  alike  were  made. 

To  fetter  them  in  verse  is  all  his  trade. 

For  almonds  he'll  cry  whore  to  his  own  mother, 

And  call  young  Absalom  king  David's  brother. 

Let  him  be  gallows-free  by  my  consent. 

And  nothing  suffer,  since  he  nothing  meant; 

Hanging  supposes  human  soul  and  reason. 

This  animal's  below  committing  treason  : 

Shall  he  be  hang  d  who  never  could  rebel ' 

That's  a  preferment  for  AchitopheL 


CHARACTER  OF  00,  OR  SHADWELL.J 

FROM  THE  SAME. 

Og  from  a  treason-tavern  rolling  home. 
Round  as  a  globe,  and  liquor'd  every  chink. 
Goodly  and  great  he  sails  behind  his  link ; 
With  all  this  bulk  there's  nothing  lost  in  Og, 
For  every  inch  that  is  not  fool  is  rogue : 
A  monstrous  mass  of  foul  corrupted  matter. 
As  all  the  devils  had  spew'd  to  make  the  batter. 
When  wine  has  given  him  courage  to  blaspheme. 
He  curses  God — but  God  before  cursed  him  ; 
And,  if  man  could  have  reason,  none  has  more. 
That  made  his  paunch  so  rich,  and  him  so  poor. 
With  wealth  he  was  not  trusted,  for  Heaven  knew 
What  'twas  of  old  to  pamper  up  a  Jew ; 

work  more  happily,  perhnps  more  dexterously.  I  avoided 
tile. mention  of  t;ro:.t  crimes,  and  applied  myself  to  the 
representing  of  blind-siles  and  little  exlrnvagancies :  to 
which  the  wiltier  a  man  is,  he  U  generally  the  more 
obnoxious.  It  8ucct«iled  as  I  wished :  the  jest  went  round, 
and  he  was  laughed  at  in  his  turn,  who  began  the  frolic. — 
Dryden.] 

[t  8hadwell  was  very  fat — "  more  fat  than  hard  bcsef  ms  ;"* 
and  hence  the  ludicrous  propriety  of  the  name.  Og  is  ttr 
Scripture  King  tliut  ruled  over  the  fat  bulls  of  Basan.1 


358 


JOHN   DRYDEN. 


To  what  would  he  on  quail  and  pheasant  swell, 
That  e'en  on  tripe  and  carrion  could  rebel  1 
But  though  Heaven  made  him  poor,  with  reve- 
rence speaking. 
He  never  was  a  poet  of  Gods  making ; 
The  midwife  laid  her  hand  on  his  thick  skull, 
With  this  prophetic  blessing — Be  thou  dull : 
Drink,  swear,  and  roar,  forbear  no  lewd  delight 
Fit  for  thy  bulk,  do  any  thing  but  write : 
Thou  art  of  lasting  make,  like  thoughtless  men, 
A  strong  nativity — but  for  the  pen ! 
Eat  opium,  mingle  arsenic  in  thy  drink, 
Still  thou  mayst  live,  avoiding  pen  and  ink. 
I  see,  I  see,  'tis  counsel  given  in  vain, 
For  treason  botch'd  in  rhyme  will  be  thy  bane ; 
Rhyme  is  the  rock  on  which  thou  art  to  wreck, 
'Tis  fatal  to  thy  fame  and  to  thy  neck : 
Why  should  thy  metre  good  king  David  blast  1 
A  psalm  of  his  will  surely  be  thy  last. 


ODE  TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  MRS.  ANNE 
KILLIGREW* 

Thou  youngest  virgin-daughter  of  the  skies. 
Made  in  the  last  promotion  of  the  blest ; 
Whose  palms,  new  pluck'd  from  paradise. 
In  spreading  branches  more  sublimely  rise. 
Rich  with  immortal  green,  above  the  rest : 
Whether,  adopted  to  some  neighbouring  star 
Thou  roll'st  above  us,  in  thy  wand'ring  race, 

Or,  in  procession  fix'd  and  regular, 

Movst  with  the  heaven's  majestic  pace ; 

Or,  call'd  to  more  superior  bliss. 
Thou  treadst,  with  seraphims,  the  vast  abyss: 
Whatever  happy  region  is  thy  place, 
Cease  thy  celestial  song  a  little  space ; 
Thou  wilt  have  time  enough  for  hymns  divine. 

Since  heaven's  eternal  year  is  thine. 
Hear  then  a  mortal  Muse  thy  praise  rehearse. 

In  no  ignoble  verse ; 
But  such  as  thy  own  voice  did  practise  here. 
When  thy  first  fruits  of  poesy  were  given  ; 
To  make  thyself  a  welcome  inmate  there : 
While  yet  a  young  probationer, 
And  candidate  of  heaven. 

If  by  traduction  came  thy  mind. 

Our  wonder  is  the  less  to  find 
A  soul  so  charming  from  a  stock  so  good; 
Thy  father  was  transfused  into  thy  blood : 
So  wert  thou  born  into  a  tuneful  strain. 
An  early,  rich,  and  inexhausted  vein. 

But  if  thy  pre-existing  soul 

Was  form'd,  at  first,  with  myriads  more. 
It  did  through  all  the  mighty  poets  roll. 

Who  Greek  or  Latin  laurels  wore,         [before. 
And  was  that  Sappho  last,  which  once  it  was 

If  so, then  ceasethy  flight,  0  heaven-born  mind! 

Thou  hast  no  dross  to  purge  from  thy  rich  ore: 


J*  'When  Drvden  wrote,  the  word  Misf  wao  applied  to 
ie"  of  loose  character:  at  a  lat<!r  time  Sir  Joshua  Key- 
nuldn's  ci.-ter.  thouirh  uiiiUMrrie<l,  wac  Mrs.  Ileynolds:  aiid 
"arnell's  virgin-bride  is  called,  by  Or.  Johnson,  Mrs.  Anne 
tUncbin.J 


Nor  can  thy  soul  a  fairer  mansion  find. 

Than  was  the  beauteous  frame  she  left  behind  ! 
Return  to  fill  ormend  thechoirof  thy  celestial  kind. 
*  *  *  * 

O  gracious  God !  how  far  have  we 
Profaned  thy  heavenly  gift  of  pr/esy  ? 
Made  prostitute  and  profligate  tne  Muse, 
Debased  to  each  obscene  and  impious  use, 
Whose  harmony  was  first  ordain'd  above 
For  tongues  of  angels,  and  for  hymns  of  love  1 
0  wretched  we  !  why  were  we  hurried  down 

This  lubrique  and  adulterate  age, 
(Nay,  added  fat  pollutions  of  our  own) 

T'  increase  the  streaming  ordures  of  the  stage  If 
What  can  we  say  t'  excuse  our  second  fall  1 
Let  this  thy  vestal,  Heaven,  atone  for  all : 
Her  Arethusian  stream  remains  unsoil'd. 
Unmix 'd  with  foreign  filth,  and  undefiled ; 
Her  wit  was  more  than  man,  her  innocence  a  child. 

*  *  *  » 

When  in  mid-air  the  golden  trump  shall  sound, 

To  raise  the  nations  under  ground ; 

When  in  the  valley  of  Jehoshaphat, 
The  judging  God  shall  close  the  book  of  fate ; 

And  there  the  last  assizes  keep, 

For  those  who  wake,  and  those  who  sleep : 
The  sacred  poets  first  shall  hear  the  sound. 

And  foremost  from  the  tomb  shall  bound. 
For  they  are  cover'd  with  the  lightest  ground ; 
And  straight,  with  in-born  vigour,  on  the  wing. 
Like  mounting  larks,  to  the  new  morning  sing. 
There  thou,  sweet  Saint,  before  the  quire  shall  go, 
As  harbinger  of  heaven,  the  way  to  show. 
The  way  which  thou  so  well  hast  learnt  below. 


DESCRIPTION  OP  LYCTJRGUS  KING  OF  THRACE, 
AND  OF  EMETRIUS  KING  OF  INDE. 

FROM  THE  FABLE  OP  "  PALAMOS  AND  ARCTTE." 

A  HUNDRED  knights  with  Palamon  there  came, 
Approved  in  fight,  and  men  of  mighty  name; 
Their  arms  were  several,  as  their  nations  were, 
But  furnish'd  all  alike  with  sword  and  spear. 
Some  wore  coat  armour,  imitating  scale ; 
And  next  their  skins  were  stubborn  shirts  of  mail. 
Some  wore  a  breast-plate  and  a  light  juppon. 
Their  horses  clothed  with  rich  caparison : 
Some  for  defence  would  leathern  bucklers  use, 
Of  folded  hides ;  and  other  shields  of  pruce. 
One  hung  a  pole-axe  at  his  saddle-bow. 
And  one  a  heavy  mace  to  shun  the  foe ; 
One  for  his  legs  and  knees  provided  well. 
With  janibeux  arm'd,  and  double  plates  of  steel 
This  on  his  helmet  wore  a  lady's  glove. 
And  that  a  sleeve  embroider'd  by  his  love. 
With  Palamon  above  the  rest  in  place, 
Lycurgus  came,  the  surly  king  of  Thrace  ; 
Black  was  his  beard,  and  manly  was  his  face ; 


[t "  T  know  not,"  says  Southey  in  his  Life  of  Cow- 
per.  "thnt  Dryden  ever  regarded  the  licentiousness  of  his 
Drnmntic  Works  as  a  sin  to  be  repented  of."  This  beautiful 
pa.'8a?e.  which  was  written  before  Collier  exi'Osed  the 
obscenities  of  the  stage,  has  been  unnoticed  by  the  poet's 
bio^aphers ;  be  expre!^8e8  his  regret  too  fervently  tc  be 
insincere.! 


JOHN  DRYDEN. 


859 


The  balls  of  his  broad  eyes  roU'd  in  his  head. 

And  glared  betwixt  a  yellow  and  a  red ; 

He  look'd  a  lion,  with  a  gloomy  stare, 

And  o'er  his  eye-brows  hung  his  matted  hair : 

Big-boned,  and  large  of  limbs,  with  sinews  strong, 

Broad-shoulder'd,  and  his  arms  were  round  and 

long. 
Four  milk-white  bulls  (the  Thracian  use  of  old) 
Were  yoked  to  draw  his  car  of  burnish'd  gold. 
Upright  he  stood,  and  bore  aloft  his  shield,  . 

Conspicuous  from  afar,  and  overlook'd  the  field. 
His  surcoat  was  a  bear-skin  on  his  back ; 
His  hair  hung  long  behind,  and  glossy  raven  black. 
His  ample  forehead  bore  a  coronet 
With  sparkling  diamonds,  and  with  rubies  set : 
Ten  brace,  and  more,  of  greyhounds,  snowy  fair, 
And  tall  as  stags,  ran  loose,  and  coursed  around 

his  chair,  [bear; 

A  match  for  pards  in  flight,  in  grappling  for  the 
With  golden  muzzles  all  their  mouths  were  bound, 
And  collars  of  the  same  their  necks  surround. 
Thus  through  the  fields  Lycurgus  took  his  way ; 
His  hundred  knights  attend  in  pomp  and  proud 

array. 
To  match  this  monarch,  with  strong  Arcite  came 
Emetrius  king  of  Inde,  a  mighty  name, 
On  a  bay  courser,  goodly  to  behold,  [gold. 

The  trappings  of  his  horse  adorn'd  with  barbarous 
Not  Mars  bestrode  a  steed  with  greater  grace ; 
His  surcoat  o'er  his  arms  was  cloth  of  Thrace, 
Adorn'd  with  pearls,  all  orient,  round,  and  great; 
His  saddle  was  of  gold,  with  emerald  set. 
His  shoulders  large  a  mantle  did  attire, 
With  rubies  thick,  and  sparkling  as  the  fire: 
His  amber-colour'd  locks  in  ringlets  run,      [sun  : 
With  graceful  negligence,  and  shone  against  the 
His  nose  was  aquiline,  his  eyes  were  blue. 
Ruddy  his  lips,  and  fresh  and  fair  bis  hue ; 
Some  sprinkled  freckles  on  his  face  were  seen, 
Whose  dusk  set  off  the  whiteness  of  the  skin  : 
His  awful  presence  did  the  crowd  surprise, 
Nor  durst  the  rash  spectator  meet  his  eyes. 
Eyes  that  confess'd  him  born  for  kingly  sway. 
So  fierce,  they  flash'd  intolerable  day. 
His  age  in  nature's  youthful  prime  appear'd, 
And  just  began  to  bloom  his  yellow  beard, 
Whene'er  he  spoke,  his  voice  was  heard  around, 
Loud  as  a  trumpet,  with  a  silver  sound. 
A  laurel  wreathed  his  temples,  fresh  and  green ; 
And  myrtle  sprigs,  the  marks  of  love,  were  mix'd 

between. 
Upon  his  fist  he  bore,  for  his  delight, 
An  eagle  well  reclaiin'd,  and  lily-white. 

His  hundred  knights  attend  him  to  the  war, 
All  arm'd  for  battle;  save  their  heads  were  bare. 
Words  and  devices  blazed  on  every  shield, 
And  pleasing  was  the  terror  of  the  field. 
For  kings,  and  dukes,  and  barons,  you  might  see, 
Like  sparkling  stars,  though  different  in  degree, 
All  for  th'  increase  of  arms,  and  love  of  chivaJry. 
Before  the  king  tame  leopards  led  the  way, 
And  troops  of  lions  innocently  play. 
80  Bacchus  through  the  conquer'd  Indies  rode, 
And  beasts  in  gambols  frisk'd  before  the  honest 

god. 


PRBPARATIONS  FOR  THE   TOCRNAMENT.    IN 
"  HALAMON  AND  ARCITE." 

In  Athens  all  was  pleasure,  mirth  and  play, 
All  proper  to  the  spring,  and  sprightly  May  ; 
Which  every  soul  inspired  with  such  delight, 
'Twas  jesting  all  the  day,  and  love  at  night. 
Heaven  smiled,  and  gladded  was  the  heart  of  man ; 
And  Venus  had  the  world  as  when  it  first  began. 
At  length  in  sleep  their  bodies  they  compose, 
And  dreamt  the  future  fight,  and  early  rose. 

Now  scarce  the  dawning  day  began  to  spring, 
As  at  a  signal  given,  the  streets  with  clamours 

ring: 
At  once  the  crowd  arose ;  confused  and  high 
Even  from  the  heaven  was  heard  a  shouting  cry. 
For  Mars  was  early  up,  and  roused  the  sky. 
The  gods  came  downward  to  behold  the  wars, 
Sharpening  their  sights,  and  leaning  from  their 

stars. 
The  neighing  of  the  generous  horse  was  heard, 
For  battle  by  the  busy  groom  prepared, 
Rustling  of  harness,  rattling  of  the  shield, 
Clattering  of  armour,  furbish'd  for  the  field, 
Crowds  to  the  castle  mounted  up  the  street. 
Battering  the  pavement  with  their  coursers'  feet" 
The  greedy  sight  might  there  devour  the  gold 
Of  glittering  arms,  too  dazzling  to  behold; 
And  polish'd  steel  that  cast  the  view  aside, 
And  crested  morions,  with  their  plumy  pride. 
Knights,  with  a  long  retinue  of  their  squires, 
In  gaudy  liveries  march,  and  quaint  attires. 
One  laced  the  helm,  another  held  the  lance, 
A  third  the  shining  buckler  did  advance; 
The  courser  paw'd  the  ground  with  restless  feet. 
And  snorting  foam'd,  and  champ'd  the  golden  bit. 
The  smiths  and  armourers  on  palfreys  ride, 
Files  in  their  hands,  and  hammers  at  their  side, 
And  nails  forloosen'dspears,andthong8forshields 

provide. 
The  yeomen  guard  the  streets,  in  seemly  bands: 
And  clowns  come  crowding  on  with  cudgels  in 

their  hands. 
The  trumpets,  next  the  gate,  in  order  placed, 
Attend  the  sign  to  sound  the  martial  blast ; 
The  palace-yard  is  fill'd  with  floating  tides. 
And  the  last  comers  bear  the  former  to  the  sides. 
The  throng  is  in  the  midst:  the  common  crew 
Shut  out,  the  hall  adraite  the  better  few ; 
In  knots  they  stand,  or  in  a  rank  they  walk, 
Serious  in  aspect,  earnest  in  their  talk : 
Factious,  and  favouring  this  or  t'  other  side. 
As  their  8t,rong  fancy  or  weak  reason  guide : 
Their  wagers  back  their  wishes ;  numbers  hold 
With  the  fair  freckled  king,  and  beard  of  gold, 
So  vigorous  are  his  eyes,  such  rays  they  cast. 
So  prominent  his  eagle's  beak  is  placed. 
But  most  their  looks  on  the  black  monarch  bend. 
His  rising  muscles  and  his  brawn  commend ; 
His  double-biting  axe  and  beamy  spear, 
Each  asking  a  gigantic  force  to  rear. 
Ail  spoke  as  partial  favour  moved  the  mind ; 
And,  safe  themselves,  at  other's  cost  divined. 

Waked  by  the  cries,  th'  Athenian  chief  arose, 
The  knightly  forms  of  combat  to  dispose ; 


860 


JOHN   DRYDEN. 


/  nd  passing  through  th' obsequious  guards,  he  sate 
(Jonspicuous  on  a  throne,  sublime  in  state ; 
There,  for  the  two  contending  knighu  he  sent ; 
Arm'd  cap-a-pee,  with  reverence  low  they  bent. 
He  smiled  on  both,  and  with  superior  look 
Alike  their  offered  adoration  took. 
The  people  press  on  every  side,  to  see 
Their  awful  prince,  and  hear  his  high  decree. 
Then  signing  to  their  heralds  with  his  hand, 
They  gave  his  orders  from  their  lofty  stand. 
Silence  is  thrice  enjoin'd ;  then  thus  aloud 
The  king    at   arms   bespeaks  the  knights  and 
listening  crowd. 
Our  sovereign  lord  has  ponder'd  in  his  mind 
The  means  to  spare  the  blood  of  gentle  kind ; 
And  of  his  grace,  and  inborn  clemency, 
He  modifies  his  first  severe  decree  ! 
The  keener  edge  of  battle  to  rebate, 
The  troops  for  honour  fighting,  not  for  hate. 
He  wills  not  death  should  terminate  their  strife ; 
And  wounds,  if  wounds  ensue,  be  short  of  life ; 
But  issues,  ere  the  fight  his  dread  command. 
That  slings  afar,  and  poniards  hand  to  hand. 
Be  banish'd  from  the  field ;  that  none  shall  dare 
With  shorten'd  sword  to  stab  in  closer  war ; 
But  in  fair  combat  fight  with  manly  strength. 
Nor  push  with  biting  point,  but  strike  at  length. 
The  tourney  is  allow'd  but  one  career. 
Of  the  tough  ash,  with'  the  sharp-grinded  spear, 
But  knights  unhorsed  may  rise  from  off  the  plain, 
And  tight  on  foot  their  honour  to  regain  ; 
Nor,  if  at  mischief  taken,  on  the  ground 
Be  slain,  but  prisoners  to  the  pillar  bound. 
At  either  barrier  placed  ;  (nor  captives  made) 
Be  freed,  or  arm'd  anew  the  fight  invade. 
The  chief  of  either  side,  berefl  of  life. 
Or  yielded  to  his  foe,  concludes  the  strife. 
Thus  dooms  the  lord :  now  valiant  knights  and 

young 
Fight  each  his  fill  with  swords  and  maces  long. 

The  herald  ends ;  the  vaulted  firmament 
With  loud  acclaims  and  vast  applause  is  rent : 
Heaven  guard  a  prince  so  gracious  and  so  good. 
So  just,  and  yet  so  provident  of  blood  ! 
This  was  the  general  cry.     The  trumpets  sound, 
And  warlike  symphony  is  heard  around. 
The  marching  troops  through  Athens  take  their 

way, 
The  great  earl-marshal  orders  their  array. 
The  fair  from  high  the  passing  pomp  behold ; 
A  rain  of  flowers  is  from  the  windows  roU'd, 
The  casements  are  with  golden  tissue  spread. 
And  horses'  hoofs,  for  earth,  on  silken  tapestry 

tread; 
The  king  goes  midmost,  and  the  rivals  ride 
In  equal  rank,  and  close  his  either  side ; 
Next  after  these  there  rode  the  royal  wife. 
With  Emily,  the  cause  and  the  reward  of  strife. 
The  following  cavalcade,  by  three  and  three. 
Proceed  by  titles  marshall'd  in  degree.  [^ay. 

Thus  through  the  southern  gate  they  take  their 
,\nd  at  the  list  arrive  ere  prime  of  day. 
There,  parting  from  the  king,  the  chiefs  divide. 
And  wheehng  east  and  west,  before  their  many 
ride. 


Th'  Athenian  monarch  mounts  his  throne  on  high, 
And  afler  him  the  queen  and  Emily : 
Next  these  the  kindred  of  the  crown  are  graced 
With  nearer  seats,  and  lords  by  ladies  placed. 
Scarce  were  they  seated,  when  with  clamours 

loud 
In  rush'd  at  once  a  rude  promiscuous  crowd  ; 
The  guards  and  them  each  other  overbear. 
And  in  a  moment  throng  the  spacious  theatre, 
Now  changed  the  jarring  noise  to  whispers  low, 
And  winds  forsaking  seas  more  softly  blow ; 
When  at  the  western  gate,  on  which  the  car 
Is  placed  aloft,  that  bears  the  god  of  war. 
Proud  Arcite  entering  arm'd  before  his  train. 
Stops  at  the  barrier,  and  divides  the  plain. 
Red  was  his  banner,  and  display'd  abroad 
The  bloody  colours  of  his  patron  God. 
At  that  self-moment  enters  Palamon 
The  gate  of  Venus,  and  the  rising  sun ; 
Waved  by  the  wanton  winds,  his  banner  flies 
All  maiden  white,  and  shares  the  people's  eyes. 
From  east  to  west,  look  all  the  world  around. 
Two  troops  so  match'd  were  never  to  be  found : 
Such  bodies  built  for  strength,  of  equal  age, 
In  stature  fix'd :  so  proud  an  equipage : 
The  nicest  eye  could  no  distinction  make. 
Where  lay  th'  advantage,  or  what  side  to  take. 


mOM  "CTMON  AND  IPHIGEJJIA." 

In  that  sweet  isle  where  Venus  keeps  her  court, 
And  every  Grace,  and  all  the  Loves,  resort; 
Where  either  sex  is  form'd  of  softer  earth. 
And  takes  the  bent  of  pleasure  from  their  birth ; 
There  lived  a  Cyprian  lord,  above  the  rest 
Wise,  wealthy,  with  a  numerous  issue  bless'd ; 
But  as  no  gift  of  fortune  is  sincere, 
Was  only  wanting  in  a  worthy  heir ; 
His  eldest  born,  a  goodly  youth  to  view, 
Excell'd  the  rest  in  shape  and  outward  show. 
Fair,  tall,  his  limbs  with  due  proportion  join'd. 
But  of  a  heavy,  dull,  degenerate  mind. 
His  soul  belied  the  features  of  his  face ; 
Beauty  was  there,  but  beauty  in  disgrace. 
A  clownish  mien,  a  voice  with  rustic  sound, 
And  stupid  eyes  that  ever  loved  the  ground. 
He  look'd  like  nature's  error,  as  the  mind 
And  body  were  not  of  a  piece  design'd. 
But  made  for  two,  and  by  mistake  in  one  were 
joined. 

The  ruling  rod,  the  father's  forming  care, 
Were  exercised  in  vain  on  wit's  despair ; 
The  more  inform'd  the  less  he  understood. 
And  deej>er  sunk  by  floundering  in  the  mud. 
Now  scorn'd  of  all,  and  grown  the  public  shame. 
The  people  from  Galesus  changed  his  name. 
And  Cymon  call'd,  which  signifies  a  brute. 
So  well  his  name  did  with  his  nature  suit. 

His  father,  when  he  found  his  labour  lost. 
And  care  employ'd  that  answer'd  not  the  cost. 
Chose  an  ungrateful  object  to  remove. 
And  loathed  to  see  what  nature  made  him  love ; 
So  to  his  country  farm  the  fool  confined ; 
Rude  work  well  suited  with  a  rustic  mind. 


JOHN   DRYDEN. 


861 


Thus  to  the  wilds  the  sturdy  Cymon  went, 

A  squire   among  the  swains,  and  pleased  with 

banishment. 
His  corn  and  cattle  were  his  only  care, 
And  his  supreme  delight,  a  country  fair. 

It  happen'd  on  a  summer's  holiday, 
That  to  the  green-wood  shade  he  took  his  way ; 
For  Cymon  shunn'd  the  church,  and  used  not 

much  to  pray. 
His  quarter-staff,  which  he  could  ne'er  forsake, 
Hung  half  before,  and  half  behind  his  back. 
He  trudged  along,  unknowing  what  he  sought, 
And  whistled  as  he  went  for  want  of  thought. 

By  chance  conducted,  or  by  thirst  constrain'd, 
The  deep  recesses  of  the  grove  he  gain'd; 
Where,  in  a  plain  defended  by  the  wood. 
Crept  through  the  matted  grass  a  crystal  flood, 
By  which  an  alabaster  fountain  stood; 
And  on  the  margin  of  the  fount  was  laid 
(Attended  by  her  slaves)  a  sleepuig  maid. 
Like  Dian  and  her  nymphs,  when  tired  with  sport, 
To  rest  by  cool  Eurotas  they  resort : 
The  dame  herself  the  goddess  well  express'd. 
Not  more  distinghish'd  by  her  purple  vest. 
Than  by  the  charming  features  of  her  face. 
And  ev'n  in  slumber  a  superior  grace : 
Her  comely  limbs  composed  with  decent  care, 
Her  body  shaded  with  a  slight  cymar ; 
Her  bosom  to  the  view  was  only  bare. 
Where  two  beginning  paps  were  scarcely  spied, 
For  yet  their  places  were  but  signified. 
The  fanning  wind  upon  her  bosom  blows, 
To  meet  the  fanning  wind  the  bosom  rose ; 
The  fanning  wind,  and  purling  streams,  continue 

her  repose. 
The  fool  of  nature  stood  with  stupid  eyes. 
And  gaping  mouth,  that  testified  surprise, 
Fix'd  on  her  face,  nor  could  remove  his  sight, 
New  as  he  was  to  love,  and  novice  to  delight : 
Long  mute  he  stood,  and  leaning  on  his  staff. 
His  wonder  witness'd  with  an  idiot  laugh ; 
Then  would  have  spoke,  but  by  his  glimmering  sense 
First  found  his  want  of  words,  and  fear'd  offence : 
Doubted  for  what  he  was  he  should  be  known, 
By  his  clown  accent,  and  his  country  tone. 
Through  the  rude  chaos  thus  the  running  light 
Shot  the  first  ray  that  pierced  the  native  night ; 
Then  day  and  darkness  in  the  mass  were  mix'd. 
Till  gather'd  in  a  globe  the  beams  were  fix'd. 
Iiast  shone  the  sun,  who,  radiant  in  his  sphere. 
Illumined  heaven  and  earth,  and  roll'd  around 

the  year. 
So  reason  in  his  brutal  soul  began. 
Love  made  him  first  suspect  he  was  a  man ; 
Love  made  him  doubt  his  broad  barbarian  sound ; 
By  love  his  want  of  words  and  wit  he  found; 
That  sense  of  want  prepared  the  future  way 
To  knowledge,  and  disclosed  the  promise  of  a  day. 


FROM  "THE  FLOWER  AND  THE  LEAF." 
Attending  long  in  vain,  I  took  the  way. 
Which  through  a  path  but  scarcely  printed  lay ; 
In  narrow  mazes  oil  it  seem'd  to  meet, 
And  look'd  as  lightly  press'd  by  fairy  feet. 
4a 


Wandering  I  walk'd  alone,  for  still  methought 
To  some  strange   end    so  strange  a  path  wan 

wrought : 
At  last  it  led  me  where  an  arbour  stood, 
The  sacred  receptacle  of  the  wood: 
This  place  unmark'd,  though  oft  I  walk'd  the 

green. 
In  all  my  progress  I  had  never  seen ; 
And,  seized  at  once  with  wonder  and  delight. 
Gazed  all  around   me,  new  to  the   transporting 

sight. 
'Twas  bench'd  with  turf,  and  goodly  to  be  seen 
The  thick  young  grass  arose  in  fresher  green : 
The  mound  was  newly  made,  no  sight  could  pas* 
Betwdxt  the  nice  partitions  of  the  grass. 
The  well-united  sods  so  closely  lav. 
And  all  around  the  shades  defended  it  from  day ; 
For  sycamores  with  eglantine  were  spread, 
A  hedge  about  the  sides,  a  covering  over  head. 
And  so  the  fragrant  brier  was  wove  between. 
The  sycamore  and  flowers  were  mix'd  with  green. 
That  nature  seem'd  to  vary  the  delight. 
And  satisfied  at  once  the  smell  and  sight. 
The  master  workman  of  the  bower  was  known 
Through  fairy  lands,  and  built  for  Oberon  ; 
Who  twining  leaves  with  such  proportion  drew. 
They  rose  by  measure,  and  by  rule  they  grew ; 
No  mortal  tongue  can  half  the  beauty  tell, 
For  none  but  hands  divine  could  work  so  welL 
Both  roof  and  sides  were  Uke  a  parlour  made, 
A  soft  recess,  and  a  cool  summer  shade ; 
The  hedge  was  set  so  thick,  no  foreign  eye 
The  persons  placed  within  it  could  espy ; 
But  all  that  pass'd  without  with  ease  was  seen, 
As  if  nor  fence  nor  tree  was  placed  between. 
'Twas  border'd  with  a  field ;  and  some  was  plain 
With  grass,  and  some  was  sovi^d  with  rising  grain, 
That  (now   the  dew  with  spangles  deck'd  the 

ground) 
A  sweeter  spot  of  earth  was  never  found. 
I  look'd  and  look'd,  and  still  with  new  delight. 
Such  joy  my  soul,  such  pleasures  fiU'd  my  sight; 
And  the  fresh  eglantine  exhaled  a  breath. 
Whose  odours  were  of  power  to  raise  from  death. 
Nor  sullen  discontent,  nor  anxious  care, 
Ev'n  though  brought  thither,  could  inhabit  there; 
But  thence  they  fled  as  from  their  mortal  foe. 
For  this  sweet  place  could  only  pleasure  know. 

Thus  as  I  mused,  I  cast  aside  my  eye, 
And  saw  a  medlar-tree  was  planted  nigh; 
The  spreading  branches  made  a  goodly  show, 
And  f\ili  of  opening  blooms  was  every  bough : 
A  goldfinch  there  I  saw  with  gaudy  pride 
Of  painted  plumes,  that  hopp'd  from  side  to  side. 
Still  pecking  as  she  pass'd,  and  still  she  drew 
The  sweets  from   every  flower,  and  suck'd  the 

dew ; 
Sufficed  at  length,  she  warbled  in  her  throat. 
And  tuned  her  voice  to  many  a  merry  note. 
But  indistinct,  and  neither  sweet  nor  clear. 
Yet  such  as  sooth'd  my  soul,  and  pleased  my  ear 

Her  short  performance  was  no  sooner  tried, 
When  she  I  sought,  the  nightingale,  replied: 
So  sweet,  so  shrill,  so  variously  she  sung. 
That  the  grove  echoed,  and  the  valleys  rung ; 
2V 


862 


JOHN   DRYDEN. 


And  I  so  ravish'd  with  her  heavenly  note, 

I  stood  intranced,  and  had  no  room  for  thought, 

]3ut,  all  o'er-power'd  with  ecstasy  of  bliss, 

Was  in  a  pleasing  dream  of  paradise. 

At  length  I  waked,  and,  looking  round  the  bower, 

Search'd  every  tree,  and  pried  on  every  flower. 

If  anywhere  by  chance  I  might  espy 

The  rural  poet  of  the  melody. 

For  still  methought  she  sung  not  far  away  ; 

At  last  I  found  her  on  a  laurel  spray. 

Close  by  my  side  she  sat,  and  fair  in  sight. 

Full  in  a  line  against  her  opposite ; 

Where  stood  with  eglantine  the  laurel  twined. 

And  both  their  native  sweets  were  well  conjoin'd. 

On  the  green  bank  I  sat,  and  listen'd  long, 
(Sitting  was  more  convenient  for  the  song) 
Nor  till  her  lay  was  ended  could  I  move. 
But  wish'd  to  dwell  for  ever  in  the  grove  ; 
Only  methought  the  time  too  swiftly  pass'd, 
And  every  note  I  fear'd  would  be  the  last. 
My  sight,  and  smell,  and  hearing,  were  employ'd, 
And  all  three  senses  in  full  gust  enjoy'd; 
And  what  alone  did  all  the  rest  surpass. 
The  sweet  possession  of  the  fairy  place : 
Single,  and  conscious  to  myself  alone 
Of  pleasures  to  the  excluded  world  unknown; 
Pleasures  which  nowhere  else  were  to  be  found, 
And  all  Elysium  in  a  spot  of  ground. 

Thus  while  I  sat  intent  to  see  and  hear, 
And  drew  perfumes  of  more  than  vital  air. 
All  suddenly  I  heard  th'  approaching  sound 
Of  vocal  music,  on  the  enchanted  ground ; 
An  host  of  saints  it  seem'd,  so  full  the  quire, 
As  if  the  bless'd  above  did  all  conspire 
To  join  their  voices,  and  neglect  the  lyre. 
At  length  there  issued  from  the  grove  behind 
A  fair  assembly  offthe  female  kind ; 
A  train  less  fair,  as  ancient  fathers  tell, 
Seduced  the  sons  of  heaven  to  rebel. 
I  pass  their  form,  and  every  charming  grace, 
Less  than  an  angel  would  their  worth  debase; 
But  their  attire,  like  liveries  of  a  kind 
All  rich  and  rare,  is  fresh  within  my  mind : 
In  velvet  white  as  snow  the  troop  was  gown'd, 
The  seams  with  sparkling  emeralds  set  around; 
Their  hoods  and  sleeves  the  same,  and  purfled  o'er 
With  diamonds,  pearls,  and  ail  the  shining  store 
Of  eastern  pomp;  their  long  descending  train. 
With  rubies  edged,  and  sapphires,  swept   the 

plain ; 
High  on  their  heads,  with  jewels  richly  set, 
Each  lady  wore  a  radiant  coronet. 
Beneath  the  circles,  all  the  quire  was  graced 
With   chaplets   green   on   their   fair   foreheads 
placed; 


Of  laurel  some,  of  woodbine  many  more, 
And  wreaths  of  Agnus  castus  others  bore: 
These  last,  who  with  those  virgin  crowns  were 

dress'd, 
Appear'd  in  higher  honour  than  the  rest. 
They  danced  around;  but  in  the  midst  was  seen 
A  lady  of  a  more  majestic  mien. 
By  stature  and  by  beauty  mark'd  their  sovereign 

queen. 
She  in  the  midst  began  with  sober  grace ; 
Her  servants'  eyes  were  fix'd  upon  her  face. 
And,  as  she  moved  or  turn'd,  her  motions  view'd, 
Her  measures  kept,  and  step  by  step  pursued. 
Methought  she    trod   the   ground  with  greatei 

grace. 
With  more  of  godhead  shining  in  her  face; 
And  as  in  beauty  she  surpass'd  the  quire, 
So,  nobler  than  the  rest,  was  her  attire. 
A  crown  of  ruddy  gold  inclosed  her  brow. 
Plain  without  pomp,  and  rich  without  a  show; 
A  branch  of  Agnus  castus  in  her  hand 
She  bore  aloft  (her  sceptre  of  command :) 
Admired,  adored  by  all  the  circling  crowd, 
For  wheresoe'er  she  turn'd  her  face,  they  bow'd: 
And  as  she  danced,  a  roundelay  she  sung, 
In  honour  of  the  laurel,  ever  young : 
She  raised  her  voice  on  high,  and  sung  so  clear. 
The  fawns  came  scudding  from  the  groves  to 

hear: 
And  all  the  bending  forest  lent  an  ear. 
At  every  close  she  made,  th'  attending  throng 
Replied,  and  bore  the  burden  of  the  song: 
So  just,  so  small,  yet  in  so  sweet  a  note, 
It  seem'd  the  music  melted  in  the  throat. 

Thus  dancing  on,  and  singing  as  they  danced, 
They  to  the  middle  of  the  mead  advanced, 
Till  round  my  arbour  a  new  ring  they  made. 
And  footed  it  about  the  secret  shade. 
O'erjoy'd  to  see  the  jolly  troop  so  near. 
But  somewhat  awed,  I  shook  with  holy  fear; 
Yet  not  so  much,  but  that  I  noted  well 
Who  did  the  most  in  song  or  dance  excel. 


UPON  THE  EARL  OP  DUNDEE. 

FKOM   THE   LATIN   OF   DR.  PITCAHIN. 

O  LAST  and  best  of  Scots !  who  didst  maintain 
Thy  country's  freedom  from  a  foreign  reign  ; 
New  people  fill  the  land  now  thou  art  gone. 
New  gods  the  temples,  and  new  kings  the  throne. 
Scotland  and  thee  did  each  in  other  live; 
Nor  wouldst  thou  her,  nor  could  she  thee,  suwive. 
Farewell,  who  dying  didst  support  the  stale, 
And  couldst  not  fall  but  with  thy  country's  fate. 


SIR  CHARLES   SEDLEY. 


[Bora,  1839.    Diad,  1701.] 


Sir  Charles  Sedlet  in  his  riper  years  made 
some  atonement  for  the  disgraces  of  a  licentious 
youth,  by  his  political  conduct  in  opposing  the 
arbitrary  measures  of  James,  and  promoting  the 
Revolution.  King  James  had  seduced  his 
daughter,  and  made  her  Countess  of  Dorchester. 
"For  making  my  daughter  a  countess,"  said 
Sedley,  "  I  have  helped  to  make  his  daughter  a 


queen."  When  his  comedy  of  Bellamira  was 
played,  the  roof  fell  in,  and  he  was  one  of  the 
very  few  that  were  hurt  by  the  accident.  A 
flatterer  told  him  that  the  fire  of  the  play  had 
blown  up  the  poet,  house,  and  all.  "  No,"  he 
replied,  "the  play  was  so  heavy  that  it  broke 
down  the  house,  and  buried  the  poet  in  his  own 
rubbish." 


SONG  IN  "BELLAMIRA,  OR  THE  MSTRESS.' 
Thyrsis,  unjustly  you  complain, 

And  tax  my  tender  heart 
With  want  of  pity  for  your  pain. 
Or  sense  of  your  desert. 

By  secret  and  mysterious  springs, 

Alas!  our  passions  move  ; 
We  women  are  fantastic  things. 

That  like  before  we  love. 

You  may  be  handsome  and  have  wit, 

Be  secret  and  well  bred  : 
The  person  love  must  to  us  fit. 
He  only  can  succeed. 

Some  die,  yet  never  are  believed ;. 

Others  we  trust  too  soon, 
Helping  ourselves  to  be  deceived. 

And  proud  to  be  undone. 


TO  A  VERY  YOUNG  LADY. 

Ah  Chloris !  that  I  now  could  sit 

As  unconcern'd,  as  when 
Your  infant  beauty  could  beget 

No  pleasure,  nor  no  pain. 

When  I  the  dawn  used  to  admire. 
And  praised  the  coming  day  ; 

I  little  thought  the  growing  fire 
Must  take  my  rest  away. 

Your  charms  in  harmless  childhood  lay. 

Like  metals  in  the  mine. 
Age  from  no  face  took  more  away, 

Than  youth  conceal'd  in  thine. 


[*  From  "  the  Mulberry  Garden,  a  oomody  written  by 
the  Hunounible  Sir  Charles  Sedloy."  4to,  16ti8.  Tills  fotig 
is  commonly  printed  a«  tlie  produrtion  of  "the  Right 
Honournble  Duncan  Porben,  Lord  I'rosiilent  of  the  Court 
of  .■Session,"  and  is  said  to  have  been  couipooed  in  1710. 
See  .MotherweH'g  Ancient  MinstreiBv.  p.  CA:  and  another 
Editor  of  Dili  Smirs  has  8!iid  that  llicse  "tender  and  p»- 
tlunic  stanzas  were  aildres-id  to  Miss  Mary  Rose,  the  ele- 
gant and  accofflplisbed  daugliter  of  Hugh  Rose,  Esq.  of 


But  as  your  charms  insensibly 
To  their  perfection  prest, 

Fond  Love,  as  unperceived  did  fly, 
And  in  my  bosom  rest. 

My  passion  with  your  beauty  grew. 

And  Cupid  at  my  heart, 
Still  as  his  mother  favour'd  you, 

Threw  a  new  flaming  dart 

Each  gloried  in  their  wanton  part, 

To  make  a  lover,  he 
Employ'd  the  utmost  of  his  art, 

To  make  a  Beauty,  she. 

Though  now  1  slowly  bend  to  love 

Uncertain  of  my  fate. 
If  your  fair  self  my  chains  approve 

I  shall  my  freedom  hate. 

Lovers,  like  dying  men,  may  well 

At  first  disorder'd  be. 
Since  none  alive  can  truly  tell 

What  fortune  they  must  see.* 


song: 


Love  still  has  something  of  the  sea. 
From  whence  his  mother  rose ; 

No  time  his  slaves  from  doubt  can  free, 
Nor  give  their  thoughts  repose. 

They  are  becalm'd  in  clearest  days. 
And  in  rough  weather  toss'd; 

They  wither  under  cold  delays. 
Or  are  in  tempests  lost. 


KilrATOck."  Ritaon  commencen  hia  collection  of  En|rll«h 
Songs  with  Scdley'g  ven»e« :  Ixjth  Ititoon  and  I'ark  were 
ignorant  of  their  Author;  and  Mr.  Chambers,  in  his  Soot- 
tish  Songs,  starts  with  it  as  a  genuine  production  of  old 
Scotland!  Burns  has  ascribed  it  to  Sir  I'eter  Halket  of 
Pitfermn.  Forbes  was  bom  in  16S5.  seventeen  yean  after 
the  appearance  of  Sodley's  comedy. — See  Songt  of  EttffUitd 
and  .  coUandy  vol.  i.  p.  122.] 


864 


JOHN    POMFRET. 


One  while  they  seem  to  touch  the  port. 
Then  straight  into  the  main 

Some  angn^y  wind,  in  cruel  sport, 
The  vessel  drives  again. 

At  first  Disdain  and  Pride  they  fear, 
Which  if  they  chance  to  'scape, 

Rivals  and  Falsehood  soon  appear, 
In  a  more  cruel  shape. 

By  such  degrees  to  joy  they  come, 
And  are  so  long  withstood ; 

So  slowly  they  receive  the  sum, 
It  hardly  does  them  good. 

'Tis  cruel  to  prolong  a  pain ; 

And  to  defer  a  joy, 
Believe  me,  gentle  Celemene, 

Offends  the  wing6d  boy, 

An  hundred  thoysand  oaths  your  fears, 
Perhaps,  woufd  not  remove ; 

And  if  I  gazed  a  thousand  years, 
I  could  not  deeper  love. 


SONG. 


Phillis,  you  have  enough  enjoy'd 

The  pleasures  of  disdain; 
Methinks  your  pride  should  now  be  doy'd, 

And  grow  itself  again: 
Open  to  love  your  long-shut  breast. 
And  entertain  its  sweetest  guest. 


Love  heals  the  wound  that  Beauty  gives. 

And  can  ill  usage  slight ; 
He  laughs  at  all  that  Fate  contrives. 

Full  of  his  own  delight: 
We  in  his  chains  are  happier  far. 
Than  kings  themselves  without  'em  are. 

Leave,  then,  to  tame  philosophy 

The  joys  of  quietness ; 
With  me  into  love's  empire  fly. 

And  taste  my  happiness. 
Where  even  tears  and  sighs  can  show 
Pleasures  the  cruel  never  know. 


Cosmelia's  chamis  inspire  my  lays 
Who,  fair  in  Nature's  scorn. 

Blooms  in  the  winter  of  her  days. 
Like  Glastenbury  thorn. 

Cosmelia's  cruel  «t  threescore ; 

Like  bards  in  modern  plays. 
Four  acts  of  life  pass  guiltless  o'er, 

But  in  the  fifth  she  slays. 

If  e'er,  in  eager  hopes  of  bliss. 
Within  her  arms  you  fall. 

The  plaster'd  fair  returns  tlie  kiss, 
Like  Thisbe — through  a  wall. 


JOHN  POMFRET. 


[Born,  1667.     Died,  1703.] 


John  Pomfret  was  minister  of  Maiden,  in 
Bedfordshire.  He  died  of  the  small-pox,  in  his 
thirty-sixth  year.  It  is  asked,  in  Mr.  Southey's 
Specimens   of  English   Poetry,  why    Pomfret's 


Choice  is  the  most  popular  poem  in  the  English 
language:  it  might  have  been  demanded  with 
equal  propriety,  why  London  bridge  is  built  of 
Parian  marble.* 


FROM  "REASON.    A  POEM." 

Custom,  the  world's  great  idol,  we  adore ; 

And  knowing  this,  we  seek  to  know  no  more. 

What  education  did  at  first  receive, 

Our  ripen'd  age  confirms  us  to  believe. 

The  careful  nurse,  and  priest,  are  all  we  need, 

To  learn  opinions,  and  our  country's  creed : 

The  parent's  precepts  early  are  instill'd. 

And  spoil'd  the  man,  while  they  instruct  the  child. 

To  what  hard  fate  is  human  kind  betray'd. 

When  thus  implicit  faith  a  virtue  made ; 

[  ♦  Why  is  I'omfret  the  most  popular  of  the  English 
Poetp*  The  Cict  is  certain,  and  the  solution  would  be  use- 
ful— SnntUey't  yjttximens,  vol.  i.  p.  91. 

Pomfret's  '•  Choice"  exhibits  a  syj-tem  of  life  adapted  to 
common  notions,  and  eqqal  to  common  expectations;  such 
a  state  as  affords  plenty  and  tranquillity,  without  exclu- 
sion of  intellectual  pleasures.    Perhaps  no  composition  in 


When  education  more  than  truth  prevails. 
And  nought  is  current  but  what  custom  seals ! 
Thus,  from  the  time  we  first  began  to  know. 
We  live  and  learn,  but  not  the  wiser  grow. 

We  seldom  use  our  liberty  aright. 
Nor  judge  of  things  by  universal  light: 
Our  prepossessions  and  affections  bind 
The  soul  in  chains,  and  lord  it  o'er  the  mind ; 
And  if  self-interest  be  but  in  the  case, 
Our  unexamined  principles  may  pass  !    [deceive. 
Good  Heavens!  that  man   should  thus  himself 
To  learn  on  credit,  and  on  trust  believe ! 

our  langua^^e  has  been  oftener  perused  than  PomfreCt 
Clioicf. — Johnson. 

Johnson  and  Southey  have  written  of  what  was ;  Mr. 
Campbell  of  what  is.  Pomfret's  "  Choice"  is  certainly  not 
now  peruted  oftener  than  any  other  composition  in  our 
language,  nor  is  Pomfiet  now  the  most  popular  of  l::nglis> 
poets.] 


THOMAS    BROWN. 


865 


Better  the  mind  no  notions  had  retain'd, 
But  still  a  fair,  unwritten  blank  remain'd  : 
For  now,  who  truth  from  falsehood  would  discern, 
Must  first  disrobe  the  mind,  and  all  unlearn. 
Errors,  contracted  in  unmindful  youth,      [truth : 
When  once  removed,  will  smooth  the  way  to 
To  dispossess  the  child  the  mortal  lives, 
But  death  approaches  ere  the  man  arrives. 

Those  who  would  learning's  glorious  kingdom 
find. 
The  dear-bought  purchase  of  the  trading  mind, 
From  many  dangers  must  themselves  acquit. 
And  more  than  Scylla  and  Charybdis  meet. 
Oh !  what  an  ocean  must  be  voyaged  o'er, 
To  gain  a  prospect  of  the  shining  shore  ! 
Resisting  rocks  oppose  th'  inquiring  soul. 
And  adverse  waves  retard  it  as  they  roll. 

Does  not  that  foolish  deference  we  pay 
To  men  that  lived  long  since,  our  passage  stay  1 
What  odd,  preposterous  paths  at  first  we  tread, 
And  learn  to  walk  by  stumbling  on  the  dead  ! 
First  we  a  blessing  from  the  grave  implore, 
Worship  old  urns,  and  monuments  adore ! 
The  reverend  sage,  with  vast  esteem  we  prize ; 
He  lived  long  since,  and  must  be  wondrous  wise! 
Thus  are  we  debtors  to  the  famous  dead, 
For  all  those  errors  which  their  fancies  bred ; 


Errors  indeed  !  for  real  knowledge  staid 
With  those  first  times,  not  farther  was  convey'd: 
While  light  opinions  are  much  lower  brought. 
For  on  the  waves  of  ignorance  they  float : 
But  solid  truth  scarce  ever  gains  the  shore. 
So  soon  it  sinks,  and  ne'er  emerges  more. 

Suppose  those  many  dreadful  dangers  past. 
Will  knowledge  dawn,  and  bless  the  mind  at  last  ? 
Ah !  no,  'tis  now  environ'd  from  our  eyes. 
Hides  all  its  charms,  and  undiscovcr'd  lies  ! 
Truth,  like  a  single  point,  escapes  the  sight. 
And  claims  attention  to  perceive  it  right ! 
But  what  resembles  truth  is  soon  descried. 
Spreads  like  a  surface,  and  expanded  wide ! 
The  first  man  rarely,  very  rarely  finds 
The  tedious  search  of  long  inquiring  minds: 
But  yet  what's  worse,  we  know  not  what  we  en ; 
What  mark  does  truth,  what  bright  distinction 

bear? 
How  do  we  know  that  what  we  know  is  true  1 
How  shall  we  falsehood  fly,  and  truth  pursue  1 
Let  none  then  here  his  certain  knowledge  boast, 
'Tis  all  but  probability  at  most : 
This  is  the  easy  purchase  of  the  mind. 
The  vulgar's  treasure,  which  we  soon  may  find ! 
But  truth  lies  hid,  and  ere  we  can  explore 
I  The  glittering  gem,  our  fleeting  life  is  o'er. 


THOMAS  BROWN. 


[Died,  ITM.] 


Thomas,  usually  called  Tom  Brown,  the  son 
of  a  farmer  at  Shipnel,  in  Shropshire,  was  for 
some  time  a  schoolmaster  at  Kingston-upon- 
Thames,  but  left  the  ungenial  vocation  for  the 


life  of  a  wit  and  author,  in  London.  He  was  a 
good  linguist,  and  seems  rather  to  have  wasted 
than  wanted  talent. 


SONG.* 
To  charming  Celia's  arms  I  flew, 

And  there  all  night  I  feasted ; 
No  god  such  transport  ever  knew, 

Or  mortal  ever  tasted. 

Lost  in  sweet  tumultuous  joy 
And  bless'd  beyond  expressing, 

How  can  your  slave,  my  fair,  said  I, 
Reward  so  great  a  blessing  1 

The  whole  creation's  wealth  survey. 

O'er  both  the  Indies  wander, 
Ask  what  bribed  senates  give  away 

And  fighting  monarchs  squander. 

The  richest  spoils  of  earth  and  air. 

The  rifled  ocean's  treasure, 
'Tis  all  too  poor  a  bribe  by  far, 

To  purchase  so  much  pleasure. 

She  blushing  cried.  My  life,  my  dear, 

Since  Celia  thus  you  fancy, 

J*  To  this  song  Bums  gave  what  Mrs.  Bums  emphatl- 
ly  called  a  briuhing.—S«e  Songt  (if  England  and  Sxt- 
land,  vol.  1.  p.  149.]  ' 


Give  her — but  'tis  too  much  I  fear- 
A  rundlet  of  right  Nantzy. 


SONG. 
Wine,  wine  in  a  morning. 

Makes  us  frolic  and  gay, 
That  like  eagles  we  soar. 

In  the  pride  of  the  day ; 
Gouty  sots  of  the  night 

Only  find  a  decay. 

'Tis  the  sun  ripes  the  grape. 
And  to  drinking  gives  light : 

We  imitate  him. 

When  by  noon  we're  at  height ; 

They  steal  wine  who  take  it 
When  he's  out  of  sight. 

Boy,  fill  all  the  glasses. 

Fill  them  up  "ow  he  «hine« ; 

The  higher  he  rises 
The  more  he  refines, 

For  wine  and  wit  fall 
As  their  maker  declines. 
2f2 


CHARLES  SACKVILLE,  EARL  OF  DORSET. 


CBorn,  16ST.    Died,  1706.] 


Charles  Sackvillb  was  the  direct  descendant 
of  the  great  Thomas  Lord  Buckhurst.  Of  his 
youth  it  is  disgraceful  enough  to  say,  that  he  was 
the  companion  of  Rochester  and  Sedley;  but  his 
maturer  Ufe,  Uke  that  of  Sedley,  was  illustrated 
by  public  spirit,  and  his  fortune  enabled  him  to 
be  a  beneficent  friend  to  men  of  genius.  In  1665, 
while  Earl  of  Buckhurst,  he  attended  the  Duke 
of  York  as  a  volunteer  in  the  Dutch  war,  and 
finished  his  well-known  song,  "  To  all  you  ladies 
now  at  land"  on  the  day  before  the  sea-fij;ht  in 
which  Opdam,  the  Dutch  admiral,  was  blown  up, 
with  all  his  crew.  He  was  soon  after  made  a  gen- 
tleman of  the  bedchamber  to  Charles  II.,  and 
sent  on  short  embassies  to  France.  From  James 
II.  he  also  received  some  favourable  notice,  but 
joined  in  the  opposition  to  his  innovations,  and, 


with  some  other  lords,  appeared  at  Westminster 
Hall  to  countenance  the  bishops  upon  their  trial. 
Before  this  period  he  had  succeeded  to  the  estate 
and  title  of  the  Earl  of  Middlesex,  his  uncle,  as 
well  as  to  those  of  his  father,  the  Earl  of  Dorset. 
Having  concurred  in  the  Revolution,  he  was  re- 
warded by  William  with  the  ofBce  of  lord-cham- 
berlain of  the  household,  and  with  the  Order  of 
the  Garter ;  but  his  attendance  on  the  king  even- 
tually hastened  his  death,  for  being  exposed  in  an 
open  boat  with  his  majesty,  during  sixteen  hours 
of  severe  weather,  on  the  coast  of  Holland,  his 
health  was  irrecoverably  injured.  The  point  and 
sprightliness  of  Dorset's  pieces  entitle  him  to  some 
remembrance,  though  they  leave  not  a  slender 
apology  for  the  grovelling  adulation  that  was 
shown  to  him  by  Dryden  in  his  dedications. 


SONO. 

WBITTEN  AT  SEA,  IN  THE  TOIST  DUTCH  WAR,  1666,  THE  NIGHT 
BEFORE  AK   EXQAGEMEirr. 

To  all  you  ladies  now  at  land, 

We  men  at  sea  indite ; 
But  first  would  have  you  understand 

How  hard  it  is  to  write : 
The  Muses  now,  and  Neptune  too, 
We  must  implore  to  write  to  you. 
With  a  fa,  la,  la,  la,  la. 

For  though  the  Muses  should  prove  kind, 

And  fill  our  empty  brain ; 
Yet  if  rough  Neptune  rouse  the  wind. 

To  wave  the  azure  main, 
Our  paper,  pen,  and  ink,  and  we. 
Roll  up  and  down  our  ships  at  sea. 
K         With  a  fa,  «&c. 

Then  if  we  write  not  by  each  post. 

Think  not  we  are  unkind ; 
Nor  yet  conclude  our  ships  are  lost. 

By  Dutchmen,  or  by  wind  : 
Our  tears  we'll  send  a  speedier  way, 
The  tide  shall  bring  them  twice  a-day. 
With  a  fa,  &c. 

The  king,  with  wonder  and  surprise, 

Will  swear  the  seas  grow  bold  ; 
Because  the  tides  will  higher  rise, 

Than  e'er  they  used  of  old: 
But  let  him  know,  it  is  our  tears 
Bring  floods  of  grief  to  Whitehall  stairs. 
With  a  fa,  &c 

Should  foggy  Opdam  chance  to  know 

Our  sad  and  dismal  story  ; 
Tne  Dutch  would  scorn  so  weak  a  foe, 

And  quit  their  fort  at  Goree : 


For  what  resistance  can  they  find 
From  men  who've  left  their  hearts  behind  ? 
With  a  fa,  &c. 

Let  wind  and  weather  do  its  worst. 

Be  you  to  us  but  kind ; 
Let  Dutchmen  vapour,  Spaniards  curse. 

No  sorrow  we  shall  find : 
'Tis  then  no  matter  how  things  go. 
Or  who's  our  friend,  or  who's  our  foe. 
With  a  fa,  &c. 

To  pass  our  tedious  hours  away, 

We  throw  a  merry  main ; 
Or  else  at  serious  ombre  play : 

But  why  should  we  in  vain 
Each  other's  ruin  thus  pursue  ? 
We  were  undone  when  we  left  you. 
With  a  fa,  &c 

But  now  our  fears  tempestuous  grow, 

And  cast  our  hopes  away  ; 
Whilst  you,  regardless  of  our  woe. 

Sit  careless  at  a  play : 
Perhaps,  permit  some  happier  man 
To  kiss  your  hand,  or  flirt  your  fan. 
With  a  fa,  &c. 

When  any  mournful  tune  you  hear, 

That  dies  in  every  note  ; 
As  if  it  sigh'd  with  each  man's  care. 

For  being  so  remote ; 
Think  how  often  love  we've  made 
To  you,  when  all  those  tunes  were  play'd. 
With  a  fa,  &c. 

In  justice  you  cannot  refuse 
To  think  of  our  distress, 


When  we  for  hopes  of  honour  lose 

Our  certain  happiness ; 
All  those  designs  are  but  to  prove 
Ourselves  more  worthy  of  your  love. 
With  a  fa,  &c. 

And  now  we've  told  you  all  our  loves, 
And  likewise  all  our  fears, 

In  hopes  this  declaration  moves 
Some  pity  from  your  tears; 

Let's  hear  of  no  inconstancy. 

We  have  too  much  of  that  at  sea. 
With  a  fa,  la,  la,  la,  la. 


SONG. 

Dorinda's  sparkling  wit  and  eyea. 

United,  cast  too  fierce  a  light, 
Which  blazes  high,  but  quickly  dies. 

Pains  not  the  heart,  but  hurts  the  sight 

Love  is  a  calmer  gentler  joy. 

Smooth  are  his  looks,  and  soft  his  pace ; 
Her  Cupid  is  a  blackguard  boy, 

That  runs  his  link  full  in  your  face. 


GEORGE  STEPNEY. 

[Born,  166S.    Died,  1707.] 


George  Stepney  was  the  youthful  friend  of 
Montague,  Earl  of  Halifax,  and  owed  his  prefer- 
ments to  that  nobleman.  It  appears,  from  his 
verses  on  the  burning  of  Monmouth's  picture, 
that  his  first  attachment  was  to  the  Tory  interest, 
but  he  left  them  in  sufficient  time  to  be  rewarded 
as  a  partisan  by  the  Whigs,  and  was  nominated 
to  several  foreign  embassies.     In  this  capacity  he 


went  successively  to  the  Imperial  Court,  to  thai 
of  Saxony,  Poland,  and  the  States-General ;  and 
in  all  his  negotiations  is  said  to  have  been  suc- 
cessful.* Some  of  his  political  tracts  remain  m 
Lord  Somers's  collection.  As  a  poet.  Dr.  Johnson 
justly  characterizes  him  as  equally  deficient  in 
the  grace  of  wit  and  the  vigour  of  nature. 


TO  THE  EVENING  STAR. 

ENOUBHED  FBOX  A.  SREEK  IDTUJTTM. 

Bright  Star !  by  Venus  fix'd  above. 
To  rule  the  happy  realms  of  Love ; 
Who  in  the  dewy  rear  of  day, 
Advancing  thy  distinguish'd  ray, 
Dost  other  lights  as  far  outshine       » 
As  Cynthia's  silver  glories  thine ; 


Known  by  superior  beauty  there. 
As  much  as  Pastorella  here. 

Exert,  bright  Star,  thy  friendly  light. 
And  guide  me  through  the  dusky  night! 
Defrauded  of  her  beams,  the  Moon 
Shines  dim,  and  will  be  vanish'd  soon. 
I  would  not  rob  the  shepherd's  fold ; 
I  seek  no  miser's  hoarded  gold ; 
To  find  a  nymph  I'm  forced  to  stray, 
Who  lately  stole  my  heart  away. 


JOHN  PHILIPS. 


[Born,  1676.    Died,  170?.] 


The  fame  of  this  poet  (says  the  grave  doctor 
of  the  last  century,)  will  endure  as  long  as  Blen- 
heim is  remembered,  or  cider  drunk  in  England. 
He  might  have  added,  as  long  as  tobacco  shall  be 
smoked  ;  for  Philips  has  written  more  merito- 
riously about  the  Indian  weed,  than  about  his 
native  apple;  and  his  Muse  appears  to  be  more 
in  her  element  amidst  the  smoke  of  the  pipe  than 
of  the  battle. 

His  father  was  archdeacon  of  Salop,  and  minis- 
ter of  Bampton,  in  Oxfordshire,  where  the  poet 
was  born.  He  was  educated  at  Winchester,  and 
(fterward  at  Cambridge.  He  intended  to  have 
followed  the  profession  of  physic,  and  delighted 
in  the  study  of  natural  history,  but  seems  to  have 
relinquished  scientific  pursuits  when  the  reputa- 


tion of  his  Splendid  Shilling,  about  the  year  1703, 
introduced  him  to  the  patronage  of  Bolingbroke, 
at  whose  request,  and  in  whose  house,  he  wrote 
his  poem  on  the  Battle  of  Blenheim.  This,  like 
his  succeeding  poem  on  Cider,  was  extravagantly 
praised.  Philips  had  the  merit  of  studying  and 
admiring  Milton,  but  he  never  could  imitate  him 
without  ludicrous  effect,  either  in  jest  or  earnest. 
His  Splendid  Shilling  is  the  earliest,  and  one  of 
the  best  of  our  parodies;  but  Blenheim  is  as  coin 
pletely  a  burlesque  upon  Milton  as  the  Splendid 
Shilling,  though  it  was  written  and  read  with 
gravity.     In   describing  his  hero,  Marlborough, 


[*  Ilia  diplomatic  eorr«epondenc«  is  now  in  the  British 
Mua«    m.] 


868 


JOHN  PHILIPS. 


stepping  out  of  Queen  Anne's  drawing-room,  he 
unconsciously  carries  the  mock  heroic  to  perfec- 
tion, when  he  says, 

"  His  plumy  crest 
Nods  horrible.    With  more  terrific  port 
He  walks,  and  seems  already  in  the  fight." 


Yet  such  are  the  fluctuations  of  taste,  that  con- 
temporary criticism  bowed  with  solemn  admira- 
tion over  his  Miltonic  cadences.  He  was  medi- 
tating a  still  more  formidable  poem  on  the  Day 
of  Judgment,  when  his  life  was  prematurely 
terminated  by  a  consumption.* 


THE  SPLENDID  SHILLING. 

« Sing.  hcRTenly  Muse! 

Things  unattempted  yet.  in  prose  or  rhyme," 
A  Shilling,  Breeches,  and  Chimeras  dire. 

Happy  the  man,  who  void  of  cares  and  strife. 
In  silken  or  in  leathern  purse  retains 
A  Splendid  Shilling:  he  nor  hears  with  pain 
New  oysters  cried,  nor  sighs  for  cheerful  ale ; 
But  with  his  friends,  when  nightly  mists  arise, 
To  Juniper's  Magpie,  or  Town-Hallf  repairs : 
Where,  mindful  of  the  nymph,  whose  wanton  eye 
Transfix'd  his  soul,  and  kindled  amorous  flames, 
Chloe,  or  Phillis,  he  each  circling  glass 
Wisheth  her  health,  and  joy,  and  equal  love. 
Meanwhile,  he  smokes,  and  laughs  at  merry  tale, 
Or  pun  ambiguous,  or  conundrum  quaint. 
But  I,  whom  griping  Penury  surrounds, 
And  Hunger,  sure  attendant  upon  Want, 
With  scanty  oflals,  and  small  acid  tiff, 
(Wretched  repast !)  my  meagre  corpse  sustain  : 
Then  solitary  walk,  or  doze  at  home 
[n  garret  vile,  and  with  a  warming  puff 
Regale  chill'd  fingers ;  or  from  tube  as  black 
As  winter-chimney,  or  well-polish'd  jet. 
Exhale  mundungus,  ill-perfuming  scent! 
Not  blacker  tube,  nor  of  a  shorter  size. 
Smokes  Cambro-Briton  (versed  in  pedigree, 
Sprung  from  Cadwallader  and  Arthur,  kings 
Full  famous  in  romantic  tale)  when  he 
O'er  many  a  craggy  hill  and  barren  cliff. 
Upon  a  cargo  of  famed  Cestrian  cheese. 
High  over-shadowing  rides,  with  a  design 
To  vend  his  wares,  or  at  th'  Arvonian  mart. 
Or  Maridunum,  or  the  ancient  town 
Yclep'd  Brechinia,  or  where  Vaga's  stream 
Encircles  Ariconium,  fruitful  soil! 
Whence  flow  nectareous  wines,  that  well  may  vie 
With  Massic,  Setin,  or  renown'd  Falem. 

Thus  while  my  joyless  minutes  tedious  flow, 
W'ith  looks  demure,  and  silent  pace,  a  Dun, 
Horrible  monster!  hated  by  gods  and  men. 
To  my  serial  citadel  ascends. 
With  vocal  heel  thrice  thundering  at  my  gate. 
With  hideous  accent  thrice  he  calls;  I  know 
The  voice  ill-boding,  and  the  solemn  sound. 
What  should  I  do  ]  or  whither  turn  1     Amazed, 
Confounded,  to  the  dark  recess  I  fly 
Of  wood-hole;  straight  my  bristling  hairs  erect 


[*  Fenton.  in  a  letter  to  the  father  of  the  Wartons, 
makes  mention  of  a  ropy  of  rerpci  by  Philips  against 
Blackmore.  The  poem,  if  recoverable,  would  be  a  cu- 
riosity. 

The  fame  of  Philips  will  live  through  his  Splendid  Shil- 
ling and  the  poetic  praises  of  Thomson  and  Owper.J 

+  Two  noted  alehouses  at  Oxford  in  1700. 


Through  sudden  fear ;  a  chilly  sweat  bedews 
My  shuddering  limbs,  and  (wonderful  to  tell !) 
My  tongue  forgets  her  faculty  of  speech ; 
So  horrible  he  seems!     His  faded  brow, 
Entrench'd  with  many  a  frown,  and  conic  beard, 
And  spreading  band,  admired  by  modern  saints, 
Disastrous  acts  forebode ;  in  his  right  hand 
Long  scrolls  of  paper  solemnly  he  waves. 
With  characters  and  figures  dire  inscribed, 
Grievous  to  mortal  eyes ;  (ye  gods  avert 
Such  plagues  from  righteous  men  !)     Behind  him 

stalks 
Another  monster,  not  unlike  himself. 
Sullen  of  aspect,  by  the  vulgar  call'd 
A  Catchpole,  whose  polluted  hands  the  gods, 
With  force  incredible,  and  magic  charms, 
Erst  have  endued ;  if  he  his  ample  palm 
Should  haply  on  ill-fated  shoulder  lay 
Of  debtor,  straight  his  body,  to  the  touch 
Obsequious  (as  whilom  knights  were  wont) 
To  some  enchanted  castle  is  convey'd. 
Where  gates  impregnable,  and  coercive  chains, 
In  durance  strict  detain  him,  till,  in  form 
Of  Money,  Pallas  sets  the  captive  free. 

Beware,  ye  Debtors !  when  ye  walk,  beware, 
Be  circumspect ;  oft  with  insidious  ken 
The  caitiff  eyes  your  steps  aloof,  and  oft 
Lies  perdue  in  a  nook  or  gloomy  cave, 
Prompt  to  enchant  some  inadvertent  wretch 
With  his  unhallow'd  touch.     So  (poets  sing) 
Grimalkin,  to  domestic  vermin  sworn 
An  everlasting  foe,  with  watchful  eye 
Lies  nightly  brooding  o'er  a  chinky  gap. 
Protending  her  fell  claws,  to  thoughtless  mice 
Sure  ruin.     So  her  disembowell'd  web 
Arachne,  in  a  hall  or  kitchen,  spreads 
Obvious  to  vagrant  flies:  she  secret  stands 
Within  her  woven  cell;  the  humming  prey, 
Regardless  of  their  fate,  rush  on  the  toUs 
Inextricable,  nor  will  aught  avail 
Their  arts,  or  arms,  or  shapes  of  lovely  hue ; 
The  wasp  insidious,  and  the  buzzing  drone. 
And  butterfly,  proud  of  expanded  wings 
Distinct  with  gold,  entangled  in  her  snares. 
Useless  resistance  make :  with  eager  strides. 
She  towering  flies  to  her  expected  spoils; 
Then,  with  envenom'd  jaws,  the  vital  blood 
Drinks  of  reluctant  foes,  and  to  her  cave 
Their  bulky  carcasses  triumphant  drags. 

So    pass    my    days.      But,   when    nocturnal 

shades 
This  world  envelop,  and  th'  inclement  air 
Persuades  men  to  repel  benumbing  frosts 
With  pleasant  wines,  and   crackling    blaze   of 

wood ; 


WILLIAM  WALSH. 


869 


Me  lonely  sitting,  nor  the  glimmering  light 
Of  make-weight  candle,  nor  the  joyous  talk 
Of  loving  friend,  delights ;  distress'd,  forlorn, 
Amidst  the  horrors  of  the  tedious  night. 
Darkling  I  sigh,  and  feed  with  dismal  thoughts 
My  anxious  mind ;  or  sometimes  mournful  verse 
Indite,  and  sing  of  groves  and  myrtle  shades, 
Or  desperate  lady  near  a  purling  stream, 
Or  lover  pendent  on  a  willow-tree. 
Meanwhile  I  labour  with  eternal  drought. 
And  restless  wish,  and  rave;  my  parched  throat 
Finds  no  relief,  nor  heavy  eyes  repo«e : 
But  if  a  slumber  haply  does  invade 
My  weary  limbs,  my  fancy's  still  awake, 
Thoughtful  of  drink,  and,  eager,  in  a  dream, 
Tipples  imaginary  pots  of  ale. 
In  vain;  awake  I  find  the  settled  thirst 
Still  gnawing,  and  the  pleasant  phantom  curse. 
Thus  do  I  live,  from  pleasure  quite  debarr'd. 
Nor  taste  the  fruits  that  the  sun's  genial  rays 
Mature,  john-apple,  nor  the  downy  peach. 
Nor  walnut  in  rough-furrow'd  coat  secure, 
Nor  medlar,  fruit  delicious  in  decay  ; 
Afflictions  great !  yet  greater  still  remain : 


My  galligaskins,  that  have  loi.g  withstood 
The  winter's  fury,  and  encroaching  frosts. 
By  time  subdued  (what  will  not  time  subdue !) 
An  horrid  chasm  disclosed  with  orifice 
Wide,  discontinuous;  at  which  the  winds 
Eurus  and  Auster,  and  the  dreadfiil  force 
Of  Boreas,  that  congeals  the  Cronian  waves, 
Tumultuous  enter  with  dire  chilling  blasts. 
Portending  agues.     Thus  a  well-fraught  ship. 
Long  sail'd  secure,  or  through  th'  iEgean  deep, 
Or  the  Ionian,  till  crusing  near 
The  Lilybean  shere,  with  hideous  crush 
On  Scylla,  or  Charybdis  (dangerous  rocks  !) 
She  strikes  rebounding ;  whence  the  shatter'd  oak. 
So  fierce  a  shock  unable  to  withstand, 
Admits  the  sea;  in  at  the  gaping  side 
The  crowding  waves  gush  with  impetuous  rage, 
Resistless,  overwhelming ;  horrors  seize 
The  mariners ;  Death  in  their  eyes  appears. 
They  stare,  they  lave,  they  pump,  they  swear, 

they  pray ; 
(Vain  efforts !)  still  the  battering  waves  rush  in, 
Implacable,  till,  deluged  by  the  foam. 
The  ship  sinks  foundering  in  the  vast  abyss.* 


WILLIAM  WALSH. 


[Born,  1«6S.    Dial,  1709.] 


William  Walsh  was  knight  for  his  native 
county,  Worcestershire,  in  several  parliaments, 
and  gentleman  of  the  horse  to  Queen  Anne,  under 
the  Duke  of  Somerset.  Though  a  friend  to  the 
Revolution,  he  was  kind  to  Dryden,  who  praised 


him,  as  Pope  must  have  done,  merely  from  the 
motive  of  personal  gratitude  ;  for  except  his  en 
couragement  of  the  early  genius  of  Pope,  he 
seems  to  have  no  claim  to  remembrance.! 


BONO. 
Or  all  the  torments,  all  the  cares. 

With  which  our  lives  are  curst ; 
Of  all  the  plagues  a  lover  bears. 

Sure  rivals  are  the  worst. 

By  partners  in  each  other  kind 

Afflictions  easier  grow ; 
In  love  alone  we  hate  to  find 

Companions  of  our  woe. 

[•  "  The  Splendid  Shilling,"  baa  the  uncommon  merit 
of  an  originnl  design,  unless  it  may  be  thought  precluded 
b}-  the  ancient  "Centos."  But  the  merit  of  such  per- 
formances begins  and  ends  with  the  first  author.  He  that 
should  again  adapt  Milton's  phrane  tt)  the  gross  inci<lent8 
01  common  life,  and  even  adapt  it  with  some  art,  which 
47 


Sylvia,  for  all  the  pangs  yon  see 
Are  lab'ring  in  my  breast, 

I  beg  not  you  would  favour  me, 
Would  you  but  slight  the  rest. 

How  great  soe'er  your  rigours  are, 
With  them  alone  I'll  cope; 

I  can  endure  my  own  despair. 
But  not  another's  hope. 


would  not  be  difficult,  must  yet  expect  a  small  part  of 
the  praise  which  I'hillips  ha«  obtaincKl;  he  can  only  hop* 
to  be  coni<Were<i  as  the  repeater  of  a  jest. — Johx.son.I 

[t  All  we  know  of  M'alsh  is  his  Ode  to  King  William, 
and  Pope's  epithet  of  "  knowiot;  Walsh." — Btkon.] 


ANONYMOUS. 


HOLLA,  JIT  FANCY,  WHITHER  WILT  THOU  GO?" 
raoK  A  CBOicE  collection  of  oohio  and  bibiocb 

SCOTS  POEMS.     EB.  1709. 

In  melancholy  Fancie, 

Out  of  myself, 
In  the  Vulcan  dancie, 
All  the  world  surveying, 
No  where  staying, 
Just  like  a  fairy  elf; 
Out  o'er  the  top  of  highest  mountains  skipping, 
Out  o'er  the  hills,  the  trees,  and  valleys,  tripping, 
Out  o'er  the  ocean,  seas,  without  an  oar  or  shipping : 
Holla,  my  Fancy,  whither  wilt  thou  go  1 

Amidst  the  misty  vapours, 

Fain  would  I  know 
What  doth  cause  the  tapours ; 
Why  the  clouds  benight  us, 
And  affright  us. 

Whilst  we  travel  here  below. 
Fain  would  I  know  what  makes  the   roaring 

thunder ; 
And  what  the  lightnings  be  that  rent  the  clouds 

asunder, 
And  what  these  comets  are  on  which  we  gaze  with 
Holla,  my  Fancy,  &c.  [wonder : 

Fain  would  I  know  the  reason 

Why  the  little  ant 
All  the  summer  season 
Layeth  up  provision. 
On  condition 

To  know  no  winter's  want ; 
And  how  these  housewives  that  are  so  good  and 

painful. 
Do  unto  their  husbands  prove  so  good  and  gainful, 
And  why  the  lazy  drones  to  them  do  prove  dis- 
Holla,  my  Fancy,  «Scc  [dainful : 

Ships,  ships,  I  will  descry  you 

Amidst  the  main ; 
I  will  come  and  try  you. 
What  you  are  protecting, 
And  projecting. 
One  goes  abroad  for  merchandise  and  trading. 
Another  stays  to  keep  his  country  from  invading. 
And  third  is  coming  home  with  rich  and  wealthy 
Holla,  my  Fancy,  &c  [lading ; 

When  I  look  before  me. 

There  I  do  behold 
There's  none  that  sees  or  knows  me. 
All  the  world's  a  gadding. 
Running,  madding ; 
None  doth  his  station  hold. 
870 


He  that  is  below  envieth  him  that  riseth. 
And  he  that  is  above,  him  that's  below  despiseth ; 
So  every  man  his  plot  and  counterplot  deviseth : 
Holla,  my  fancy,  &c. 

Look,  look,  what  bustling 

Here  do  I  espy  : 
Here  another  justling. 
Every  one  turmoiling. 
The  other  spoiling. 
As  I  did  pass  them  by. 
One  sitteth  musing  in  a  dumpish  passion. 
Another  hangs  his  head  because  he's  out  of  fashion, 
A  third  is  fully  bent  on  sport  and  recreation : 
Holla,  my  Fancy,  &c. 

Amidst  the  foamy  ocean 
Fain  would  I  know 
What  doth  cause  the  motion. 
And  returning. 
In  its  journeying, 
And  doth  so  seldom  swerve ; 
And  how  these  little  fishes  that  swim  beneath 

salt  water, 
Do  never  blind  their  eyes,  methinks  it  is  a  matter 
An  inch  above  the  reach  of  old  Erra  Pater : 
Holla,  my  Fancy,  &c. 

Fain  would  I  be  resolved 

How  things  were  done, 
And  where  bull  was  calved 
Of  bloody  Phalaris, 
And  where  the  tailor  is 

That  works  to  the  man  in  the  moon- 
Fain  would  I  know  how  Cupid  aims  so  rightly, 
And  how  these  little  fairies  do  dance  and  leap  so 

lightly. 
And  where  fair  Cynthia  makes  her  assemblies 
Holla,  my  Fancy,  &c.  [nightly : 


ON  A  WOMAN'S  INCONSTANCY. 

FROM  THE  SAME. 

I  LOVED  thee  once,  I'll  love  no  more ; 
Thine  be  the  grief  as  is  the  blame ; 
Thou  art  not  what  thou  wast  before. 
What  reason  I  should  be  the  same  ? 
He  that  can  love,  unloved  again. 
Hath  better  store  of  love  than  brain: 
God  send  me  love  my  debts  to  pay. 
While  unthrifts  fool  their  love  away. 

Nothing  could  have  my  love  o'erthrown. 
If  thou  hadst  still  continued  mine; 
Yea,  if  thou  hadst  remain'd  thy  own, 
I  might  perchance  have  yet  been  thine. 


ROBERT  GOULD. 


871 


But  thou  thy  freedom  didst  recall, 
That  it  thou  might'st  elsewhere  enthral ; 
And  then  how  could  I  but  disdain, 
A  captive's  captive  to  remain  1 

When  new  desires  had  conquer'd  thee, 
And  changed  the  object  of  thy  will, 
It  had  been  lethargy  in  me. 
No  constancy,  to  love  thee  still. 
Yea,  it  had  been  a  sin  to  go. 
And  prostitute  affection  so, 
Since  we  are  taught  no  prayers  to  say 
To  such  as  must  to  others  pray. 

Yet  do  thou  glory  in  thy  choice, 
Thy  choice  of  his  good  fortune  boast; 
I'll  neither  grieve  nor  yet  rejoice, 
To  see  him  gain  what  I  have  lost. 
The  height  of  my  disdain  shall  be 
To  laugh  at  him,  to  blush  for  thee ; 
To  love  thee  still,  but  go  no  more 
A  begging  at  a  beggar's  door.* 


THE  CHURCH-BUILDER. 
From  Poems  for  the  October  Club.   Lond.  1711. 
A  WRETCH  had  committed  all  manner  of  evil, 
And  was  justly  afraid  of  death  and  the  devil ; 


Being  touch'd  with  remorse,  he  sent  for  a  priest. 
He   was  wondrous  godly,  he   pray'd  and  con 

fess'd : 
But  the  father,  unmoved  with  the  marks  of  con 

trition. 
Before  absolution  imposed  this  condition : 

"  You  must  build  and  endow,  at  your  own  proper 

charge, 
A  church,"  quoth  the  parson,  "  convenient  and 

large. 
Where  souls  to  the  tune  of  four  thousand  and  odd, 
Without  any  crowding,  may  sit  and  serve  God." 
"  I'll   do't,"    cried    the   penitent,   « father,  ne'er 

fear  it; 
My  estate  is  encumber'd,  but  if  I  once  clear  it, 
The  beneficed  clerks  should  be  sweetly  increased — 
Instead  of  one  church,  I'd  build  fifty  at  least." 

But  ah!  what  is  man  1     I  speak  it  with  sorrow. 

His  fit  of  religion  was  gone  by  to-morrow; 

He   then  hufTd  the  doctor,  and  call'd   him   to 

naught. 
There  were  churches  to  spare,  and  he'd  not  give 

a  groat. 
When  he  mention'd  his  vow,  he  cried,  « D — ^n 

me,  I'm  sober. 
But  all  yesterday  I  was  drunk  with  October." 


ROBERT  GOULD. 


A  DOMESTIC  of  the  Earl  of  Dorset,  and  after- 
ward a  schoolmaster,  who  wrote  two  dramas — 


« The    Rival    Sisters,"    and    « Innocence   Dis- 
tressed." 


SONG. 

FROM  "the  VIOIXNCB  OP  LOVE,  OE  THE  WVAL  SISTERS." 

Fair  and  soft,  and  gay  and  young, 

All  charm — she  play'd,  she  danced,  she  sung: 

There  was  no  way  to  'scape  the  dart. 

No  care  could  guard  the  lover's  heart. 

Ah,  why,  cried  I,  and  dropp'd  a  tear. 

Adoring,  yet  despairing  e'er 

To  have  her  to  myself  alone. 

Why  was  such  sweetness  made  for  one? 

But,  growing  bolder,  in  her  ear 
I  in  soft  numbers  told  my  care : 
She  heard,  anil  raised  me  from  her  feet, 
And  seem'd  to  glow  with  equal  heat 
Like  heaven's,  too  mighty  to  express. 
My  joys  could  but  be  known  by  guess ; 
Ay,  fool,  said  I,  what  have  I  done, 
To  wish  her  made  for  more  than  one ! 

But  long  she  had  not  been  in  view. 
Before  her  eyes  their  beams  withdrew ; 

[•  This  is  by  Sir  Hobert  Ayton  and  was  nmong  the 
■oems  of  his  in  the  Ayton  MS.  once  in  Mr.  Uulwr'g  hands. 
6«e  Note  also  at  p.  141.] 


Ere  I  had  reckon'd  half  her  charms, 
She  sunk  into  another's  arms. 
But  she  that  once  could  faithless  be, 
Will  favour  him  no  more  than  me : 
He  too,  will  find  he  is  undone. 
And  that  she  was  not  made  for  one. 


BONG. 

FROM  THE  SAME. 

C^LiA  is  cruel :  Sylvia,  thou, 

I  must  confess,  art  kind  ; 
But  in  her  cruelty,  I  vow, 

I  more  repose  can  find. 
For,  oh  !  thy  fancy  at  all  games  does  fly, 
Fond  of  address,  and  willing  to  comply. 

Thus  he  that  loves  must  be  undone, 

Each  way  on  rocks  we  fall ; 
Either  you  will  be  kind  to  none. 

Or  worse,  be  kind  to  all. 
Vain  are  our  hopes,  and  endless  is  our  care, 
We  must  be  jealous,  or  we  must  despair. 


DR.  WALTER  POPE. 


[Died,  1714.] 


Dr.  Walter  Pope  was  junior  proctor  of  Ox- 
ford, in  1668,  when  a  controversy  took  place  re- 
specting the  wearing  of  hoods  and  caps,  which 
the  reigning  party  considered  as  the  reUcs  of 
popery.  Our  proctor,  however,  so  stoutly  op- 
posed the  revolutionists  on  this  momentous  point, 
that  the  venerable  caps  and  hoods  continued  to 


be  worn  till  the  Restoration  This  affair  he  used 
to  call  the  most  glorious  action  of  his  life.  Dr. 
Pope  was,  however,  a  man  of  wit  and  informa- 
tion, and  one  of  the  first  chosen  fellows  of  the 
Royal  Society.  He  succeeded  Sir  Christoi>her 
Wren  as  Professor  of  Astronomy  in  Gresham 
College. 


THE  OLD  MAN'S  WISH. 
If  I  live  to  grow  old,  for  I  find  I  go  down, 
Let  this  be  my  fate :  in  a  country  town, 
May  I  have  a  warm  house,  with  a  stone  at  the  gate, 
And  a  cleanly  young  girl  to  rub  my  bald  pate. 
May  I  govern  my  passion  with  an  absolute  sway, 
And   grow  wiser  and  better,  as  my  strength 

wears  away, 
Without  gout  or  stone,  by  a  gentle  decay. 

Near  a  shady  grove,  and  a  murmuring  brook. 
With  the  ocean  at  distance,  whereon  I  may  look; 
With  a  spacious  plain,  without  hedge  or  stile, 
And  an  easy  pad-nag  to  ride  out  a  mile. 
May  I  govern,  &c. 

With  Horace  and  Petrarch,  and  two  or  three  more 
Of  the  best  wits  that  reign 'd  in  the  ages  before ; 
With  roast  mutton,  rather  than  ven'son  or  teal. 
And  clean,  though  coarse  linen,  at  every  meal. 
May  I  govern,  &c. 


With  a  pudding  on  Sundays,  with  stout  ham- 
ming liquor. 
And  remnants  of  Latin  to  welcome  the  vicar ; 
With  Monte  Fiascone  or  Burgundy  wine, 
To  drink  the  king's  health  as  oft  as  I  dine. 
May  I  govern,  &c. 

With  a  courage  undaunted  may  I  face  my  last 

day, 
And  when  I  am  dead  may  the  better  sort  say, — 
In  the  morning  when  sober,  in  the  evening  when 

mellow. 
He's  gone,  and  [has]  left  not  behind  him  his 
fellow : 
For  he  govem'd  his  passion  with  an  absolute 

sway, 
And  grew  wiser  and  better,  as  his  strength 

wore  away. 
Without  gout  or  stone,  by  a  gentle  decay. 


THOMAS  PARNELL. 


[Born,  1679.    Died,  in7T] 


The  compass  of  Pamell's  poetry  is  not  exten- 
sive, but  its  tone  is  peculiarly  delightful :  not  from 
mere  correctness  of  expression,  to  which  some 
critics  have  stinted  its  praises,  but  from  the  grace- 
ful and  reserved  sensibility  that  accompanied  his 
polished  phraseology.  The  curiosa  feliritas,  the 
studied  happiness  of  his  diction,  does  not  spoil 
its  simplicity.  His  poetry  is  like  a  flower  that 
has  been  trained  and  planted  by  the  skill  of  the 
gardener,  but  which  preserves,  in  its  cultured 
state,  the  natural  fragrance  of  its  wilder  air. 

His  ancestors  were  of  Congleton,  in  Cheshire. 
His  father,  who  had  been  attached  to  the  repub- 
lican party  in  the  civil  wars,  went  to  Ireland  at 
the  Restoration,  and  left  an  estate  which  he  pur- 
chased in  that  kingdom,  together  with  another 
at  Cheshire,  at  his  death,  to  the  poet.  Parnell 
was  educated  at  the  university  of  Dublin,  and 
baving  been  permitted,  by  a  dispensation,  to  take 
872 


deacon's  orders  under  the  canonical  age,  had  the 
archdeaconry  of  Clogher  conferred  upon  him  by 
the  bishop  of  that  diocese,  in  his  twenty-sixth 
year.  About  the  same  time  he  married  a  Miss 
Anne  Minchin,  an  amiable  woman,  whose  death 
he  had  to  lament  not  many  years  after  their 
union,  and  whose  loss,  as  it  affected  Parnell,  even 
the  iron-hearted  Swift  mentions  as  a  heavy  mis- 
fortune. 

Though  born  and  bred  in  Ireland,  he  seems  to 
have  had  too  little  of  the  Irishman  in  his  local 
attachments.  His  aversion  to  the  manners  of  his 
native  country  was  more  fastidious  than  amiable. 
When  he  had  once  visited  London,  he  became 
attached  to  it  for  ever.  His  zest  or  talents  for 
society  made  him  the  favourite  of  its  brightest 
literary  circles.  His  pulpit  oratory  was  also 
much  admired  in  the  metropolis ;  and  he  renewed 
his  visits  to  it  every  year.     This,  however,  was 


THOMAS  PARNELL. 


873 


only  the  bright  side  of  his  existence.  His  spirits 
were  very  unequal,  and  when  he  found  them 
ebbing,  he  used  to  retreat  to  the  solitudes  of  Ire- 
land, where  he  fed  the  disease  of  his  imagination, 
by  frightful  descriptions  of  his  retirement.  During 
his  intimacy  with  the  Whigs  in  England,  he  con- 
tributed some  papers,  chiefly  Visions,  to  the 
Spectator  and  Guardian.  Afterward  his  personal 
friendship  was  engrossed  by  the  Tories,  and  they 
persuaded  him  to  come  over  to  their  side  in  poli- 
tics, at  the  suspicious  moment  when  the  Whigs 
were  going  out  of  power.  In  the  frolics  of  the 
Scnbierus  club,  of  which  he  is  said  to  have  been 
the  founder,  whenever  literary  allusions  were  re- 
quired for  the  ridicule  of  pedantry,  be  may  be 


supposed  to  have  been  the  scholar  most  able  to 
supply  them ;  for  Pope's  correspondence  shows, 
that  among  his  learned  friends  he  applied  to  none 
with  so  much  anxiety  as  to  Parnell.  The  death 
of  the  queen  put  an  end  to  his  hopes  of  prefer- 
ment by  the  Tories,  though  not  before  he  had 
obtained,  through  the  influence  of  Swift,  the  vicar- 
age of  Finglass,  in  the  diocese  of  Dublin.  His 
fit«  of  despondency,  after  the  death  of  his  wife, 
became  more  gloomy,  and  these  aggravated  a 
habit  of  intemperance  which  shortened  his  days. 
He  died,  in  his  thirty-eighth  year,  at  Chester,  on 
his  way  to  Ireland,*  and  he  was  buried  in  Trinity 
church,  in  that  city,  but  without  a  memorial  to 
mark  the  spot  of  hiis  interment. 


A  FAIET  TALE,  IN  THE  ANCIENT  BNaUSH 
STYLE. 

In  Britain's  isle,  »x\d  Arthur's  days, 
When  midnight  fairies  daunced  the  maze, 

Lived  Edwin  of  the  Green ; 
Edwin,  I  wis,  a  gentle  youth, 
Endow'd  with  courage,  sense,  and  truth, 
Though  badly  shaped  be  been. 

His  mountain  back  mote  well  be  said 
To  measure  heighth  against  his  head, 

And  lift  itself  above ; 
Yet,  spite  of  all  that  Nature  did 
To  make  his  uncouth  form  forbid, 

This  creature  dared  to  love. 

He  felt  the  charms  of  Edith's  eyes, 
Nor  wanted  hope  to  gain  the  prize, 

Could  ladies  look  within  ; 
But  one  Sir  Topaz  dress'd  with  art. 
And  if  a  shape  could  win  a  heart. 

He  had  a  shape  to  win. 

Edwin,  if  right  I  read  my  song, 
With  slighted  passion  paced  along, 

All  in  the  moony  light; 
'Twas  near  an  old  enchanted  court. 
Where  sportive  fairies  made  resort 

To  revel  out  the  night. 

His  heart  was  drear,  his  hope  was  cross'd, 
"Twas  late,  'twas  far,  the  path  was  lost 
That  reach'd  the  neighbour  town ; 
With  weary  steps  he  quits  the  shades, 
Resolved,  the  darkling  dome  he  treads 
And  drops  his  limbs  adown. 

.But  scant  he  lays  him  on  the  floor. 
When  hollow  winds  remove  the  door, 

And  trembling  rocks  the  ground : 
And,  well  I  ween  to  count  aright. 
At  once  a  hundred  tapers  light 

On  all  the  walls  around. 


[*  lie  ig  said  to  have  died  in  1717 ;  but  Jn  the  parish 
tegistiT  the  entry  of  hL«  burial  Ls  the  18th  October,  1718. 
See  GoUUmith't  Mite.  Works  by  Prior,  vol.  ir.  p.  612.] 


Now  sounding  tongues  assail  his  ear, 
Now  sounding  feet  approachen  near. 

And  now  the  sounds  increase : 
And  from  the  corner  where  he  lay, 
He  sees  a  train  profusely  gay. 

Come  prankling  o'er  the  plac«. 

But  (trust  me,  gentles!)  never  yet 
Was  dight  a  masking  half  so  neat, 

Or  half  so  rich  before  ; 
The  country  lent  the  sweet  perfumes. 
The  sea  the  pearl,  the  sky  the  plumes, 

The  town  its  silken  store. 

Now  whilst  he  gazed,  a  gallant,  drest 
In  flaunting  robes  above  the  rest. 

With  awful  accent  cried, 
"What  mortal  of  a  wretched  mind. 
Whose  sighs  infect  the  balmy  wind. 

Has  here  presumed  to  bide  ^" 

At  this  the  swain,  whose  venturous  soul 
No  fears  of  magic  art  control. 

Advanced  in  open  sight ; 
"  Nor  have  I  cause  of  dread,"  he  said, 
«  Who  view,  by  no  presumption  led. 

Your  revels  of  the  night. 

« 'Twas  grief,  for  scorn  of  faithful  love, 
Which  made  my  steps  unweeting  rove 

Amid  the  nightly  dew." 
"  'Tis  well,"  the  gallant  cries  again, 
"  We  fairies  never  injure  men 

Who  dare  to  tell  us  true. 

"  Exalt  thy  love-dejected  heart. 
Be  mine  the  task,  or  ere  we  part. 

To  make  thee  grief  resign ; 
Now  take  the  pleasure  of  thy  chaunce  ; 
Whilst  I  with  Mab,  my  partner,  dauncc 

Be  little  Mable  thine." 

He  spoke,  and  all  a  sudden  there 
Light  music  floats  in  wanton  air ; 

The  monarch  leads  the  queen : 
The  rest  their  fairy  partners  found : 
And  Mable  trimly  tript  the  ground 

With  Edwin  of  the  Green. 
2a 


374 


THOMAS   PARNELL. 


The  dauncing  past,  the  board  was  laid, 
And  siker  such  a  feast  was  made 

As  heart  and  lip  desire ; 
Withouten  hands  the  dishes  fly, 
The  glasses  with  a  wish  come  nigh. 

And  with  a  wish  retire. 

But,  now  to  please  the  fairy  king, 
Full  every  deal  they  laugh  and  sing, 
,         And  antic  feats  devise; 
Some  wind  and  tumble  like  an  ape. 
And  other  some  transmute  their  shape 
In  Edwin's  wondering  eyes. 

Till  one  at  last,  that  Robin  bight, 
Renown'd  for  pinching  maids  by  night, 

Has  bent  him  up  aloof; 
And  full  against  the  beam  he  flung. 
Where  by  the  back  the  youth  he  hung 

To  sprawl  uneath  the  roof. 

From  thence,  "  Reverse  my  charm,"  he  cries, 
"  And  let  it  fairly  now  suffice 

The  gambol  has  been  shown." 
But  Oberon  answers  with  a  smile, 
"  Content  thee,  Edwin,  for  a  while. 

The  vantage  is  thine  own." 

Here  ended  all  the  phantom-play  ; 
They  smelt  the  fresh  approach  of  day. 

And  heard  a  cock  to  crow ; 
The  whirling  wind  that  bore  the  crowd 
Has  clapp'd  the  door,  and  whistled  loud, 

To  warn  them  all  to  go. 

Then,  screaming,  all  at  once  they  fly. 
And  all  at  once  the  tapers  die ; 

Poor  Edwin  falls  to  floor ; 
Forlorn  his  state,  and  dark  the  place  ; 
Was  never  wight  in  such  a  case 

Through  all  the  land  before. 

But  soon  as  Dan  Apollo  rose. 
Full  jolly  creature  home  he  goes, 

He  feels  his  back  the  less ; 
His  honest  tongue  and  steady  mind 
Had  rid  him  of  the  lump  behind. 

Which  made  him  want  success. 

With  lusty  livelyhed  he  talks, 
He  seems  a  dauncing  as  he  walks, 

His  story  soon  took  wind  ; 
And  beauteous  Edith  sees  the  youth 
Endow'd  with  courage,  sense,  and  truth, 

Without  a  bunch  behind. 

I'he  story  told.  Sir  Topaz  moved. 
The  youth  of  Edith  erst  approved, 

To  see  the  revel  scene : 
At  close  of  eve  he  leaves  his  home, 
And  wends  to  find  the  ruin'd  dome 

All  on  the  gloomy  plain. 

As  there  he  bides,  it  so  befel. 
The  wind  came  rustling  down  a  dell, 
A  shaking  seized  the  wall ; 


Up  spring  the  tapers  as  before. 
The  fairies  bragly  foot  the  floor. 
And  music  fills  the  hall. 

But,  certes,  sorely  sunk  with  woe. 
Sir  Topaz  sees  the  elfin  show. 

His  spirits  in  him  die: 
When  Oberon  cries.  ''  A  man  is  near, 
A  mortal  passion,  cleped  fear. 

Hangs  flagging  in  the  sky." 

With  that  Sir  Topaz,  hapless  youth! 
In  accents  faultering,  ay  for  ruth, 

Intreats  them  pity  grant; 
For  als  he  been  a  mister  wight, 
Betray'd  by  wandering  in  the  night. 

To  tread  the  circled  haunt. 

"A  losell  vile,"  at  once  they  roar; 
"  And  little  skill'd  of  fairy  lore, 

Thy  cause  to  come  we  know: 
Now  has  thy  kestrel  courage  fell ; 
And  fairies,  since  a  lie  you  tell, 

Are  free  to  work  thee  woe." 

Then  Will,  who  bears  the  wispy  fire 
To  trail  the  swains  among  the  mire. 

The  caitiff  upward  flung ; 
There,  like  a  tortoise  in  a  shop. 
He  dangled  from  the  chamber  top. 

Where  whilome  Edwin  hung. 

The  revels  now  proceeds  apace. 
Deftly  they  frisk  it  o'er  the  place, 

They  sit,  they  drink,  and  eat; 
The  time  with  frolic  mirth  beguile. 
And  poor  Sir  Topaz  hangs  the  while 

Till  all  the  rout  retreat. 

By  this  the  stars  began  to  wink, 
They  shriek,  they  fly,  the  tapers  sink, 

And  down  y-drops  the  knight : 
For  never  spell  by  fairy  laid 
With  strong  enchantment  bound  a  glade. 

Beyond  the  length  of  night. 

Chill,  dark,  alone,  adreed,  he  lay, 
Till  up  the  welkin  rose  the  day. 

Then  deem'd  the  dole  was  o'er; 
But  wot  ye  well  his  harder  lot  1 
His  seely  back  the  bunch  had  got 

Which  Edwin  lost  afore. 

This  tale  a  Sybil-nurse  ared  ; 

She  softly  stroked  my  youngling  head. 

And  when  the  tale  was  done, 
"Thus  some  are  born,  my  son, '  she  cries, 
«  With  base  impediments  to  rise. 

And  some  are  born  with  none. 

"  But  virtue  can  itself  advance 

To  what  the  favourite  fools  of  chance 

By  fortune  seem'd  design'd ; 
Virtue  can  gain  the  odds  of  fate. 
And  from  itself  shake  off  the  weight 

Upon  th'  unworthy  mind."* 


I       [*  Never  was  the  old  manner  of  speaking  more  happily 
I   applied,  or  a  tale  better  told,  than  this. — Goldsmitji.I 


THOMAS  PARNELL. 


375 


THE  BOOK-WORM. 

Come  hither,  boy,  we'll  hunt  to-day 
The  book-worm,  ravening  beast  of  prey, 
Produced  by  parent  earth,  at  odds, 
As  fame  reports  it,  with  the  gods. 
Him  frantic  hunger  wildly  drives 
Against  a  thousand  authors'  lives : 
Through  all  the  fields  of  wit  he  flies  ; 
Dreadful  his  head  with  clustering  eyes, 
With  horns  without,  and  tusks  within, 
And  scales  to  serve  him  for  a  skin. 
Observe  him  nearly,  lest  he  climb 
To  wound  the  bards  of  ancient  time. 
Or  down  the  vale  of  fancy  go 
To  tear  some  modem  wretch  below. 
On  every  corner  fix  thine  eye. 
Or  ten  to  one  he  slips  thee  by. 
See  where  his  teeth  a  passage  eat : 
We'll  rouse  him  from  the  deep  retreat. 
But  who  the  shelter  's  forced  to  give? 
'Tis  sacred  Virgil,  as  I  live ! 
From  leaf  to  leaf,  from  song  to  song, 
He  draws  the  tadpole  form  along; 
He  mounts  the  gilded  edge  before ; 
He's  up,  he  scuds  the  cover  o'er ; 
He  turns,  he  doubles,  there  he  past. 
And  here  we  have  him,  caught  at  last. 
Insatiate  brute,  whose  teeth  abuse 
The  sweetest  servants  of  the  Muse  ! 
(Nay,  never  oflier  to  deny, 
I  took  thee  in  the  fact  to  fly.) 
His  roses  nipp'd  in  every  page. 
My  poor  Anacreon  mourns  thy  rage ; 
By  thee  my  Ovid  wounded  lies 
By  thee  my  Lesbia's  sparrow  dies ; 
Thy  rabid  teeth  have  half  destroy'd 
The  work  of  love  in  Biddy  Floyd; 
They  rent  Belinda's  locks  away, 
And  spoil'd  the  Blouzeiind  of  Gay. 
For  all,  for  every  single  deed. 
Relentless  justice  bids  thee  bleed. 
Then  fall  a  victim  to  the  Nine, 
Myself  the  priest,  my  desk  the  shrine. 

Bring  Homer,  Virgil,  Tasso  near. 
To  pile  a  sacred  altar  here  ; 
Hold,  boy,  thy  hand  outruns  thy  wit, 
You  reach'd  the  plays  that  Dennis  writ; 
You  reach'd  me  Philips'  rustic  strain  ; 
Pray  take  your  mortal  bards  again. 

Come,  bind  the  victim, — there  he  lies, 
And  here  between  his  numerous  eyes 
This  venerable  dust  I  lay. 
From  manuscripts  just  swept  away. 

The  goblet  in  my  hand  I  take, 
(For  the  libation  's  yet  to  make,) 
A  health  to  poets !  ail  their  days 
May  they  have  bread,  as  well  as  praise  ; 
Sense  may  they  seek,  and  less  engage 
In  papers  fiU'd  with  party-rage ; 
But  if  their  riches  spoil  their  vein, 
Ye  Muses,  make  them  poor  again  ! 

Now  bring  the  weapon,  yonder  blade, 
With  which  my  tuneful  pens  are  made. 


I  strike  the  scales  that  arm  thee  round. 
And  twice  and  thrice  I  print  the  wound , 
The  sacred  altar  floats  with  red  ; 
And  now  he  dies,  and  now  he's  dead. 

How  like  the  son  of  Jove  I  stand, 
This  Hydra  stretch'd  beneath  my  hand  ! 
Lay  bare  the  monster's  entrails  here. 
To  see  what  dangers  threat  the  year : 
Ye  gods !  what  sonnets  on  a  wench ! 
What  lean  translations  out  of  French ! 
Tis  plain,  this  lobe  is  so  unsound, 
S prints  before  the  months  go  round. 

But  hold,  before  I  close  the  scene, 
The  sacred  altar  should  be  clean. 
Oh  had  I  Shadwell's  second  bays. 
Or,  Tate,  thy  pert  and  humble  lays ! 
(Ye  pair,  forgive  me,  when  I  vow 
I  never  miss'd  your  works  till  now,) 
I'd  tear  the  leaves  to  wipe  the  shrine 
(That  only  way  you  please  the  Nine:) 
But  since  I  chance  to  want  these  two, 
I'll  make  the  songs  of  Durfey  do. 

Rent  from  the  corpse,  on  yonder  pin 
I  hang  the  scales  that  braced  it  in ; 
I  hang  my  studious  morning-gowrr, 
And  write  my  own  inscription  down. 

"  This  trophy  from  the  Python  won, 
This  robe,  in  which  the  deed  was  done ; 
These,  Parnell,  glorying  in  the  feat. 
Hung  on  these  shelves,  the  Muses'  seat. 
Here  ignorance  and  hunger  found 
Large  realms  of  wit  to  ravage  round : 
Here  ignorance  and  hunger  fell : 
Two  foes  in  one  I  sent  to  hell. 
Ye  poets,  who  my  labours  see. 
Come  share  the  triumph  all  with  me ! 
Ye  critics !  born  to  vex  the  Muse, 
Go  mourn  the  grand  allr  you  lose." 


AN  IMITATION  OF  SOME  FRENCH  VERSES. 

Relentless  Time !  destroying  power, 
Whom  stone  and  brass  obey, 

Who  givest  to  every  flying  hour 
To  work  some  new  decay ; 

Unheard,  unheeded,  and  unseen. 

Thy  secret  saps  prevail. 
And  ruin  man,  a  nice  machine, 

By  nature  form'd  to  fail. 

My  change  arrives;  the  change  I  meet 

Before  I  thought  it  nigh. 
My  spring,  my  years  of  pleasure  fleet. 

And  all  their  beauties  die. 

In  age  I  search,  and  only  find 

A  poor  unfruitful  gain, 
Grave  wisdom  stalking  slow  behind, 

Oppress'd  with  loads  of  pain. 

My  ignorance  could  once  beguile. 

And  fancied  joys  inspire ; 
My  errors  cherish'd  hope  to  smile 

On  newly-born  desire. 


876 


THOMAS   PARNELL. 


But  now  experience  shows,  the  bliss 

For  which  I  fondly  sought, 
Not  worth  the  long  impatient  wish, 

And  ardour  of  the  thought. 

My  youth  met  Fortune  fair  array'd, 

In  all  her  pomp  she  shone, 
And  might  perhaps  have  well  essay'd 

To  make  her  gifts  my  own : 

But  when  I  saw  the  blessings  shower 

On  some  unworthy  mind, 
I  left  the  chase,  and  own'd  the  power 

Was  justly  painted  blind. 

I  pass'd  the  glories  which  adorn 
The  splendid  courts  of  kings, 

And  while  the  persons  moved  my  scorn, 
I  rose  to  scorn  the  things. 

My  manhood  felt  a  vigorous  fire 

By  love  increased  the  more ; 
But  years  with  coming  years  conspire 

To  break  the  chains  I  wore. 

In  weakness  safe,  the  sex  I  see 

With  idle  lustre  shine ; 
For  what  are  all  their  joys  to  me. 

Which  cannot  now  be  mine  1 

But  hold — I  feel  my  gout  decrease, 

My  troubles  laid  to  rest, 
And  truths  which  would  disturb  my  peace 

Are  painful  truths  at  best. 

Vainly  the  time  I  have  to  roll 

In  sad  reflection  flies ; 
Ye  fondling  passions  of  my  soul ! 

Ye  sweet  deceits !  arise. 

I  wisely  change  the  scene  within. 
To  things  that  used  to  please ; 

In  pain,  philosophy  is  spleen, 
In  health,  'tis  only  ease. 


A  NIOHT-PIECE  ON  DEATH. 

By  the  blue  taper's  trembling  light. 
No  more  I  waste  the  wakeful  night. 
Intent  with  endless  view  to  pore 
The  schoolmen  and  the  sages  o'er : 
Their  books  from  wisdom  widely  stray. 
Or  ]>oint  at  best  the  longest  way. 
I'll  seek  a  readier  path,  and  go 
Where  wisdom "s  surely  taught  below. 

How  deep  yon  azure  dyes  the  sky  ! 
Where  orbs  of  gold  unnumber'd  lie, 
While  through  their  ranks  in  silver  pride 
The  nether  crescent  seems  to  glide. 
The  slumbering  breeze  forgets  to  breathe. 
The  lake  is  smooth  and  clear  beneath. 
Where  once  again  the  spangled  show 
Descends  to  meet  our  eyes  below. 
The  grounds,  which  on  the  right  aspire. 
In  dimness  from  the  view  retire  : 
The  left  presents  a  place  of  graves, 
Whose  wall  the  silent  water  laves. 


That  steeple  guides  thy  doubtful  sight 
Among  the  livid  gleams  of  night. 
There  pass  with  melancholy  state 
By  all  the  solemn  heaps  of  fate. 
And  think,  as  softly-sad  you  tread 
Above  the  venerable  dead, 
"Time  was,  like  thee,  they  life  possest 
And  time  shall  be,  that  thou  sbalt  rest." 

Those  with  bending  osier  bound, 
That  nameless  have  the  crumbled  ground, 
Quick  to  the  glancing  thought  disclose. 
Where  toil  and  poverty  repose. 

The  flat  smooth  stones  that  bear  a  name. 
The  chisel's  slender  help  to  fame, 
(Which  ere  our  set  of  friends  decay. 
Their  frequent  steps  may  wear  away,) 
A  middle  race  of  mortals  own, 
Men,  half  ambitious,  all  unknown. 

The  marble  tombs  that  rise  on  high, 
Whose  dead  in  vaulted  arches  lie, 
Whose  pillars  swell  with  sculptured  stones, 
Arms,  angels,  epitaphs,  and  bones ; 
These,  all  the  poor  remains  of  state. 
Adorn  the  rich,  or  praise  the  great ; 
Who,  while  on  earth  in  fame  they  live. 
Are  senseless  of  the  fame  they  give. 

Ha !  while  I  gaze,  pale  Cynthia  fades. 
The  bursting  earth  unveils  the  shades ! 
All  slow,  and  wen,  and  wrapp'd  with  shrouds. 
They  rise  in  visionary  crowds. 
And  all  with  sober  accent  cry, 
"  Think,  mortal,  what  it  is  to  die." 

Now  from  yon  black  and  iiineral  yew. 
That  bathes  the  charnel-house  with  dew, 
Methinks  I  hear  a  voice  begin ; 
(Ye  ravens,  cease  your  croaking  din, 
Ye  tolling  clocks,  no  time  resound 
O'er  the  long  lake  and  midnight  ground!) 
It  sends  a  peal  of  hollow  groans. 
Thus  speaking  from  amongst  the  bones. 

When  men  my  scythe  and  darts  supply. 
How  great  a  king  of  fears  am  I ! 
They  view  me  like  the  last  of  things ; 
They  make,  and  then  thy  draw,  my  strings. 
Fools !  if  you  less  provoked  your  fears, 
No  more  my  spectre  form  appears. 
Death  's  but  a  path  that  must  be  trod. 
If  man  would  ever  pass  to  God : 
A  port  of  calms,  a  state  to  ease 
From  the  rough  rage  of  swelling  seas. 

Why  then  thy  flowing  sable  stoles, 
Deep  pendant  cypress,  mourning  poles. 
Loose  scarfs  to  fall  athwart  thy  weeds. 
Long  palls,  drawn  hearses,  cover'd  steeds. 
And  plumes  of  black,  that,  as  they  tread, 
Nod  o'er  the  'scutcheons  of  the  dead  1 

Nor  can  the  parted  body  know. 

Not  wants  the  soul,  these  forms  of  woe ; 


THOMAS  PARNELL. 


As  men  who  long  in  prison  dwell, 
With  lamps  that  glimmer  round  the  cell, 
Whene'er  their  suffering  years  are  run, 
Spring  forth  to  greet  the  glittering  sun : 
Such  joy,  though  far  transcending  sense, 
Have  pious  souls  at  parting  hence. 
On  earth,  and  in  the  body  placed, 
A  iewT;  and  evil  years,  they  waste: 
But  when  their  chains  are  cast  aside. 
See  the  glad  scene  unfolding  wide. 
Clap  the  glad  wing,  and  tower  away. 
And  mingle  with  the  blaze  of  day.* 


THE  HBRMIT. 

Far  in  a  wild,  unknown  to  public  view, 
From  youth  to  age  a  reverend  hermit  grew ; 
The  moss  his  bed,  the  cave  his  humble  cell, 
His  food  the  fruits,  his  drink  the  crystal  well: 
Remote  from  men,  with  God  he  pass'd  the  days. 
Prayer  all  his  business,  all  his  pleasure  praise. 

A  life  so  sacred,  such  serene  repose, 
Seem'd  Heaven  itself,  till  one  suggestion  rose; 
That  vice  should  triumph,  virtue  vice  obey, 
This  sprung  some  doubt  of  Providence's  sway : 
His  hopes  no  more  a  certain  prospect  boast. 
And  all  the  tenor  of  his  soul  is  lost: 
So  when  a  smooth  expanse  receives  imprest 
Calm  nature's  image  on  its  watery  breast, 
Down  bend  the  banks,  the  trees  depending  grow, 
A^nd  skies  beneath  with  answering  colours  glow; 
But  if  a  stone  the  gentle  sea  divide. 
Swift  ruffling  circles  curl  on  every  side. 
And  glimmering  fragments  of  a  broken  sun. 
Banks,  trees,  and  skies,  in  thick  disorder  run. 

To  clear  this  doubt,  to  know  the  world  by  sight. 
To  find  if  books,  or  swains,  report  it  right, 
(For  yet  by  swains  alone  the  world  ne  knew. 
Whose  feet  came  wandering  o'er  the  nightly  dew,) 
He  quits  his  cell :  the  pilgrim  staff  he  bore. 
And  fix'd  the  scallop  in  his  hat  before ; 
Then  with  the  sun  a  rising  journey  went, 
Sedate  to  think,  and  watching  each  event. 

The  morn  was  wasted  in  the  pathless  grass. 
And  long  and  lonesome  was  the  wild  to  pass : 
But  when  the  southern  sun  had  warm'd  the  day, 
A  youth  came  posting  o'er  a  crossing  way ; 
His  raiment  decent,  his  complexion  fair. 
And  soft  in  graceful  ringlets  waved  his  hair. 
Then  near  approaching.  Father,  hail !  he  cried. 
And  hail,  my  son,  the  reverend  sire  replied ; 
Words   follow'd   words,   from   question   answer 

flow'd. 
And  talk  of  various  kind  deceived  the  road ; 
Till  each  with  other  pleased,  and  loth  to  part, 
While  in  their  age  they  differ,  join  in  heart. 


[•  The  great  feult  of  this  piece  U,  that  it  Is  in  eight- 
syllable  lines,  ve.ry  improper  for  the  solemnity  of  the  sub- 
ject: otht-rwise  the  poem  is  natural,  and  the  reflectiomi 
Juf  t — Qmy  UIUTH.J 


Thus  stands  an  aged  elm  in  ivy  bound. 
Thus  youthful  ivy  clasps  an  elm  around. 

Now  sunk  the  sun ;  the  closing  hour  of  day 
Came  onward,  mantled  o'er  with  sober  gray ; 
Nature  in  silence  bid  the  world  repose ; 
When  near  tlie  road  a  stately  pulace  rose: 
There,  by  the  moon,  through  ranks  of  trees  they 

pass. 
Whose  verdure  crown'd  their  sloping  sides  of 

grass. 
It  chanced  the  noble  master  of  the  dome 
Still  made  his  house  the  wandering  stranger's 

home : 
Yet  still  the  kindness,  firom  a  thirst  of  praise. 
Proved  the  vain  flourish  of  expensive  ease. 
The  pair  arrive:  the  liveried  servants  wait; 
Their  lord  receives  them  at  the  pompous  gate. 
The  table  groans  with  costly  piles  of  food. 
And  all  is  more  than  hospitably  good. 
Then  led  to  rest,  the  day's  long  toil  they  drown 
Deep  sunk  in  sleep,  and  silk,  and  heaps  of  down. 

At  length  'tis  morn,  and  at  the  dawn  of  day. 
Along  the  wide  canals  the  zephyrs  play : 
Fresh  o'er  the  gay  parterres  the  breezes  creep. 
And  shake  the  neighbouring  wood  to  banish  sleep, 
Up  rise  the  guests,  obedient  to  the  call : 
An  early  banquet  deck'd  the  splendid  hall ; 
Rich  luscious  wine  a  golden  goblet  graced. 
Which  the  kind  master  forced  the  guests  to  taste. 
I'hen,  pleased  and  thankful,  from  the  porch  they  go. 
And,  but  the  landlord,  none  had  cause  of  woe : 
His  cup  was  vanish'd ;  for  in  secret  guise 
The  younger  guest  purloin'd  the  gUttering  prize. 

As  one  who  spies  a  serpent  in  his  way. 
Glistening  and  basking  in  the  summer  ray, 
Disorder'd  stops  to  shun  the  danger  near. 
Then  walks  with  faintness  on,  and  looks  with  fear; 
So  seem'd  the  sire,  when  far  upon  the  road, 
The  shining  spoil  his  wily  partner  show'd. 
He  stopp'd  with  silence,  walk'd  with  trembling 

heart. 
And  much  he  wish'd,  but  durst  not  ask  to  part: 
Murmuring  he  Ufts  his  eyes,  and  thinks  it  hard 
That  generous  actions  meet  a  base  reward. 

While  thus  they  pass,  the  sun  his  glory  shrouds. 
The  changing  skies  hang  out  their  sable  clouds; 
A  sound  in  air  presaged  approaching  rain, 
And  beasts  to  covert  scud  across  the  plain. 
Warn'd  by  the  signs,  the  wandering  pair  retreat. 
To  seek  for  shelter  at  a  neighbouring  seat. 
'Twas  built  with  turrets,  on  a  rising  ground, 
And  strong,  and  large,  and  unimproved  around; 
It  owner's  temper,  timorous  and  severe. 
Unkind  and  griping,  caused  a  desert  there. 

As  near  the  miser's  heavy  doors  they  drew. 
Fierce  rising  gusts  with  sudden  fury  blew  ; 
The  nimble  lightning  roix'd  with  showers  begab. 
And  o'er  their  heads  loud  roiling  thunders  ran. 
Here  long  they  knock,  but  knock  or  call  in  vain 
Driven  by  the  wind,  and  batter'd  by  the  rain 
So2 


•iTS 


THOMAS  PARNELL. 


At  length  some  pity  warni'd  the  master's  breast, 
('Twas  then  his  threshold  first  received  a  guest)  ; 
Slow  creaking  turns  the  door  with  jealous  care, 
And  half  he  welcomes  in  the  shivering  pair; 
One  frugal  faggot  lights  the  naked  walls, 
And  nature's  fervour  through  their  limbs  recalls : 
Bread  of  the  coarsest  sort,  with  eager  wine, 
(Each  hardly  granted)  served  them  both  to  dine; 
And  when  the  tempest  first  appear'd  to  cease, 
A  ready  warning  bid  them  part  in  peace. 
With  still  remark  the  pondering  hermit  view'd. 
In  one  so  rich,  a  life  so  poor  and  rude : 
And  why  should  such,  within  himself  he  cried, 
Lock  the  lost  wealth  a  thousand  want  beside  ! 
But  what  new  marks  of  wonder  soon  took  place. 
In  every  settling  feature  of  his  face. 
When  from  his  vest  the  young  companion  bore 
That  cup,  the  generous  landlord  own'd  before, 
And  paid  profusely  with  the  precious  bowl 
The  stinted  kindness  of  this  churlish  soul ! 

But  now  the  clouds  in  airy  tumult  fly ; 
The  sun  emerging  ope's  an  azure  sky  ; 
A  fresher  green  the  smelling  leaves  display, 
And,  glittering  as  they  tremble,  cheer  the  day : 
The  weather  courts  them  from  the  poor  retreat, 
And  the  glad  master  bolts  the  wary  gate. 

While  hence  they  walk,  the  pilgrim's  bosom 
wrought 
With  all  the  travel  of  uncertain  thought: 
His  partner's  acts  without  their  cause  appear, 
'Twas  there  a  vice,  and  seem'd  a  madness  here: 
Detesting  that,  and  pitying  this,  he  goes. 
Lost  and  confounded  with  the  various  shows. 

Now  night's  dim  shades  again  involve  the  sky, 
Again  the  wanderers  want  a  place  to  lie, 
Again  they  search,  and  find  a  lodging  nigh. 
The  soil  improved  around,  the  mansion  neat, 
And  neither  poorly  low  nor  idly  great : 
It  seem'd  to  speak  its  master's  turn  of  mind. 
Content,  and  not  to  praise,  but  virtue,  kind. 

Hither  the  walkers  turn  with  weary  feet, 
Then  bless  the  mansion,  and  the  master  greet : 
Their  greeting  fair,  bestow'd  with  modest  guise, 
The  courteous  master  hears,  and  thus  replies : 

Without  a  vain,  without  a  grudging  heart, 
To  him  who  gives  us  all,  I  yield  a  part; 
From  him  you  come,  for  him  accept  it  here, 
A  frank  and  sober,  more  than  costly  cheer. 
He  spoke,  and  bid  the  welcome  table  spread, 
Then  talk  of  virtue  till  the  time  of  bed. 
When  the  grave  household  round  his  hall  repair, 
Warn'd  by  a  bell,  and  close  the  hours  with  prayer. 

At  length  the  world,  renew'd  by  calm  repose, 
Was  strong  for  toil ;  the  dappled  morn  arose; 
Before  the  pilgrims  part,  the  younger  crept 
Near  the  closed  cradle  where  an  infant  slept, 
And  writhed  his  neck:  the  landlord's  little  pride 
(O  strange  return!)  grew  black,  and  gasp'd,  and 
died. 


Horrors  of  horrors  !  what,  his  only  son  ! 
How  look'd  our  hermit  when  the  fact  was  done'' 
Kot  hell,  though  hell's  black  jaws  in  sunder  part, 
And  breathe  blue  fire,  could  more  assault  his  heart. 

Confused,  and  struck  with  silence  at  the  deed, 
He  flies,  but  trembling  fails  to  fly  with  speed. 
His  steps  the  youth  pursues ;  the  country  lay 
Perplex'd  with  roads ;  a  servant  show'd  the  way : 
A  river  cross'd  the  path ;  the  passage  o'er 
Was  nice  to  find ;  the  servant  trod  before  ; 
Long  arms  of  oaks  an  open  bridge  supplied, 
And  deep  the  waves  beneath  the  bending  glide. 
The  youth,  who  seem'd  to  watch  a  time  to  sin, 
Approach'd  the  careless  guide,  and  thrust  him  in; 
Plunging  he  falls,  and  rising  lifts  his  head. 
Then  flashing  turns,  and  sinks  among  the  dead. 

Wild  sparkling  rage  inflames  the  father's  eyes , 
He  bursts  the  bands  of  fear,  and  madly  cries. 
Detested  wretch ! — But  scarce  his  speech  began, 
When  the  strange  partner  seem'd  no  longer  man: 
His  youthful  face  grew  more  serenely  sweet ; 
His  robe  turn'd  white,  and  flow'd  upon  his  feet, 
Fair  rounds  of  radiant  points  invest  his  hair ; 
Celestial  odours  breathe  through  purpled  air; 
And  wings,  whose  colours  glitter'd  on  the  day, 
Wide  at  his  back  their  gradual  plumes  display. 
The  form  etherial  burst  upon  his  sight. 
And  moves  in  all  the  majesty  of  light. 

Though  loud  at  first  the  pilgrim's  passion  grew 
Sudden  he  gazed,  and  wist  not  what  to  do; 
Surprise  in  secret  chains  his  words  suspends, 
And  in  a  calm  his  settling  temper  ends. 
But  silence  here  the  beauteous  angel  broke 
(The  voice  of  music  ravish'd  as  he  spoke.) 

Thy  prayer,  thy  praise,  thy  life  to  vice  unknown, 
In  sweet  memorial  rise  before  the  throne : 
These  charms  success  in  our  bright  region  find, 
And  force  an  angel  down  to  calm  thy  mind ; 
For  this,  commission'd,  I  forsook  the  sky  ; 
Nay,  cease  to  kneel — thy  fellow-servant  I. 

Then  know  the  truth  of  government  divine, 
And  let  these  scruples  be  no  longer  thine. 

The  Maker  justly  claims  that  world  he  made. 
In  this  the  right  of  Providence  is  laid  ; 
Its  sacred  majesty  through  all  depends 
On  using  second  means  to  work  his  ends : 
'Tis  thus,  withdrawn  in  state  from  human  eye. 
The  Power  exerts  his  attributes  on  high; 
Your  actions  uses,  nor  controls  your  will. 
And  bids  the  doubting  sons  of  men  be  still. 

What  strange  events  can  strike  with   more 
surprise, 
Than  those  which  lately  struck  thy  wondering  eyes! 
Yet,  taught  by  these,  confess  th'  Almighty  just, 
And  where  you  can't  unriddle,  learn  to  trust ! 

The  great,  vain  man,  who  fared  on  costly  food 
Whose  life  was  too  luxurious  to  be  good — 


THOiMAS    PARNELL. 


879 


Who  made  his  ivory  stands  with  goblets  shine, 
And  forced  his  guests  to  morning  draughts  of  wine, 
Has,  with  the  cup,  the  graceless  custom  lost. 
And  still  he,  welcomes,  but  with  less  of  cost. 

The  mean,  suspicious  wretch,  whose  bolted  door 
Ne'er  moved  in  duty  to  the  wandering  poor ; 
\Vith  him  I  left  the  cup,  to  teach  his  mind 
That  Heaven  can  bless,  if  mortals  will  be  kind. 
Conscious  of  wanting  worth,  he  views  the  bowl, 
And  feels  compassion  touch  his  grateful  soul. 
Thus  artists  melt  the  sullen  ore  of  lead. 
With  heaping  coals  of  fire  upon  its  head ; 
In  the  kind  warmth  the  metal  learns  to  glow, 
And  loose  from  dross  the  silver  runs  below. 

Long  had  our  pious  friend  in  virtue  trod. 
But  now  the  child  half  wean'd  his  heart  from  God; 
(Child  of  his  age)  for  him  he  lived  in  pain. 
And  measured  back  his  steps  to  earth  again. 
To  what  excesses  had  his  dotage  run  ! 
But  God,  to  save  the  father,  took  the  son. 
To  all  but  thee,  in  fits  he  seera'd  to  go, 
(And  'twas  my  ministry  to  deal  the  blow) ; 
The  poor  fond  parent  humbled,  in  the  dust. 
Now  owns  in  tears  the  punishment  was  just. 

But  now  had  all  his  fortune  felt  a  wrack, 
Had  that  false  servant  sped  in  safety  back ; 
This  night  his  treasured  heaps  he  meant  to  steal, 
And  what  a  fund  of  charity  would  fail ! 
Thus  Heaven  instructs  thy  mind :  this  trial  o'er, 
Depart  in  peace,  resign,  and  sin  no  more. 

On  sounding  pinions  here  the  youth  withdrew. 
The  sage  stood  wondering  as  the  seraph  flew. 
Thus  look'd  Elisha  when,  to  mount  on  high. 
His  master  took  the  chariot  of  the  sky ; 
The  fiery  pomp  ascending,  left  to  view  ; 
•The  prophet  gazed,  and  wish'd  to  follow  too. 

The  bending  hermit  here  a  prayer  begun, 
«  Lord !  as  in  heaven,  on  earth  thy  will  be  done !" 
Then,  gladly  turning,  sought  his  ancient  place, 
And  pass'd  a  life  of  piety  and  peace. 


PIETY,  OR  THE  VISION. 

'TwAS  when  the  night  in  silent  sable  fled. 
When  cheerful  morning  sprung  with  rising  red. 
When  dreams  and  vapours  leave  to  crowd  the  brain. 
And  best  the  vision  draws  its  heavenly  scene ; 
'Twas  then,  as  slumbering  on  my  couch  I  lay, 
A  sudden  splendour  seem'd  to  kindle  day, 
A  breeze  came  breathing  in  a  sweet  perfume, 
Blown  from  eternal  gardens,  fill'd  the  room  ; 
And  in  a  void  of  blue,  that  clouds  invest, 
Appear'd  a  daughter  of  the  realms  of  rest ; 
Her  head  a  ring  of  golden  glory  wore, 
Her  honour'd  hand  the  sacred  volume  bore, 
Her  raiment  glittering  seem'd  a  silver  white. 
And  all  her  sweet  companions  sons  of  light. 

Straight  as  I  gazed,  my  fear  and  wonder  grew. 
Fear  barr'd  my  voice,  and  wonder  fix'd  my  view; 
When  lo !  a  cherub  of  the  shining  crowd 
That  sail'd  as  guardian  in  her  azure  cloud, 


Fann'd  the  soft  air,  and  downward  seem'd  to  glide, 
And  to  my  lips  a  living  coal  applied. 
Then  while  the  warmth  o'er  all  my  pulses  ran, 
Dififusing  comfort,  thus  the  maid  began  : 

"  Where  glorious  mansions  are  prepared  above, 
The  seats  of  music,  and  the  seats  of  love, 
Thence  I  descend,  and  Piety  my  name. 
To  warm  thy  bosom  with  celestial  flame. 
To  teach  thee  praises  mix'd  with  humble  prayers. 
And  tune  thy  soul  to  sing  seraphic  airs. 
Be  thou  my  bard."     A  vial  here  she  caught 
(An  angel's  hand  the  crystal  vial  brought)  ; 
And  as  with  awful  sound  the  word  was  said, 
She  pour'd  a  sacred  unction  on  my  head ; 
Then  thus  proceeded :  "  Be  thy  muse  thy  zeal, 
Dare  to  be  good,  and  all  my  joys  reveal. 
While  other  pencils  flattering  forms  create. 
And  paint  the  gaudy  plumes  that  deck  the  great; 
While  other  pens  exalt  the  vain  delight. 
Whose  wasteful  revel  wakes  the  depth  of  night; 
Or  others  softly  sing  in  idle  lines 
How  Damon  courts,  or  Amaryllis  shines ; 
More  wisely  thou  select  a  theme  divine. 
Fame  is  their  recompense,  'tis  Heaven  is  thine. 
Despise  the  raptures  of  discorded  fire. 
Where  wine,  or  passion,,  or  applause  inspire 
Low  restless  life,  and  ravings  born  of  earth, 
Whose  meaner  subjects  speak  their  humble  birth. 
Like  working  seas,  that  when  loud  winters  blow. 
Not  made  for  rising,  only  rage  below. 
Mine  is  a  warm,  and  yet  a  lambent  heat. 
More  lasting  still,  as  more  intensely  great; 
Produced  where  prayer,  and  praise,  and  pleasure 

breathe. 
And  ever  mounting  whence  it  shot  beneath. 
Unpaint  the  love,  that,  hovering  over  beds 
From  glittering  pinions,  guilty  pleasure  sheds ; 
Restore  the  colour  to  the  golden  mines 
With  which  behind  the  fealher'd  idol  shines ; 
To  flowering  greens  give  back  their  native  care. 
The  rose  and  lily,  never  his  to  wear ; 
To  sweet  Arabia  send  the  balmy  breath; 
Strip  the  fair  flesh,  and  call  the  phantom  Death: 
His  bow  he  sabled  o'er,  his  shafts  the  same. 
And  fork  and  point  them  with  eternal  flame. 

"But   urge   thy   powers,  thine  utmost  voice 
advance. 
Make  the  loud  strings  against  thy  fingers  dance : 
'Tis  love  that  angels  praise  and  men  adore, 
'Tis  love  divine  that  asks  it  all  and  more. 
Fling  back  the  gates  of  ever-blazing  day. 
Pour  floods  of  liquid  light  to  gild  the  way ; 
And  ail  in  glory  wrapt,  through  paths  untrod, 
Pursue  the  great  unseen  descent  of  God. 
Hail  the  meek  virgin,  bid  the  child  appear. 
The  child  is  God,  and  call  him  Jesus  here. 
He  comes,  but  where  to  rest  1     A  manger's  nigli, 
Make  the  great  Being  in  a  manger  he; 
Fill  the  wide  sky  with  angels  on  the  wing. 
Make  thousands  gaze,  and  make  ten  thousand  sing 
Let  men  afllict  him,  men  he  came  to  save, 
.\nd  still  aflhct  him  till  he  reach  the  grave; 
Make  him  resign'd,  his  loads  of  sorrow  meet, 
And  me,  like  Mary,  weep  beneath  his  feet ; 


880 


THOMAS   PARNELL. 


I'll  bathe  my  tresses  there,  my  prayers  rehearse, 
And  glide  in  flames  of  love  along  my  verse. 

"  Ah !  while  I  speak,  I  feel  my  bosom  swell, 
My  raptures  smother  what  I  long  to  tell. 
'Tis  God  !  a  present  God  !  through  cleaving  air 
I  see  the  throne,  and  see  the  Jesus  there 
Placed  on  the  right.  He  shows  the  wounds  he  bore 
(My  fervours  oft  have  won  him  thus  before) : 
How  pleased  he  looks,  my  words  have  reach'd  his 
He  bids  the  gates  unbar,  and  calls  me  near."  fear ; 

She  ceased.     The  cloud  on  which  she  seem'd  to 
tread 
Its  curls  unfolded,  and  around  her  spread ; 
Bright  angels  waft  their  wings  to  raise  the  cloud, 
And  sweep  their  ivory  lutes,  and  sing  aloud ; 
The  scene  moves  off,  while  all  its  ambient  sky 
Is  turn'd  to  wondrous  music  as  they  fly ; 
And  soft  the  swelling  sounds  of  music  grow, 
And  faint  their  softness,  till  they  fail  below. 

My  downy  sleep  the  warmth  of  Phoebus  broke, 
And  while  my  thoughts  were  settling,  thus  I  spoke : 
Thou  beauteous  vision  !  on  the  soul  impress'd. 
When  most  my  reason  would  appear  to  rest, 
'Twas  sure  with  pencils  dipp'd  in  various  lights, 
Some  curious  angel  limn'd  thy  sacred  sights ; 
From  blazing  suns  his  radiant  gold  he  drew, 
While  moons  the  silver  gave,  and  air  the  blue. 
I'll  mount  the  roving  wind's  expanded  wing, 
And  seek  the  sacred  hill,  and  light  to  sing 
('Tis  known  in  Jewry  well) ;  I'll  make  my  lays, 
Obedient  to  thy  summons,  sound  with  praise. 

But  still  I  fear,  unwarm'd  with  holy  flame, 
I  take  for  truth  the  flatteries  of  a  dream  ; 
And  barely  wish  the  wondrous  gift  I  boast, 
And  faintly  practise  what  deserves  it  mosU 

Indulgent  Lord !  whose  gracious  love  displays 
Joy  in  the  light,  and  fills  the  dark  with  ease ! 
Be  this,  to  bless  my  days,  no  dream  of  bliss ; 
Or  be,  to  bless  the  nights,  my  dreams  like  this. 


HYMN  TO  CONTENTMENT. 
Lovely,  lasting  peace  of  mind 
Sweet  delight  of  human  kind  ! 
Heavenly  born,  and  bred  on  high. 
To  crown  the  favourites  of  the  sky 
With  more  of  happiness  below 
Than  victors  in  a  triumph  know ! 
Whither,  O  whither  art  thou  fled, 
To  lay  thy  meek  contented  head ; 
What  happy  region  dost  thou  please 
To  make  the  seat  of  calms  and  ease ! 

Ambition  searches  all  its  sphere 
Of  pomp  and  state  to  meet  thee  there. 
Increasing  avarice  would  find 
Thy  presence  in  its  gold  enshrined. 
The  bold  adventurer  ploughs  his  way 
Through  rocks  amidst  the  foaming  sea, 
To  gain  thy  love ;  and  then  perceives 
Thou  wert  not  in  the  rocks  and  waves. 


The  silent  heart,  which  grief  assails. 

Treads  soft  and  lonesome  o'er  the  vales, 

Sees  daisies  open,  rivers  run, 

And  seeks  (as  I  have  vainly  done)_ 

Amusing  thought;  but  learns  to  know 

That  solitude's  the  nurse  of  woe. 

No  real  happiness  is  found 

In  trailing  purple  o'er  the  ground : 

Or  in  a  soul  exalted  high, 

To  range  the  circuit  of  the  sky. 

Converse  with  stars  above,  and  know 

All  nature  in  its  forms  below ; 

The  rest  it  seeks,  in  seeking  dies. 

And  doubts  at  last,  for  knowledge,  rise. 

Lovely,  lasting  peace,  appear. 
This  world  itself,  if  thou  art  here. 
Is  once  again  with  Eden  blest, 
And  man  contains  it  in  his  breast. 

'Twas  thus,  as  under  shade  I  stood, 
I  sung  my  wishes  to  the  wood, 
And,  lost  in  thought,  no  more  perceived 
The  branches  whisper  as  they  waved: 
It  seern'd  as  all  the  quiet  place 
Confess'd  the  presence  of  his  gfrace. 
When  thus  she  spoke — Go  rule  thy  will, 
Bid  thy  wild  passions  all  be  still, 
Know  God — and  bring  thy  heart  to  know 
The  joys  which  from  religion  flow  : 
Then  every  grace  shall  prove  its  guest. 
And  I'll  be  there  to  crown  the  rest. 

Oh !  by  yonder  mossy  seat. 
In  my  hours  of  sweet  retreat, 
Might  I  thus  my  soul  employ. 
With  sense  of  gratitude  and  joy; 
Raised  as  ancient  prophets  were. 
In  heavenly  vision,  praise  and  prayer, 
Pleasing  all  men,  hurting  none, 
Pleased  and  bless'd  with  God  alone: 
Then  while  the  gardens  take  my  sight, 
With  all  the  colours  of  delight ; 
While  silver  waters  glide  along. 
To  please  my  ear,  and  court  my  song ; 
I'll  lift  my  voice,  and  tune  my  string, 
And  thee,  great  Source  of  nature,  sing. 

The  sun  that  walks  his  airy  way. 
To  light  the  world,  and  give  the  day  ; 
The  moon  that  shines  with  borrow'd  light 
The  stars  that  gild  the  gloomy  night ; 
The  seas  that  roll  unnumber'd  waves;       , 
The  wood  that  spreads  its  shady  leaves ; 
The  field  whose  ears  conceal  the  grain. 
The  yellow  treasure  of  the  plain ; 
All  of  these,  and  all  I  see. 
Should  be  sung,  and  sung  by  me : 
They  speak  their  Maker  as  they  can. 
But  want  and  ask  the  tongue  of  man. 

Go  search  among  your  idle  dreams. 
Your  busy  or  your  vain  extremes ; 
And  find  a  life  of  equal  bliss, 
Or  own  the  next  begun  in  this. 


NICHOLAS  ROWE. 


CBorn,  1671.    Died,  ITIB.] 


RowE  was  entered  of  the  Middle  Temple  at 
sixteen,  but,  forsaking  the  law,  commenced  his 
dramatic  career  at  the  age  of  twenty-five.     On 


the  accession  of  George  I.  he  waa  made  poei 
laureate  and  land-surveyor  of  the  customs  in  th<> 
port  of  London. 


FEOM  THE  "FAIR  PENITENT." 

ACT  n.  SCENE  I. 

T.ticilla  conjuring  Calista  to  conquer  her  passion  for 
Lothario. 

Cal.  Bk  dumb  for  ever,  silent  as  the  grave. 
Nor  let  thy  fond  officious  love  disturb 
My  solemn  sadness  with  the  sound  of  joy  ! 
If  thou  wilt  soothe  me,  tell  me  some  dismal  tale 
Of  pining  discontent  and  black  despair ; 
For,  oh !  I've  gone  around  through  all  my  thoughts, 
But  all  are  indignation,  love,  or  shame. 
And  my  dear  peace  of  mind  is  lost  for  ever ! 

Lite.  Why  do  you  follow  still  that  wandering  fire, 
That  has  misled  your  weary  steps,  and  leaves  you 
Benighted  in  a  wilderness  of  woe, 
That  false  Lothario  1    Turn  from  the  deceiver ; 
Turn,  and  behold  where  gentle  Altamont, 
Kind  as  the  softest  virgin  of  our  sex. 
And  faithful  as  the  simple  village  swain. 
That  never  knew  the  courtly  vice  of  changing, 
Sighs  at  your  feet,  and  woos  you  to  be  happy. 

Cul.  Away  !  I  think  not  of  him.    My  sad  soul 
Has  form'd  a  dismal  melancholy  scene. 
Such  a  retreat  as  I  would  wish  to  find; 
An  unfrequented  vale,  o'ergrown  with  trees, 
Mossy  and  old,  within  whose  lonesome  shade 
Ravens,  and  birds  ill-omen'd,  only  dwell : 
No  sound  to  break  the  silence,  but  a  brook 
That,  bubbling,  winds  among  the  weeds :  no  mark 
Of  any  human  shape  that  had  been  there, 
Unless  a  skeleton  of  some  poor  wretch, 
Who  had  long  since,  like  me,  by  love  undone, 
Sought  that  sad  place  out  to  despair  and  die  in  ! 
Luc.  Alas,  for  pity  ! 
Cal.  There  I  fain  would  hide  me 
From  the  base  world,  from  malice,  and  from  shame ; 
For  'life  the  solemn  counsel  of  my  soul 
Never  to  live  with  public  loss  of  honour: 
'Tis  fix'd  to  die,  rather  than  bear  the  insolence 
Ot  each  affected  she  that  tells  my  story. 
And  blesses  her  good  stars  that  she  is  virtuous. 
To  l»e  a  tale  for  fools !  scorn 'd  by  the  women, 
And  pitied  by  the  men !  Oh,  insupportable ! 

Lui.  Can  you  perceive  the  manifest  destruction. 
The  gaping  gulf  that  opens  just  before  you. 
And  yet  rush  on,  though  conscious  of  the  danger  1 
Oh,  hear  me,  hear  your  ever  faithful  creature  ; 
By  all  the  good  I  wish,  by  all  the  ill 
My  trembling  heart  forebodes,  let  me  intreat  you 


Never  to  see  this  faithless  man  again : 
Let  me  forbid  his  coming. 

Cal.  On  thy  life 
I  charge  thee  no :  my  genius  drives  me  on ; 
1  must,  I  will  behold  him  once  again; 
Perhaps  it  is  the  crisis  of  my  fate, 
And  this  one  interview  shall  end  my  cares. 
My  labouring  heart,  that  swells  with  indignation. 
Heaves  to  discharge  the  burden ;  that  once  done. 
The  busy  thing  shall  rest  within  its  cell. 
And  never  beat  again. 


ACT  V.  SCENE  I. 

Sciolto,  the  father  of  Caliirta,  finds  her  watrhing  the  dead 
holly  of  Lothario  by  lamp-light,  in  a  room  hung  round 
with  black. 

Set.  This  dead  of  night,  this  silent  hour  of 
darkness, 
Nature  for  rest  ordain'd,  and  soft  reposfe ; 
And  yet  distraction,  and  tumultuous  jars, 
Keep  all  our  frighted  citizens  awake : 
The  senate,  weak,  divided,  and  irresolute. 
Want  power  to  succour  the  afflicted  state. 
Vainly  in  words  and  long  debates  they're  wise. 
While  the  fierce  factions  scorn   their  peaceful 

orders. 
And  drown  the  voice  of  law,  in  noise  and  anarchy. 
Amidst  the  general  wreck,  see  where  she  stands, 
[/Wn/ingr  to  Causta 
Like  Helen  in  the  night  when  Troy  was  sack'd. 
Spectatress  of  the  mischief  which  she  made. 

Cal.  It  is  Sciolto !  Be  thyself,  my  soul ; 
Be  strong  to  bear  his  fatal  indignation. 
That  he  may  see  thou  art  not  lost  so  far, 
But  somewhat  still  of  his  great  spirit  hves 
In  the  forlorn  Calista. 

Set.  Thou  wert  once 
My  daughter. 

Cal.  Happy  were  it  had  I  died, 
And  never  lost  that  name ! 

Sci.  That's  something  yet; 
Thou  wort  the  very  darling  of  my  age : 
I  thought  the  day  too  short  to  gaze  upon  thee, 
That  all  the  blessings  I  could  gather  tor  thee. 
By  cares  on  earth,  and  by  my  prayers  to  heaven 
Were  little  for  my  fondness  to  bestow ; 
Why  didst  thou  turn  to  folly,  then,  and  curse  me' 

Cal.  Because  my  soul  was  rudely  drawn  *\om 
yours, 

881 


A  poor  imperfect  copy  of  my  father, 

Wiiere   goodness,  and   the   strength   of  L  anly 

virtue, 
Was  thinly  planted,  and  the  idle  void 
Fill'd  up  with  light  belief,  and  easy  fondness ; 
It  was  because  I  loved,  and  was  a  woman. 

Sci.  Hadst  thou  been  honest,  thou  hadst  been 
a  cherubim ; 
But  of  that  joy,  as  of  a  gem  long  lost, 
Beyond  redemption  gone,  think  we  no  more. 
Hast  thou  e'er  dared  to  meditate  on  death? 

Cal.  I  have,  as  on  the  end  of  shame  and  sorrow. 

Sci.  Ha !  answer  me !     Say,  hast  thou  coolly 
thought  1 
'Tis  not  the  stoic's  lessons  got  by  rote, 
The  pomp  of  words,  and  pedant  dissertations, 
That  can  sustain  thee  in  that  hour  of  terror ; 
Books  have  taught  cowards  to  talk  nobly  of  it, 
But  when  the  trial  comes,  they  stand  aghast; 
Hast  thou  consider'd  what  may  happen  after  it? 
How  thy  account  may  stand,  and  what  to  answer? 

Cat,  I  have  turn'd  my  eyes  inward  upon  myself, 
Where  foul  offence  and  shame  have  laid  all  waste; 
Therefore  my  soul  abhors  the  wretched  dwelling, 
\nd  longs  to  find  some  better  place  of  rest. 

ScL  'Tis  justly   thought,  and  worthy  of  that 
spirit, 
That  dwelt  in  ancient  Latian  breasts,  when  Rome 
Was  mistress  of  the  world.     I  would  go  on, 
And  tell  thee  all' my  purpose;  but  it  sticks 
Here  at  my  heart,  and  cannot  find  a  way. 

Cal.  Then  spare  the  telling,  if  it  be  a  pain, 
And  write  the  meaning  with  your  poniard  here. 

Sci.    Oh!     truly     guess'd — see'st    thou    this 

trembling  hand —  [Holding  up  a  dagger. 

Thrice  justice  urged — and  thrice  the  slackening 

sinews 
Forgot  their  office,  and  confess'd  the  father. 
At  length  the  stubborn  virtue  has  prevail'd, 
Tt  must,  it  must  be  so — Oh !  take  it  then, 

[Cfiving  the  dagger. 
And  know  the  rest  untaught ! 

CiiL  I  understand  you. 

It  is  but  thus,  and  both  are  satisfied. 

[She  offer*  to  kill  herself:  SaoLTO  catches  hold  of 
her  arm. 

ScL  A  moment!    give    me   yet   a  moment's 
space. 
The  stern,  the  rigid  judge  has  been  obey'd  ; 
Now  nature,  and  the  father,  claim  their  turns. 
I've  held  the  balance  with  an  iron   hand. 
And  put  off  every  tender  human  thought, 
To  doom  my  child  to  death  ;  but  spare  my  eyes 
The  most  unnatural  sight,  lest  their  strings  crack. 
My  old  brain  split,  and  I  grow  mad  with  horror! 

Cal.  Ha  !  Is  it  possible  I  and  is  there  yet 
Some  little  dear  remains  of  love  and  tenderness 
For  poor,  undone  Calista,  in  your  heart  ? 

Sci.  Oh!  when  I  think  what  pleasure  I  took 
in  thee. 
What  joys  thou  gavest  me  in  thy  prattling  infancy 
i'hy  sprightly  wit,  and  early  blooming  beauty  ! 
How  have  I  stood,  and  fed  my  eyes  upon  thee, 
Then,    lifting   up    my    hands,    <ind   wondering, 
oless'd  thee — 


By  my  strong  grief,  my  heart  even  melts  within 

me ; 
I  could  curse  Nature,  and  that  tyrant,  Honour, 
For  making  me  thy  father,  and  thy  judge; 
1  hou  art  my  daughter  still ! 

Cal.  For  that  kind  word, 
Thus  let  me  fall,  thus  humbly  to  the  earth. 
Weep  on  your  feet,  and  bless  you  for  this  goodness. 
Oh  !  'tis  too  much  for  this  offending  wretch, 
This  parricide,  that  murders  with  her  crimes, 
Shortens  her  father's  age,  and  cuts  him  off. 
Ere  little  more  than  half  his  years  be  number'd. 

Sci.  Would  it  were  otherwise — but  thou  must 
die!— 

Cal.  That  I  must  die,  it  is  my  only  comfort ; 
Death  is  the  privilege  of  human  nature. 
And  life  without  it  were  not  worth  our  taking : 
Thither  the  poor,  the  prisoner,  and  the  mourner, 
Fly  for  relief,  and  lay  their  burthens  down. 
Come  then,  and  take  me  into  thy  cold  arms. 
Thou  meagre  shade !  here  let  me  breathe  my 

last, 
Charm'd  with  my  father's  pity  and  forgiveness, 
More  than  if  angels  tuned  their  golden  viols. 
And  sung  a  requiem  to  my  parting  soul. 

Sci.  I  am  summon'd  hence  ;  ere  this  my  friends 
expect  me. 
There  is  I  know  not  what  of  sad  presage. 
That  tells  me  I  shall  never  see  thee  more  ; 
If  it  be  so,  this  is  our  last  farewell. 
And  these  the  parting  pangs  which  nature  rfeels. 
When  anguish  rends  the  heart-strings. — Oh  my 
daughter !  [£xit  Sholto. 

Cal.  Now  think,  thou  cursed   Calista !    now 
behold 
The  desolation,  horror,  blood,  and  ruin, 
Thy  crimes  and  fatal  folly  spread  around, 
That  loudly  cry  for  vengeance  on  thy  head. 
Yet  Heaven,  who   knows   our  weak  imperfect 

natures. 
How  blind  with  passions,  and  how  prone  to  evil, 
Makes  not  too  strict  inquiry  for  offences, 
But  is  atoned  by  penitence  and  prayer  : 
Cheap  recompense  !  here  'twould  not  be  received. 
Nothing  but  blood  can  make  the  expiation, 
And  cleanse  the  soul  from  inbred,  deep  pollution.— 
And  see,  another  injured  wretch  is  come, 
To  call  for  justice  from  my  tardy  hand. 

Enter  Altamont. 

Jit.  Hail  to  you,  horrors !  hail,  thou  house  of 

death ! 
And  thou,  the  lovely  mistress  of  the  shades. 
Whose  beauty  gilds   the   more   than   midnight 

darkness. 
And  makes  it  grateful  as  the  dawn  of  day. 
Ah,  take  me  in,  a  fellow-mourner,  with  thee! 
I'll  number  groan  for  groan,  and  tear  for  tear; 
And  when  the  fountain  of  thy  eyes  is  dry. 
Mine  shall  supply  the  stream,  and  weep  for  both. 
Cal.  I  know  thee  well ;  thou  art  the  injured 

Altamont, 
Thou  coinest  to  urge  me  with  the  wrongs  I've 

done  thee ; 
But  know,  I  stand  upon  the  brink  of  life. 


NICHOLAS    ROWE. 


383 


And  in  a  moment  mean  to  set  me  free 
From  shame  and  thy  upbraiding. 

Mt.  Falsely,  falsely 
Dost  thou  accuse  me  !  When  did  I  complain, 
Or  murmur  at  my  fate  ?  For  thee  I  have 
Forgot  the  temper  of  Italian  husbands, 
And  fondness  has  prevaii'd  upon  revenge. 
I  bore  my  load  of  infamy  with  patience. 
As  holy  men  do  punishment  from  heaven; 
Nor  thought  it  hard,  because  it  came  from  thee. 
Oh,  then,  forbid  me  not  to  mourn  thy  loss. 
To  wish  some  better  fate  had  ruled  our  loves, 
And  that  Calista  had  been  mine,  and  true. 

Cal.  Oh,   Altamont!  'tis  hard  for  souls  like 
mine. 
Haughty  and  fierce,  to  yield  they've  done  amiss. 
But,  oh,  behold !  my  proud  disdainful  heart 
Bends  to  thy  gentler  virtue.     Yes,  I  own. 
Such  is  thy  truth,  thy  tenderness,  and  love, 
Such  are  the  graces  that  adorn  thy  youth. 
That,  were  I  not  abandon'd  to  destruction, 
With  thee  I  might  have  lived  for  ages  blest. 
And  died  in  peace  within  thy  faithful  arms. 

^It.  Then  happiness  is  still  within  our  reach. 
Here  let  remembrance  lose  our  past  misfortunes, 
Tear  all  records  that  held  the  fatal  story; 
Here  let  our  joys  begin,  from  hence  go  on, 
In  long  successive  order. 

Cal.  What!  in  death! 

Mt.  Then  thou  art  fix'd  to  diel— Butbe  it  so; 
We'll  go  together ;  my  adventurous  love 
Shall  follow  thee  to  those  uncertain  beings. 
Whether  our  lifeless  shades  are  doom'd  to  wander 
In  gloomy  groves,  with  discontented  ghosts; 
Or  whether  through  the  upper  air  we  flit. 
And  tread  the  fields  of  light;   still  I'll  pursue 

thee. 
Till  fate  ordains  that  we  shall  part  no  more. 

CaL  Oh,  no!   Heaven  has  some  other  better 
lot  in  store 
To  crown  thee  with.     Live,  and  be  happy  long : 
Live,  for  some  maid  that  shall  deserve  thy  good- 
ness, 
Some  kind,  unpractised  heart,  that  never  yet 
Has  listen'd  to  the  false  ones  of  thy  sex, 
Nor  known  the  arts  of  ours ;  she  shall  reward 

thee, 
Meet  thee  with  virtues  equal  to  thy  own. 
Charm   thee  with  sweetness,  beauty,  and  with 

truth; 
Be  blest  in  thee  alone,  and  thou  in  her. 


OOLIN'S  COMPLAINT. 

Despaibino  beside  a  clear  stream, 
A  shepherd  forsaken  was  laid ; 

And  while  a  false  nymph  was  his  theme, 
A  willow  supported  his  head. 


The  wind  that  blew  over  the  plain. 
To  his  sighs  with  a  sigh  did  reply, 

And  the  brook,  in  return  to  his  pain, 
Ran  mournfully  murmuring  by. 

Alas!  silly  swain  that  I  was! 

Thus  sadly  complaining  he  cried; 
When  first  I  beheld  that  fair  face, 

'Twere  better  by  far  I  had  died : 
She  talk'd,  and  I  bless'd  her  dear  tongue , 

When  she  smiled,  'twas  a  pleasure  too  great, 
I  listen'd,  and  cried  when  she  sung. 

Was  nightingale  ever  so  sweet! 

How  foolish  was  I  to  believe, 

She  could  dote  on  so  lowly  a  clown, 
Or  that  her  fond  heart  would  not  grieve 

To  forsake  the  fine  folk  of  the  town ; 
To  think  that  a  beauty  so  gay 

So  kind  and  so  constant  would  prove, 
Or  go  clad,  like  our  maidens,  in  gray, 

Or  live  in  a  cottage  on  love  ! 

What  though  I  have  skill  to  complain, 

Though  the  muses  my  temples  have  crown'd, 
What  though,  when  they  hear  my  soft  strain, 

The  virgins  sit  weeping  around  1 
Ah,  Colin !  thy  hopes  are  in  vain, 

Thy  pipe  and  thy  laurel  resign, 
Thy  false  one  inclines  to  a  swain 

Whose  music  is  sweeter  than  thine. 

All  you,  my  companions  so  dear, 

Who  sorrow  to  see  me  betray'd. 
Whatever  I  sufler,  forbear. 

Forbear  to  accuse  the  false  maid. 
Though  through  the  wide  world  I  should  range, 

'Tis  in  vain  from  my  fortune  to  fly ; 
*Twas  hers  to  be  false  and  to  change, 

'Tis  mine  to  be  constant  and  die. 

If  while  my  hard  fate  I  sustain. 

In  her  breast  any  pity  is  found. 
Let  her  come  with  the  nymphs  of  the  plain, 

And  see  me  laid  low.in  the  ground: 
The  last  humble  boon  that  I  crave. 

Is  to  shade  me  with  cypress  and  yew ; 
And  when  she  looks  down  on  my  grave, 

Let  her  own  that  her  shepherd  was  true 

Then  to  her  new  love  let  her  go. 

And  deck  her  in  golden  array; 
Be  finest  at  every  fine  show. 

And  frolic  it  all  the  long  day : 
While  Colin,  forgotten  and  gone. 

No  more  shall  be  talk'd  of  or  seen. 
Unless  when  beneath  the  pale  moon, 

His  ghost  shall  glide  over  the  green.* 


[*  This  by  )lr.  Rowe  U  better  than  any  thing  cf  (b«  kind 
in  our  language. — Quldsxith.] 


SAMUEL  GARTH. 


fDied.ITlS.] 


SAMtTW.  ♦»A»TB  ^a*  an  eminent  physician,  an 
accomplisheo  stholdi,  anti  a  benevolent  man. 
No  feuds,  fei'Lvt  m  ^hiics  or  literature,  es- 
tranged him  from  litrrcry  nierit  where  he  found 
i1.  He  was  an  early  encoaragfer  of  Pope,  and 
at  the  same  time  the  friewd  of  Addison  and 
Granville ;  a  zealous  Whig,  but  the  warm  ad- 
mirer of  Dryden,  whose  funeral  oration  he  pro- 
nounced. His  Dispensary  was  wjitten  from  a 
more  honourable  motive  than  satire   generally 


possesses,  viz.  the  promotion  of  charity,  being  in 
tended  to  ridicule  the  selfishness  of  the  apothe- 
caries, and  of  some  of  the  faculty,  who  opposed 
an  institution  that  was  meant  to  furnish  the 
poor  with  medicines  gratuitously.*  It  is  an 
obvious  imitation  of  the  Lutrin.  Warton  blames 
the  poet  for  making  the  fury,  Disease,  talk  like 
a  critic  It  is  certain,  however,  that  criticism 
is  often  a  disease,  and  can  sometimes  talk  like 
a  fury. 


THE  DISPENSARY.    CANTO  I 
Speak,  goddess !  since  'tis  thou  that  beat  <  anst  tell 
How  ancient  leagues  to  modern  discoia  tell ; 
And  why  physicians  were  so  cautious  grown 
Of  others'  lives,  and  lavish  of  their  own ; 
How  by  a  journey  to  th'  Elysian  plain 
Peace  triumph'd,  and  old  Time  return'd  Pj^nin. 

Not  far  from  that  most  celebrated  place, 
Where  angry  Justice  shows  her  awful  face; 
Where  little  villains  must  submit  to  fate. 
That  great  ones  may  enjoy  the  world  in  sinie ; 
There  stands  a  dome,  majestic  to  the  sight, 
And  sumptuous  arches  bear  its  oval  height; 
A  golden  globe,  placed  high  with  artful  skill 
Seems,  to  the  distant  sight,  a  gilded  pill : 
This  pile  was,  by  the  pious  patron's  aim, 
Raised  for  a  use  as  noble  as  its  frame ; 
Nor  did  the  learn'd  society  decline 
l^he  propagation  of  that  great  design  ; 
In  all  her  mazes,  nature's  face  they  view'd. 
And,  as  she  disappear'd,  their  search  pursued. 
Wrapp'd  in  the  shade  of  night  the  goddess  lies, 
Yet  to  the  learn'd  unveils  her  dark  disguise. 
But  shuns  the  gross  access  of  vulgar  eyes. 

Now  she  unfolds  the  faint  and  dawning  strife 
Of  infant  atoms  kindling  into  life; 
How  ductile  matter  new  meanders  takes, 
And  slender  trains  of  twisting  fibres  makes ; 

[*  The  origin  of  the  Diopenssry  has  not  hitherto  been 
explained  with  sufficient  fulness  or  accuracy;  there  was 
B  Rfilflsh  motire  on  the  part  of  Garth  and  his  a*<8ociate8  for 
this  college  charity  to  the  poor.  Soon  after  the  Kestorar 
tiou,  the  apothecaries 

taught  the  art 
By  doctors'  bills  to  play  the  doctor's  part, 

ventured  out  of  their  assigned  walk  of  life,  and  to  com- 
pounding added  the  art  of  prescription.  This  was  tread- 
in>!  injuriou.sly,  it  was  thought,  on  the  peculiar  province 
of  thH  College  of  Physicians,  who,  incensed  at  tlie  intru- 
sion of  the  druggist  gentry,  advertised  that  they  would 
give  advice  gratia  to  the  poor,  and  establish  a  dispensary 
of  their  own,  for  the  sale  of  medicines  at  their  intrinsic 
value.  Hence  the  hostiUty  so  ludicrously  depicted  in  this 
poem  by  Garth,  and  the  unexplained  allusion  of  Dryden 
In  his  epistle  to  his  Chesterton  cousin — 
384 


And  how  the  viscous  seeks  a  closer  tone, 

By  just  degrees  to  harden  into  bone  ; 

While  the  more  loose  flow  from  the  vital  um, 

And  in  full  tides  of  purple  streams  return; 

How  lambent  flames  firom  life's   bright   lamps 

arise, 
And  dart  in  emanation  through  the  eyes; 
How  from  each  sluice  a  gentle  torrent  pours. 
To  slake  a  feverish  heat  with  ambient  showers ; 
Whence  their  mechanic  powers  the  spirits  claim ; 
How  great  their  force,  how  delicate  their  frame ; 
How  the  same  nerves  are  fashion'd  to  sustain 
The  greatest  pleasure  and  the  greatest  pain ; 
Why  bilious  juice  a  golden  light  puts  on, 
And  floods  of  chyle  in  silver  currents  run  ; 
How  the  dim  speck  of  entity  began 
T'  extend  its  recent  form,  and  stretch  to  man ; 
To  how  minute  an  origin  we  owe 
Young  Ammon,  Ctesar,  and  the  great  Nassau ; 
Why  paler  looks  impetuous  rage  proclaim. 
And  why  chill  virgins  redden  into  flame ; 
M'hy  envy  oft  transforms  with  wan  disguise, 
And  why  gay  mirth  sits  smiling  in  the  eyes; 
All  ice,  why  Lucrece;  or  Sempronia,  fire  ; 
Why  Scarsdale  rages  to  survive  desire  ; 
When  Milo's  vigour  at  the  Olympic's  shown, 
Whence  tropes  to  Finch,  or  impudence  to  Sloane; 
How  matter,  by  the  varied  shape  of  pores, 
Or  idiots  frames,  or  solemn  senators. 

The  apothecary  train  is  wholly  blind. 

From  files  a  random  recipe  they  tiike. 

And  many  deaths  of  one  prescription  make. 

Garth,  generous  as  his  Muse,  prescribes  and  gives: 

The  shopman  sells,  and  by  destruction  lives. 

It  appears  from  the  law  reports  of  the  time,  that  the 
College  of  Physicians  brought  a  penal  action,  under  its 
charter,  against  one  Rose,  an  apothecary,  for  attending  a 
butcher,  and  that  the  Court  of  Queen's  Bench  decided  in 
their  favour,  that  the  making  up  and  compounding  of 
medicines  was  the  business  of  an  apothecary,  but  the 
jud^rinK  what  was  proper  for  the  case,  and  advising  what 
to  take  for  that  purpose,  was  the  business  of  a  physician. 
The  House  of  Ix)rds.  in  1"U3,  reversed  this  decision ;  and 
since  then,  it  ha.s  lieen  the  law  of  the  land  that  opotheoft- 
ries  may  advise  as  well  as  administer.] 


Hence  'tis  we  wait  the  wondrous  cause  to  find, 
How  body  acts  upon  impassive  mind  ; 
How  fumes  of  wine  the  thinking  part  can  fire, 
Past  hopes  revive,  and  present  joys  inspire ; 
Why  our  complexions  oft  our  soul  declare. 
And  how  the  passions  in  the  feature  are; 
How  touch  and  harmony  arise  between 
Corporeal  figure,  and  a  form  unseen  ; 
How  quick  their  faculties  the  liml)8  fulfil, 
And  act  at  every  summons  of  the  will. 
With  mighty  truths,  mysterious  to  descry. 
Which  in  the  womb  of  distant  causes  lie. 

But  now  no  grand  inquiries  are  descried, 
Mean   faction  reigns  where  knowledge   should 

preside, 
Feuds  are  increased,  and  learning  laid  aside. 
Thus  synods  oft  concern  for  faith  conceal. 
And  for  important  nothings  show  a  zeal: 
The  drooping  sciences  neglected  pine, 
And  Paean's  beams  with  fading  lustre  shine. 
No  readers  here  with  hectic  looks  are  found. 
Nor  eyes  in  rheum,  through  midnight-watching, 

drown'd ; 
The  lonely  edifice  in  sweats  complains 
That  nothing  there  but  sullen  silence  reigns. 

This  place,  so  fit  for  undisturb'd  repose, 
The  God  of  Sloth  for  his  asylum  chose  ; 
Upon  a  couch  of  down,  in  these  abodes. 
Supine  with  folded  arms  he  thoughtless  nods ; 
Indulging  dreams,  his  godhead  lull  to  ease. 
With  murmurs  of  soft  rills,  and  whispering  trees: 
The  poppy  and  each  numbing  plant  dispense 
Their  drowsy  virtue,  and  dull  indolence ; 
No  passions  interrupt  his  easy  reign. 
No  problems  puzzle  his  lethargic  brain ; 
But  dark  oblivion  guards  his  peaceful  bed. 
And  lazy  fogs  hangs  lingering  o'er  his  head. 

As  at  full  length  the  pamper'd  monarch  lay. 
Battening  in  ease,  and  slumbering  life  away ; 
A  spiteful  noise  his  downy  chains  unties, 
Hastes  forward,  and  increases  as  it  flies. 

First,  some  to  cleave  the  stubborn  flint  engage, 
Till,  urged  by  blows,  it  sparkles  into  rage: 
Some  temper  lute,  some  spacious  vessels  move ; 
These  furnaces  erect,  and  those  approve ; 
Here  phials  in  nice  discipline  are  set. 
There  gallipots  are  ranged  in  alphabet. 
In  this  place,  magazines  of  pills  you  spy: 
In  that,  like  forage,  herbs  in  bundles  lie ; 
While  lifted  pestles,  brandish'd  in  the  air. 
Descend  in  peals,  and  civil  wars  declare. 
Loud  strokes,  witb  pounding  spice,  the  fabric  rend. 
And  aromatic  clouds  in  spires  ascend. 

• 

So  when  the  Cyclops  o'er  their  anvils  sweat. 
And  swelling  sinews  echoing  blows  repeat ; 
From  the  volcanos  gross  eruptions  rise. 
And  curling  sheets  of  smoke  obscure  the  skies. 

The  slumbering  god,  amazed  at  this  new  din. 
Thrice  strove  to  rise,  and  thrice  sunk  down  again, 
49 


Listless  he  stretch'd,  and  gaping  rubb'd  his  eyes. 
Then  falter'd  thus  betwixt  half  words  and  sighs: 

How  impotent  a  deity  am  I ! 
With  godhead  born,  but  cursed,  that  cannot  die! 
Through  my  indulgence,  mortals  hourly  share 
A  grateful  negligence,  and  ease  from  care. 
LuU'd  in  my  arms,  how  long  have  I  withheld 
The  northern  monarchs  from  the  dusty  field ! 
How  I  have  kept  the  British  fleet  at  ease. 
From  tempting  the  rough  dangers  of  the  seas  ! 
Hibernia  owns  the  mildness  of  my  reign, 
And  my  divinity's  adored  in  Spain. 
I  swains  to  sylvan  solitudes  convey. 
Where,  stretch'd  on  mossy  beds,  they  waste  away 
In  gentle  joys  the  night,  in  vows  the  day. 
What  marks  of  wondrous  clemency  I've  shown. 
Some  reverend  worthies  of  the  gown  can  own : 
Triumphant  plenty,  with  a  cheerful  grace. 
Basks  in  their  eye^,  and  sparkles  in  their  face. 
How  sleek  their  looks,  how  goodly  is  their  mien. 
When  big  they  strut  behind  a  double  chin ! 
Each  faculty  in  blandishments  they  lull. 
Aspiring  to  be  venerably  dull; 
No  learn'd  debates  molest  their  downy  trance. 
Or  discompose  their  pompous  ignorance; 
But,  undisturb  d,  they  loiter  Hfe  away. 
So  wither  green,  and  blossom  in  decay; 
Deep  sunk  in  down,  they,  by  my  gentle  care. 
Avoid  th'  inclemencies  of  morning  air. 
And  leave  to  tatter'd  crape  the  drudgery  of  prayer 

Urim  was  civil,  and  not  void  of  sense. 
Had  humour,  and  a  courteous  confidence : 
So  spruce  he  moves,  so  gracefully  he  cocks, 
The  hallow'd  rose  declares  him  orthodox: 
He  pass'd  his  easy  hours,  instead  of  prayer. 
In  madrigals,  and  phillysing  the  fair; 
Constant  at  feasts,  and  each  decorum  knew. 
And  soon  as  the  dessert  appear'd,  withdrew; 
Always  obliging,  and  without  oflTence, 
And  fancied,  for  his  gay  impertinence. 
But  see  how  ill  mistaken  parts  succeed; 
He  threw  off  my  dominion,  and  would  read ; 
Engaged  in  controversy,  wrangled  well; 
In  convocation  language  could  excel ; 
In  volumes  proved  the  church  without  defence. 
By  nothing  guarded  but  by  Providence ; 
How  grace  and  moderation  disagree. 
And  violence  advances  charity. 
Thus  writ  till  none  would  read,  becoming  soon 
A  wretched  scribbler,  of  a  rare  buffoon. 

Mankind  my  fond  propitious  power  has  tried. 
Too  oft  to  own,  too  much  to  be  denied. 
And  all  I  ask  are  shades  and  silent  bowers, 
To  pass  in  soft  forgetfulness  my  hours. 
Oft  have  my  fears  some  distant  villa  chose. 
O'er  their  quietus  where  fat  judges  doze. 
And  lull  their  cough  and  conscience  to  repose. 
Or,  if  some  cloister's  refuge  I  implore. 
Where  holy  drones  o'er  dying  tapers  snore. 
The  peals  of  Nassau's  arms  these  eyes  unclose, 
Mine  he  molests,  to  give  the  world  repose 
That  ease  I  offer  with  contempt  he  flies, 
His  couch  a  trench,  his  canopy  the  skies. 
2H 


886 


PETER  ANTHONY   MOTTEUX. 


Nor  climes  nor  seasons  his  resolves  control, 
The  equator  has  no  heat,  no  ice  the  pole. 
With  arms  resistless  o'er  the  globe  he  flies, 
And  leaves  to  Jove  the  empire  of  the  skies. 

But,  as  the  slothful  god  to  yawn  begun, 
He  shook  oiT  the  dull  mist,  and  thus  went  on: 

'Twas  in  this  reverend  dome  I  sought  repose, 
These  walls  were  that  asylum  I  had  chose. 
Here  have  I  ruled  long  undisturb'd  with  broils. 
And  laugh'd  at  heroes,  and  their  glorious  toils. 
My  annals  are  in  mouldy  mildews  wrought. 
With  easy  insignificance  of  thought. 
But  now  some  busy,  enterprising  brain 
Invents  new  fancies  to  renew  my  pain. 
And  labours  to  dissolve  my  easy  reign. 


With  that,  the  god  his  darling  phantom  calls. 
And  from  his  faltering  lips  this  message  falls : 

Since  mortals  will  dispute  my  power,  I'll  try 
Who  has  the  greatest  empire,  they  or  I. 
Find  envy  out ;  some  prince's  court  attend, 
Most  likely  there  you'll  meet  the  famish'd  fiend; 
Or  where  dull  critics  authors'  fate  foretell; 
Or  where  stale  maids,  or  meagre  eunuchs,  dwell; 
Tell  the  bleak  fury  what  new  projects  reign 
Among  the  homicides  of  Warwick-lane ; 
And  what  the  event,  unless  she  straight  inclines 
To  blast  their  hopes,  and  bafSe  their  designs. 

More  he  had  spoke,  but  sudden  vapours  rise. 
And  with  their  silken  cords  tie  down  his  eyes. 


PETER  ANTHONY   MOTTEUX. 


[Born,  1660.    Died,  1T18.] 


The  revocation  of  the  Edict  of  Nantes  brought 
over  many  ingenious  artists  to  this  country  from 
France ;  but  we  should  hardly  have  expected  an 
increase  to  our  poets  among  them :  yet  Peter 
Anthony  Motteux,  who  was  born  and  educated 
at  Rouen  in  Normandy,  was  driven  to  England 
by  the  event  of  that  persecution,  and  acquired 
so  much  knowledge  of  the  language  as  to  write 
a  good  translation  of  Don  Quixote,  and  to  be- 


come a  successful  writer  in  our  drama.  But  his 
end  was  not  so  creditable :  he  was  found  dead 
in  a  disorderly  house,  in  the  parish  of  St. 
Clement  Danes,  and  was  supposed  either  to  have 
been  murdered,  or  to  have  met  with  his  death 
from  trying  an  experiment  which  is  not  fit  to  be 
repeated.  He  established  himself  respectably 
in  trade,  and  had  a  good  situation  in  the  post- 
office. 


SONG. 
noK  "MARS  Ain>  TEsva." 

ScoBN,  though  Beanty  frowns,  to  tremble ; 

Lovers,  boldly  urge  your  flame ; 
For  a  woman  will  dissemble. 

Loves  the  joy,  but  hates  the  name. 

Her  refusing,  your  pursuing. 

Yield  alike  a  pleasing  pain, 
Ever  curing,  a/id  renewing. 

Soon  appeased  to  rage  again. 

If  the  soldier  storms  and  rages. 
Face  him  with  a  lovely  maid; 

This  his  fury  soon  assuages. 
And  the  devil  soon  is  laid. 

He  ne'er  conquers  but  by  toiling. 
But  the  fair  subdues  with  ease ; 

Blood  he  sheds  with  hatred  boiling. 
But  the  fair  can  kill  and  please. 


A  RONDELEAUX. 

nr  "the  hock  makriaoe,"  bt  boor. 

Man  is  for  woman  made. 
And  woman  made  for  man: 

As  the  spur  is  for  the  jade. 

As  the  scabbard  for  the  blade. 
As  for  liquor  is  the  can. 

So  man's  for  woman  made. 
And  woman  made  for  man. 

As  the  sceptre  to  be  sway'd. 

As  to  night  the  serenade. 
As  for  pudding  is  the  pan. 
As  to  cool  us  is  the  fan, 

So  man's  for  woman  made. 
And  woman  made  for  man. 

Be  she  widow,  wife,  or  maid. 
Be  she  wanton,  be  she  sta^d, 
Be  she  well  or  ill  array'd, 
'       *  »  ♦ 

So  man's  for  woman  made. 
And  woman  made  for  man. 


JOSEPH  ADDISON. 

CBorn,  1671.    Died,  1719.] 


A  LETTER  PROM  ITALY.* 

T)  THI  BIOHT  HONOURABLE  0HABLE8  IiORO  HALIFAX. 

WnitE  you,  my  lord,  the  rural  shades  admire, 
And  from  Britannia's  public  posts  retire, 
Nor  longer,  her  ungrateful  sons  to  please, 
For  their  advantage  sacrifice  your  ease : 
Me  into  foreign  realms  my  fate  conveys. 
Through  nations  fruitful  of  immortal  lays. 
Where  the  soft  season  and  inviting  clime 
Conspire  to  trouble  your  repose  with  rhyme. 

For  wheresoe'er  I  turn  my  ravish'd  eyes. 
Gay  gilded  scenes  and  shining  prospects  rise, 
Poetic  fields  encompass  me  around. 
And  still  I  seem  to  tread  on  classic  ground ; 
For  here  the  Muse  so  oft  her  harp  has  strung, 
That  not  a  mountain  rears  its  head  unsung ; 
Renown'd  in  verse  each  shady  thicket  grows, 
\nd  every  stream  in  heavenly  numbers  flows. 

How  am   I  pleased   to  search  the  hills    and 
woods 
'or  rising  springs  and  celebrated  floods ! 

view  the  Nar,  tumultuous  in  his  course, 
And  trace  the  smooth  Chtumnus  to  his  source; 
To  see  the  Mincio  draw  his  watery  store, 
Through  the  long  windings  of  a  fruitful  shore; 
And  hoary  Albula's  infected  tide 
O'er  the  warm  bed  of  smoking  sulphur  glide. 

Fired  with  a  thousand  raptures,  I  survey 
Eridanus  through  flowery  meadows  stray. 
The  king  of  floods  !  that,  rolling  o'er  the  plains, 
The  towering  Alps  of  half  their  moisture  drains. 
And  proudly  swoln  with  a  whole  winter's  snows, 
Distributes  wealth  and  plenty  where  he  flows. 

Sometimes,  misguided  by  the  tuneful  throng, 
I  look  for  streams  immortalized  in  song, 
That  lost  in  silence  and  oblivion  lie, 
(Dumb  are  their  fountains,  and   their  channels 

dry,) 
Yet  run  for  ever  by  the  Muse's  skill, 
And  in  the  smooth  description  murmur  still. 

Sometimes  to  gentle  Tiber  I  retire. 
And  the  famed  river's  empty  shores  admire. 
That,  destitute  of  strength,  derives  its  course 
From  thirsty  urns,  and  an  unfruitful  source; 
Yet  sung  so  often  in  poetic  lays, 
With  scorn  the  Danube  and  the  Nile  surveys; 

[*  Few  poems  hare  done  more  honour  to  English  genius 
than  this.  There  is  in  it  a  strain  of  political  thiiilcing 
that  was,  at  the  time,  new  In  our  poetry.  Had  the  har- 
mony of  this  been  equal  to  I'ope's  versitioation.  it  would 
'le  incoiitcstably  the  fincgt  poem  in  our  language ;  but 
there  is  a  dryness  in  the  numlers  which  greatly  lessens 
tiif  pleasure  exiited  by  the  poet's  judgment  and  imaginar 

tiOU.-  UOLDMUTU.] 


So  high  the  deathless  Muse  exalte  her  themn! 
Such  was  the  Boyne,  a  poor  inglorious  stream, 
That  in  Hibernian  vales  obscurely  stray'd, 
And  unobserved  in  wild  meanders  play'd ; 
Till  by  your  lines  and  Nassau's  sword  renown'd, 
Its  rising  billows  through  the  world  resound, 
Where'er  the  hero's  godlike  acts  can  pierce, 
Or  where  the  fame  of  an  immortal  verse. 

Oh,  could  the  Muse  my  ravish'd  breast  inspire 
With  warmth  like  yours,  and  raise  an  equal  fire. 
Unnumber'd  beauties  in  my  verse  should  shine, 
And  Virgil's  Italy  should  yield  to  mine ! 

See  how  the  golden  groves  around  me  smile, 
That  shun  the  coast  of  Britain's  stormy  isle. 
Or,  when  transplanted  and  preserved  with  care, 
Curse  the  cold  clime,  and  starve  in  northern  air. 
Here  kindly  warmth  their  mountain  juice  fermente 
To  nobler  tastes,  and  more  exalted  scents: 
Even  the  rough  rocks  with  tender  myrtle  bloom, 
And  trodden  weeds  send  out  a  rich  perfume. 
Bear  me,  some  god,  to  Baia's  gentle  seats, 
Or  cover  me  in  Umbria's  green  retreats; 
Where  western  gales  eternally  reside. 
And  all  the  seasons  lavish  all  their  pride: 
Blossoms,  and  fruits,  and  flowers  together  ris« 
And  the  whole  year  in  gay  confusion  lies. 

Immortal  glories  in  my  mind  revive. 
And  in  my  soul  a  thousand  passions  strive. 
When  Rome's  exalted  beauties  I  descry 
Magnificent  in  piles  of  ruin  lie. 
An  amphitheatre's  amazing  height 
Here  fills  my  eye  with  terror  and  delight, 
That,  on  its  public  shows,  unpeopled  Rome, 
And  held,  uncrowded,  nations  in  its  womb : 
Here  pillars  rough  with  sculpture  pierce  the  skies. 
And  here  the  proud  triumphal  arches  rise. 
Where  the  old  Romans,  deathless  acts  display'd. 
Their  base  degenerate  progeny  upbraid  : 
Whole  rivers  here  forsake  the  fields  below. 
And  wondering  at  their  height  through  airy  chan 

nels  flow. 
Still  to  new  scenes  my  wandering  Muse  retires. 
And  the  dumb  show  of  breathing  rocks  admires; 
Where  the  smooth  chisel  all  its  force  has  shown, 
And  soften'd  into  flesh  the  rugged  stone. 
In  solemn  silence,  a  majestic  band. 
Heroes,  and  gods,  and  Roman  consuls  stand. 
Stern  tyrants,  whom  their  cruelties  renown, 
And  en)perors  in  Parian  marble  frown;       [sued, 
While  the  bright  dames,  to  whom  they  humbly 
Still  show  the  charms  that  their  proud  hearts 

subdued. 
Fain  would  1  Raphael's  godlike  art  rehearse. 
And  show  the  immortal  labours  in  my  versu, 

387 


388 


JOSEPH  ADDISON. 


Where  from  the  mingled  strength  of  shade  and 

light 
A  new  creation  rises  to  my  sight, 
Such  heavenly  figures  from  his  pencil  flow. 
So  warm  with  life  his  blended  colours  glow. 
From  theme  to  theme  with  secret  pleasure  toss'd. 
Amidst  the  soft  variety  I'm  lost : 
Here  pleasing  airs  my  ravish'd  soul  confound 
With  circling  notes  and  labyrinths  of  sound  ; 
Here  domes  and  temples  rise  ip  distant  views, 
And  opening  palaces  invite  my  Muse. 

How  has  kind  Heaven  adorn'd  the  happy  land. 
And  scatter'd  blessings  with  a  wasteful  hand ! 
But  what  avail  her  unexhausted  stores, 
Her  blooming  mountains,  and  her  sunny  shores. 
With  all  the  gifts  that  Heaven  and  earth  impart, 
The  smiles  of  nature,  and  the  charms  of  art, 
While  proud  oppression  in  her  valleys  reigns. 
And  tyranny  usurps  her  happy  plains  1 
The  poor  inhabitant  beholds  in  vain 
The  reddening  orange  and  the  swelling  grain : 
Joyless  he  sees  the  growing  oils  and  wines. 
And  in  the  myrtle's  fragrant  shade  repines : 
Starves,  in  the  midst  of  nature's  bounty  curst. 
And  in  the  loaden  vineyard  dies  for  thirst. 

O  Liberty,  thou  goddess,  heavenly  bright. 
Profuse  of  bliss,  and  pregnant  with  delight ! 
Eternal  pleasures  in  thy  presence  reign, 
And  smiling  plenty  leads  thy  wanton  train ; 
Eased  of  her  load  subjection  grows  more  light, 
And  poverty  looks  cheerful  in  thy  sight; 
Thou  makest  the  gloomy  face  of  nature  gay, 
Givest  beauty  to  the  sun,  and  pleeisure  to  the  day. 

Thee,  goddess,  thee,  Britannia's  isle  adores; 
How  has  she  oft  exhausted  all  her  stores, 
How  oft  in  fields  of  death  thy  presence  sought, 
JXor  thinks  the  mighty  prize  too  dearly  bought! 
On  foreign  mountains  may  the  sun  refine 
The  grape's  soft  juice,  and  mellow  it  to  wine, 
With  citron  groves  adorn  a  distant  soil. 
And  the  fat  olive  swell  with  floods  of  oil: 
We  envy  not  the  warmer  clime,  that  lies 
In  ten  degrees  of  more  inJulgent  skies, 
Nor  at  the  coarseness  of  our  heaven  repine. 
Though  o'er  our  heads  the  frozen  Pleiads  shine; 
Tis  liberty  that  crowns  Britannia's  isle, 
•And  makes  her  barren  rocks  and  her  bleak  moun- 
tains smile. 


AN  ODE. 


How  are  thy  servants  blest,  O  Lord ! 

How  sure  is  their  defence ! 
Eternal  wisdom  is  their  guide, 

Their  help  Omnipotence. 

In  foreign  realms,  and  lands  remote, 

Supported  by  thy  care. 
Through  burning  climes  I  pass'd  unhurt. 

And  breathed  in  tainted  air. 

Thy  mercy  sweeten'd  every  soil. 

Made  every  region  please : 
Th«  hoary  Alpine  hills  it  warm'd, 

A-  i  smoothed  the  Tyrrhene  seas. 


Think,  O  my  soul,  devoutly  think. 

How,  with  affrighted  eyes. 
Thou  saw'st  the  wide-extended  deep, 

In  all  its  horrors  rise. 

Confusion  dwelt  on  every  face. 

And  fear  in  every  heart ! 
When  waves  on  waves,  and  gulfs  on  g^Ifa, 

O'ercame  the  pilot's  art. 

Yet  then  from  all  my  griefs,  O  Lord ! 

Thy  mercy  set  me  free ; 
Whilst  in  the  confidence  of  prayer. 

My  soul  took  hold  on  thee. 

For  though  in  dreadful  whirls  we  hung 

High  on  the  broken  wave, 
I  knew  thou  wert  not  slow  to  hear. 

Nor  impotent  to  save. 

The  storm  was  laid,  the  winds  retired. 

Obedient  to  thy  will ; 
The  sea,  that  roar'd  at  thy  command, 

At  thy  command  was  still. 

In  midst  of  dangers,  fears,  and  death. 

Thy  goodness  I'll  adore ; 
And  praise  thee  for  thy  mercies  past. 

And  humbly  hope  for  more. 

My  life,  if  thou  preservest  my  life, 

Thy  sacrifice  shall  be ; 
And  death,  if  death  must  be  my  doom, 

Shall  join  my  soul  to  thee. 


PARAPHRASE  ON  PSALM  XXIH. 

The  Lord  my  pasture  shall  prepare. 
And  feed  me  with  a  shepherd's  care; 
His  presence  shall  my  wants  supply, 
And  guard  me  with  a  watchful  eye  : 
My  noon-day  walks  he  shall  attend. 
And  all  my  midnight  hours  defend. 

When  in  the  sultry  glebe  I  faint. 
Or  on  the  thirsty  mountain  pant ; 
To  fertile  vales  and  dewy  meads 
My  weary,  wandering  steps  he  leads : 
Where  peaceful  rivers,  soft  and  slow. 
Amid  the  verdant  landscape  flow. 

Though  in  the  paths  of  death  I  tread. 
With  gloomy  horrors  overspread. 
My  steadfast  heart  shall  fear  no  ill. 
For  thou,  0  Lord,  art  with  me  still ; 
Thy  friendly  crook  shall  give  me  aid. 
And  guide  me  through  the  dreadful  shade. 

Though  in  a  bare  and  rugged  way. 
Through  devious,  lonely  wilds  I  stray. 
Thy  bounty  shall  my  wants  beguile. 
The  barren  wilderness  shall  smile. 
With  sudden  greens  and  herbage  crown'd. 
And  streams  shall  murmur  all  around. 


MATTHEW  PRIOR. 


[Born,  1668.     Died,  im.] 


Prior  was  the  nephew  of  the  keeper  of  a 
tavern  at  Charing  Cross,  where  he  was  found  by 
the  £arl  of  Dorset,  and  sent  at  his  expense  to  be 
educated  at  Cambridge.  By  the  same  nobleman's 
influence  he  went  as  secretary  with  the  Earl  of 
Berkeley,  our  ambassador  at  the  Hague,  where 
King  William  was  so  pleased  with  his  conduct 
as  to  appoint  him  one  of  the  gentlemen  of  the 
bedchamber.  In  1697  he  was  secretary  of  lega- 
tion at  the  treaty  of  Ryswick,  and  the  next  year 
held  the  same  office  at  the  court  of  France.  On 
his  return,  after  having  been  with  the  king  at 
Loo,  he  was  made  under  secretary  of  state,  and 
on  losing  his  place  at  the  Earl  of  Jersey's  re- 
moval, he  was  made  a  commissioner  of  trade. 

He  sat  in  the  parliament  that  met  in  1701 : 
but  in  the  progress  of  Queen  Anne's  war,  though 
he  celebrated  Blenheim  and  Ramillies  as  a  poet, 
be  deserted  as  a  politician  to  the  Tories,  and 
accompanying  Bolingbroke  to   Paris  for  pacific 


objects,  remained  there  till  he  rose  to  the  rank 
of  ambassador,  the  duties  of  which  office  he  had 
for  some  time  previously  fulfilled.  The  vindic- 
tive Whigs  committed  him  to  custody  for  two 
years,  after  his  return,  on  a  charge  of  high 
treason.  At  fifty-three  years  of  age  he  found 
himself,  after  all  his  important  employments, 
with  no  other  means  of  subsistence  than  his  fel- 
lowship at  Cambridge ;  but  the  publication  of  his 
poems  by  subscription,  and  the  kindness  of  Lord 
Harley,  restored  him  to  easy  circumstances  for 
the  rest  of  his  life. 

Prior  was  one  of  the  last  of  the  race  of  poets 
who  relied  for  ornament  on  scholastic  allusion 
and  pagan  machinery ;  but  he  used  them  like 
Swift,  more  in  jest  than  earnest,  and  with  good 
effect.*  In  his  Alma  he  contrives  even  to  clo.he 
metaphysics  in  the  gay  and  colloquial  plea- 
santry, which  is  the  characteristic  charm  of  bio 
manner. 


THB  LADrS  LOOKING-GLASS. 

ra  DOTATION  OF  A  QREKK  IDTUJUM. 

Celia  and  I  the  other  day 
Walk'd  o'er  the  sand-hills  to  the  sea : 
The  setting  sun  adorn'd  the  coast. 
His  beams  entire,  his  fierceness  lost : 
And,  on  the  surface  of  the  deep, 
The  winds  lay  only  not  asleep: 
The  nymph  did  like  the  scene  appear, 
Serenely  pleasant,  calmly  fair  : 
Soft  fell  her  words,  as  flew  the  air. 
•     With  secret  joy  I  heard  her  say. 
That  she  would  never  miss  one  day 
A  walk  so  fine,  a  sight  so  gay. 

But,  O  the  change  !  the  winds  grow  high ; 
Impending  tempests  charge  the  sky ; 
The  lightning  flies,  the  thunder  roars  ; 
And  big  waves  lash  the  frighten'd  shores. 
Struck  with  the  horror  of  the  sight. 
She  turns  her  head,  and  wings  her  flight ; 
And,  trembling,  vows  she'll  ne'er  again 
Approach  the  shore,  or  view  the  main. 

[•  Prior's  fictions  are  mythological.  Venus,  after  the 
exnmple  of  the  Greek  Epignim,  o^ks  when  she  was  seen 
naked  and  baUting.  'then  Cupid  is  mistaJ.ttn  ;  then  Cui)id 
IB  disarmed;  then  he  loses  his  darU<  to  Giini/mexie;  then 
Jujriter  fends  him  a  summons  liy  H^  rcuri/.  Ihen  OliU>t 
goK»  a  hunting  with  an  ivitry  i/iiiver  yrucr/td  at  her  ride; 
Uiana  mistakes  lier  for  one  of  her  nyuiplis,  and  Cupid 
laughs  at  tiie  blunder.    All  thia  Is  surely  despicable. — 

JOHNSON. 


Once  more  at  least  look  back,  said  I, 
Thyself  in  that  large  glass  descry : 
When  thou  art  in  good  humour  drest; 
When  gentle  reason  rules  thy  breast ; 
The  sun  upon  the  calmest  sea 
Appears  not  half  so  bright  as  thee : 
'Tis  then  that  with  delight  I  rove 
Upon  the  boundless  depth  of  love : 
I  bless  my  chain ;  I  hand  my  oar ; 
Nor  think  on  all  I  left  on  shore. 

But  when  vain  doubt  and  groundless  tea< 
Do  that  dear  foolish  bosom  tear; 
When  the  big  lip  and  watery  eye 
Tell  me,  the  rising  storm  is  nigh ; 
*Tis  then,  thou  art  yon  angry  main, 
Deform'd  by  winds,  and  dash'd  by  rain: 
And  the  poor  sailor,  that  must  try 
Its  fury,  labours  less  than  I. 

Shipwreck'd,  in  vain  to  land  I  make, 
While  love  and  fate  still  drive  me  back : 
Forced  to  doat  on  thee  thy  own  way, 
I  chide  thee  first,  and  then  obey : 
Wretched  when  froui  thee,  vex'd  when  nigh, 
I  with  thee,  or  without  thee,  die. 


"  When  Prior  wrote,"  says  Cowper,  *•  Venu»  and  Cupid 
were  not  so  ob  o  etc  as  now.  Ili5  «>ntcm|«>ran'  writers, 
and  some  that  sU''i'e<tde<l  him.  did  not  tlilnk  them  beneiith 
tlieirnotlcc.  Til  u:lus,  in  reality,  dl  bclieTe<I  thfir  exist- 
eme  aj<  niD'haf^  wi-  do:  yet  Tibulus  is  allcpwi-d  ti>  !«  the 
priniv  of  all  pnvtind  innimnratoo,  though  he  monlioiu 
tl:i'm  in  nlma-t  every  pajje  Th.-re  is  a  fwhion  'n  thi-at 
thiiitfs,  which  the  Doctor  seems  to  have  forgotten."  -Le'Ul 
to  Unurin,  January  5<A,  IT>>2.] 

2h2  3X9 


390 


MATTHEW  PRIOR. 


AN  AKSTTER  TO  CHLOE. 
Dbab  Chloe,  how  blubber'd  is  that  pretty  face ! 

Thy  cheek  all  on  fire,  and  thy  hair  all  uncurl'd ! 
Pr'ythee  quit  this  caprice ;  and  (as  old  Falstaff 
says) 
Let  us  even  talk  a  little  like  folks  of  this  world. 

How  canst  thou  presume  thou  hast  leave  to  destroy 
The  beauties  which  Venus  butlent  to  thy  keep- 
ing! 

Those  looks  were  designed  to  inspire  love  and  joy ; 
More  ordinary  eyes  may  serve  people  for  weeping. 

To  be  vex'd  at  a  trifle  or  two  that  I  writ, 

Your  judgment  at  once,  and  my  passion  you 

wrong: 

fou  take  that  for  fact  which  will  scarce  be  found 

wit :  [song  1 

Odd's-life !  must  one  swear  to  the  truth  of  a 

What  I  speak,  my  fair  Chloe,  and  what  I  write, 

shows 

The  difference  there  is  betwixt  nature  and  art : 

1  court  others  in  verse;  but  I  love  thee  in  prose: 

And  they  have  my  whimsies,  but  thou  bast  my 

heart. 

The  god  of  us  verse-men  (you  know,  child,)  the 
sun. 

How  after  his  journeys  he  sets  up  his  rest : 
If  at  morning  o'er  earth  'tis  his  fancy  to  run. 

At  night  he  declines  on  his  Thetis's  breast. 

"^o  when  I  am  wearied  with  wandering  all  day, 
To  thee,  my  delight,  in  the  evening  I  come ; 

'io  matter  what  beauties  I  saw  in  my  way, 
Tliey  were  but  my  visits,  but  thou  art  my  home. 

Then  finish,  dear  Chloe,  this  pastoral  war. 
And  let  us  like  Horace  and  Lydia  agree ; 

For  thou  art  a  girl  as  much  brighter  than  her, 
As  he  was  a  poet  sublimer  than  me. 


THE  REMEDY  WORSE  THAN  THE  DISEASE. 

I  SENT  for  Radclifle ;  was  so  ill. 
That  other  doctors  gave  me  over : 

He  felt  my  pulse,  prescribed  his  pill, 
And  I  was  likely  to  recover. 

But,  when  the  wit  began  to  wheeze. 
And  wine  had  warm'd  the  politician. 

Cured  yesterday  of  my  disease, 
I  died  last  night  of  my  physician. 


PARTIAL  FAME. 
'I'HE  sturdy  man,  if  he  in  love  obtains, 
In  open  pomp  and  triumph  reigns: 
The  subtle  woman,  if  she  should  succeed, 
Disowns  the  honour  of  the  deed. 

Though  he,  for  all  his  boast,  is  forced  to  yield, 
'J'hough  she  can  always  keep  the  field : 
He  vaunts  his  conquests,  she  conceals  her  shame ; 
*Iow  partial  is  the  voice  of  fame ! 


SONG. 
In  vain  you  tell  your  parting  lover — 
You  wish  fair  winds  may  waft  him  over: 
Alas !  what  winds  can  happy  prove. 
That  bear  me  far  from  what  I  love  ? 
Can  equal  those  that  I  sustain, 
From  slighted  vows  and  cold  disdain  ! 
Be  gentle,  and  in  pity  choose 
To  wish  the  wildest  tempests  loose. 
That,  thrown  again  upon  the  coast 
Where  first  my  shipwreck'd  heart  was  lost, 
I  may  once  more  repeat  my  pain ; 
Once  more  in  dying  notes  complain 
Of  slighted  vows  and  cold  disdain. 


AN  EPITAPH. 
Interr'd  beneath  this  marble  stone 
Lie  sauntering  Jack  and  idle  Joan. 
While  rolling  threescore  years  and  one 
Did  round  this  globe  their  courses  run, 
If  human  things  went  ill  or  well, 
If  changing  empires  rose  or  fell. 
The  morning  pass'd,  the  evening  came, 
And  found  this  couple  still  the  same. 
They  walk'd,  and  eat,  good  folks :  what  then  ? 
Why  then  they  walk'd  and  eat  again ; 
They  soundly  slept  the  night  away ; 
They  did  just  nothing  all  the  day  : 
And,  having  buried  children  four, 
Would  not  take  pains  to  try  for  more. 
Nor  sister  either  had  nor  brother ; 
They  seem'd  just  tallied  for  each  other. 

Their  moral  and  economy 
Most  perfectly  they  made  agree ; 
Each  virtue  kept  its  proper  bound. 
Nor  tresspass'd  on  the  other's  ground. 
Nor  fame  nor  censure  they  regarded ; 
They  neither  punish'd  nor  rewarded. 
He  cared  not  what  the  footman  did ; 
Her  maids  she  neither  praised  nor  chid  : 
So  every  servant  took  his  course, 
And,  bad  at  first,  they  all  grew  worse. 
Slothful  disorder  fill'd  his  stable. 
And  sluttish  plenty  deck'd  her  table. 
Their  beer  was  strong:  their  wine  was  port; 
Their  meal  was  large ;  their  grace  was  short ' 
They  gave  the  poor  the  remnant  meat, 
Just  when  it  grew  not  fit  to  eat. 

They  paid  the  church  and  parish  rate, 
And  took,  but  read  not,  the  receipt ; 
For  which  they  claim'd  their  Sunday's  due. 
Of  slumbering  in  an  upper  pew. 

No  man's  defects  sought  they  to  know ; 
So  never  made  themselves  a  foe. 
No  man's  good  deeds  did  they  commend ; 
So  never  raised  themselves  a  friend. 
Nor  cherish'd  they  relations  poor  , 
That  might  decrease  their  present  store : 
Nor  barn  nor  house  did  they  repair ; 
That  might  oblige  their  future  heir. 

They  neither  added  nor  confounded  ; 
They  neither  wanted  nor  abounded. 
Each  Christmas  they  accounts  did  clear. 
And  wound  their  bottom  round  the  year. 


MATTHEW  PRIOR. 


891 


^Tor  tear  nor  smile  did  they  employ 
At  news  of  public  grief  or  joy. 
When  bells  were  rung  and  bonfires  made, 
Tf  ask'd,  they  ne'er  denied  their  aid  ; 
Their  jug  was  to  the  ringers  carried. 
Whoever  either  died  or  married. 
Their  billet  at  the  fire  was  found, 
W^hoever  was  deposed  or  crown'd. 

Not  good,  nor  bad,  nor  fools,  nor  wise ; 
They  would  not  learn,  nor  could  advise: 
Without  love,  hatred,  joy,  or  fear, 
They  led — a  kind  of — as  it  were : 
Nor  wish'd,  nor  car'd,  nor  laugh'd,  nor  cried : 
And  so  they  lived,  and  so  they  died. 


PBOTOOENBS  AND  APELLES. 
When  poets  wrote,  and  painters  drew. 
As  Nature  pointed  out  the  view ; 
Ere  Gothic  forms  were  known  in  Greece 
To  spoil  the  well-proportion'd  piece ; 
And  in  our  verse  ere  monkish  rhymes 
Had  jangled  their  fantastic  chimes ; 
Ere  on  the  flowery  lands  of  Rhodes 
Those  knights  had  fix'd  their  dull  abodes, 
Who  knew  not  much  to  paint  or  write, 
Nor  cared  to  pray,  nor  dared  to  fight: 
Protogenes,  historians  note. 
Lived  there,  a  burgess,  scot  and  lot; 
And,  as  old  Pliny's  writings  show, 
Apelles  did  the  same  at  Co. 
Agreed  these  points  of  time  and  place, 
Proceed  we  in  the  present  case. 
Piqued  by  Protogenes's  fame, 
From  Co  to  Rhodes,  Apelles  came, 
To  see  a  rival  and  a  friend. 
Prepared  to  censure,  or  commend ; 
Here  to  absolve,  and  there  object. 
As  art  with  candour  might  direct. 
He  sails,  he  lands,  he  comes,  he  rings ; 
His  servants  follow  with  the  things : 
Appears  the  governante  of  th'  house. 
For  such  in  Greece  were  much  in  use : 
If  young  or  handsome,  yea  or  no. 
Concerns  not  me  or  thee  to  know. 

Does  Squire  Protogenes  live  here  ? 
Yes,  Sir,  says  she,  with  gracious  air. 
And  court'sey  low,  but  just  call'd  out 
By  lords  pecuHarly  devout. 
Who  came  on  purpose.  Sir,  to  borrow 
Our  Venus,  for  the  feast  to-morrow, 
To  grace  the  church ;  'tis  Venus'  day : 
I  hope,  Sir,  you  intend  to  stay. 
To  see  our  Venus ;  'tis  the  piece 
The  most  renown'd  throughout  all  Greece; 
So  like  th'  original,  they  say ; 
But  I  have  no  great  skill  that  way. 
But,  Sir,  at  six  ('tis  now  past  three) 
Dromo  must  make  my  master's  tea: 
At  six,  Sir,  if  you  please  to  come. 
You'll  find  my  master,  Sir,  at  home. 

Tea,  says  a  critic,  big  with  laughter, 
Was  found  some  twenty  ages  after; 
Authors,  before  they  write,  should  read. 
'Tis  very  true ;  but  we'll"  proceed. 


And,  Sir,  at  present,  would  you  pleas«> 
To  leave  your  name — Fair  maiden,  yes, 
Reach  me  that  board.     No  sooner  spoke 
But  done.     With  one  judicious  stroke, 
On  the  plain  ground  Apelles  drew 
A  circle  regularly  true : 
And  will  you  please,  sweetheart,  said  he. 
To  show  your  master  this  for  me  1 
By  it  he  presently  will  know 
How  painters  write  their  names  at  Co. 

He  gave  the  pannel  to  the  maid. 
Smiling  and  court'sying,  Sir,  she  said, 
I  shall  not  fail  to  tell  my  master: 
And,  Sir,  for  fear  of  all  disaster, 
I'll  keep  it  my  ownself :  safe  bind. 
Says  the  old  proverb,  and  safe  find. 
So,  Sir,  as  sure  as  key  or  lock — 
Your  servant.  Sir, — at  six  o'clock. 

Again  at  six  Apelles  came. 
Found  the  ssuiie  prating  civil  dame. 
Sir,  that  my  master  has  been  here. 
Will  by  the  board  itself  appear. 
If  from  the  perfect  line  be  found 
He  has  presumed  to  swell  the  round. 
Or  colours  on  the  draught  to  lay, 
'Tis  thus,  (he  order'd  me  to  say) 
Thus  write  the  painters  of  this  isle : 
Let  those  of  Co  remark  the  style : 

She  said ;  and  to  his  hand  restored 
The  rival  pledge,  the  missive  board. 
Upon  the  happy  line  were  laid 
Such  obvious  light,  and  easy  shade. 
That  Paris'  apple  stood  confest. 
Or  Leda's  egg,  or  Chloe's  breast. 
Apelles  view'd  the  finish'd  piece : 
And  live,  said  he,  the  arts  of  GreeceJ 
Howe'er  Protogenes  and  I 
May  in  our  rival  talents  vie ; 
Howe'er  our  works  may  have  express'd 
Who  truest  drew,  or  colour'd  best. 
When  he  beheld  my  flowing  line. 
He  found  at  leat^t  I  could  design ; 
And  from  his  artful  round,  I  grant 
That  he  with  perfect  skill  can  paint. 

The  dullest  genius  cannot  fail 
To  find  the  moral  of  my  tale ; 
That  the  distinguish'd  part  of  men. 
With  compass,  pencil,  sword,  or  pen. 
Should  in  life's  visit  leave  their  name. 
In  characters  which  may  proclaim 
That  they  with  ardour  strove  to  raise 
At  once  their  arts,  and  country's  praise; 
And  in  their  working  took  great  care. 
That  all  was  full,  and  round,  and  fair.* 


THE  CAMELEON. 
As  the  Cameleon,  who  is  known 
To  have  no  colours  of  his  own  ; 
But  borrows  firom  his  neighbour's  hue 
His  white  or  black,  his  gpreen  or  blue; 

[•  ThU  ctory,  which  Prior  took  In  a  Tory  pUln  rtat* 
from  Pliny  and  enlivened  with  hig  own  exquieiu- humour, 
has  be«n  alti-red  by  Manon  and  wealiened  :— it  i«  not  ea»? 
to  add  to  Prior  when  he  wrot«  In  hb  happiest  moud*.] 


392                                                        MATTHEW  PRIOR. 

And  struts  as  much  in  ready  light, 

There  Alma  settled  in  the  tongue. 

Which  credit  gives  him  upon  sight, 

And  orators  from  Athens  sprung. 

As  if  the  rainbow  were  in  tail 

Observe  but  in  these  neighbouring  lands 

Settled  on  him  and  his  heirs  male ; 

The  different  use  of  mouths  and  hands; 

So  the  young  'squire,  when  first  he  comes 

As  men  reposed  their  various  hopes. 

From  country  shool  to  Will's  or  Tom's, 

In  battles  these,  and  those  in  tropes. 

And  equally,  in  truth,  is  fit 

In  Britain's  isles,  as  Heylin  notes. 

To  be  a  statesman,  or  a  wit ; 

The  ladies  trip  in  petticoats; 

Without  one  notion  of  his  own. 

Which,  for  the  honour  of  their  nation, 

He  saunters  wildly  up  and  down, 

The  quit  but  on  some  great  occasion. 

Till  some  acquaintance,  good  or  bad, 

Men  there  in  breeches  clad  you  view ; 

Takes  notice  of  a  staring  lad. 

They  claim  that  garment  as  their  due. 

Admits  him  in  among  the  gang ; 

In  Turkey  the  reverse  appears ; 

They  jest,  reply,  dispute,  harangue : 

Long  coats  the  haughty  husband  wears. 

He  acts  and  talks,  as  they  befriend  him. 

And  greets  his  wife  with  angry  speeches 

Smear'd  with  the  colours  which  they  lend  him. 

If  she  be  seen  without  her  breeches. 

Thus,  merely  as  his  fortune  chances. 

In  our  fantastic  climes,  the  fair 

His  merit  or  his  vice  advances. 

With  cleanly  powder  dry  their  hair ; 

If  haply  he  the  sect  pursues. 

And  round  their  lovely  breast  and  head 

That  read  and  comment  upon  news; 

Fresh  flowers  their  mingled  odours  shed. 

He  takes  up  their  mysterious  face ; 

Your  nicer  Hottentots  think  meet 

He  drinks  his  coffee  without  lace ; 

With  guts  and  tripe  to  deck  their  feet : 

This  week  his  mimic  tongue  runs  o'er 

With  down-cast  looks  on  Totta's  legs 

What  they  have  said  the  week  before ; 

The  ogling  youth  most  humbly  begs 

His  wisdom  sets  all  Europe  right. 

She  would  not  from  his  hopes  remove 

And  teaches  Marlborough  when  to  fight. 

At  once  his  breakfast  and  his  love : 

Or  if  it  be  his  fate  to  meet 

And,  if  the  skittish  nymph  should  fly, 

With  folks  who  have  more  wealth  than  wit ; 

He  in  a  double  sense  must  die. 

He  loves  cheap  port,  and  double  bub ; 

We  simple  toasters  take  delight 

And  settles  in  the  Hum-drum  club ; 

To  see  our  women's  teeth  look  white, 

He  learns  how  stocks  will  fall  or  rise ; 

And  every  saucy,  ill-bred  fellow 

Holds  poverty  the  greatest  vice ; 

Sneers  at  a  mouth  profoundly  yellow. 

Thinks  wit  the  bane  of  conversation. 

In  China  none  hold  women  sweet. 

And  says  that  learning  spoils  a  nation. 

Except  their  snags  are  black  as  jet. 

But  if,  at  first,  he  minds  his  hits. 

King  Chihu  put  nine  queens  to  death, 

And  drinks  champagne  among  the  wits ; 

Convict  on  statute.  Ivory  Teeth. 

Five  deep  he  toasts  the  towering  lasses ; 

At  Tonquin,  if  a  prince  should  die 

Repeats  you  verses  wrote  on  glasses ; 

(As  Jesuits  write,  who  never  lie,) 

Is  in  the  chair :  prescribes  the  law ; 

The  wife,  and  counsellor,  and  priest, 

And  lies  with  those  he  never  saw. 

Who  served  him  most,  and  loved  him  best. 

Prepare  and  light  his  funeral  fire. 

^ 

And  cheerful  on  the  pile  expire. 

In  Europe,  'twould  be  hard  to  find 

FROM  «  AT.MA;  OB,  THE  PROGRESS  OF  THE  MIND."* 

In  each  degree  one  half  so  kind. 

Now  turn  we  to  the  farthest  east. 

CA^TO  n. 

And  there  observe  the  gentry  dress'd. 

Turn  we  this  globe,  and  let  us  see 

Prince  Giolo,  and  his  royal  sisters. 

How  different  nations  disagree 

Scarr'd  with  ten  thousand  comely  blisters ; 

In  what  we  wear,  or  eat  and  drink ; 

The  marks  remaining  on  the  skin. 

Nay,  Dick,  perhaps  in  what  we  think. 

To  tell  the  quality  within. 

In  water  as  you  smell  and  taste 

Distinguish 'd  slashes  deck  the  great : 

The  soils  through  which  it  rose  and  past ; 

As  each  excels  in  birth  or  state. 

In  Alma's  manners  you  may  read 

His  oylet-holes  are  more  and  ampler: 

The  place  where  she  was  born  and  bred. 

The  king's  own  body  was  a  sampler. 

One  people  from  their  swaddling  bands 

Happy  the  climate,  where  the  beau 

Released  their  infants'  feet  and  hands ; 

Wears  the  same  suit  for  use  and  show : 

Here  Alma  to  these  limbs  was  brought. 

And  at  a  small  expense  your  wife. 

And  Sparta's  offspring  kick'd  and  fought 

If  once  well  pink'd,  is  clothed  for  life. 

Another  taught  their  babes  to  talk. 

Westward  again,  the  Indian  fair 

Ere  they  could  yet  in  go-carts  walk : 

Is  nicely  smear'd  with  fat  of  bear : 

[*  What  Prior  meant  by  this  povm  I  cannot  understand ; 

wa.s  written  in  imitation  of  Hudlbras  I  cannot  conceive. 

by  the  Oreek  motto  to  it  one  would  think  it  was  either  to 

In  former  years  they  were  both  favourites  of  mine,  and 

laugh  at  the  subject  or  his  rsader.    There  are  some  parts 

I  often  read  them;  but  I  never  saw  In  them  the  least  re- 

of  it  very  fitae ;  and  let  them  save  the  badness  of  the  rest. 

eembiance  to  each  other:  nor  do  I  now,  except  that  they 

— OOLDSMITH. 

are  composed  in  verse  of  the  game  measure.— CowpER,  tes- 

What suggested  to  Johnson  the  thought  that  the  Alma 

1 

ter  to  Unwin,  21«t  Mardi,  178^.] 

DR.  GEORGE  SEWELL. 


Before  you  see,  you  smell  your  toast ; 
And  sweetest  she  who  stinks  the  most. 
The  finest  sparks  and  cleanest  beaux 
Drip  from  the  shoulders  to  the  toes : 
How  sleek  their  skins !  their  joints  how  easy ! 
There  slovens  only  are  not  greasy. 

I  mention'd  different  ways  of  breeding : 
Begin  we  in  our  children's  reading. 
To  master  John  the  English  maid 
A  horn-book  gives  of  gingerbread  ; 
And,  that  the  child  may  learn  the  better. 
As  he  can  name,  he  eats  the  letter. 
Proceeding  thus  with  vast  delight, 
He  spells  and  gnaws  from  left  to  right. 
But,  show  a  Hebrew's  hopeful  son 
Where  we  suppose  the  book  begun, 
The  child  would  thank  you  for  your  kindness, 
And  read  quite  backward  from  our  finis. 
Devour  he  learning  ne'er  so  fast, 
Great  A  would  be  reserved  the  last, 

An  equal  instance  of  this  matter 
Is  in  the  manners  of  a  daughter. 
In  Europe  if  a  harmless  maid. 
By  nature  and  by  love  betray'd, 
Should,  ere  a  wife,  become  a  nurse. 
Her  friends  would  look  on  her  the  worse. 
In  China,  Dampier's  travels  tell  ye 
(Look  in  his  Index  for  Pagelii,) 
Soon  as  the  British  ships  unmoor, 
And  jolly  long-boat  rows  to  shore, 
Down  come  the  nobles  of  the  land; 
Each  brings  his  daughter  in  his  hand, 
Beseeching  the  imperious  tar 
To  make  her  but  one  hour  his  care. 
The  tender  mother  stands  affrighted, 
Lest  her  dear  daughter  should  be  slighted : 
And  poor  miss  Yaya  dreads  the  shame 
Of  going  back  the  maid  she  came. 

Observe  how  custom,  Dick,  compels. 
The  lady  that  in  Europe  dwells: 
After  her  tea,  she  slips  away, 
And  what  to  do,  one  need  not  say. 
Now  see  how  great  Pomonqne's  queen 
Behaved  herself  amongst  the  men  : 
Pleased  with  her  punch,  the  gallant  soul 
First  drank,  then  water'd  in  the  bowl ; 
And  sprinkled  in  the  captain's  face 
The  marks  of  her  peculiar  grace. 


To  close  this  point  we  need  not  roam 
For  instances  so  far  from  home. 
What  parts  gay  France  from  sober  Spain  7 
A  little  rising  rocky  chain. 
Of  men  born  south  or  north  o'  th'  hill, 
Those  seldom  move,  these  ne'er  stand  still. 
Dick,  you  love  maps,  and  may  jjerceive 
Rome  not  far  distant  from  Geneve. 
If  the  good  Pope  remains  at  home. 
He's  the  first  prince  in  Christendom. 
Choose  then,  good  Pope,  at  home  to  stay, 
Nor  westward  curious  take  thy  way : 
Thy  way  unhappy  shouldst  thou  take, 
From  Tiber's  bank  to  Leman  lake, 
Thou  art  an  aged  priest  no  more, 
But  a  young  flaring  painted  whore : 
Thy  sex  is  lost,  thy  town  is  gone ; 
No  longer  Rome,  but  Babylon. 
That    some    few  leagues    should    make    this 

change, 
To  men  unlearn'd  seems  mighty  strange. 

But  need  we,  fi-iend,  insist  on  thisi 
Since,  in  the  very  Cantons  Swiss, 
All  your  philosophers  agree, 
And  prove  it  plain,  that  one  may  be 
A  heretic,  or  true  believer, 
On  this,  or  t'  other  side  a  river. 

Here,  with  an  artful  smile,  quoth  Dick, 
Your  proofs  come  mighty  full  and  thick — 

The  bard,  on  this  extensive  chapter 
Wound  up  into  poetic  rapture. 
Continued :  Richard,  cast  your  eye 
By  night  upon  a  winter-sky : 
Cast  it  by  day-light  on  the  strand 
Which  compasses  fair  Albion's  land : 
If  you  can  count  the  stars  that  glow 
Above,  or  sands  that  lie  below. 
Into  those  common-places  look. 
Which  from  great  authors  I  have  took, 
And  count  the  proofs  I  have  collected. 
To  have  my  writings  well  protected. 
These  I  lay  by  for  time  of  need. 
And  thou  may'st  at  thy  leisure  read. 
For  standing  every  critic's  rage, 
I  safely  will  to  future  age 
My  system,  as  a  gift,  bequeath. 
Victorious  over  spite  and  death. 


DR.  GEORGE   SEWELL. 


[Died,  Feb.  8, 1726.] 


Dr.  George  Sewell,  author  of  «'  Sir  Walter 
Raleigh,  a  tragedy ;"  several  papers  in  the  fifth 
volume  of  the  Tattler,  and  ninth  of  the  Spec- 
tator ;  a  life  of  John  Philips ;  and  some  other 
things.  There  is  something  melancholy  in  this 
poor  man's  history.  He  was  a  physician  at 
Hampstead,  with  very  little  practice,  and  chiefly 
subsisted  on  the  invitations  of  the  neighbour- 
60 


ing  gentlemen,  to  whom  his  amiable  character 
made  him  acceptable;  but  at  his  death  not  a 
friend  or  relative  came  to  commit  his  remains 
to  the  dust !  He  was  buried  in  the  meanest 
manner,  under  a  hollow  tree,  that  was  once 
part  of  the  boundary  of  the  churchyard  of 
Hampstead.  No  memorial  was  placed  over  hi* 
remains. 


894 


SIR  JOHN  VANBRUGH. 


VERSES, 

BAID  10  BK  WRITTEN  BY  THE  AUTHOR  ON   HIMSELF,  WHEN 
WA8  Df  A  CONSUMPTION. 

Why,  Damon,  with  the  forward  day, 

Dost  thou  thy  little  spot  survey, 

From  tree  to  tree,  with  doubtful  cheer, 

Pursue  the  progress  of  the  year, 

What  winds  arise,  what  rains  descend, 
When  thou  before  that  year  shalt  end  ? 

What  do  thy  noon-day  walks  avail, 
To  clear  the  leaf,  and  pick  the  snail, 
Then  wantonly  to  <leath  decree 
An  insect  usefuller  than  thee  1 


Thou  and  the  worm  are  brother-kind, 
As  low,  as  earthy,  and  as  blind. 

Vain  wretch !  canst  thou  expect  to  see 
The  downy  peach  make  court  to  thee  1 
Or  that  thy  sense  shall  ever  meet 
The  beau-flower's  deep-embosom'd  sweet, 
Exhaling  with  an  evening  blast  1 
Thy  evenings  then  will  all  be  past. 

Thy  narrow  pride,  thy  fancied  green, 
(For  vanity  's  in  little  seen) 
All  must  be  left  when  death  appears. 
In  spite  of  wishes,  groans,  and  tears; 
Nor  one  of  all  thy  plants  that  grow. 
But  rosemaiy  will  with  thee  go. 


SIR  JOHN  VANBRUGH. 


[Born,  1666.    Died,  1726.] 


Sir  John  Vanbruoh,*  the  poet  and  architect, 
was  the  oldest  son  of  Mr.  Giles  Vanbrugh,  of 
London,  merchant;  he  was  born  in  the  parish 
of  St.  Stephen,  Walbrook,  1666.  He  received  a 
very  liberal  education,  and  at  the  age  of  nineteen 
was  sent  by  his  father  to  France,  where  he  con- 
tinued several  years.  In  1703,  he  was  appointed 
Clarencieux  King  of  Arms,  and  in  1706  was  com- 
missioned by  Queen  Anne  to  carry  the  habit  and 
ensigns  of  the  order  of  the  garter  to  King  George 


the  First,  then  at  Hanover.  He  was  also  made 
comptroller-general  of  the  board  of  works,  and 
surveyor  of  the  gardens  and  waters.  In  1714,  he 
received  the  order  of  knighthood,  and  in  1719 
married  Henrietta  Maria,  daughter  of  Colonel 
Yarborough.  Sir  John  died  of  a  quinsey  at  his 
house  in  Scotland-yard,  and  is  interred  in  the 
family  vault  under  the  church  of  St.  Stephen, 
Walbrook.  He  left  only  one  son,  who  fell  at  the 
battle  of  Fontenoy.j" 


FABLE,  RELATED  BY  A  BEAU  TO  ESOP. 

A  Band,  a  Bob-wig,  and  a  Feather, 
Attack'd  a  lady's  heart  together. 
The  Band,  in  a  most  learned  plea, 
Made  up  of  deep  philosophy. 
Told  her,  if  she  would  please  to  wed 
A  reverend  beard,  and  take  instead 

Of  vigorous  youth. 

Old  solemn  truth. 
With  books  and  morals,  into  bed, 
How  happy  she  would  be. 

The  Bob,  he  talked  of  management, 
What  wond'rous  blessings  heaven  sent 
On  care,  and  pains,  and  industry : 
And  truly  he  must  be  so  free 
To  own  he  thought  your  airy  beaux, 
With  powder'd  wigs,  and  dancing  shoes, 


[*  The  family  of  Sir  John  Vanbrugh  is  stated,  in  the 
Biogr^jphin  Dramatica,  to  have  come  originally  from  France ; 
but  my  Iriend.  the  llev.  George  Vanbrugh,  rector  of  Augh- 
ton,  in  IjincjiFhire.  the  only  surviving  descendant  of  the 
family,  inlbrmi'  me  that  his  ancestors  were  eminent  mer- 
chants of  Antwerp,  and  fled  out  of  Handers  when  the  Duke 
of  Alva  tried  to  e.-itablish  the  inquisition  in  those  provinces. 
They  first  took  refuge  in  Holland,  and  from  thence  came 
over  to  Kngland  to  enjoy  the  protestant  protection  of  Queen 
Elizabeth. 


Were  good  for  nothing  (mend  his  soul !) 
But  prate,  and  talk,  and  play  the  fool. 

He  said  'twas  wealth  gave  joy  and  mirth, 

And  that  to  be  the  dearest  wife 

Of  one,  who  labour'd  all  his  life 

To  make  a  mine  of  gold  his  own, 

And  not  spend  sixpence  when  he'd  done, 

Was  heaven  upon  earth. 

When  these  two  blades  had  done,  d'ye  see, 
The  Feather  (as  it  might  be  me,) 
Steps  out,  sir,  from  behind  the  skreen. 
With  such  an  air  and  such  a  mien — 
Look  you,  old  gentlemen, — in  short 
He  quickly  spoil'd  the  statesman's  sport. 

It  proved  such  sunshine  weather 
That  you  must  know,  at  the  first  beck 
The  lady  leap'd  about  his  neck, 

And  off  they  went  together. 


[t  No  man  who  has  been  satirized  by  Swift,  and 
praised  by  Reynolds,  could  have  much  chance  of  being 
forgotten ;  but  the  feme  of  him  who  was  at  once  the 
author  of  "  The  Relapse"  and  "  The  I'rovoked  Wife,"  and 
the  architect  of  Castle  Howard  and  Blenheim,  stands  inde- 
pendent of  even  eu(  h  subsidiaries. — Allan  Cunninouam's 
IAve$  of  British  Artists,  vol.  iv.  p.  258.] 


WILLIAM  CONGREVE. 


CBorn,  16W.    Died,  17W.] 


FROM  "THE  MOURNING  BRIDE." 

Almeria  meeting  her  husband  Alphonso,  whom  she  had 
imngined  to  be  dead,  now  dlsguined  as  the  captive  Osmyn, 
at  the  tomb  of  his  father  Anselmo. 

Enter  Almema  and  Leonora. 

^Im,  It  was  a  fancied  noise,  for  all  is  hush'd. 

Leon.  It  bore  the  accent  of  a  human  voice. 

jllm.  It  was  thy  fear,  or  else  some  transient 
wind 
Whistling  through  hollows  of  this  vaulted  aisle. 
We'll  listen 

Lean.  Hark!  [dreadful! 

Mm.  No,  all  is  hush'd,  and  still  as  death — 'tis 
How  reverend  is  the  face  of  this  tall  pile, 
Whose  ancient  pillars  rear  their  marble  heads, 
To  bear  aloft  its  arch'd  and  ponderous  roof, 
By  its  own  weight  made  steadfast  and  immovable, 
Looking  tranquillity.     It  strikes  an  awe 
And  terror  on  my  aching  sight;  the  tombs 
And  monumental  caves  of  death  look  cold. 
And  shoot  a  chillness  to  my  trembling  heart. 
Give  me  thy  hand,  and  let  me  hear  thy  voice ; 
Nay,  quickly  speak  to  me,  and  let  me  hear 
Thy  voice — my  own  affrights  me  with  its  echoes.* 

Leon.  Let  us  return  ;  the  horror  of  this  place, 
And  silence,  will  increase  your  melancholy. 

Mm.  It  may  my  fears,  but  cannot  add  to  that. 
No,  I  will  on ;  show  me  Anselmo's  tomb,  [earth, 
Lead  me  o'er  bones  and  skulls,  and  mouldering 
Of  human  bodies ;  for  I'll  mix  with  them. 
Or  wind  me  in  the  shroud  of  some  pale  corpse. 
Yet  green  in  earth,  rather  than  be  the  bride 
Of  Garcia's  more  detested  bed :  that  thought 
Exerts  my  spirits,  and  my  present  fears 
Are  lost  in  dread  of  greater  ill.     Then  show  me. 
Lead  me,  for  I  am  bolder  grown :  lead  on 
Where  I  may  kneel,  and  pay  my  vows  again. 
To  him,  to  Heaven,  and  my  Alphonso's  soul. 

Leon.  I  go ;  but  Heaven  can  tell  with  what  regret. 

[Exeunt. 
UnterTUvL 
Heli.  I  wander  through  this  maze  of  monu- 
ments, 


[•  This  is  the  passage  that  Johnson  admired  so  much. 
"Congreve,"  he  said,  "has  one  finer  passage  than  any  tliat 
can  he  found  in  Shakspeare.  What  1  ini'au  is,  that  you  can 
show  me  no  passage  where  there  Is  simply  a  description  of 
material  objects  wilhoutany  intermixture  of  moral  nolious, 
which  produced  such  an  effect."— OoAer's  Bostodl,  vol.  ii. 
p.  86.  "  If  1  were  require<l,"  he  says,  in  his  life  of  Con- 
greve,  "  to  select  from  the  whole  mass  of  Knglish  poetry 
the  most  poetical  paragraph,  1  know  not  what  1  could  pre- 
fer to  this.  He  who  reads  these  lines  enjoys  for  a  mtment 
the  powers  of  a  poet;  he  feels  what  he  remembers  to  have 
felt  before;  but  he  feels  it  with  a  great  iiicrea.-e  of  sensi- 
bility, he  recognises  a  familiar  image,  but  meets  it  again 
amplified  and  expanded,  embellished  with  beauty  and 
enlarged  with  majesty."  Mr.  Croker  had  much  improved 
his  edition  of  Boswell,  if  lie  had  illustrated  Johnson's  con- 
versution  by  his  own  writings.] 


Yet  cannot  find  him — Hark !  sure  tis  the  voice 
Of  one  complaining — there  it  sounds !  I'll  follow  it. 

[EjcU. 

Scene  n. — Opening,  ditcoversaplace  of  Thmbt:  one  Monit- 
ment,  fronting  the  view,  greater  titan  the  rttL 

Enter  Almeru  and  Leonora. 
Leon.  Behold  the  sacred  vault,  within  whose 
womb, 
The  poor  remains  of  good  Anselmo  rest. 
Yet  fresh  and  unconsumed  by  time  or  worms. 
What  do  I  see  ?    Oh,  Heaven  !  either  my  eyes 
Are  false,  or  still  the  marble  door  remains 
Unclosed ;  the  iron  gates,  that  lead  to  death 
Beneath,  are  still  wide  stretch'd  upon  their  hinge, 
And  staring  on  us  with  unfolded  leaves!      [me; 
.^Im.  Sure  'tis  the  friendly  yawn  of  death  for 
And  that  dumb  mouth,  significant  in  show. 
Invites  me  to  the  bed,  where  I  alone  [weary 

Shall  rest;  shows  me  the  grave  where  nature, 
And  long  oppress'd  with  woes  and  bending  cares, 
May  lay  the  burthen  down,  and  sink  in  slumbers 
Of  peace  eternal.     Death,  grim  death,  will  fold 
Me  in  his  leaden  arms,  and  press  me  close 
To  his  cold,  clayey  breast!  My  father,  then. 
Will  cease  his  tyranny ;  and  Garcia,  too, 
Will  fly  my  pale  deformity  with  loathing. 
My  soul,  enlarged  from  its  vile  bonds,  will  mount, 
And  range  the  starry  orbs,  and  milky-ways, 
Of  that  refulgent  world,  where  I  shall  swim 
In  liquid  light,  and  float  on  seas  of  bliss. 
To  my  Alphonso's  soul.     Oh,  joy  too  great! 
Oh,  ecstasy  of  thought !  Help  me,  Anselmo ; 
Help  me,  Alphonso ;  take  me,  reach  thy  hand ; 
To  thee,  to  thee  I  call;  to  thee,  Alphonso; 
Oh,  Alphonso ! 

OSMTN  atcending  Jram  the  tomb. 
Osnu  Who  calls  that  wretched  thing  that  was 

Alphonso 1 
Mm.  Angels,  and  all  the  host  of  heaven,  sup- 
port me ! 
Osm.  Whence  is  that  voice,  whose  shrillness, 
from  the  grave. 
And  growing  to  his  father's  shroud,  roots  up 
Alphonso 1 

Mm.  Mercy !  providence !  Oh,  speak. 
Speak  to  it  quickly,  quickly ;  speak  to  me. 
Comfort  me,  help  me,  hold  me,  hide  me,  hide  me, 
Leonora,  in  thy  bosom,  from  the  light, 
And  from  my  eyes ! 

Osfn.  Amazement  and  illusion  I 
Rivet  and  nail  me  where  1  stand,  ye  powers, 

ICbmins/orwaia 

That,  motionless,  I  may  be  still  deceived! 
Let  me  not  stir,  nor  breathe,  lest  I  dissolve 
That  tender,  lovely  form  of  painted  air, 
So  like  Almeria.     Ha !  it  sinks,  it  falls : 
I'll  catch  it  ere  it  goes,  and  grasp  her  shade  I 
896 


896 


WILLIAM   CONGREVE 


'Tis  life !  'tis  warm !  'tis  she,  'tis  she  herself ! 
Nor  dead,  nor  shade,  but  breathing  and  alive ! 
It  is  Almeria,  it  is  my  wife  ! 

JSnterUxu. 

Leon,  Alas !  she  stirs  not  yet,  nor  lifts  her  eyes ! 
He,  too,  is  fainting Help  me,  help  me,  stran- 
ger, 
Whoe'er  thou  art,  and  lend  thy  hand  to  raise 
These  bodies. 

Hel.  Ah  !  'tis  he  T  and  with Almeria ! 

Oh,  miracle  of  happiness  !  Oh,  joy 
Unhoped  for !  Does  Almeria  live  1 

Oswi.  Where  is  she  1 
liCt  me  behold,  and  touch  her,  and  be  sure 
*Tis  she ;  show  me  her  face,  and  let  me  feel 
Her  lips  with  mine — 'Tis  she,  I  am  not  deceived : 
I  taste  her  breath,  I  warm  her  and  am  warmed. 
Look  up,  Almeria,  bless  me  with  thy  eyes ; 
Look  on  thy  love,  thy  lover,  and  thy  husband ! 

Mm.  I  have  sworn  I'll  not  wed  Garcia :  why 
do  ye  force  me  1 
Is  this  a  father  T 

Osm.  Look  on  thy  Alphonso. 
Thy  father  is  not  here,  my  love,  nor  Garcia : 
Nor  am  I  what  I  seem,  but  thy  Alphonso.   [me  ? 
Wilt  thou  not  know  me  1  Hast  thou  then  forgot 
Hast  thou  thy  eyes,  yet  canst  not  see  Alphonso? 
Am  I  so  altered,  or  art  thou  so  changed. 
That,  seeing  my  disguise,  thou  seest  not  me  1 

Mm.  It  is,  it  is  Alphonso !  'tis  his  face. 
His  voice — I  know  him  now,  I  know  him  all. 
Oh,  take  me  to  thy  arms,  and  bear  me  hence, 
Back  to  the  bottom  of  the  boundless  deep. 
To  seas  beneath,  where  thou  so  long  hast  dwelt. 
Oh,  how  hast  thou  return'd  ?     How  hast  thou 

charm'd 
The  wildness  of  the  waves  and  rocks  to  this ; 
That,  thus,  relenting,  they  have  given  thee  back 
To  earth,  to  light  and  life,  to  love  and  me  1 

Osm.  Oh,  I'll  not  ask,  nor  answer,  how  or  why 
We  both  have  backward  trod  the  paths  of  fate. 
To  meet  again  in  life ;  to  know  I  have  thee, 
Is  knowing  more  than  any  circumstance, 

Or  means,  by  which  I  have  thee 

To  fold  thee  thus,  to  press  thy  balmy  lips, 
And  gaze  upon  thy  eyes,  is  so  much  joy, 
I  have  not  leisure  to  reflect  or  know, 
Or  trifle  time  in  thinking. 

.  Jllm.  Stay  awhile 

Let  me  look  on  thee  yet  a  little  more. 

Osm.  What  wouldst  thou ?  thou  dost  put  me 
from  thee. 

Jim.  Yes 

Osm.  And  why  1  What  dost  thou  mean  1  Why 
dost  thou  gaze  so  ] 

Jim.  I  know  not ;  'tis  to  see  thy  face,  I  think — 
It  is  too  much  !  too  much  to  bear  and  live  1 
To  see  thee  thus  again  in  such  profusion 
Of  joy,  of  bliss — I  cannot  bear — I  must 
B*;  mad — I  cannot  be  transported  thus. 

Osm.  Thou  excellence,  thou  joy,  thou  heaven 
of  love! 

Mm.  Where  hast  thou  been  1  and  how  art  thou 
alive ' 


How  is  all  this  1  All-powerful  Heaven,  what  are 

we? 
Oh,  my  strain'd  heart — let  me  again  behold  thee, 
For  I  weep  to  see  thee — Art  thou  not  paler  ? 
Much,  much  ;  how  thou  art  changed  ! 

Osm.  Not  in  my  love. 

Mm.  No,  no !  thy  griefs,  I  know,  have  done 
this  to  thee. 
Thou  hast  wept  much,  Alphonso ;  and,  I  fear. 
Too  much,  too  tenderly,  lamented  me. 

Osm.  W^rong  not  my  love,  to  say  too  tenderly. 
No  more,  my  life ;  talk  not  of  tears  or  grief; 
Affliction  is  no  more,  now  thou  art  found. 
Why  dost  thou  weep,  and  hold  thee  from  my 

arms, 
My  arms  which  ache  to  hold  thee  fast,  and  grow 
To  thee  with  twining  ?  Come,  come  to  my  heart ! 

Jim.  I  will,  for  I  should  never  look  enough. 
They  would  have  married  me ;  but  I  had  sworn 
To  Heaven  and  thee,  and  sooner  would  have 
died — 

Oswi.  Perfection  of  all  faithfulness  and  love  ! 

Jim.  Indeed  I  would — Nay,  I  would  tell  thee 
all, 
If  I  could  speak ;  how  I  have  mourn'd  and  pray'd ; 
For  I  have  pray'd  to  thee,  as  to  a  saint ; 
And  thou  hast  heard  my  prayer;  for  thou  art  come 
To  my  distress,  to  my  despair,  which  Heaven 
Could  only,  by  restoring  thee,  have  cured. 

Oswi.  Grantme butlife,goodHeaven,butlength 
of  days, 
To  pay  some  part,  some  little  of  this  debt, 
This  countless  sum  of  tenderness  and  love, 
For  which  I  stand  engaged  to  this  all-excellence; 
Then  bear  me  in  a  whirlwind  to  my  fate. 
Snatch  me  from  life,  and  cut  me  sliort  unwarnd  : 
Then,  then  'twill  be  enough — I  shall  be  old, 
I  shall  have  pass'd  all  aeras  then 
Of  yet  unmeasured  time;  when  I  have  made 
This  exquisite,  this  most  amazing  goodness. 
Some  recompense  of  love  and  matchless  truth. 

Jim.  'Tis  more  than  recompense  to  see  thy  face 
If  Heaven  is  greater  joy,  it  is  no  happiness, 
For  'tis  not  to  be  borne — What  shall  I  say  1 
I  have  a  thousand  things  to  know  and  ask, 
And  speak — That  thou  art  here  beyond  all  hope. 
All  thought;  and  all  at  once  thou  art  before  me. 
And  with  such  suddenness  hast  hit  my  sight. 
Is  such  surprise,  such  mystery,  such  ecstasy. 
It  hurries  all  my  soul,  and  stuns  my  sense. 
Sure  from  thy  father's  tomb  thou  didst  arise  ? 

Oswi.  I  did  :  and  thou,  my  love,  didst  call  me  ; 
thou.  [thou  alone  1 

Jim.  True ;  but  how  camest  thou  there  ?  Wert 

Oswi.  I  was,  and  lying  on  my  father's  lead, 
When  broken  echoes  of  a  distant  voice 
Disturb'd  the  sacred  silence  of  the  vault. 
In  murmurs  round  my  head.    I  rose  and  listen'd. 
And  thought  I  heard  thy  spirit  call  Alphonso ; 
I  thought  I  saw  thee  too ;  but.  Oh,  I  thought  not 
That  I  indeed  should  be  so  blest  to  see  thee 

Jim.  But  still,  how  camest  thou  thither?   How 

thus  1 Ha  ? 

What's  he,  who,  like  thyself,  is  started  here 
Ere  seen  ■• 


ELIJAH   FENTON. 


397 


Osm.  Where  1  Ha !   What  do  I  see,  Antonio  1 
I  am  fortunate  indeed — my  friend,  too,  safe ! 

Heli.  Most  happily,  in  finding  you  thus  bless'd. 

^Im.  More  miracles !  Antonio  escaped ! 

Osm.  And  twice  escaped ;  both  from  the  rage 
of  seas 
And  war :  for  in  the  fight  I  saw  him  fall. 

HelL  But  fell  unhurt,  a  prisoner  as  yourself, 
And  as  yourself  made  free;  hither  I  came. 
Impatiently  to  seek  you,  where  1  knew 
Your  grief  would  lead  you  to  lament  Anselmo. 

Osni.  There  are  no  wonders;   or  else  all  is 
wonder.  [up, 

Heli.  I  saw  you  on  the  ground  and  raised  you 
When  with  astonishment  I  saw  Almeria. 

Osm.  I  saw  her  too,  and  therefore  saw  not  thee. 

Mm.  Nor  I;  nor  could  I,  for  uiy  eyes  were 
yours. 

Osm.  What  means  the  bounty  of  all  gracious 
Heaven, 
That  persevering,  still,  with  open  hand, 
It  scatters  good,  as  in  a  waste  of  mercy  ! 
Where  will  this  end  1   But  Heaven  is  infinite 
In  all,  and  can  continue  to  bestow. 
When  scanty  number  shall  be  spent  in  telling. 

Leon.  Or  I  am  deceived,  or  I  beheld  the  glimpse 
Of  two  in  shining  habits  cross  the  aisle ; 
Who,  by  their  pointing,  seem  to  mark  this  place. 

Mm.  Sure  I  have  dreamt,  if  we  must  part  so 
soon. 

Osm.  I  wish  at  least  our  parting  were  a  dream, 
Or  we  could  sleep  till  we  again  were  met. 

Heli.  Zara  and  8elim,  sir ;  I  saw  and  know 
them: 
You  must  be  quick,  for  love  will  lend  her  wings. 

jllnu  What  love  1  Who  is  she  1   Why  are  you 
alarm'd  1 

Osm.  She's  the  reverse  of  thee ;  she's  my  un- 
happiness. 
Harbour  no  thought  that  may  disturb  thy  peace ; 
But  gently  take  thyself  away,  lest  she 
Should  come,  and  see  the  straining  of  my  eyes 
To  follow  thee. 
Retire,  my  love,  I'll  think  how  we  may  meet 


To  part  no  more ;  my  friend  will  tell  thee  all ; 

How  I  escaped,  how  I  am  here,  and  thus ; 

How  I  am  not  called  Alphonso,  now,  but  Osmyn 

And  he  Heli.     All,  all  he  will  unfold, 

Ere  next  we  meet 

Mtit.  Sure  we  shall  meet  again 

Osm.  We  shall ;  we  part  not  but  to  meet  again 

Gladness  and  warmth  of  ever-kindling  love 

Dwell  with  thee,  and  revive  thy  heart  in  absence ! 
[Exeunt  Auf.  Lbox.  and  Ucu 

Yet  I  behold  her — yet — and  now  no  more. 

Turn  your  lights  inward,  eyes,  and   view  my 
thoughts. 

So  shall  you  still  behold  her — 'twill  not  be. 

Oh,  impotence  of  sight !  Mechanic  sense ! 

Which  to  exterior  objects  owest  thy  faculty. 

Not  seeing  of  election,  but  necessity. 

Thus  do  our  eyes,  as  do  all  common  mirrors, 

Successively  reflect  succeeding  images : 

Not  what  they  would,  but  must ;  a  star,  or  toad ; 

Just  as  the  hand  of  chance  administers. 

Not  so  the  mind,  whose  undetermined  view 

Resolves,  and  to  the  present  adds  the  past. 

Essaying  farther  to  futurity  ; 

But  that  in  vain.     I  have  Almeria  here 

At  once,  as  I  before  have  seen  her  often 


SONG. 


Tell  me  no  more  I  am  deceived. 
That  Chloe's  false  and  common ; 

I  always  knew  (at  least  believed) 
She  was  a  very  woman : 

As  such  I  liked,  as  such  caress'd ; 

She  still  was  constant  when  possess'd, 
She  could  do  more  for  no  man. 

Bnt,  oh !  her  thoughts  on  others  ran. 
And  that  you  think  a  hard  thing; 

Perhaps  she  fancied  you  the  man, 
And  what  care  1  a  farthing  1 

You  think  she's  false,  I'm  sure  she's  kind; 

I  take  her  body,  you  her  mind. 
Who  has  the  better  bargain  1 


ELIJAH   FENTON. 


CBorn,  U83.    Diad.  ITSO.] 


Elijah  Fenton  was  obliged  to  leave  the  uni- 
versity on  account  of  his  non-juring  principles. 
He  was  for  some  time  secretary  to  Charles,  Earl 
of  Orrery ;  he  afterward  taught  the  grammar- 
school  of  Sevenoaks,  in  Kent;  but  was  induced, 
by  Bolingbroke,  to  forsake  that  drudgery  for  the 
more  unprofitable  slate  of  dependence  upon  a 
political  patron,  who,  after  all,  left  him  disajj- 
poinled  and  in  debt.  Pope  recommended  him  to 
Craggs  as  a  literary  instructor,  but  the  death  of 
that  statesman  again  subverted  his  hopes  of  pre- 
ferment; and  he  became  an  auxiliary  to  Pope  in 
translating  the  Odyssey,  of  which  his  share  was 
the  first,  fourth,  nineteeth,  and  twentieth  books. 


The  successful  appearance  of  his  tragedy  of  Ma- 
riamne  on  the  stage,  in  1723,  relieved  him  from 
his  difficulties,  and  the  rest  of  his  life  was  com- 
fortably spent  in  the  employment  of  Lady  Trum- 
bull, first  as  tutor  to  her  son,  and  afterward  as 
auditor  of  her  accounts.  His  character  was  thai 
of  an  amiable  but  indolent  man,  who  drank,  in 
his  gfreat  chair,  two  bottles  of  port  wine  a  day 
He  published  an  edition  of  the  poetical  works  of 
Milton  and  of  Waller.* 


[*  Fenton  wrote  nnthinu  equal  to  bU  Ode  to  the  Lord 

Gower.  whirh  is.  oavg  Joseph  Warton.  written  in  I  he  tru« 

•pirit  of  lyric  poetry.    It  1im«  received  t<jo  the  praii«ei>  of 

Pope  and  Akeuside,  but  is  letter  in  part*  than  as  a  wbole.1 

21 


898 


EDWARD   WARD. 


4.N  ODE  TO  THE  RIGHT  H0\.  JOHN  LORD  GOWER. 

WRITTEN   IN  THE  SPRING   OF   1716. 

O'er  winter's  long  inclement  sway, 

At  length  the  lustj  Spring  prevails ; 
And  swift  to  meet  the  smiling  May, 

Is  wafted  by  the  western  gales. 
Around  him  dance  the  rosy  Hours, 
And  damasking  the  ground  with  flowers. 

With  ambient  sweets  perfume  the  morn; 
With  shadowy  verdure  flourish'd  high, 
A  sudden  youth  the  groves  enjoy ; 

Where  Philomel  laments  forlorn. 
By  her  awaked,  the  woodland  choir 
To  hail  the  coming  god  prepares ; 
And  tempts  me  to  resume  the  lyre, 
Soft  warbling  to  the  vernal  airs. 
Yet  once  more,  O  ye  Muses  !*  deign 
For  me,  the  meanest  of  your  train, 

Unblamed  t'  approach  your  blest  retreat : 
Where  Horace  wantons  at  your  spring. 
And  Pindar  sweeps  a  bolder  string ; 

Whose  notes  th'  Aonian  hills  repeat. 
Or  if  invoked,  where  Thames's  fruitful  tides, 

Slow  through  the  vale  in  silver  volumes  play ; 
Now  your  own  Phoebus  o'er  the  month  presides, 
Gives  love  the  night,  and  doubly  gilds  the  day; 
Thither,  indulgent  to  my  prayer. 
Ye  bright,  harmonious  nymphs,  repair 

To  swell  the  notes  I  feebly  raise : 
So,  with  aspiring  ardours  warm'd 
May  Gower's  propitious  ear  be  charm'd 
To  listen  to  my  lays. 
Beneath  the  Pole  on  hills  of  Snow, 

Like  Thracian  Mars,  th'  undaunted  Swedet 
To  dint  of  sword  defies  the  foe ; 

In  fight  unknowing  to  recede  : 
From  Volga's  banks,  th'  imperious  Czar 
Leads  forth  his  furry  troops  to  war; 
Fond  of  the  softer  southern  sky  : 
The  Soldan  galls  th'  Illyrian  coast; 
But  soon  the  miscreant  moony  host 
Before  the  Victor-Cross  shall  fly. 
But  here,  no  clarion's  shrilling  note 

The  Muse's  green  retreat  can  pierce; 
The  grove,  from  noisy  camps  remote, 
Is  only  vocal  with  my  verse : 


Here,  wing'd  with  innocence  and  joy, 
Let  the  soft  hours  that  oer  me  fly 

Drop  freedom,  health,  and  gay  desires; 
While  the  bright  Seine,  t'  exalt  the  soul, 
With  sparkling  plenty  crowns  the  bowl. 

And  wit  and  social  mirth  inspires. 
Enamour'd  of  the  Seine,  celestial  fair, 

(The  blooming  pride  of  Thetis'  azure  train,) 
Bacchus,  to  win  the  nymph  who  caused  his  care, 
Lash'd  his  swift  tigers  to  the  Celtic  plain : 
There  secret  in  her  sapphire  cell. 
He  with  the  Nais  wont  to  dwell ; 

Leaving  the  nectar'd  feasts  of  Jove: 
And  where  her  mazy  waters  flow 
He  gave  the  mantling  vine  to  grow, 
A  trophy  to  his  love. 
Shall  man  from  Nature's  sanction  stray, 

With  blind  opinion  for  his  guide  ; 
And  rebel  to  her  rightful  sway. 

Leave  all  her  beauties  unenjoy'd  1 
Fool !  Time  no  change  of  motion  knows ; 
With  equal  speed  the  torrent  flows. 

To  sweep  Fame,  Power,  and  Wealth  away : 
The  past  is  all  by  death  possest ; 
And  frugal  fate  that  guards  the  rest. 
By  giving,  bids  him  live  To-Day. 
0  Gower!  through  all  the  destined  space, 

What  breath  the  Powers  allot  to  me 
Shall  sing  the  virtues  of  thy  race. 

United  and  complete  in  thee. 
O  flower  of  ancient  English  faith  ! 
Pursue  th'  unbeaten  Patriot-path, 

In  which  confirm'd  thy  father  shone ; 
The  light  his  fair  example  gives, 
Already  from  thy  dawn  receives 

A  lustre  equal  to  its  own. 
Honour's  bright  dome,  on  lasting  columns  rear'd, 

Nor  envy  rusts,  nor  rolling  years  consume  ; 
Loud  Pseans  echoing  round  the  roof  are  heard. 
And  clouds  of  incense  all  the  void  perfume. 
There  Phocion,  Laelius,  Capel,  Hyde, 
With  Falkland  seated  near  his  side, 

Fix'd  by  the  Muse,  the  temple  grace; 
Prophetic  of  thy  happier  fame. 
She  to  receive  thy  radiant  name, 
Selects  a  whiter  space. 


EDWARD  WAKD. 

[Born,  1667.     Died,  1731.] 


Edwakd  (familiarly  called  Ned)  Ward  was  a 
low-born,  uneducated  man,  who  followed  the  trade 
of  a  publican.  He  is  said,  however,  to  have  at- 
tracted many  eminent  persons  to  his  house  by  his 
colloquial  powers  as  a  landlord,  to  have  had  a 
general  acquaintance  among  authors,  and  to  have 
been  a  great  retailer  of  literary  anecdotes.  In 
those  times  the  tavern  was  a  less  discreditable 
haunt  than  at  present,  and  his  literary  acquaint- 
ance might  probably  be  extensive.  Jacob  offended 
him  very  much  by  saying,  in  his  account  of  the 

[•  Borrow'd  frcm  Milton's  minor  poems,  whence,  in  1716, 
cne  miicht  steal  with  safety.]  f  Charles  XII. 


poets,  that  he  kept  a  public-house  in  the  city.  He 
pubUcly  contradicted  the  assertion  as  a  falsehood, 
stating  that  his  house  was  not  in  the  city,  but  in 
Moorfields.  Ten  thick  volumes  attest  the  indus- 
try, or  cacoclhes,  of  this  facetious  publican,  who 
wrote  his  very  will  in  verse.  His  favourite  mea- 
sure is  the  Hudibrastic.  His  works  give  a  com- 
plete picture  of  the  mind  of  a  vulgar  but  acute 
cockney.  His  sentiment  is  the  pleasure  of  eating 
and  drinking,  and  his  wit  and  humour  are  equally 
gross ;  but  his  descriptions  are  still  curious  and 
full  of  life,  and  are  worth  preserving,  »«  delinea- 
tions of  the  manners  of  the  times. 


JOHN  GAY. 


399 


SONG. 
O  GIVE  me,  kind  Bacchus,  thou  god  of  the  vine. 
Not  a  pipe  or  a  tun,  but  an  ocean  of  wine ; 
And  a  ship  that's  well-mann'd  with  such  rare 

merry  fellows. 
That  ne'er  forsook  tavern  for  porterly  ale-house. 
May  her  bottom  be  leaky  to  let  in  the  tipple, 
And  no  pump  on  board  her  to  save  ship  or  people; 
So  that  each  jolly  lad  may  suck  heartily  round, 
And  be  always  obliged  to  drink  or  be  drown'd ! 
Let  a  fleet  from  Virginia,  well  laden  with  weed, 
And  a  cargo  of  pipes,  that  we  nothing  may  need, 
Attend  at  our  stern  to  supply  us  with  guns, 
And  to  weigh  us  our  funk,  not  by  pounds,  but  by 

tuns. 
When  thus  fitted  out  we  would  sail  cross  the  line, 
And  swim  round  the  world  in  a  sea  of  good  wine ; 
Steer  safe  in  the  middle,  and  vow  never  more 
To  renounce  such  a  life  for  the  pleasures  on  shore. 
Look  cheerfully  round  us  and  comfort  our  eyes 
With  a  deluge  of  claret  inclosed  by  the  skies ; 
A  sight  that  would  mend   a  pale  mortal's  com- 
plexion. 
And  make  him  blush  more  than  the  sun  by  re- 
flexion. 
No  zealous  contentions  should  ever  perplex  us, 
No  politic  jars  should  divide  us  or  vex  us ; 
No  presbyter  Jack  should  reform  us  or  ride  us ; 
The  stars   and   our   whimsical   noddles    should 

guide  us. 
No  blustering  storms  should  possess  us  with  fears, 
Or   hurry  us,  like   cowards,  fi-om    drinking   to 
prayers, 


But  still  with  full  bowls  we'd  for  Bacchus  main* 

tarn 
The  most   glorious   dominion    o'er   the   clarety 

main; 
And  tipple  all  round  till  our  eyes  shone  as  bright 
As  the  sun  does  by  day,  or  the  moon  does  by  night 
Thus  would  I  live  free  from  all  care  or  design, 
And  when  death  should  arrive  I'd  be  pickled  in 

wine; 
That  is,  toss'd  over-board,  have  the  sea  for  my 

grave. 
And  lie  nobly  entomb'd  in  ablood-colour'd  wave; 
That,  living  or  dead,  both  my  body  and  spirit 
Should  float  round  the  globe  in  an  ocean  of  claret. 
The  truest  of  friends  and  the  best  of  all  juices. 
Worth  both  the  rich  metals  that  India  produces: 
For  all  men  we  find,  from  the  young  to  the  old. 
Will    exchange    for  the  bottle  their  silver   and 

gold, 
Except  rich  fanatics — a  pox  on  their  pictures ! 
That  make  themselves  slaves  to  their  prayers  and 

their  lectures; 
And  think  that  on  earth  there  is  nothing  divine, 
But  a  canting  old  fool  and  a  bag  full  of  coin. 
What  though  the  dull  saint  make  his  standard 

and  sterling 
His  refuge,  his  glory,  his  god,  and  his  darling ; 
The  mortal  that  drinks  is  the  only  brave  fellow, 
Though  never  so  poor  he's  a  king  when  he's 

mellow; 
Grows    richer    than    Crcesus    with    whimsical 

thinking, 
And  never  knows  care  whilst  be  follows  hi* 
drinking. 


JOHN  GAY.* 


[Born,  1688.    Died,  I7S1.] 


Gat's  Pastorals  are  said  to  have  taken  with 
the  public,  not  as  satires  on  those  of  Ambrose 
Philips,  which  they  were  meant  to  be,  but  as 
natural  and  just  imitations  of  real  life  and  of 
rural  manners.  It  speaks  little,  however,  for  the 
sagacity  of  the  poet's  town  readers,  if  they  en- 
joyed those  caricatures  in  earnest,  or  imagined 
any  truth  of  English  manners  in  Cuddy  and 
Cloddipole  contending  with  Amabtean  vers^  for 
the  prize  or  song,  or  in  Bowzybeus  rehearsing  the 

[*  Gay  ig  now  best  known  a*  the  author  of  The  Beggars' 
Opera,  which,  in  spite  of  its  passed  politioil  tendency,  still 
keeps,  by  its  music  chietly,  its  hold  u|)on  the  ."ta'.ie;  and  as 
the  author  of  Black  Eyed  Su.-an,  which  when  sung,  as  it 
often  is,  with  feeling,  brings  to  remembrancu  or  acquidnl- 
ance  a  once  familiar  name.  The  multitude  know  noibiug 
of  Trivia;  to  a  Londoner  even,  it  is  a  dead-letter;  and  few 
of  the  many  have  read  or  even  heard  of  The  Shepheril's 
Week.  The  stage  and  the  convivial  club  have  essentially 
assistt^l  in  preserving  his  fame.  The  works  of  Gay  are  on 
our  shelves,  but  not  in  our  pockets — in  our  remembrance, 
but  not  iu  our  memories. 

His  Fables  are  as  good  as  a  series  of  such  pieces  will  in 
all  po.iisibiiity  ever  be.  No  one  has  envii-d  him  their  pro- 
duction ;  but  many  would  like  to  have  the  fame  of  having 


laws  of  nature.  If  the  allusion  to  Philipa  was 
overlooked,  they  could  only  be  relished  as  traves- 
ties of  Virgil,  for  Bowzybeus  himself  would  not 
be  laughable  unless  we  recollected  Silenus.f 

Gay's  Trivia  seems  to  have  been  built  upon 
the  hint  of  Swift's  Description  of  a  City  Shower.| 
It  exhibits  a  picture  of  the  familiar  customs  of 
the  metropolis  that  will  continue  to  become  more 
amusing  as  the  customs  grow  obsolete.  As  a 
fabulist  he  has  been   sometimes   hypercritically 

written  Tlie  Shepherd'.s  Week,  Black-Eyed  Susan,  and  the 
ballad  that  begins : 

"  Twas  when  the  sea*  were  roaring." 

Had  he  given  his  time  to  satire  he  bad  excelled,  for  hia 
lines  on  Hliu-kmore  are  in  the  extreme  of  bitU'rnosjt.j 

[t  That  in  these  pastorals  Gay  has  hit.  uiidrsiifiieilly 
perhaps,  the  true  spirit  of  pastoral  poetry,  was  tin-  opinion 
of  Goldsmith:  'Iu  tact,"  he  adds,  "he  more  rcsciiib;e« 
Theocritus  than  any  other  English  pastoral  writ.-r  what- 
soever." Yet  he  will  not  defend,  he  says,  the  autliuuU«J 
expressions.] 

[JOay  acknowledges,  in  the  prelatory  Advertisement, 
that  he  owes  several  hints  of  it  to  Dr.SwUVJ 


blamed  for  presenting  us  with  allegorical  imper- 
sonations. The  mere  naked  apologue  of  jEsop 
is  too  simple  to  interest  the  human  mind,  when 
its  fancy  and  understanding  are  past  the  state  of 
diildhood  or  barbarism.  La  Fontaine  dresses 
the  stories  which  he  took  from  iEsop  and  others 
with  such  profusion  of  wit  and  naivetS,  that  his 
nanner  conceals   the  insipidity  of  the  matter. 


"  La  sauce  vaul  mieux  que  le  poisson."  Gay, 
though  not  equal  to  La  Fontaine,  is  at  least 
free  from  his  occasional  prolixity ;  and  in  one 
instance,  (the  Court  of  Death,)  ventures  into  al- 
legory with  considerable  power.  Without  being 
an  absolute  simpleton,  like  La  Fontaine,  he  pos- 
sessed a  6o«Ao«iteof  character  which  forms  an  agree, 
able  trait  of  resemblance  between  the  fabulists. 


MONDAY;  OR,  THE  SQUABBLE. 
LoBBiN  Clout,  Ctodt,  Cloddipole. 

L.  Clout.   Thy  younglings.   Cuddy,  are   but 
just  awake. 
No  thrustles  shrill  the  bramble  bush  forsake. 
No  chirping  lark  the  welkin  sheen  invokes, 
No  damsel  yet  the  swelling  udder  strokes ; 
O'er  yonder  hill  does  scant  the  dawn  appear: 
Then  why  does  Cuddy  leave  his  cot  so  rear? 
Cuddy.  Ah,  Lobbin  Clout !  I  ween  my  plight 
is  guest. 
For  he  that  loves,  a  stranger  is  to  rest ; 
If  swains  belie  not,  thou  hast  proved  the  smart, 
And  Blouzelinda's  mistress  of  thy  heart. 
This  rising  rear  betokeneth  well  thy  mind, 
Those  arms  are  folded  for  thy  Blouzelind. 
And  well,  I  trow,  our  piteous  plights  agree ; 
Thee  Blouzelinda  smites,  Buxoma  me.         [half, 
L,  Clout.  Ah  Blouzelind !  I  love  thee  more  by 
Than  does  their  fawns,  or  cows,  the  new-fallen 

calf: 
Woe  worth  the  tongue !  may  blisters  sore  it  gall. 
That  names  Buxoma  Blouzelind  withal  ? 

Cuddy.  Hold,  witless  Lobbin  Clout,  I  thee  advise. 
Lest  blisters  sore  on  thy  own  tongue  arise. 
Lo,  yonder,  Cloddipole,  the  blithesome  swain, 
The  wisest  lout  of  all  the  neighbouring  plain ! 
From  Cloddipole  we  learn  to  read  the  skies. 
To  know  when  hail  will  fall  or  winds  arise. 
He  taught  us  erst  the  heifer's  tail  to  view, 
When  stuck  aloft,  that  showers  would  straight 

ensue: 
He  first  that  useful  secret  did  explain. 
That  pricking  corns  foretold  the  gathering  rain. 
When  swallows  fleet  soar  high,  and  sport  in  air. 
He  told  us  that  the  welkin  would  be  clear. 
Let  Cloddipole  then  hear  us  twain  rehearse. 
And  praise  his  sweetheart  in  alternate  verse. 
I'll  wager  this  same  oaken  staflf  with  thee, 
That  Cloddipole  shall  give  the  prize  to  me. 
L.  Clout.  See  this  tobacco-pouch,  that's  lined 
with  hair. 
Made  of  the  skin  of  sleekest  fallow-deer. 
This  pouch  that's  tied  with  tape  of  reddest  hue, 
I'll  wager  that  the  prize  shall  be  my  due.  [slouch ! 
Cuddy.  Begin  thy  carols  then,  thou  vaunting 
Be  thine  the  oaken  staff,  or  mine  the  pouch. 

L.  (  luul.  My  Blouzelinda  is  the  blithest  lass, 
Than  primrose  sweeter,  or  the  clover-grass. 
Fair  is  the  king-cup  that  in  meadow  blows. 
Fair  is  the  daisy  that  beside  her  grows ; 
Fair  is  the  gilliflower,  of  gardens  sweet, 
F<ur  is  the  marygold,  for  pottage  meet : 


But  Blouzelind's  than  gilliflower  more  tair. 
Than  daisy,  marygold,  or  king-cup  rare. 

Cuddy.  My  brown  Buxoma  is  the  featest  maid 
That  e'er  at  wake  delightsome  gambol  play'd. 
Clean  as  young  lambkins  or  the  goose's  down. 
And  like  the  goldfinch  in  her  Sunday  gown. 
The  witless  lamb  may  sport  upon  the  plain, 
The  frisking  kid  delight  the  gaping  swain. 
The  wanton  calf  may  skip  with  many  a  bound, 
And  my  cur  Tray  play  deftest  feats  around ; 
But  neither  lamb,  nor  kid,  nor  calf,  nor  Tray, 
Dance  like  Buxoma  on  the  first  of  May.    [near; 
L.  Clout.  Sweet  is  my  toil  when  Blouzelind  is 
Of  her  bereft  'tis  winter  all  the  year. 
With  her  no  sultry  summer's  heat  I  know ; 
In  winter,  when  she's  nigh,  with  love  I  glow. 
Come,  Blouzelinda,  ease  thy  swain's  desire. 
My  summer's  shadow,  and  my  winter's  fire ! 

Cuddy.  As  with  Buxoma  once  I  work'd  at  hay, 
Even  noontide  labour  seem'd  an  holiday ; 
And  holidays,  if  haply  she  were  gone, 
Like  worky-days,  I  wish'd  would  soon  be  done. 
Eftsoons,  O  sweetheart  kind  !  my  love  repaj'. 
And  all  the  year  shall  then  be  holiday. 

L.  Clout.  As  Blouzelinda,  in  a  gamesome  mood, 
Behind  a  haycock  loudly  laughing  stood, 
I  slyly  ran,  and  snatch'd  a  hasty  kiss; 
She  wiped  her  lips,  nor  took  it  much  amiss. 
Believe  me.  Cuddy,  while  I'm  bold  to  say 
Her  breath  was  sweeter  than  the  ripcn'd  hay. 
Cuddy.  As  my  Buxoma,  in  a  morning  fair. 
With  gentle  finger  stroked  her  milky  care, 
I  quaintly  stole  a  kiss :  at  first,  'tis  true, 
She  frown'd,  yet  after  granted  one  or  two. 
Lobbin,  I  swear,  believe  who  will  my  vows. 
Her  breath  by  far  excell'd  the  breathing  cows. 
L.  Clout.   Leek  to  the   Welch,  to  Dutchmen 
butter's  dear. 
Of  Irish  swains  potatoe  is  the  cheer ; 
Oats  for  their  feasts  the  Scottish  shepherds  grind; 
Swe^  turnips  are  the  food  of  Blouzehnd. 
While  she  loves  turnips,  butter  I'll  despise. 
Nor  leeks,  nor  oatmeal,  nor  potatoe,  prize. 

Cuddy.  In  good  roast-beef  my  landlord  sticks 
his  knile. 
The  capon  fat  delights  his  dainty  wife. 
Pudding  our  parson  eats,  the  squire  loves  hare. 
But  white-pot  thick  is  my  Buxoma's  fare. 
While  she  loves  white-pot,  capon  ne'er  shall  be. 
Nor  hare,  nor  beef,  nor  pudding,  food  for  me. 

L.  Clout.  As  once  I  play'd  at  blindman's  buff, 
About  my  eyes  the  towel  thick  was  wrapt,  [it  hapt, 
I  miss'd  the  swains,  and  seized  on  Blouzelind. 
True  speaks  that  ancient  proverb, "  Love  [a  blind." 


JOHN  GAY. 


401 


Cuddy.  As  at  hot  cockles  once  I  laid  me  down, 
And  felt  the  weighty  hand  of  many  a  clown ; 
Buxom  a  gave  a  gentle  tap,  and  I 
Quick  rose,  and  read  soft  mischief  in  her  eye. 

L.  Cloul,  On  two  near  elms  the  slacken'd  cord 
I  hung, 
Now  high,  now  low,  my  Blouzelinda  swung ; 
With  the  rude  wind  her  rumpled  garment  rose. 
And  show'd  her  taper  leg,  and  scarlet  hose. 

Cuddy.  Across  the  fallen  oak  the  plank  I  laid. 
And  myself  poised  against  the  tottering  maid : 
High  leap'd  the  plank;  adown  Buxoma  fell; 
I  spied — but  faithful  sweethearts  never  tell. 

L.  Clout.  This    riddle.  Cuddy,  if  thou  canst 
explain. 
This  wily  riddle  puzzles  every  swain : 
« What  flower  is  that  which  bears  the  virgin's 

name, 
The  richest  metal  joined  with  the  samel" 

Cuddy.  Answer,    thou  carle,  and  judge    this 
riddle  right, 
I'll  frankly  own  thee  for  a  cunning  wight: 
«  What  flower  is  that  which  royal  honour  craves. 
Adjoin  the  virgin,  and  'tis  strown  on  graves!" 

Cloddipole.  Forbear,  contending  louts,  give  o'er 
your  strains ! 
An  oaken  staff  each  merits  for  his  pains. 
But  see  the  sunbeams  bright  to  labour  warn, 
And  gild  the  thatch  of  goodman  Hodge's  barn. 
Your  herds  for  want  of  water  stand  a-dry. 
They're  weary  of  your  songs — and  so  am  I. 


THURSDAY;  OR,  THE  SPELL. 


HoBNELiA,  seated  in  a  dreary  vale. 
In  pensive  mood  rehearsed  her  piteous  tale ; 
Her  piteous  tale  the  winds  in  sighs  bemoan. 
And  pining  Echo  answers  groan  for  groan. 

I  rue  the  day,  a  rueful  day  I  trow. 
The  woeful  day,  a  day  indeed  of  woe! 
When  Lubberkin  to  town  his  cattle  drove, 
A  maiden  fine  bedight  he  hapt  to  love ; 
The  maiden  fine  bedight  his  love  retains. 
And  for  the  village  he  forsakes  the  plains. 
Return,  my  Lubberkin,  these  ditties  hear , 
Spells  will  I  try,  and  spells  shall  ease  my  care. 

"With  my  sharp  heel  I  three  times  mark  the 
ground. 
And  turn  me  thrice  around,  around,  around." 

When  first  the  year  I  heard  the  cuckow  sing. 
And  call  with  welcome  note  the  budding  spring, 
I  straightway  set  a-running  with  such  haste, 
Deborah  that  won  the  smock  scarce  ran  so  fast ; 
Till  spent  for  lack  of  breath,  quite  weary  grown, 
Upon  a  rising  bank  I  sat  adown. 
Then  doff'd  my  shoe,  and  by  my  troth  I  swear, 
Therein  I  spied  this  yellow  frizzled  hair, 
As  like  to  Lubberkin's  in  curl  and  hue 
As  if  upon  his  comely  pate  it  grew. 

»  With  my  sharp  heel  I  three  times  mark  the 
ground. 
And  turn  me  thrice  around,  around,  around." 
6i 


At  eve  last  midsummer  no  sleep  I  sought. 
But  to  the  field  a  bag  of  hemp-seed  brought: 
I  scatter'd  round  the  seed  on  every  side. 
And  three  times  in  a  trembling  accent  cried, 
"  This  hemp-seed  with  my  virgin  hand  I  sow. 
Who  shall  my  true-love  be,  the  crop  shall  mow.' 
I  straight  look'd  back,  and,  if  my  eyes  speak  truth. 
With  his  keen  scythe  behind  me  came  the  youth. 
"  With  my  sharp  heel  I  three  times  mark  the 
ground. 
And  turn  me  thrice  around,  around,  around." 
Last  Valentine,  the  day  when  birds  of  kind 
Their  paramours  with  mutual  chirpings  find ; 
I  early  rose,  just  at  the  break  of  day. 
Before  the  sun  had  chased  the  stars  away; 
A-field  I  went,  amid  the  morning  dew. 
To  milk  my  kine  (for  so  should  huswives  do;) 
Thee  first  I  spied :  and  the  first  swain  we  see, 
In  spite  of  fortune  shall  our  true  love  be. 
See,  Lubberkin,  each  bird  his  partner  take ; 
And  canst  thou  then  thy  sweetheart  dear  forsake  1 
<'  With  my  sharp  heel  I  three  times  mark  the 
ground, 
And  turn  me  thrice  around,  around,  around." 
Last  May-day  fair  I  search'd  to  find  a  snail. 
That  might  my  secret  lover's  name  reveal ; 
Upon  a  gooseberry  bush  a  snail  I  found, 
(For  always  snails  near  sweetest  fruit  abound  ;) 
I  seized  the  vermine,  whom  I  quickly  sped. 
And  on  the  earth  the  milk-white  embers  spread. 
Slow  crawl'd  the  snail,  and,  if  aright  can  spell. 
In  the  soft  ashes  mark'd  a  curious  L; 
Oh,  may  this  wond'rous  omen  lucky  prove ! 
For  L  is  found  in  Lubberkin  and  Love. 

"  With  my  sharp  heel  I  three  times  mark  the 
ground, 
And  turn  me  thrice  around,  around,  around." 

Two  hazel  nuts  I  threw  into  the  flame. 
And  to  each  nut  I  gave  a  sweetheart's  name , 
This  with  the  loudest  bounce  me  sore  amazed. 
That  in  a  flame  of  brightest  colour  blazed. 
As  blazed  the  nut,  so  may  thy  passion  grow ; 
For  'twas  thy  nut  that  did  so  brightly  glow. 
« With  my  sharp  heel  I  three  times  mark  the 
ground. 
And  turn  me  thrice  around,  around,  around." 

As  peascods  once  I  pluck'd,  I  chanced  to  see. 
One  that  was  closely  fiU'd  with  three  times  three. 
Which  when  I  cropp'd  I  safely  home  c«mveyM. 
And  o'er  the  door  the  spell  in  secret  laid ; 
My  wheel  I  turn'd   and  sung  a  ballad  new. 
While  from  the  spindle  I  the  fleeces  drew ;      [in 
The  latch  moved  up,  when,  who  should  first  come 
But,  in  his  proper  person — Lubberkin. 
I  broke  my  yarn,  surprised  the  sight  to  see; 
Sure  sign  that  he  would  break  his  word  with  me. 
Eftsoons  I  join'd  it  with  my  wonted  sleight; 
So  may  again  his  love  with  mine  unite ! 

"  With  my  sharp  heel  I  three  times  mark  the 
ground. 
And  turn  me  thrice  around,  around,  around." 

This  lady-fly  I  take  from  off  the  grass. 

Whose  spotted  back  might  scarlet  red  surpass, 

"  Fly,  lady-bird,  north,  south,  or  east,  or  west. 

Fly  where  the  man  is  found  that  I  love  best " 

2i2 


402 


JOHN  GAY. 


He  leaves  my  hand ;  see,  to  the  west  he's  flown, 
To  call  my  true-love  from  the  faithless  town, 

" M'ith  my  sharp  heel  I  three  times  mark  the 
ground, 
And  turn  me  thrice  around,  around,  around." 

I  pare  this  pippin  round  and  round  again. 
My  shepherd's  name  to  flourish  on  the  plain, 
I  fling  th'  unbroken  paring  o'er  my  head, 
Upon  the  grass  a  perfect  L  is  read ; 
Yet  on  my  heart  a  fairer  L  is  seen, 
Than  what  the  paring  makes  upon  the  green. 

"With  my  sharp  heel  I  three  times  mark  the 
ground. 
And  turn  me  thrice  around,  around,  around." 

This  pippin  shall  another  trial  make. 
See  from  the  core  two  kernels  brown  I  take ; 
This  on  my  cheek  for  Lubberkin  is  worn  ; 
And  Boobyclod  on  t'  other  side  is  borne. 
But  Boobyclod  soon  drops  upon  the  ground, 
A  certain  token  that  his  love's  unsound ; 
While  Lubberkin  sticks  firmly  to  the  last : 
Oh  were  his  lips  to  mine  but  join'd  so  fast ! 

«  With  my  sharp  heel  I  three  times  mark  the 
ground. 
And  turn  me  thrice  around,  around,  aronnd." 

As  Lubberkin  once  slept  beneath  a  tree, 
I  twitch'd  his  dangling  garter  from  his  knee. 
He  wist  not  when  the  hempen  string  I  drew ; 
Now  mine  I  quickly  dofl",  of  inkle  blue. 
Together  fast  I  tie  the  garters  twain ; 
And  while  I  knit  the  knot  repeat  this  strain  : 
"  Three  times  a  true-love's  knot  I  tie  secure. 
Firm  be  the  knot,  firm  may  his  love  endure  !" 

"With  my  sharp  heel  I  three  times  mark  the 
ground. 
And  turn  me  thrice  around,  around,  around." 

As  I  was  wont,  I  trudged  last  market-day. 
To  town,  with  new-laid  eggs  preserved  in  hay. 
I  made  my  market  long  before  'twas  night. 
My  purse  grew  heavy,  and  my  basket  light. 
Straight  to  the  'pothecary's  shop  I  went. 
And  in  love  powder  all  my  money  spent. 
Behap  what  will,  next  Sunday  after  prayers, 
When  to  the  ale-house  Lubberkin  repairs, 
These  golden  flies  into  his  mug  I'll  throw. 
And  soon  the  swain  with  fervent  love  shall  glow. 

"  With  my  sharp  heel  I  three  times  mark  the 
ground, 
Anr  turn  me  thrice  around,  around,  around." 

But  hold — our  Lightfoot  barks,  and  cocks  his 
ears. 
O'er  yonder  stile  see  Lubberkin  appears, 
He  comes !  he  comes  !  Hobi.elia's  not  bewray'd, 
Nor  shall  she  crown'd  with  willow  die  a  maid. 
lie  vows,  he  swears,  he'll  give  me  a  green  gown : 
O  dear !  I  fail  adown,  adown,  adown ! 


SATUKDAY;  OR  THE  FLIGHTS. 

BOWZTBECS. 

SuBLiHER  strains,  0  rustic  Muse  !  prepare; 
Forget  awhile  the  barn  and  dairy's  care ; 
Thy  homely  voice  to  loftier  numbers  raise, 
The  drunkard's  flights  require  sonorous  lays ; 


With  Bowzybeus'  songs  exalt  thy  verse. 
While  rocks  and  woods  the  various  notes  rehearse. 

'Twas  in  the  season  when  the  reapers'  toil 
Of  the  ripe  harvest  'gan  to  rid  the  soil ; 
Wide  through  the  field  was  seen  a  goodly  rout, 
Clean  damsels  bound  the  gather'd  sheaves  about ; 
The  lads  with  sharpen'd  hook  and  sweating  brow. 
Cut  down  the  labours  of  the  winter  plough. 
To  the  near  hedge  young  Susan  steps  aside, 
She  feign'd  her  coat  or  garter  was  untied ; 
Whate'er  she  did,  she  stoop'd  adown  unseen, 
And  merry  reapers  what  they  list  will  ween. 
Soon  she  rose  up,  and  cried  with  voice  so  shrill. 
That  echo  answer'd  from  the  distant  hill : 
The  youths  and  damsels  ran  to  Susan's  aid. 
Who  thought  some  adder  had  the  lass  dismay'd. 

When  fast  asleep  they  Bowzybeus  spied. 
His  hat  and  oaken  stafl"  lay  close  beside ; 
That  Bowzybeus  who  could  sweetly  sing. 
Or  with  the  resin'd  bow  torment  the  string ; 
That  Bowzybeus,  who,  with  fingers'  speed. 
Could  call  soft  warblings  from  the  breathing  reed^ 
That  Bowzybeus,  who,  with  jocund  tongue. 
Ballads  and  roundelays  and  catches  sung; 
They  loudly  laugh  to  see  the  damsel's  fright, 
And  in  disport  surround  the  drunken  wight. 

Ah,  Bowzybee,  why  didst  thou  stay  so  long  T 
The  mugs  were  large,  the  drink  was  wond'rous 

strong ! 
Thou  shouldst  have  left  the  fair  before  'twas  night ; 
But  thou  sat'st  toping  till  the  morning  light. 

Cicely,  brisk  maid,  steps  forth  before  the  rout, 
And  kiss'd  with  smacking  lip  the  snoring  lout : 
(For  custom  says,  "  Whoe'er  this  venture  proves, 
For  such  a  kiss  demands  a  pair  of  gloves.") 
By  her  example,  Dorcas  bolder  grows, 
And  plays  a  tickling  straw  within  his  nose. 
He  rubs  his  nostril,  and  in  wonted  joke 
The  sneering  swains  with  stammering  speech  be- 
spoke : 
«  To  you  my  lads,  I'll  sing  my  carol  o'er. 
As  for  the  maids — I've  something  else  in  store." 

No  sooner  'gan  he  raise  his  tuneful  song. 
But  lads  and  lasses  round  about  him  throng. 
Not  ballad-singer  placed  above  the  crowd. 
Sings  with  a  note  so  shrilling  sweet,  and  loud ; 
Nor  parish  clerk,  who  calls  the  psalm  so  clear 
Like  Bowzybeus,  soothes  the  attentive  ear. 

Of  nature's  laws  his  carols  first  begun. 
Why  the  grave  owl  can  never  face  the  sun. 
For  owls,  as  swains  observe,  detest  the  light, 
And  only  sing  and  seek  their  prey  by  night. 
How  turnips  hide  their  swelling  heads  below ; 
And  how  the  closing  coleworts  upward  grow  ; 
How  will-a-wisp  misleads  night-faring  clowns 
O'er  hills,  and  sinking  bogs,  and  pathless  downs. 
Of  stars  he  told,  that  shoot  with  shining  trad. 
And  of  the  glow-worm's  light  that  gilds  his  tail. 
He  sung  where  woodcocks  in  the  summer  feed. 
And  in  what  climates  they  renew  their  breed — 
(Some  think  to  northern  coasts  their  flight  they 

tend, 
Or  to  the  moon  in  midnight  hours  ascend ;) 
Where  swallows  in  the  winter's  season  keep. 
And  how  the  drowsy  bat  and  dormouse  sleep , 


JOHN  GAT. 


408 


How  nature  does  the  puppy's  eyelid  close, 
Till  the  bright  sun  has  nine  times  set  and  rose ; 
(For  huntsmen  by  their  long  experience  find, 
That  puppies  still  nine  rolling  suns  are  blind.) 

Now  he  goes  on,  and  sings  of  fairs  and  shows, 
For  still  new  fairs  before  his  eyes  arose. 
How  pedlars'  stalls  with  glittering  toys  are  laid, 
The  various  fairings  of  the  country-maid. 
Long  silken  laces  hang  upon  the  twine, 
And  rows  of  pins  and  amber  bracelets  shine  ; 
How  the  tight  lass,  knives,  combs,  and  scissors 

spies. 
And  looks  on  thimbles  with  desiring  eyes. 
Of  lotteries  next  with  tuneful  note  he  told. 
Where  silver  spoons  are  won,  and  rings  of  gold. 
The  lads  and  lasses  trudge  the  street  along, 
And  all  the  fair  is  crowded  in  his  song. 
The  mountebank  now  treads  the  stage,  and  sells 
His  pills,  his  balsams,  and  his  ague-spells; 
Now  o'er  and  o'er  the  nimble  tumbler  springs, 
And  on  the  rope  the  venturous  maiden  swings; 
Jack  Pudding,  in  his  party-colour'd  jacket, 
Tosses  the  glove,  and  jokes  at  every  packet. 
Of  raree-shows  he  sung,  and  Punch's  feats, 
Of  pockets  pick'd  in  crowds,  and  various  cheats. 
Then  sad  he  sung,  '•  the  Children  in  the  Wood :" 
(Ah,  barbarous  uncle,  stain'd  with  infant  blood!) 
How  blackberries  they  pluck'd  in  deserts  wild. 
And  fearless  at  the  glittering  faulchion  smiled  ; 
Their  little  corpse  the  robin  red-breasts  found. 
And  strew'd  with  pious  bill  the  leaves  around. 
(Ah  !  gentle  birds  !  if  this  verse  lasts  so  long, 
Your  names  shall  live  for  ever  in  my  song.) 

For  "  Buxom  Joan"  he  sung  the  doubtful  strife, 
How  the  sly  tailor  made  the  maid  a  wife. 

To  louder  strains  he  raised  his  voice  to  tell 
What  woeful  wars  in  "Chevy-chace"  befel, 
When  ''  Percy  drove  the  deer  with   hound  and 

horn. 
Wars  to  be  wept  by  children  yet  unborn  !" 
Ah,    Witherington,   more    years    thy   life    had 

crown'd. 
If  thou  hadst  never  heard  the  horn  or  hound ! 
Yet  shall  the  squire,  who  fought  on  bloody  stumps, 
By  future  bards  be  wail'd  in  doleful  dumps. 

"  All  in  the  land  of  Essex"  next  he  chants. 
How  to  sleek  mares  starch  quakersturn  gallants: 
How  the  grave  brother  stood  on  bank  so  g^een — 
Happy  for  him  if  mares  had  never  been  ! 

'I'hen  he  was  seized  with  a  religious  qualm. 
And  on  a  sudden  sung  the  hundredth  psalm. 
He  sung  of  "  Talfey  Welsh,"  and  "  Sawney 
Scot," 
"  Lilly-buUero,"  and  the  «'  Irish  Trot." 
Why  should  I  tell  of  "  Bateman,"  or  of  "  Shore," 
Or  "  Wantley's  Dragon"  slain  by  valiant  Moore; 
"The  Bower  of  Rosamond,"  or  "Robin  Hood," 
And  how  the  "  grass  now  grows  where  Troy 
town  stood  1" 
His   carols   ceased:    the  listening  maids  and 
swains 
Seem  still  to  hear  some  soft  imperfect  strains. 
Sudden  he  rose :  and,  as  he  reels  along, 
Swears    kisses    sweet    should    well   reward    his 
song. 


The  damsels  laughing  fly  :  the  giddy  clown 
Again  upon  a  wheat-sheaf  drops  adown  ; 
The  power  that  guards  the  drunk  his  sleep  attends. 
Till,  ruddy,  like  his  face,  the  sun  descends. 


THE  BIRTH  OP  THE  SQTTIRE. 

IH  miTATIOW  OP  THB  "  POtUO"  OF   VIROIL. 

Yb  sylvan  Muses,  loftier  strains  recite^: 
Not  all  in  shades  and  humble  cots  delight 
Hark!  the  bells  ring;  along  the  distant  grounds 
The  driving  gales  convey  the  swelling  sounds : 
Th'  attentive  swain,  forgetful  of  his  work. 
With  gaping  wonder,  leans  upon  his  fork. 
What  sudden  news  alarms  the  waking  moral 
To  the  glad  Squire  a  hopeful  heir  is  bom. 
Mourn,  mourn,  ye  stags,  and  all  ye  beasts  of 

chase; 
This  hour  destruction  brings  on  all  your  race: 
See,  the  pleased  tenants  duteous  offerings  bear, 
Turkeys  and  geese,  and  grocer's  sweetest  ware; 
With  the   new  health  'the   ponderous   tankard 

flows, 
.\nd  old  October  reddens  every  nose. 
Beagles  and  spaniels  round  his  cradle  stand. 
Kiss  his  moist  lip,  and  gently  lick  his  hand. 
He  joys  to  hear  the  shrill  horn's  echoing  sounds, 
And  learns  to  lisp  the  names  of  all  the  hounds. 
With  frothy  ale  to  make  his  cup  o'erflow. 
Barley  shall  in  paternal  acres  grow; 
The  bee  shall  sip  the  fragrant  dew  from  flowers. 
To  give  metheglin  for  his  morning- hours; 
For  him  the  clustering  hop  shall  climb  the  poles, 
And  his  own  orchard  sparkle  in  his  Iwwis. 

His  sire's  exploits  he  now  with  wonder  hears. 
The  monstrous  tales  indulge  his  greedy  ears; 
How,  when  youth  strung  his  nerves  and  warm'd 

his  veins. 
He  rode,  the  mighty  Nimrod  of  the  plains. 
He  leads  the  staring  infant  through  the  hall. 
Points  out  the  horny  spoils  that  grace  the  wall ; 
Tells  how  the  stag  through  three  whole  countie* 

fled, 
What  rivers  swam,  where  bay'd,  and  where  he 

bled. 
Now  he  the  wonders  of  the  fox  repeats. 
Describes  the  desperate  chase,  and  all  his  cheats, 
How  in  one  day,  beneath  his  furious  speed. 
He  tired  seven  coursers  of  the  fleetest  breed; 
How  high  the   pale   he   leap'd,  how  wide  tht, 

ditch. 
When    the   hound   tore   the   haunches   of   the 

witch ! 
These  stories,  which  descend  from  son  to  son, 
The  forward  boy  shall  one  day  make  his  own. 

Ah,  too  fond  mother,  think  the  time  draws  nigh. 
That  calls  the  darling  from  thy  tender  eye; 
How  shall  his  spirit  brook  the  rigid  rules. 
And  the  long  tyranny  of  grainmar-8cho<il8l 
Let  younger  brothers  o'er  dull  authors  plod, 
Lash'd  into  Lntin  by  the  tingling  rod  : 
No,  let  him  never  feel  that  smart  disgrace  : 
Why  should  he  wiser  prove  thaji  all  his  race 


104 


JOHN   GAY. 


When  ripening  youth  with  down  o'ershades  his 

chin, 
And  every  female  eye  incites  to  sin  ; 
The     milk-maid     (thoughtless    of    her     future 

shame,) 
With  smacking  lip  shall  raise  his  guilty  flame ; 
The  dairy,  barn,  the  hay-loft,  and  the  grove, 
Shall  oft  be  conscious  of  their  stolen  love. 
But  think,  Priscilla,  on  that  dreadful  time, 
When  pangs  and  watery  qualms  shall  own  thy 

crime. 
How  wilt  thou  tremble  when  thy  nipple's  prest, 
To   see    the   white   drops    bathe    thy    swelling 

breast ! 
JVine  moons  shall  publicly  divulge  thy  shame. 
And  the  young  squire  forestall  a  father's  name. 
When  twice  twelve  times  the  reaper's  sweep- 
ing hand 
With  levell'd  harvests  has  bestrown  the  land ; 
On  famed  St.  Hubert's  feast,  his  winding  horn 
Shall   cheer  the  joyful    hound,  and  wake   the 

morn : 
This  memorable  day  his  eager  speed 
Shall  urge  with  bloody  heel  the  rising  steed. 
O  check  the  foamy  bit,  nor  tempt  thy  fate, 
Think  on  the  murders  of  a  five-bar  gate  ! 
Yet,  prodigal  of  life,  the  leap  he  tries. 
Low  in  the  dust  his  grovelling  honour  lies  ; 
Headlong  he  falls,  and  on  the  rugged  stone 
Distorts  his  neck,  and  cracks  the  collar-bone. 
O  venturous  youth,  thy  thirst  of  game  allay : 
Mayst  thou  survive  the  perils  of  this  day ! 
He  shall  survive ;  and  in  late  years  be  sent 
To  snore  away  debates  in  parliament. 

The   time   shall   come  when  his  more  solid 
sense 
With  nod  important  shall  the  laws  dispense ; 
A  justice  with  grave  justices  shall  sit ; 
He  praise  their  wisdom,  they  admire  his  wit. 
No  greyhound  shall  attend  the  tenant's  pace, 
No  rusty  gun  the  farmer's  chimney  grace ; 
Salmons  shall  leave  their  covers  void  of  fear, 
Nor  dread  the  thievish  net  or  triple  spear ; 
Poachers  shall  tremble  at  his  awful  name. 
Whom  vengeance  now  o'ertakes  for  murder'd 
game. 
Assist  me,  Bacchus,  and  ye  drunken  powers, 
To  sing  his  friendships  and  his  midnight  hours ! 
Why  dost  thou  glory  in  thy  strength  of  beer. 
Firm    cork'd   and    mellow'd   till   the    twentieth 

year: 
Brew'd,  or  when  Phoebus  warms  the  fleecy  sign, 
Or  when  his  languid  rays  in  Scorpio  shine  ? 
Think  on  the  mischiefs  which  from  hence  have 

sprung ! 
It  arms  with  curses  dire  the  wrathful  tongue ; 
Foul  scandal  to  the  lying  lip  aflfords. 
And  prompts  the  memory  with  injurious  words. 
O  where  is  wisdom  when  by  this  o'erpower'd  1 
The  state  is  censured,  and  the  maid  deflower'd ! 
And   wilt   thou   still,  O    Squire,    brew    ale    so 

strong] 
Hear  then  the  dictates  of  prophetic  song. 
Methinks  I  see  him  in  his  hall  appear, 
Where  the  long  table  floats  in  clammy  beer, 


'Midst  mugs  and  glasses  shatter'd  o'er  the  floor. 
Dead  drunk,  his  servile  crew  supinely  snore ; 
Triumphant,  o'er  the  prostrate  brutes  he  stands, 
The  mighty  bumper  trembles  in  his  hands ; 
Boldly  he  drinks,  and  like  his  glorious  sires, 
In  copious  gulps  of  potent  ale  expires. 


SWEET  WILLIAM'S  FAREWELL  TO  BLACK-EYED 

SUSAN. 

All  in  the  Downs  the  fleet  was  moor'd, 

The  streamers  waving  in  the  wind. 
When  black-eyed  Susan  came  aboard. 
Oh!  where  shall  I  my  true-love  find? 
Tell  me,  ye  jovial  sailors,  tell  me  true, 
If  my  sweet  William  sails  among  the  crew. 

William,  who  high  upon  the  yard 

Rock'd  with  the  billow  to  and  fro, 
Soon  as  her  well-known  voice  he  heard. 
He  sigh'd  and  cast  his  eyes  below  : 
The  cord  slides  swiftly  through  his  glowing  hands, 
And  (quick  as  lightning)  on  the  deck  he  stands. 

So  the  sweet  lark,  high  poised  in  air, 

Shuts  close  his  pinions  to  his  breast, 
(If  chance  his  mate's  shrill  call  he  hear,) 
And  drops  at  once  into  her  nest. 
The  noblest  captain  in  the  British  fleet 
Might  envy  William's  lip  those  kisses  sweet. 

0  Susan,  Susan,  lovely  dear, 

My  vows  shall  ever  true  remain; 
Let  me  kiss  off  that  falling  tear ; 
We  only  part  to  meet  again. 
Change,  as  ye  list,  ye  winds!  my  heart  shall  be 
The  faithful  compass  that  still  points  to  thee. 

Believe  not  what  the  landmen  say. 

Who  tempt  with  doubts  thy  constant  mind; 
They'll  tell  thee,  sailors,  when  away. 
In  every  port  a  mistress  find: 
Yes,  yes,  believe  them  when  they  tell  thee  so. 
For  thou  art  present  wheresoe'er  I  go. 

If  to  fair  India's  coast  we  sail, 

Thy  eyes  are  seen  in  diamonds  bright, 
Thy  breath  is  Afric's  spicy  gale. 
Thy  skin  is  ivory  so  white. 
Thus  every  beauteous  object  that  I  view 
Wakes  in  my  soul  some  charm  of  lovely  Sue. 

Though  battle  call  me  from  thy  arms, 

Let  not  my  pretty  Susan  mourn ; 
Though  cannons  roar,  yet,  safe  from  harms, 
William  shall  to  his  dear  return. 
Love  turns  aside  the  balls  that  round  me  fly, 
Lest  precious  tears  should  drop  from  Susan's  eye 

The  boatswain  gave  the  dreadful  word. 

The  sails  their  swelling  bosom  spread  ; 
No  longer  must  she  stay  aboard  : 

They  kiss'd,  she  sigh'd,  he  hung  his  head. 
Her  lessening  boat  unwilling  rows  to  land : 
Adieu !  she  cries ;  and  waved  her  hlv  hand. 


JOHN  GAT. 


405 


THE  COURT  OF  DEATH. 


Death,  on  a  solemn  night  of  state, 

In  all  his  pomp  of  terror  sate : 

Th'  attendants  of  his  gloomy  reign, 

Diseases  dire,  a  ghastly  train  ! 

Crowd  the  vast  court.     With  hollow  tone, 

A  voice  thus  thunder'd  from  the  throne: 

"This  night  our  minister  we  name, 

Let  every  servant  speak  his  claim ; 

Merit  shall  bear  this  ebon  wand." 

All,  at  the  word,  stretch'd  forth  their  hand. 

Fever,  with  burning  heat  possess'd, 
Advanced,  and  for  the  wand  address'd. 
'     "  I  to  the  weekly  bills  appeal, 
/Let  those  express  my  fervent  zeal ; 
;  On  every  slight  occasion  near, 
With  violence  I  persevere." 

Next  Gout  appears  with  limping  pace, 
Pleads  how  he  shifts  from  place  to  place ; 
From  head  to  foot  how  swift  he  flies, 
And  every  joint  and  sinew  plies; 
Still  working  when  he  seems  suppress'd, 
A  most  tenacious,  stubborn  guest. 

A  haggard  spectre  from  the  crew 
Crawls  forth,  and  thus  asserts  his  due : 
«'Tis  I  w^ho  taint  the  sweetest  joy, 
And  in  the  shape  of  love  destroy  : 
My  shanks,  sunk  eyes,  and  noseless  face. 
Prove  my  pretension  to  the  place." 

Stone  urged  his  over-growing  force  ; 
And,  next.  Consumption's  meagre  corse, 
With  feeble  voice  that  scarce  was  heard, 
Broke  with  short  coughs,  his  suit  preferr'd: 
"  Let  none  object  my  lingering  way, 
I  gain,  like  Fabius,  by  delay ; 
Fatigue  and  weaken  every  foe 
By  long  attack,  secure  though  slow." 

Plague  represents  his  rapid  power. 
Who  thinn'd  a  nation  in  an  hour. 

All  spoke  their  claim,  and  hoped  the  wand. 
Now  expectation  hush'd  the  band ; 
When  thus  the  monarch  from  the  throne : 

"  Merit  was  ever  modest  known. 
What,  no  physician  speak  his  right ! 
None  here  !   but  fees  their  toils  requite  ! 
Let  then  Intemperance  take  the  wand. 
Who  fills  with  gold  their  zealous  hand. 
You,  Fever,  Gout  and  all  the  rest, 
(Whom  wary  men  as  foes  detest,) 
Forego  your  claim ;  no  more  pretend ; 
Intemperance  is  esteem'd  a  friend ; 


Heshares  their  mirth,  their  social  joys, 
And  as  a  courted  guest  destroys. 
The  charge  on  him  must  justly  fall. 
Who  finds  employment  for  you  ail. 


A  BALLAD. 

FROM  THE  "WBAT-D'TE-C.UJ/-rr.'' 

'TwAS  when  the  seas  were  roaring 

With  hollow  blasts  of  wind, 
A  damsel  lay  deploring, 

All  on  a  rock  reclined. 
Wide  o'er  the  foaming  billows 

She  cast  a  wistful  look ; 
Her  head  was  crown'd  with  willows. 

That  trembled  o'er  the  brook. 

Twelve  months  are  gone  and  over, 

And  nine  long  tedious  days : 
Why  didst  thou,  venturous  lover, 

Why  didst  thou  trust  the  seas  1 
Cease,  cease,  thou  cruel  ocean,     ' 

And  let  my  lover  rest: 
Ah  !  what's  thy  troubled  motion 

To  that  within  my  breast  1 

The  merchant,  robbed  of  pleasure. 

Sees  tempests  in  despair ; 
But  what's  the  loss  of  treasure 

To  losing  of  my  dear  1 
Should  you  some  coast  be  laid  on 

Where  gold  and  diamonds  grow. 
You'd  find  a  richer  maiden, 

But  none  that  loves  you  so. 

How  can  they  say  that  nature 

Has  nothing  made  in  vain ; 
Why  then  beneath  the  water 

Should  hideous  rocks  remain  1 
No  eyes  the  rocks  discover 

That  lurk  beneath  the  deep, 
To  wreck  the  wandering  lover. 

And  leave  the  maid  to  weep. 

All  melancholy  lying. 

Thus  wail'd  she  for  her  dear; 
Repay  d  each  blast  with  sighing. 

Each  billow  with  a  tear ; 
When  o'er  the  white  wave  stooping. 

His  floating  corpse  she  spied ; 
Then  like  a  lily  drooping. 

She  bow'd  her  head  and  died.* 

[•  What  run  be  prettl»r  than  Gay's  ball&d,  or  rathei 
Swm'i,  Arbulhnof*.  Pope's,  and  Gay's.  In  the  "  What-dye- 
call-lt," — "'Tw:is  \vh«n  the  soaa  were  roaring."  I  havt 
been  well  Informi-d  that  tbey  *11  contributeO.— Cwptu  U> 
Onwin,  Aug,  4,  ITS^j 


BARTON   BOOTH. 


[Born,  1681.    Died,  1733.] 

An  excellent  man  and  an  eminent  actor. 


SONO. 

Sweet  are  the  charms  of  her  I  love, 
More  fragrant  than  the  damask  rose, 

Soft  as  the  down  of  turtle  dove, 
Gentle  as  air  when  Zephyr  blows; 

Refreshing  as  descending  rains 

To  sun-burnt  climes,  and  thirsty  plains. 

True  as  the  needle  to  the  pole, 

Or  as  the  dial  to  the  sun  ; 
Constant  as  gliding  waters  roll, 

Whose  swelling  tides  obey  the  moon ; 
•From  every  other  charmer  free, 
My  life  and  love  shall  follow  thee. 

The  lamb  the  flowery  thyme  devours, 
The  dam  the  tender  kid  pursues; 

Sweet  Philomel,  in  shady  bowers 
Of  verdant  spring  her  notes  renew; 

All  follow  what  they  most  admire. 

As  I  pursue  my  soul's  desire. 

Nature  must  change  her  beauteous  face, 
And  vary  as  the  seasons  rise  ; 


As  winter  to  the  spring  gives  place. 

Summer  th'  approach  of  autumn  flies : 
No  change  on  love  the  seasons  bring, 
Love  only  knows  perpetual  spring. 

Devouring  time,  with  stealing  pace. 
Makes  lofty  oaks  and  cedars  bow; 

And  marble  towers,  and  gates  of  brassy 
In  his  rude  march  he  levels  low : 

But  time,  destroying  far  and  wide. 

Love  from  the  soul  can  ne'er  divide. 

Death  only,  with  "his  cruel  dart. 
The  gentle  godhead  can  remove ; 

And  drive  him  from  the  bleeding  heart 
To  mingle  with  the  bless'd  above. 

Where,  known  to  all  his  kindred  train, 

He  finds  a  lasting  rest  from  pain. 

Love,  and  bis  sister  fair,  the  Soul, 

Twin-born,  from  heaven  together  came 

Love  will  the  universe  control. 

When  dying  seasons  lose  their  name ; 

Divine  abodes  shall  own  his  pow'r, 

When  time  and  death  shall  be  no  more. 


MATTHEW   GREEN. 

[Born,  1696.    Died,  1737.3 


Matthew  Green  was  educated  among  the 
Dissenters;  but  left  them  in  disgust  at  their  pre- 
cision, probably  without  reverting  to  the  mother 
church.  AH  that  we  are  told  of  him,  is,  that  he 
had  a  post  at  the  Custom  House,  which  he  dis- 
charged with  great  fidelity,  and  died  at  a  lodging 
in  Nag's-head  court,  Gracechurch-street,  aged 
forty-one.*  His  strong  powers  of  mind  had  re- 
ceived little  advantage  from  education,  and  were 
)ccasionally  subject  to  depression  from  hypo- 
chondria ;  but  his  conversation  is  said  to  have 
abounded  in  wit  and  shrewdness.  One  day  his 
friend  Sylvanus  Bevan  complained  to  him  that 
while  he  was  bathing  in  the  river  he  had  been 
saluted  by  a  waterman  with  the  cry  of  ■'  Quaker 
Quirl,"  and  wondered  how  he  should  have  been 


known  to  be  a  Quaker  without  his  clothes.  Green 
replied,  "  By  your  swimming  against  the  stream." 
His  poem,  "  The  Spleen,"  was  never  published 
during  his  lifetime.  Glover,  his  warm  friend,  pre- 
sented it  to  the  world  after  his  death ;  and  it  is 
much  to  be  regretted,  did  not  prefix  any  account 
of  its  interesting  author.  It  was  originally  a 
very  short  copy  of  verses,  and  was  gradually  and 
piecemeal  increased.  Pope  speedily  noticed  its 
merit,  Melmoth  praised  its  strong  originality  in 
Fitzosborne's  Letters,  and  Gray  duly  commended 
it  in  his  correspondence  with  Walpole,  when  it 
appeared  in  Dodsley's  collection.  In  that  walk 
of  poetry,  where  Fancy  aspires  no  further  than 
to  go  hand  in  hand  with  common  sense,  its  merit 
is  certainly  unrivallcd.f 


FROM  "THE  SPLEEN." 

Contentment,  parent  of  delight. 
So  much  a  stranger  to  our  sight, 
Say,  goddess,  in  what  happy  place 
Mortals  behold  thy  blooming  face ; 

[*  He  wa.s  a  olerk  in  the  Custom  Houce,  on,  i!  is  thought, 
a  t-miiU  wlary:  but  the  writer  of  this  note  has  hunted 
over  official  tifniks  in  vain  f  >r*i  no' ice  of  his  appointment, 
and  of  obituaries  for  the  time  of  his  death.] 
406 


Thy  gracious  auspices  impart. 

And  for  thy  temple  choose  my  heart. 

They  whom  thou  deignest  to  inspire, 

Thy  science  learn,  to  bound  desire; 

By  happy  alchemy  of  mind 

They  turn  to  pleasure  all  they  find  ; 


[t  There  is  a  profusion  of  wit  everywhere  in  Green; 
remiing  wnuUI  have  formed  his  judj:ment  and  harmonized 
his  ver.-e.  for  even  his  wot  d  notes  ol'ten  brealt  out  into 
strains  of  real  poetry  and  music— Okay.] 


MATTHEW  GREEN. 


iffi 


They  both  disdain  in  outward  mien 
The  grave  and  solemn  garb  of  Spleen, 
And  meretricious  arts  of  dress, 
To  feign  a  joy,  and  hide  distress  ; 
Unmoved  when  the  rude  tempest  blows, 
Without  an  opiate  they  repose ; 
And,  cover'd  by  your  shield,  defy 
The  whizzing  shafts  that  round  them  fly . 
Nor  meddling  with  the  gods'  affairs. 
Concern  themselves  with  distant  cares ; 
But  place  their  bliss  in  mental  rest. 
And  feast  upon  the  good  possess'd. 

Forced  by  soft  violence  of  pray'r, 

The  blithesome  goddess  soothes  my  care, 

I  feel  the  deity  inspire. 

And  thus  she  models  my  desire. 

Two  hundred  pounds  half-yearly  paid, 

Annuity  securely  made, 

A  farm  some  twenty  miles  from  town. 

Small,  tight,  salubrious,  and  my  own ; 

Two  maids  that  never  saw  the  town, 

A  serving-man  not  quite  a  clown, 

A  boy  to  help  to  tread  the  mow. 

And  drive,  while  t'other  holds  the  plough ; 

A  chief,  of  temper  form'd  to  please. 

Fit  to  converse  and  keep  the  keys ; 

And  better  to  preserve  the  peace, 

Commission'd  by  the  name  of  niece ; 

With  understandings  of  a  size 

To  think  their  master  very  wise. 

May  Heaven  (ite  all  I  wish  for)  send 

One  genial  room  to  treat  a  friend. 
Where  decent  cupboard,  little  plate, 

Display  benevolence,  not  state. 

And  may  my  humble  dwelling  stand 

Upon  some  chosen  spot  of  land  : 

A  pond  before  full  to  the  brim. 

Where  cows  may  cool,  and  geese  may  swim; 

Behind,  a  green,  like  velvet  neat. 

Soft  to  the  eye,  and  to  the  feet ; 

Where  od'rous  plants  in  evening  fair 

Breathe  all  around  ambrosial  air; 

From  Eurus,  foe  to  kitchen  ground. 

Fenced  by  a  slope  with  bushes  crown'd. 

Fit  dwelling  for  the  feather'd  throng. 

Who  pay  their  quit-rents  with  a  song ; 

With  op'ning  views  of  hill  and  dale, 

Which  sense  and  fancy  too  regale. 

Where  the  half-cirque,  which  vision  boondi, 

Like  amphitheatre  surrounds: 

And  woods  impervious  to  the  breeze. 

Thick  phalanx  of  embodied  trees. 

From  hills  through  plains  in  dusk  array 

Extended  far,  repel  the  day. 

Here  stillness,  height,  and  solemn  shade 

Invite,  and  contemplation  aid  : 

Here  Nymphs  from  hollow  oaks  relate 

The  dark  decrees  and  will  of  fate, 

And  dreams  beneath  the  spreading  beech 

Inspire,  and  docile  fancy  teach ; 

While  soft  as  breezy  breath  of  wind, 

Impulses  rustle  through  the  mind  : 

Here  Dryads,  scorning  Phcebus*  ray, 

While  Pan  melodious  pipes  away. 


In  measured  motions  frisk  about. 

Till  old  Silenus  puts  them  out. 

There  see  the  clover,  pea,  and  bean, 

Vie  in  variety  of  green; 

Fresh  pastures  speckled  o'er  with  sheep, 

Brown  fields  their  fallow  sabbaths  keep. 

Plump  Ceres  golden  tresses  wear. 

And  poppy  top-knou  deck  her  hair. 

And  silver  streams  through  meadows  stray, 

And  Naiads  on  the  margin  play, 

And  lesser  Nymphs  on  side  of  hills 

From  plaything  urns  pour  down  the  rills. 

Thus  shelter'd,  free  from  care  and  strife, 
May  I  enjoy  a  calm  through  life ; 
See  faction,  safe  in  low  degree. 
As  men  at  land  see  storms  at  sea, 
And  laugh  at  miserable  elves. 
Not  kind,  so  much  as  to  themselves. 
Cursed  with  such  souls  of  base  alloy. 
As  can  possess,  but  not  enjoy  ; 
Debarr'd  the  pleasure  to  impart 
By  avarice,  sphincter  of  the  heart ; 
Who  wealth,  hard  earn'd  by  guilty  cares, 
Bequeath  untouch'd  to  thankless  heirs. 
May  I,  with  look  ungloom'd  by  guile. 
And  wearing  virtue's  hv'ry-smile, 
Prone  the  distressed  to  relieve, 
And  little  trespasses  forgive. 
With  income  not  in  fortune's  power. 
And  skill  to  make  a  busy  hour. 
With  trips  to  town  life  to  amuse. 
To  purchase  books,  and  hear  the  news, 
To  see  old  friends,  brush  off  the  clown. 
And  quicken  taste  at  coming  down. 
Unhurt  by  sickness'  blasting  rage, 
And  slowly  mellowing  in  age. 
When  Fate  extends  ite  gathering  gripe. 
Fall  off  like  fruit  grown  fully  ripe. 
Quit  a  worn  being  without  pain. 
Perhaps  to  blossom  soon  again. 

But  now  more  serious  see  me  grow. 
And  what  I  think,  my  Memmius,  know. 

Th'  enthusiast's  hope,  and  raptures  wild. 
Have  never  yet  my  reason  foil'd. 
His  springy  soul  dilates  like  air, 
When  free  from  weight  of  ambient  care, 
And,  hush'd  in  meditation  deep. 
Slides  into  dreams,  as  when  asleep  ; 
Then,  fond  of  new  discoveries  grown. 
Proves  a  Columbus  of  her  own, 
Disdains  the  narrow  bounds  of  place. 
And  through  the  wilds  of  endless  space. 
Borne  up  on  metaphysic  wings, 
Chases  light  forms  and  shadowy  things. 
And,  in  the  vague  excursion  caught. 
Brings  home  some  ra|;e  exotic  thought 
The  melancholy  man  such  dreams, 
As  brightest  evidence,  esteems ; 
Fain  would  he  see  some  distant  scene 
Suggested  by  his  restless  Spleen, 
And  Fancy's  telescope  applies 
With  tinctured  glass  to  cheat  his  eyes. 


408                              GEORGE  GRANVILLE, 

LORD  LANDSDOWNE. 

Such  thoughts,  as  love  the  gloom  of  night, 

To  him  my  past  and  present  state 

I  close  examine  by  the  light ; 

I  owe,  and  must  my  future  fate. 

For  who,  though  bribed  by  gain  to  lie, 

A  stranger  into  life  I'm  come. 

Dare  sunbeam-written  truths  deny, 

Dying  may  be  our  going  home. 

And  execute  plain  common  sense 

Transported  here  by  angry  Fate, 

On  faith's  mere  hearsay  evidence  1 

The  convicts  of  a  prior  state: 

Hence  I  no  anxious  thoughts  bestow 

That  superstition  mayn't  create. 

On  matters  I  can  never  know. 

And  club  its  ills  with  those  of  farte, 

Through  life's  foul  way,  like  vagrant,  pass'd. 

I  many  a  notion  take  to  task, 

He'll  grant  a  settlement  at  last ; 

Made  dreadful  by  its  visor-mask. 

And  with  sweet  ease  the  wearied  crown 

Thus  scruple,  spasm  of  the  mind, 

By  leave  to  lay  his  being  down. 

Is  cured,  and  certainty  I  find ; 

If  doom'd  to  dance  th'  eternal  round 

Since  optic  reason  shows  me  plain, 

*  Of  life,  no  sooner  lost  but  found. 

I  dreaded  spectres  of  the  brain  ; 

And  dissolution  soon  to  come. 

And  legendary  fears  are  gone. 

Like  sponge,  wipes  out  life's  present  sum. 

Though  in  tenacious  childhood  sown. 

But  can't  our  state  of  pow'r  bereave 

Thus  in  opinions  I  commence 

An  endless  series  to  receive ; 

Freeholder  in  the  proper  sense. 

Then,  if  hard  dealt  with  here  by  fate. 

And  neither  suit  nor  service  do. 

We  balance  in  another  state. 

Nor  homage  to  pretenders  show, 

And  consciousness  must  go  along. 

Who  boast  themselves  by  spurious  roll 

And  sign  th'  acquittance  for  the  wrong 

Lords  of  the  manor  of  the  soul ; 

He  for  his  creatures  must  decree 

Preferring  sense  from  chin  that's  bare. 

More  happiness  than  misery. 

To  nonsense  throned  in  whisker'd  hair. 

Or  be  supposed  to  create. 

Curious  to  try,  what  'tis  to  hate  : 

To  thee.  Creator  uncreate, 

And  do  an  act,  which  rage  infers. 

0  Entium  Ens!  divinely  great! 

'Cause  lameness  halts,  or  blindness  errs. 

Hold,  Muse,  nor  melting  pinions  try, 

Thus,  thus  I  steer  my  bark,  and  sail 

Nor  near  the  blazing  glory  fly, 

On  even  keel  with  gentle  gale  ; 

Nor  straining  break  thy  feeble  bow. 

At  helm  I  make  my  reason  sit. 

Unfeather'd  arrows  far  to  throw  ; 

My  crew  of  passions  all  submit. 

Through  fields  unknown  nor  madly  stray 

If  dark  and  blust'ring  prove  some  nights. 

Where  no  ideas  mark  the  way. 

Philosophy  puts  forth  her  lights ; 

With  tender  eyes,  and  colours  faint. 

Experience  holds  the  cautious  glass. 

And  trembling  hands,  forbear  to  paint. 

To  shun  the  breakers,  as  I  pass. 

Who,  features  veil'd  by  light,  can  hiti 

And  frequent  throws  the  wary  lead. 

Where  can,  what  has  no  outline,  fiti 

To  see  what  dangers  may  be  hid  : 

My  soul,  the  vain  attempt  forego. 

And  once  in  seven  years  I'm  seen 

Thyself,  the  fitter  subject,  know. 

At  Bath  or  Tunbridge,  to  careen. 

He  wisely  shuns  the  bold  extreme, 

Though  pleased  to  see  the  dolphins  play. 

Who  soon  lays  by  th'  unequal  theme. 

I  mind  my  compass  and  my  way. 

Nor  runs,  with  wisdom's  sirens  caught. 

With  store  sufficient  for  relief. 

On  quicksandsswallowingshipwreck'd  thought: 

And  wisely  still  prepared  to  reef. 

But  conscious  of  his  distance,  gives 

Nor  wanting  the  dispersive  bowl 

Mute  praise,  and  humble  negatives. 

.  Of  cloudy  weather  in  the  soul. 

In  One,  no  object  of  our  sight. 

I  make  (may  heaven  propitious  send 

Immutable  and  infinite. 

Such  wind  and  weather  to  the  end) 

Who  can't  be  cruel  or  unjust. 

Neither  becalm'd,  nor  overblown. 

Calm  and  resign'd,  I  fix  my  trust ; 

Life's  voyage  to  the  world  unknown. 

GEORGE  GRANVILLE, 

LORD  LANSDOWNE.* 

[Born,  1667.    I 

)led,  H350 

'Tis  but  as  fancy  shall  present 

SO\Q 

Objects  of  grief,  or  of  content. 

Love  is  by  fancy  led  •about 

That  the  lover's  blest  or  dies  ; 

From  hope  to  fear,  from  joy  to  doubt ; 

Visions  of  mighty  pain  or  pleasure, 

Whom  we  now  an  angel  call, 

Imagined  want,  imagines!  treasure. 

Divinely  graced  in  every  feature. 
Straight's  a  dcform'd,  a  perjured  creature; 

All  in  powerful  fancy  lies. 

[*  A  noble  imitator,  in  ite  aristocratic  sense,  of  Waller* 

Ldve  and  hate  are  fancy  all. 

and  better  known  as  QrauTille  the  polite  than  QranTille 

thepoet.] 

GEORGE  LILLO. 


[Born,  1689.    Died,  lltf.] 


Geokge  Lillo  was  the  son  of  a  Dutch  jeweller, 
who  married  an  English  woman,  and  settled  in 
London.  Our  poet  was  born  near  Moorfields, 
was  bred  to  his  father's  business,  and  followed  it 
for  many  years.  The  story  of  his  dying  in  dis- 
tress was  a  fiction  of  Hammond,  the  poet ;  for  he 
bequeathed  a  considerable  property  to  his  ne- 
phew, whom  he  made  his  heir.  It  has  been  said 
that  this  bequest  was  in  consequence  of  his  find- 
ing the  young  man  disposed  to  lend  him  a  sum 
of  money  at  a  time  when  he  thought  proper  to 
feign  pecuniary  distress,  in  order  that  he  might 
discover  the  sincerity  of  those  calling  themselves 
his  friends.  Thomas  Davies,  his  biographer  and 
editor,  professes  to  have  got  this  anecdote  from  a 
surviving  partner  of  Lillo.  It  bears,  however, 
an  intrinsic  air  of  improbability.  It  is  not  usual 
for  sensible  tradesmen  to  affect  being  on  the  verge 
of  bankruptcy,  and  Lillo's  character  was  that  of 
an  uncommonly  sensible  man.  Fielding,  his  in- 
timate friend,  ascribes  to  him  a  manly  simplicity 
of  mind,  that  is  extremely  unlike  such  a  stra- 
tagem. 

Lillo  is  the  tragic  poet  of  middling  and  familiar 
life.  Instead  of  heroes  from  romance  and  his- 
tory, he  gives  the  merchant  and  his  apprentice ; 
and  the  Macbeth  of  his  "  Fatal  Curiosity"  is  a 
private  gentleman,  who  has  been  reduced  by  his 
poverty  to  dispose  of  his  copy  of  Seneca  for  a 
morsel  of  bread.  The  mind  will  be  apt,  after 
reading  his  works,  to  suggest  to  itself  the  ques- 
tion, how  far  the  graver  drama  would  gain  or 
lose  by  a  more  general  adoption  of  this  plebeian 
principle.  The  cares,  it  may  be  said,  that  are 
most  familiar  to  our  existence,  and  the  distresses 
of  those  nearest  to  ourselves  in  situation,  ought 
to  lay  the  strongest  hold  upon  our  sympathies, 
and  the  general  mass  of  society  ought  to  furnish 
a  more  express  image  of  man  than  any  detached 
or  elevated  portion  of  the  species. 

Lillo  is  certainly  a  master  of  potent  effect  in 
the  exhibition  of  human  suffering.  His  repre- 
sentation of  actual  or  intended  murder  seems  to 
assume  a  deeper  terror  from  the  familiar  circum- 
stances of  life  with  which  it  is  invested.  Such 
indeed  is  said  to  have  been  the  effect  of  a  scene 
in  his  •'  Arden  of  Feversham,"  that  the  audience 
rose  up  with  one  accord  and  interrupted  it.  The 
anecdote,  whether  true  or  false,  must  recall  to  the 
mind  of  every  one  who  has  perused  that  piece, 
the  harrowing  sympathy  which  it  is  calculated  to 
excite.  But  notwithstanding  the  power  of  Ijillo's 
works,  we  entirely  miss  in  them  that  romantic 
•"traction  which  invites  to  repeated  perusal  of 
hi 


them.  They  give  us  life  in  a  close  and  dreadful 
semblance  of  reality,  but  not  arrayed  in  the  magic 
illusion  of  poetry.  His  strength  lies  in  concep- 
tion of  situations,  not  in  beauty  of  dialogue,  or  in 
the  eloquence  of  the  passions.  Yet  the  effect  of 
his  plain  and  homely  subjects  was  so  strikingly 
superior  to  that  of  the  vapid  and  heroic  produc- 
tions of  the  day,  as  to  induce  some  of  his  con- 
temporary admirers  to  pronounce  that  ho  had, 
reached  the  acmfe  of  dramatic  excellence,  and 
struck  into  the  best  and  most  genuine  path  of 
tragedy.  George  Barnwell,  it  was  observed,  drew 
more  tears  than  the  rants  of  Alexander.  This 
might  be  true,  but  it  did  not  bring  the  compari- 
son of  humble  and  heroic  subjects  to  a  fair  test ; 
for  the  tragedy  of  Alexander  is  bad,  not  from  its 
subject,  but  from  the  incapacity  of  the  poet  who 
composed  it.  It  does  not  prove  that  heroes  drawn 
from  history  or  romance  are  not  at  least  as  sus- 
ceptible of  high  and  poetical  effect  as  a  wicked 
apprentice,  or  a  distressed  gentleman  pawning 
his  movables.  It  is  one  question  whether  Lillo 
has  given  to  his  subjects  from  private  life  the  de- 
gree of  beauty  of  which  they  are  susceptible.  He 
is  a  master  of  terrific,  but  not  of  tender  impres- 
sions. We  feel  a  harshness  and  gloom  in  his 
genius  even  while  we  are  compelled  to  admire  its 
force  and  originality. 

The  peculiar  choice  of  his  subjects  was  happy 
and  commendable  as  far  as  it  regarded  himself, 
for  his  talents  never  succeeded  so  well  when  he 
ventured  out  of  them.  But  it  is  another  ques- 
tion, whether  the  familiar  cast  of  those  subjects 
was  fitted  to  constitute  a  more  genuine,  or  only  a 
subordinate,  walk  in  tragedy.  Undoubtetlly  the 
genuine  delineation  of  the  human  heart  will  please 
us,  from  whatever  station  or  circumstances  of 
life  it  is  derived.  In  the  simple  pathos  of  tragedy 
probably  very  little  difference  will  be  felt  from  the 
choice  of  characters  being  pitched  above  or  below 
the  line  of  mediocrity  in  station.  But  something 
more  than  pathos  is  re(]uired  in  tragedy  ;  and  the 
very  pain  that  attends  our  sympathy  requires 
agreeable  and  romantic  associations  of  the  fancy 
to  be  blended  with  its  poignancy.  Whatever  at- 
taches ideas  of  importance,  publicity,  and  eleva- 
tion to  the  object  of  pity,  forms  a  brightening  and 
alluring  medium  to  the  imagination,  .\thent 
herself,  with  all  her  simplicity  and  democracy, 
deUghted  on  the  stage  to 

■'let  gorgeous  Tragedy 
In  Fceptrud  poll  come  sweeping  by." 

Even   situations   far   depressed   beneath    the 
familiar  mediocrity  of  life  are  more  picturesque 
2K  -MW 


410 


GEORGE  LILLO. 


and  poetical  than  its  ordinary  level.  It  is  cer- 
tainly on  the  virtues  of  the  middling  rank  of  life 
that  the  strength  and  comforts  of  society  chiefly 
depend,  in  the  same  manner  ae  we  look  for  the 
harvest,  not  on  clifis  and  precipices,  but  on  the 
easy  slope  and  the  uniform  plain.  But  the  painter 
does  not  in  general  fix  on  level  countries  for  the 


subjects  of  his  noblest  landscapes.  There  is  an 
analogy,  I  conceive,  to  this  in  the  moral  painting 
of  tragedy.  Disparities  of  station  give  it  bold- 
ness of  outline.  The  commanding  situations  of 
life  are  its  mountain  scenery — the  region  where 
its  storm  and  sunshine  may  be  portrayed  in  their 
strongest  contrast  and  colouring. 


FKOM  "THE  FATAL  CUKIOSITY." 

ACT  IL    SCENE  I. 

i%r«on«— Mawa,  Charlotte,  and  Younq  Wilmot. 

Etiter  Charlotte,  thotightful;  and  soon  after  >Iaria,  from 
the  other  side. 

Mar.  Madam,  a  stranger  in  a  foreign  habit 
Desires  to  see  you. 

Char.  In  a  foreign  habit 

'Tis  strange,  and  unexpected — But  admit  him. 

[JExit  Maria. 
Who  can  this  stanger  be  1  I  know  no  foreigner, 

Enter  Young  Wilmot. 
Nor  any  man  like  this. 

Y.  Wilm.  Ten  thousand  joys ! 

[Going  to  embrace  her. 
Char.  You  are  rude,  su^ — Pray  forbear,  and  let 
me  know 
What  business  brought  you   here,  or  leave  the 
place. 
y.  Wilm.  She  knows  me  not,  or  will  not  seem 
to  know  me.  [Aside. 

Perfidious  maid !  Am  I  forgot  or  scorn'd  ? 

Char.  Strange  questions  from  a  man  I  never 

knew! 
Y.  Wilm.  With  what  aversion  and  contempt 
she  views  ine! 
Vly  fears  are  true;  some  other  has  her  heart: 
—She's  lost — My  fatal  absence  has  undone  me. 

[Aside. 

0 !  Could  thy  Wilmot  have  forgot  thee,  Charlotte? 

Char.  Ha  !  Wilmot!  say  !  what  do  your  words 

import? 

0  gentle  stranger !  ease  my  swelling  heart 

That  else  will  burst !    Canst  thou  inform  me 

aught  ? — 
What  dost  thou  know  of  Wilmot  7 

Y.  Wilm.  This  I  know, 
When  all  the  winds  of  heaven  seem'd  to  conspire 
Against  the  stormy  main,  and  dreadful  peals 
Of  rattling  thunder  deafen'd  every  ear. 
And  drown'd  ih'  affrighten'd  mariners'  loud  cries. 
While  livid  lightning  spread  itssulph'rous  flames 
Through  all  the  dark  horizon,  and  disclosed 
The  raging  seas  incensed  to  his  destruction  ; 
When  the  good  ship  in  which  he  was  embark'd, 
Unable  longer  to  support  the  tempest, 
Broke,  and  o'erwhelm'd  by  the  impetuous  surge, 
Sunk  to  the  oozy  bottom  of  the  deep. 
And  left  him  struggling  with  the  warring  waves; 
In  that  dread  moment,  in  the  jaws  of  death, 
Wheu  his  strengtU  lail'd  and  every  hope  forsook 
him. 


And  his  last  breath  press'd  t'wards  his  trembling 

lips, 
The  neighbouring  rocks,  that  echoed  to  his  moan, 
Return'd  no  sound  articulate,  but  Charlotte ! 

Char.  The  fatal  tempest  whose  description  strikes 
The  hearer  with  astonishment  is  ceased ; 
And  Wilmot  is  at  rest.     The  fiercer  storm 
Of  swelling  passions  that  o'erwhelms  the  soul, 
And  rages  worse  than  the  mad  foaming  seas 
In  which  he  perish'd,  ne'er  shall  vex  him  more. 

Y.  H-'i'ni.  Thou  seem'st  to  think   he's   dead : 
enjoy  that  thought; 
Persuade  yourself  that  what  you  wish  is  true. 
And  triumph  in  your  falsehood — Yes,  he's  dead; 
You  were  his  fate.     The  cruel  winds  and  waveS; 
That  cast  him  pale  and  breathless  on  the  shore. 
Spared  him  for  greater  woes — to  know  his  Char- 
lotte, 
Forgetting  all  her  vows  to  him  and  heaven. 
Had  cast  him  from  her  thoughts — Then,  then  he 

died  ; 
But  never  must  have  rest.  Even  now  he  wanders, 
A  sad,  repining,  discontented  ghost. 
The  unsubstantial  shadow  of  himself. 
And  pours  his  plaintive  groans  in  thy  deaf  ears, 
And  stalks,  unseen  before  thee. 

Char.  'Tis  enough 

Detested  falsehood  now  has  done  its  worst. 
And  art  thou  dead  ] — And  wouldst  thou  die,  my 

Wilmot! 
For  one  thou  thought'st  unjust? — Thou  soul  of 

truth ! 
What  must  be  done  ? — which  way  shall  I  express 
Unutterable  woe  ?  Or  how  convince 
Thy  dear  departed  spirit  of  the  love, 
Th'  eternal  love,  and  never-failing  faith 
Of  thy  much  injured,  lost,  despairing  Charlotte  1 

Y.  Wilm.  Be  still  my  flutt'ring  heart ;  hope 
not  too  soon  ;  [Aside. 

Perhaps  I  dream,  and  this  is  all  illusion. 

Char.  If,  as  some  teach,  the  mind  intuitive, 
Free  from  the  narrow  bounds  and  slavish  ties 
Of  sordid  earth  that  circumscribe  its  power 
While  it  remains  below,  roving  at  large. 
Can  trace  us  to  our  most  conceal'd  retreat. 
See  all  we  act,  and  read  our  very  thoughts; 
To  thee,  O  Wilmot !  kneeling,  I  appeal. 
If  e'er  I  swerved  in  action,  word  or  thought. 
From  the  severest  constancy  and  truth. 
Or  ever  wish'd  to  taste  a  joy  on  earth 
That  centred  not  in  thee,  since  last  we  peirted , 
May  we  ne'er  meet  again,  but  thy  loud  wrongs 
So  close  the  ear  of  mercy  to  my  cries. 
That  I  may  never  see  those  bright  abodes 


GEORGE   LILLO. 


411 


Where  truth  and  virtue  only  have  admission, 
And  thou  inhabit'st  now. 

y.  Wilm.  Assist  me,  Heaven! 
Preserve  my  reason,  memory,  and  sense ! 
O  moderate  my  fierce  tumultuous  joys, 
Or  their  excess  will  drive  me  to  distraction. 
O  Charlotte  !  Charlotte !  lovely,  virtuous  maid  ! 
Can  thy  firm  mind,  in  spite  of  time  and  absence, 
Remain  unshaken,  and  support  its  truth; 
And  yet  thy  frailer  memory  retain 
No  image,  no  idea  of  thy  lover  1 
Why  dost  thou  gaze  so  wildly  ?     Look  on  me; 
Turn  thy  dear  eyes  this  way ;  observe  me  well. 
Have  scorching  climates,  time,  and  this  strange 

habit. 
So  changed  and  so  disguised  thy  faithful  Wilmot, 
That  nothing  in  my  voice,  my  face,  or  mien, 
'  Remains  to  tell  my  Charlotte  I  am  he  1 

[A/ter  viewing  him  some  lime,  the  approaches 
weeping,  and  gire»  him  her  hand ;  and  then 
turning  towards  him,  sinhs  upon  his  bosom,] 

Why  dost  thou  weep  1   Why  dost  thou  tremble 

thusi 
Why  doth  thy  panting  heart  and  cautious  touch 
Speak  thee  but  half  convinced  1     Whence  are 

thy  fears  1 
Why  art  thou  silent  1  Canst  thou  doubt  me  still  1 
Char.  No,  Wilmot!  no;    I'm  blind  with  too 
much  light: 
O'ercome  with  wonder  and  oppress'd  with  joy ; 
The  struggling  passions  barr'd  the  doors  of  speech. 
But  speech  enlarged,  affords  me  no  reliefl 
This  vast  profusion  of  extreme  delight. 
Rising  at  once,  and  bursting  from  despair, 
Defies  the  aid  of  words,  and  mocks  description : 
But  for  one  sorrow,  one  sad  scene  of  anguish. 
That  checks  the  swelling  torrent  of  my  joys, 
(  could  not  bear  the  transport. 
Y.  Wihn.  Let  me  know  it: 
Give  me  my  portion  of  thy  sorrow,  Charlotte ! 
Let  me  partake  thy  grief,  or  bear  it  for  thee. 
Char.  Alas!  my  Wilmot!  these  sad  tears  are 
thine ; 
They  flow  for  thy  misfortunes.     I  am  pierced 
With  all  the  agonies  of  strong  compassion, 
With  all  the  bitter  anguish  you  must  feel, 
When  you  shall  hear  your  parents — 
Y.  Wdm.  Are  no  more. 
Char.  You  apprehend  me  wrong. 
Y.  Wilni.  Perhaps  I  do : 
Perhaps  you  mean  to  say,  the  greedy  grave 
Was  satisfied  with  one,  and  one  is  left 
To  bless  my  longing  eyes — But  which,  my  Char- 
lotte 1 
— 'And  yet  forbear  to  speak,  'till  I  have  thought-^ 
Char.  Nay,  hear  me,  Wilmot ! 
Y.  IVilm.  I  perforce  must  hear  thee : 
For  I  might  think  'till  death,  and  not  determine, 
Of  two  so  dear  which  I  could  bear  to  lose. 
Chur.  Afflict  yoursi'lf  no  more  with  ground- 
less  fears: 
Your  parents  both  are  living.     Their  distress, 
The  poverty  to  which  they  are  reduced. 
In  spite  of  my  weak  aid,  was  what  I  mourn'd ,  ^ 
And  that  in  helpless  age,  to  them  whose  youth 


Was  crown'd  with  full  prosperity,  I  fear. 
Is  worse,  much  worse,  than  death. 

Y.  Wilm.  My  joy's  complete. 
My  parents  living,  and  possess'd  of  thee ! — 
From  this  blest  hour,  the  happiest  of  my  life, 
I'll  date  my  rest.     My  anxious  hopes  and  fears. 
My  weary  travels,  and  my  dangers  past, 
Are  now  rewarded  all.     Now  I  rejoice 
In  my  success,  and  count  my  riches  gain. 
For  know,  my  soul's  best  treasure !  I  have  wealth 
Enough  to  glut  ev'n  avarice  itself: 
No  more  shall  cruel  want,  or  proud  contempt. 
Oppress  the  sinking  spirits,  or  insult 
The  hoary  heads  of  those  who  gave  me  being. 
Char.  'Tis    now,    O  riches,  I   conceive  your 
worth : 
You  are  not  base,  nor  can  you  be  superfluous, 
But  when  misplaced  in  base  and  sordid  hands. 
Fly,  fly,  my  Wilmot!  leave  thy  happy  Charlotte! 
Thy  filial  piety,  the  sighs  and  tears 
Of  thy  lamenting  parents  call  thee  hence. 

Y.  Wilm.  I  have  a  friend,  the  partner  of  my 
voyage. 
Who,  in  the  storm  last  night,  was  shipwreck'd 
with  me. 
Char.  Shipwreck'd  last  night ! — 0  ye  immor- 
tal pow'rs ! 
What  have   you   suffer'd — How  was  you   pre- 
served ! 
Y.  Wilm.  Let  that,  and  all  my  other  atrange 
escapes 
And  perilous  adventures,  be  the  theme 
Of  many  a  happy  winter  night  to  come. 
My  present  purpose  was  t'  intreat  my  angel. 
To  know  this  friend,  this  other  better  Wilmot; 
And  come  with  him  this  evening  to  my  father's: 
I'll  send  him  to  thee. 

Char.  I  consent  with  pleasure. 
Y.  Wilm.  Heavens,  what  a  night ! — How  shall 
I  bear  my  joy ! 
My  parents,  yours,  my  friends,  all  will  be  mine. 
And  mine,  like  water,  air,  or  the  free  splendid 
The  undivided  portion  of  you  ail.  [sun. 

If  such  the  early  hopes,  the  vernal  bloom. 
The  distant  prospect  of  my  future  bliss. 
Then  what  the  ruddy  autumn  ?  what  the  fruit ! 
The  full  possession  of  thy  heavenly  charms. 
The  tedious,  dark,  and  stormy  winter  o'er. 
The  hind,  that  all  .its  pinching  hardships  bore. 
With  transport  sees  the  weeks  appointed  bring 
The  cheerful,  promised,  gay,  delightful  spring: 
The  painted  meadows,  the  harmonious  woods. 
The  gentle  zephyrs,  and  unbridled  floods. 
With    all    their   charms,  his   ravish'd    thoughts 

employ. 
But  the  rich  harvest  must  complete  his  joy. 


ScBlfE— v4  street  in  Airjw. 
Enter  RxiniAl. 
Rand.  Poor,  poor  and  friendless;  whither  shall 
I  wander, 
And  to  what  point  direct  my  views  and  hopes  1 
A  menial  servant!  No.     What!  shall  I  Uve 


412 


GEORGE  LILLO. 


Here  in  this  land  of  freedom,  live  distinguish'd, 
And   mark'd   the  willing  slave  of  some  proud 

subject, 
And  swell  his  useless  train  for  broken  fragments — 
The  cold  remains  of  his  superfluous  board  ] 
I  would  aspire  to  something  more  and  better — 
Turn  thy  eyes  then  to  the  prolific  ocean, 
Whose  spacious  bosom  opens  to  thy  view  : 
There  deathless  honour,  and  unenvied  wealth 
Have  often  crown'd  the  brave  adventurer's  toils. 
This  is  the  native  uncontested  right, 
The  fair  inheritance,  of  ev'ry  Briton 
That  dares  put  in  his  claim — My  choice  is  made : 
A  long  farewell  to  Cornwall,  and  to  England ! 
If  I  return — But  stay,  what  stranger's  this. 
Who,  £is  he  views  me,  seems  to  mend  his  pace  1 

Enter  Younq  Wilmot. 
Y.  Wilm.  Randal !  the  dear  companion  of  my 
youth ! 
Sure  lavish  fortune  means  to  give  me  all 
I  could  desire,  or  ask  for,  this  blest  day. 
And  leave  me  nothing  to  expect  hereafter,  [earth. 
Rand.  Your  pardon,  sir;  I  know  but  one  on 
Could  properly  salute  me  by  the  title 
You're  pleased  to  give  me,  and  I  would  not  think 
That  you  are  he — That  you  are  Wilmot — 
Y.  Wdm.  Why?  [ment 

Rand.  Because  I  could  not  bear  the  disappoint- 
Should  I  be  deceived. 

y.   Wilm.  I'm  pleased  to  hear  it : 
Thy  friendly  fears  better  express  thy  thoughts 
Than  words  could  do. 

Hand.  O,  Wilmot!  0,  my  master! 
Are  you  return'd  ] 

Y.  Wilm.  I  have  not  yet  embraced 
My  parents — I  shall  see  you  at  my  father's. 
Rand.  No,  I'm  discharged  from  thence — O,  sir, 

such  ruin — 
Y.  Wdm.  I've  heard  it  all,  and  hasten  to  re- 
lieve 'em : 
Sure  Heaven  hath  blest  me  to  that  very  end : 
Tve  wealth  enough ;  nor  shalt  thou  want  a  part. 

Rand.  I  have  a  part  already — I  am  blest 
In  your  success  and  share  in  all  your  joys. 
Y.  Wilm.  I  doubt  it  not — But  tell  me,  dost 
thou  think, 
My  parents,  not  suspecting  my  return, 
That  I  may  visit  them,  and  not  be  known  ? 
Rand.  'Tis  hard  for  me  to  judge.     You  are 
already 
Grown  so  familiar  to  me,  that  I  wonder 
f  I  knew  you  not  at  first:  yet  it  may  be  ; 
For  you're  much  alter'd,  and  they  think  you  dead. 
Y.  Wilm.  This  is  certain :    Charlotte  beheld 
me  long, 
\nd  heard  my  loud  reproaches  and  complaints 
Without  rememb'ring  she  had  ever  seen  me. 
My  mind  at  ease  grows  wanton  :  I  would  fain 
Refine  on  happiness.     Why  may  I  not 
Indulge  my  curiosity,  and  try 
If  it  be  possible  by  seeing  first 
My  parents  as  a  stranger,  to  improve 
Their  pleasure  by  surprise ! 
Rand.  It  may,  indeed, 


Enhance  your  own,  to  see  from  what  despair 
Your  timely  coming,  and  unhoped  success. 
Have  given  you  power  to  raise  them. 

Y.  Wilm.  I  remember. 
E'er  since  we  learn'd  together  you  excell'd 
In  writing  fairly,  and  could  imitate 
Whatever  hand  you  saw  with  great  exactness: 
Of  this  I'm  not  so  absolute  a  master. 
I  therefore  beg  you'll  write,  in  Charlotte's  name 
And  character,  a  letter  to  my  father; 
And  recommend  me,  as  a  friend  of  hers, 
To  his  acquaintance. 

Rand.  Sir,  if  you  desire  it 

And  yet — 

Y.  Wilm.  Nay,  no  objections — 'Twill  save  time, 
Most  precious  with  me  now.     For  the  deception, 
If  doing  what  my  Charlotte  will  approve, 
'Cause  done  for  me  and  with  a  good  intent, 
Deserves  the  name,  I'll  answer  it  myself. 
If  this  succeeds,  I  purpose  to  defer 
Discov'ring  who  I  am  till  Charlotte  comes, 
And  thou,  and  all  who  love  me.     Ev'ry  friend 
Who  witnesses  my  happiness  to-night. 
Will,  by  partaking,  multiply  my  joys. 

Rund.  You  grow  luxurious  in  your  mental 
pleasures : 
Could  I  deny  you  aught,  I  would  not  write 
This  letter.     To  say  true,  I  ever  thought 
Your  boundless  curiosity  a  weakness. 

Y.  Wilm.  What  canst  thou  blame  in  this  ? 

Rand.  Your  pardon,  sir ; 
I  only  speak  in  general :  I'm  ready 
T'  obey  your  orders. 

Y.  Wdm,  I  am  much  thy  debtor. 
But  I  shall  find  a  time  to  quit  thy  kindness. 
O  Randal !  but  imagine  to  thyself 
The  floods  of  transport,  the  sincere  delight 
That  all  my  friends  will  feel,  when  I  disclose 
To  my  astonish'd  parents  my  return; 
And  then  confess,  that  I  have  well  contrived 
By  giving  others  joy  t'  exalt  my  own. 
As  pain,  and  anguish,  in  a  gen'rous  mind. 
While  kept  conceal'd  and  to  ourselves  confined, 
Want  half  their  force  ;  so  pleasure,  when  it  flows 
In  torrents  round  us,  more  ecstatic  grows. 

\Exeunt. 


Scene — A  Room,  in  Old  WilmoCs  House. 
Old  Wilmot  and  his  Wife  Agnes. 
O.  Wilm.  Here,  take  this  Seneca,  this  haughty 
pedant. 
Who  governing  the  master  of  mankind. 
And  awing  power  imperial,  prates  of — patience; 
And  praises  poverty — possess'd  of  millions  • 
• — Sell  him,  and  buy  us  bread.     The  scantiest  meal 
The  vilest  copy  of  his  book  e'er  purchased. 
Will  give  us  more  relief  in  this  distress. 
Than  all  his  boasted  precepts. — Nay,  no  tears  { 
Keep  them  to  move  compassion  when  you  beg. 
jlgn.  My  heart  may  break,  but  never  stoop  to 

that. 
O.  Wilm,  Nor  would   I  live  to  see   it. — But 
despatch.  [£xii  Acnes. 

Where  must  I  charge  this  length  of  misery, 


GEORGE  LILLO. 


4U 


That  gathers  force  each  moment  as  it  rolls, 
And  must  at  last  o'erwhelm  me ;  but  on  hope, 
Vain,  flattering,  delusive,  groundless  hope; 
A  senseless  expectation  of  relief 
That  has  for  years  deceived  me? — Had  I  thought 
As  I  do  now,  as  wise  men  ever  think. 
When  first  this  hell  of  poverty  o'ertook  me, 
That  power  to  die  implies  a  right  to  do  it. 
And  should  be  used  when  life  becomes  a  pain, 

What  plagueshad  I  prevented. True, my  wife 

Is  still  a  slave  to  prejudice  and  fear 

I  would  not  leave  my  better  part,  the  dear 

[Wefpi. 
Faithful  companion  of  my  happier  days. 
To  bear  the  weight  of  age  and  want  alone. 
I'll  try  once  more 

Bnter  Aoires,  and  afUr  her  Yon>o  WitMor. 

0.  Wilni.  Retum'd,  my  life,  so  soon  ? * 

Jgn,  The  unexpected  coming  of  this  stranger 
Prevents  my  going  yet. 

Y.  Wilm.  You're,  I  presume, 
The  gentleman  to  whom  this  is  directed. 

[Gives  a  letter. 
What  wild  neglect,  the  token  of  despair, 
What  indigence,  what  misery  appears 
In  each  disorder'd,  or  disfurnish'd  joom 
Of  this  once  gorgeous  house  !   What  discontent. 
What  anguish  and  confusion  fill  the  faces 
Of  its  dejected  owners !  [Aside.] 

O.  Wilm.  Sir,  such  welcome 
As  this  poor  house  affords,  you  may  command. 

Our  ever  friendly  neighbour Once  we  hoped 

.  T'  have  call'd  fair  Charlotte  by  a  dearer  name- 


But  we  have  done  with  hope — I  pray  excuse 
This  incoherence — we  had  once  a  son.       [Weeps. 
Jign.  That  you  are  come  from  that  dear  virtuous 
Revives  in  us  the  mem'ry  of  a  loss,  [maid, 

Which  though  long  since,  we  have  not  learn'd  to 
bear. 
Y.  IVilm.  [Aside.]  The  joy  to  see  them,  and  the 
bitter  pain 
It  is  to  see  them  thus,  touches  my  soul 
With  tenderness  and  grief,  that  will  o'erflow. 
My  bosom  heaves  and  swells,  as  it  would  burst; 
My  bowels  move,  and  my  heart  melts  within  me. 

They  know  me  not,  and  yet,  I  fear,  I  shall 

Defeat  my  purpose  and  betray  myself. 

O.  Wtlm.  The  lady  calls  you  here  her  valued 
friend ; 
Enough,  though  nothing  more  should  be  implied, 
To  recommend  you  to  our  best  esteem, 

— A  worthless  acquisition  ! May  she  find 

Some  means  that  better  may  express  her  kindness! 
But  she,  perhaps,  hath  purposed  to  enrich 
You  with  herself,  and  end  her  fruitless  sorrow 
For  one  whom  death  alone  can  justify 
For  leaving  her  so  long.     If  it  be  so, 
May  you  repair  his  loss,  and  be  to  Charlotte 
A  second,  happier  Wilmot.     Partial  nature, 
Who  only  favours  youth,  as  feeble  age 
Were  not  her  offspring,  or  below  her  care. 
Has  seal'd  our  doom  :  no  second  hope  shall  spring 
From  my  dead  loins,  and  Agnes'  sterile  womb, 
To  dry  our  tears,  and  dissipate  despair. 


^gn.  The  last  and  most  abandon'd  of  our  kind, 
By  heaven  and  earth  neglected  or  despised. 
The  loathsome  grave,  that  robh'd  us  of  our  son. 
And  all  our  joys  in  him,  must  be  our  refuge. 
Y.  Wilm.  Let  ghosts  unpardon'd,  or  devoted 
fiends. 
Fear  without  hope, and  wail  in  such  sad  strains; 
But  grace  defend  the  living  firom  despair. 
The  darkest  hours  precede  the  rising  sun  ;* 
And  mercy  may  appear  when  least  expected. 
0.  Wilm.  This  I  have  heard  a  thousand  times 
repeated, 
And  have,  believing,  been  as  oft  deceived. 

Y.  Wilm.  Behold  in  me  an  instance  of  its  truth. 
At  sea  twice  shipwreck'd,  and  as  oft  the  prey 
Of  lawless  pirates ;  by  the  Arabs  thrice 
Surprised,  and  robb'd  on  shore ;  and  once  reduced 
To  worse  than  these,  the  sum  of  all  distress 
That  the  most  wretched  feel  on  this  side  hell, 
Ev'n  slavery  itself:  yet  here  I  stand, 
Except  one  trouble  that  will  quickly  end. 
The  happiest  of  mankind. 

O.  Wilm.  A  rare  example 
Of  fortune's  caprice ;  apter  to  surprise 
Or  entertain,  than  comfort,  or  instruct. 
If  you  would  reason  from  events,  be  just. 
And  count,  when  you  escaped,  how  many  perish'd ; 
And  draw  your  infrence  thence. 

Jlgn.  Alas !  who  knows 
But  we  were  render'd  childless  by  some  storm, 
In  which  you,  though  preserved,  might  bear  a  part 

Y.  Wilm.  How  has  my  curiosity  betray'd  me 
Into  superfluous  pain  !  I  faint  with  fondness; 
And  shall,  if  I  stay  longer,  rush  upon  'em. 
Proclaim  myself  their  son,  kiss  and  embrace  'em 
Till  their  souls,  transported  with  the  excess 
Of  pleasure  and  surprise,  quit  their  frail  mansions, 
And  leave  'em  breathless  in  my  longing  arms. 
By  circumstances  then,  and  slow  degrees. 
They  must  be  let  into  a  happiness 
Too  great  for  them  to  bear  at  once,  and  live: 
That  Charlotte  will  perform :  I  need  not  feign 
To  ask  an  hour  for  rest.  [Aside.]  Sir,  I  entreat 
The  favour  to  retire  where,  for  a  while, 
I  may  repose  myself     You  will  excuse 
This  freedom,  and  the  trouble  that  I  give  you : 
'Tis  long  since  I  have  slept,  and  nature  calls. 
O.  Wilm.  I  pray,  no  more  :  believe  we're  only 
troubled 
That  you  should  think  any  excuse  were  needful. 
Y.   Wilm.  The  weight  of  this  is  some  incum- 
brance to  me ; 

[Takes  a  casket  out  of  his  bosom,  and 
girts  it  to  his  mnther.] 

And  its  contents  of  value :  if  you  please 

To  take  the  charge  of  it  'till  I  awake, 

I  shall  not  rest  the  worse.     If  I  should  sleep 

Till  I  am  ask'd  for,  as  perhaps  I  may, 

I  beg  that  you  would  wake  me. 

^gn.  Uoubt  it  not: 
Distracted  as  I  am  with  various  woes, 
I  shall  rememl>er  that.  i^^' 

Y.  Wilm.  Merciless  grief! 
What  ravage  has  it  made !  how  has  it  changed 
Her  lovely  form  and  mind !  I  feel  her  anguish, 
2k2 


414 


GEORGE  LILLO. 


And  dread  I  know  not  what  from  her  despair. 

My  father  too O  grant  'em  patience,  heaven ! 

A  little  longer,  a  few  short  hours  more. 
And  all  their  cares,  and  mine,  shall  end  for  ever. 

[Aside, 
How  near  is  misery  and  joy  allied  ! 
Nor  eye  nor  thought  can  their  extremes  divide : 
A  moment's  space  is  long,  and  hghtning  slow, 
To  fa\e  descending  to  reverse  our  woe. 
Or  blast  our  hopes,  and  all  our  joys  o'erthrow. 

[Exeunt. 


The  Scene  continued.  Enter  Agnes  alone,  with  the  casl-et  in 
her  hand. 

Jlgn.  Who  should  this  stranger  be  1  And  then 
this  casket — 
He  says  it  is  of  value,  and  yet  trusts  it, 
As  if  a  trifle,  to  a  stranger's  hand — 
His  confidence  amazes  me — Perhaps 
It  is  not  what  he  says — I'm  strongly  tempted 
To  open  it,  and  see — No,  let  it  rest. 
Why  should  my  curiosity  excite  me 
To  search  and  pry  into  th'  affairs  of  others, 
Who  have  t'  employ  my  thoughts,  so  many  cares 
And  sorrows  of  my  own  1 — With  how  much  ease 
The  spring  gives  way!     Surprising!   most  pro- 
digious ! 
My  eyes  are  dazzled,  and  my  ravish'd  heart 
Leaps  at  the  glorious  sight.     How  bright 's  the 

lustre, 
How  immense  the  worth  of  these  fair  jewels ! 
Ay,  such  a  treasure  would  expel  for  ever 
Base  poverty,  and  all  its  abject  train ; 
The  mean  devices  we're  reduced  to  use 
To  keep  out  fanfme,  and  preserve  our  lives 
From  day  to  day;'  the  cold  neglect  of  friends; 
The  galling  scorn,  or  more  provoking  pity 

Of  an  insulting  world Possess'd  of  these, 

Plenty,  content,  and  power,  might  take  their  turn, 
And  lofty  pride  bare  its  aspiring  head 
At  our  approach,  and  once  more  bend  before  us. 
— A  pleasing  dream  !  'Tis  past ;  and  now  I  wake 
More  wretched  by  the  happiness  I've  lost ; 
For  sure  it  was  a  happiness  to  think. 
Though  but  a  moment,  such  a  treasure  mine. 
Nay,    it   was   more    than    thought — I  saw  and 
touch'd 

The  bright  temptation,  and  I  see  it  yet 

'Tis  here — 'tis  mine — I  have  it  in  possession 

Must  I  resign  it  ]   Must  I  give  it  back? 

Am  I  in  love  with  misery  and  want  ? 

To  rob  myself,  and  court  so  vast  a  lossl 

Retain  it  then But  howl  there  is  a  way 

Why  sinks  my  heart  1   Why  docs  my  blood  run 

cold] 
Why  am  I  thrill'd  with  horror  1    'Tis  not  choice, 
But  dire  necessity  suggests  the  thought. 
EntKT  OiJB  'WaMOT. 
0.  Wilm.  The  mind  contented,  with  how  little 
pains 
The  wand'ring  senses  yield  to  soft  repose, 
And  die  to  gain  new  life !  He's  fallen  asleep 
Already Happy  man !  What  dost  thou  think, 


My  Agnes,  of  our  unexpected  guest ! 
He  seems  to  me  a  youth  of  great  humanity  : 
Just  ere  he  closed  his  eyes,  that  swam  in  tears. 
He  wrung  my  hand,  and  press'd  it  to  his  lips ; 
And  with  a  look,  that  pierced  me  to  the  soul, 
Begg'd  me  to  comfort  thee :  and — Dost  thou  hear 
me? — 

What  art  thou  gazing  on  ?   Fie,  'tis  not  well 

This  casket  was  deliver'd  to  you  closed : 

Why  have  you  open'd  it  ?    Should  this  be  known, 

How  mean  must  we  appear  ! 

.Agn.  And  who  shall  know  it  ? 

O.  Wilm.  There  is  a  kind  of  pride,  a  decent 
dignity 
Due  to  ourselves;  which,  spite  of  our  misfortunes, 
May  be  maintain'd  and  cherish'd  to  the  last. 
To  live  without  reproach,  and  without  leave 
To  quit  the  world,  shows  sovereign  contempt, 
And  noble  scorn  of  its  relentless  malice,   [sense ! 

.dgn.  Shows  sovereign  madness,  and  a  scorn  of 
Pursue  no  further  this  detested  theme : 
I  will  not  die, — I  will  not  leave  the  world 
For  all  that  you  can  urge,  until  compell'd.    [sun 

O.  Wilm.  To  chase  a  shadow,  when  the  setting 
Is  darting  his  last  rays,  were  just  as  wise 
As  your  anxiety  for  fleeting  life. 
Now  the  last  means  for  its  support  are  failing : 
Were  famine  not  as  mortal  as  the  sword. 
This  warmth  might  be  excused — But  take  thy 
Die  how  you  will,  you  shall  not  die  alone,  [choice : 

.Agn.  Nor  live,  I  hope. 

O.  Wilm.  There  is  no  fear  of  that. 

Agn.  Then  we'll  live  both. 

O.  Wdm.  Strange  folly  !  where's  the  means  ? 

Agn.  The  m'-ans  are  there  ;  those  jewels 

O.  Wilm.  Ha! Take  heed: 

Perhaps  thou  dost  but  try  me ;  yet  take  heed 

There's  nought  so  monstrous  but  the  mind  of  man 
In  some  conditions  may  be  brought  t'  approve; 
Theft,  sacrilege,  treason,  and  parricide, 
When  flatt'ring  opportunity  enticed, 
And  desperation  drove,  have  been  committed 
By  those  who  once  would  start  to  hear  them  named. 

.Agn.  And  add  to  these  detested  suicide. 
Which,  by  a  crime  much  less,  we  may  avoid. 

0.  Wilm.TW  inhospitablemurderof  our  guest ! — 
How  couldstthou  form  a  thought  so  very  tempting. 
So  advantageous,  so  secure,  and  easy  ; 
And  yet  so  cruel,  and  so  full  of  horror  ? 

.dgn.  'Tis  less  impiety,  less  against  nature, 
To  take  another's  life,  than  end  our  own. 

O.  Wdm.  It  is  no  matter,  whether  this  or  that 
Be,  in  itself,  the  less  or  greater  crime : 
Howe'er  we  may  deceive  ourselves  or  others, 
We  act  from  inclination,  not  by  rule. 

Or  none  could  act  amiss And  that  all  err. 

None  but  the  conscious  Ijypocrite  denies. 

0  !  what  is  man,  his  excellence  and  strength, 

When  in  an  hour  of  trial  and  desertion, 
Reason,  his  noblest  power,  may  be  suborn'd 
To  plead  the  cause  of  vile  assassination ! 

.diin.  You're  too  severe;  reason  may  justly  plead 
For  her  own  preservation. 

O.  Wilm.  Rest  contented  : 
Whate'er  resistance  I  may  seem  to  make, 


THOMAS   TICKELL, 


41  i 


I  am  betrayed  within :  my  will's  seduced. 
And  my  whole  soul  infepted.     The  desire 
Of  life  returns,  and  brings  with  it  a  train 
Of  appetites,  that  rage  to  be  supplied. 
Whoever  stands  to  parley  with  temptation, 
Does  it  to  be  o'ercome. 

^^n.  Then  nought  remains, 
But  the  swift  execution  of  a  deed 
That  is  not  to  be  thought  on,  or  delay'd. 
We  must  despatch  him  sleeping:  should  he  wake, 
'Twere  madness  to  attempt  it. 

O.  Wilm.  True ;  his  strength 
Single  is  more,  much  more  than  ours  united; 
So  may  his  life,  perhaps,  as  far  exceed 
Ours  in  duration,  should  he  'scape  this  snare. 
Gen'rous.  unhappy  man  !  O  what  could  move  thee 
To  put  thy  life  and  fortune  in  the  hands 
Of  wretches  mad  with  anguish  1 

jjffii.  By  what  means  1 
By  stabbing,  suffocation,  or  by  strangling, 
Shall  we  effect  his  death? 

O.  Wi!}n.  Why,  what  a  fiend  ! 

How  cruel,  how  remorseless  and  impatient 
Have  pride  and  poverty  made  thee ! 

jlgtu  Barbarous  man ! 
Whose  wasteful  riots  ruin'd  our  estate, 
And  drove  our  son,  ere  the  first  down  had  spread 
His  rosy  cheeks,  spite  of  my  sad  presages. 
Earnest  intreaties,  agonies  and  tears. 
To  seek  his  bread  'mongst  strangers,  and  to  perish 

In  some  remote,  inhospitable  land 

The  loveliest  youth,  in  person  and  in  mind. 
That  ever  crown'd  a  groaning  mother's  pains ! 
Where  was  thy  pity,  where  thy  patience  then  ? 
Thou  cruel  husband  !  thou  unnat'ral  father ! 
Thou  most  remorseless,  most  ungrateful  man. 


To  waste  my  fortune,  rob  me  of  my  son ; 
To  drive  me  to  despair,  and  then  reproach  me 
For  being  what  thou'st  made  me. 

O.  Wilm.  Dry  thy  tears: 
I  ought  not  to  reproach  thee.     I  confess 
That  thou  hast  suffer'd  much :  so  have  we  both. 
But  chide  no  more :  I'm  wrought  up  to  thy  pur- 
The  poor,  ill-fated,  unsuspecting  victim,      [pose. 
Ere  he  reclined  him  on  the  fatal  couch. 
From  which  he's  ne'er  to  rise,  took  off  the  sash. 
And  costly  dagger  that  thou  saw'st  him  wear ; 
And  thus,  unthinking,  fumish'd  us  with  arms 
Against  himself.     Which  shall  I  use  ? 

Jlgn.  The  sash. 
If  you  make  use  of  that,  I  can  assist. 

O.  Wilm.  No. 
'Tis  a  dreadful  office,  and  I'll  spare 

Thy  trembling  hands  the  guilt steal  to  the 

door, 
And  bring  me  word ;  if  he  be  still  asleep. 

[JSzit  Aom 
Or  I'm  deceived,  or  he  pronounced  himself 
The  happiest  of  mankind.     Deluded  wretch ! 
Thy  thoughts  are  perishing,  thy  youthful  joys, 
Touch'd  by  the  icy  hand  of  grisly  death. 

Are  with'ring  in   their  bloom But,  thought 

extinguish'd. 
He'll  never  know  the  loss,  nor  feel  the  bitter 

Pangs  of  disappointment Then  I  was  wrong 

In  counting  him  a  wretch:  To  die  well  pleased, 
Is  all  the  happiest  of  mankind  can  hope  for. 
To  be  a  wretch,  is  to  survive  the  loss 
Of  every  joy,  and  even  hope  itself, 

As  I  have  done Why  do  I  mourn  him  then  f 

For,  by  the  anguish  of  my  tortured  soul. 
He's  to  be  envied,  if  compared  with  me. 


THOMAS   TICKELL. 


[Born,  1686.     Died,  1740.] 


Thomas  TicKiti,  the  son  of  the  Rev.  Richard 
Tickell,  was  born  at  Bridekirk,  in  Cumberland, 
studied  at  Oxford,  and  obtained  a  fellowship,  which 
he  vacated  by  marrying  about  his  fortieth  year. 
Though  he  sung  the  praises  of  peace  when  the 
Tories  were  negotiating  with  France,  he  seems, 
from  the  rest  of  his  writings,  and  his  close  con- 
nexion with  Addison,  to  have  deserved  the  epithet 
of  Whiggissimus,  which  Swift  bestowed  on  him. 


His  friendship  with  Addison  lasted  for  life;  he 
accompanied  him  to  Ireland  in  the  suite  of  Lord 
Sunderland,  became  his  secretary  when  Addison 
was  made  Secretary  of  State,  was  left  the  charge 
of  publishing  his  works,  and  prefixed  to  them  his 
excellent  elegy.  He  was  afterward  secretary  to 
the  lords  justices  of  Ireland,  a  place  which  be 
held  till  his  death. 


TO  THK  EARL  OF  WARWICK,  ON  THB  DEATH  OP 

MR.  ADDISON* 
If,  dumb  too  long,  the  drooping  Muse  hath  stay'd, 
And  left  her  debt  to  Addison  unpaid. 
Blame  not  her  silence,  Warwick,  but  bemoan, 
And  judge,  O  judge,  my  bosom  by  your  own. 

[*  This  Elegy  by  Mr.  Tickell  is  one  of  the  finest  in  our 
language.  There  is  so  little  new  th:it  can  bo  sail  upon 
the  death  of  a  friend,  after  the  complaints  of  Ovid  and  the 
Latin  Italians  in  this  way,  tliat  one  is  surprised  to  see  so 


What  mourner  ever  felt  poetic  fires ! 
Slow  comes  the  verse  that  real  woe  inspires : 
Grief  unaffected  suits  but  ill  with  art. 
Or  flowing  numbers  with  a  bleedmg  heart. 

Can  I  forget  the  dismal  night  that  gave 
My  soul's  best  part  for  ever  to  the  grave  I 

muoh  noTelty  in  this  to  strike  us.  and  no  much  interest  to 
affect.— Odlo^oiith.  Of  this  Vlegy,  w  hii-h  l!>  indirectly  pny. 
ferrcd  by  Ji  huson  to  the  I^ycidas  of  Milton.  Steele  h.'V  said 
with  unduuitable  truth,  tbikt  it  is  only  "  proM  io  rhyme.'  j 


416 


THOMAS  TICKELL. 


How  silent  did  his  old  companions  tread, 
By  midnight  lamps,  the  mansions'of  thd  dead. 
Through  hreathing  statues,  then  unheeded  things, 
Through  rows  of  warriors,  and  through  walks 

of  kings ! 
What  awe  did  the  slow  solemn  knell  inspire; 
The  pealing  organ,  and  the  pausing  choir ; 
The  duties  by  the  lawn-robed  prelate  paid: 
And  the  last  words,  that  dust  to  dust  convey'd  ! 
While  speechless  o'er  thy  closing  grave  we  bend, 
Accept  these  tears,  thou  dear  departed  friend. 
Oh,  gone  for  ever!  take  this  long  adieu ; 
And  sleep  in  peace,  next  thy  loved  Montague. 
To  strew  fresh  laurels,  let  the  task  be  mine, 
A  frequent  pilgrim  at  thy  sacred  shrine ; 
Mine  with  true  sighs  thy  absence  to  bemoan, 
And  grave  with  faithful  epitaphs  thy  stone. 
If  e'er  from  me  thy  loved  memorial  part. 
May  shame  afflict  this  alienated  heart; 
Of  thee  forgetful,  if  I  form  a  song. 
My  lyre  be  broken,  and  untuned  my  tongue ; 
My  grief  be  doubled  from  thy  image  free, 
And  mirth  a  torment,  unchastised  by  thee! 

Oft  let  me  range  the  gloomy  aisles  alone, 
Sad  luxury  !  to  vulgar  minds  unknown. 
Along  the  walls  where  speaking  marbles  show 
What  worthies  form  the  hallow'd  mould  below; 
Proud  names,  who  once  the  reins  of  empire  held ; 
In  arms  who  triumph'd;  or  in  arts  excell'd; 
Chiefs,  graced  with  scars,  and  prodigal  of  blood; 
Stern  patriots,  who  for  sacred  freedom  stood ; 
Just  men,  by  whom  impartial  laws  were  given; 
And   saints,  who  taught   and  led   the  way  to 

heaven ; 
Ne'er  to  these  chambers,  where  the  mighty  rest, 
Since  their  foundation  came  a  nobler  guest; 
Nor  e'er  was  to  the  bowers  of  bliss  convey'd 
A  fairer  spirit  or  more  welcome  shade. 

In  what  new  region,  to  the  just  assign'd. 
What    new   employments   please    th'  unbodied 

mind  1 
A  winged  Virtue,  through  th'  ethereal  sky. 
From  world  to  world  unwearied  does  he  flyl 
Or  curious  trace  the  long  laborious  maze 
Of   heaven's  decrees,  where  wondering   angels 

gazel 
Does  he  delight  to  hear  bold  seraphs  tell 
How  Michael  battled,  and  the  dragon  fell ; 
Or,  mix'd  with  milder  cherubim,  to  glow 
In  hymns  of  love,  not  ill  essay'd  below  1 
Or  dost  thou  warn  poor  mortals  left  behind, 
A  task  well  suited  to  thy  gentle  mind] 
Oh  !  if  sometimes  thy  spotless  form  descend. 
To  me  thy  aid,  thou  guardian  genius,  lend ! 
When  rage  misguides  me,  or  when  fear  alarms. 
When  pain  distresses,  or  when  pleasure  charms, 
In  silent  whisperings  purer  thoughts  impart, 
And  turn  from  ill  a  frail  and  feeble  heart; 
Lead  through  the  paths  thy  virtue  trod  before, 
Till  bliss  shall  join,  nor  death  can  part  us  more. 

Ttat  awful  form,  whicfi,  so  the  heavens  decree, 
Must  still  be  loved  and  still  deplored  by  me ; 


In  nightly  visions  seldom  fails  to  rise. 

Or,  roused  by  fancy,  meets  my  waking  eyes. 

If  business  calls,  or  crowded  courts  invite, 

Th'  unblemish'd  statesman  seems  to  strike  my 

sight; 
If  in  the  stage  I  seek  to  soothe  my  care, 
I  meet  his  soul  which  breathes  in  Cato  there ; 
If  pensive  to  the  rural  shades  I  rove, 
His  shape  o'ertakes  me  in  the  lonely  grove; 
'Twas  there  of  just  and  good  he  reason'd  strong, 
Clear'd  some  great  truth,  or  raised  some  serious 

song: 
There  patient  show'd  us  the  wise  course  to  steer, 
A  candid  censor,  and  a  friend  severe ; 
There  taught  us  how  to  live;  and  (oh!  too  high 
The  price  for  knowledge,)  taught  us  how  to  die. 

Thou  hill,  whose  brow  the  antique  structures 
grace, 
Rear'd  by  bold  chiefs  of  Warwick's  noble  race. 
Why,  once  so  loved,  whene'er  thy  bower  appears, 
O'er  my  dim  eye-balls  glance  the  sudden  tears  1 
How  sweet  were  once  thy  prospects  fresh  and 

fair, 
Thy  sloping  walks,  and  unpolluted  air ! 
How  sweet  the  glooms  beneath  thy  aged  trees. 
Thy  noontide  shadow,  and  thy  evening  breeze! 
His  image  thy  forsaken  bowers  restore ; 
Thy  walks  and  airy  prospects  charm  no  more; 
No  more  the  summer  in  thy  glooms  allay'd, 
Thy  evening  breezes,  and  thy  noon-day  shade. 

From  other  ills,  however  fortune  frown'd, 
Some  refuge  in  the  Muse's  art  I  found ; 
Reluctant  now  I  touch  the  trembling  string. 
Bereft  of  him  who  taught  me  how  to  sing ; 
And  these  sad  accents,  murmur'd  o'er  his  urn. 
Betray  that  absence  they  attempt  to  mourn. 
0  !  must  I  then  (now  fresh  my  bosom  bleeds, 
And  Craggs  in  death  to  Addison  succeeds,) 
The  verse,  begun  to  one  lost  friend,  prolong. 
And  weep  a  second  in  th'  unfinish'd  song ! 

These  works  divine,  which  on  his  death-bed 
laid. 
To  thee,  O  Craggs!  th'  expiring  sage  convey'd. 
Great,  but  ill-omen'd,  monument  of  fame. 
Nor  he  survived  to  give,  nor  thou  to  claim. 
Swift  after  him  thy  social  spirit  flies. 
And  close  to  his,  how  soon  !  thy  coffin  lies. 
Blest  pair!  whose  union  future  bards  shall  tell 
In  future  tongues:  each  other's  boast!  farewell! 
Farewell !  whom,  join'd  in  fame,  in  friendship 

tried. 
No  chance  could  sever,  nor  the  grave  divide. 


COLIN  AND  LUCY. 

A  BALLAD. 


Of  Leinster,  famed  for  maidens  fair, 
Bright  Lucy  was  the  grace ; 

Nor  e'er  did  Liffy's  limpid  stream 
Reflect  so  sweet  a  face : 


JAMES  HAMMOND. 


417 


Till  luckless  love,  and  pining  care, 

Impair'd  her  rosy  hue, 
Her  coral  lips,  and  damask'd  cheeks. 

And  eyes  of  glossy  blue. 

Oh,  have  you  seen  a  lily  pale. 

When  beating  rains  descend  1 
So  droop'd  the  slow-consuming  maid, 

Her  life  now  near  its  end. 
By  Lucy  warn'd,  of  flattering  swains 

Take  heed,  ye  easy  fair: 
Of  vengeance  due  to  broken  vows, 

Ye  perjured  swains,  beware. 

Three  times,  all  in  the  dead  of  night, 

A  bell  was  heard  to  ring ; 
And  shrieking  at  her  window  thrice, 

The  raven  flapp'd  his  wing. 
Too  well  the  love-lorn  maiden  knew 

The  solemn  boding  sound; 
And  thus,  in  dying  words,  bespoke 

The  virgins  weeping  round : 

« I  hear  a  yoice  you  cannot  hear, 

Which  says,  I  must  not  stay ; 
I  see  a  hand  you  cannot  see. 

Which  beckons  me  away. 
By  a  false  heart,  and  broken  vows, 

In  early  youth  I  die : 
Was  I  to  blame,  because  his  bride 

Was  thrice  as  rich  as  11 

"  Ah,  Colin  !  give  not  her  thy  vows, 

Vows  due  to  me  alone : 
Nor  thou,  fond  maid,  receive  his  kiss, 

Nor  think  him  all  thy  own. 
To-morrow,  in  the  church  to  wed, 

Impatient,  both  prepare ! 


But  know,  fond  maid ;  and  know,  false  man. 
That  Lucy  will  be  there! 

«  Then  bear  my  corse,  my  comrades,  bear, 

This  bridegroom  blithe  to  meet, 
He  in  his  wedding-trim  so  gay, 

I  in  my  winding-sheet." 
She  spoke;  she  died;  her  corse  was  borne, 

The  bridegroom  blithe  to  meet. 
He  in  his  wedding-trim  so  gay, 

She  in  her  winding-sheet 

Then  what  were  perjured  Colin 's  thoughts  1 

How  were  these  nuptials  kept  1      ' 
The  bridesmen  flock'd  round  Lucy  dead. 

And  all  the  village  wept. 
Confusion,  shame,  remorse,  despair. 

At  once  his  bosom  swell : 
The  damps  of  death  bedew'd  his  brow. 

He  shook,  he  groan'd,  he  fell. 

Prom  the  vain  bride,  ah,  bride  no  more ! 

The  varying  crimson  fled. 
When,  stretch'd  before  her  rival's  corse. 

She  saw  her  husband  dead. 
Then  to  his  Lucy's  new-made  grave, 

Convey'd  by  trembling  swains. 
One  mould  with  her,  beneath  one  sod, 

For  ever  he  remains. 

Oft  at  his  grave  the  constant  hind 

And  plighted  maid  are  seen ; 
With  garlands  gay,  and  true-love  knots. 

They  deck  the  sacred  green ; 
But,  swain  forsworn,  whoe'er  thou  art. 

This  hallow'd  spot  forbear; 
Remember  Colin's  dreadful  fate, 

And  fear  to  meet  him  there.* 


JAMES  HAMMOND. 


rBorn,  1710.    Died,  17ti.t] 


ELEGTXm. 

He  imagines  himself  married  to  Delia,  and  that,  content 
with  each  other,  they  are  retired  into  the  country. 

Let  others  boast  their  heaps  of  shining  gold. 
And  view  their  fields,  with  waving  plenty  crown'd, 
Whom  neighbouring  foes  in  constant  terror  hold. 
And  trumpets  break  their  slumbers,  never  sound: 

[*  Through  all  Tickell'g  worka  there  is  a  strain  of  hallad- 
thinking,  if  I  may  hO  express  it;  and  in  tiiia ' professed 
ballad  lie  seems  to  have  surpassel himself.  It  is.  perhaps, 
the  best  in  our  language  in  this  way. — Uoldsmith. 

I  always  thought  Tickell's  ballad  the  prettiest  in  the 
world. — Gray  to  Walpnl':] 

[t  The  best  critici.»m  on  Hammond  has  been  anticipated 
by  Cowley,  that  '•  he  served  up  the  cold-meats  of  the  an- 
cients, new-heated  and  new  set-forth." 

"  Sure  Hammond  has  no  right,"  says  Shenstone, "  to  the 
63 


While  calmly  poor  I  trifle  life  away, 
Enjoy  sweet  leisure  by  my  cheerful  fire, 
No  wanton  hope  my  quiet  shall  betray. 
But,  cheaply  blese'd,  I'll  scorn  each  vain  desire 

With  timely  care  I'll  sow  my  little  field. 
And  plant  my  orchard  with  its  master's  hand, 
Nor  blush  to  spread  the  hay,  the  hook  to  wield. 
Or  range  my  sheaves  along  the  sunny  land. 


least  inventiTe  merit  I  do  not  think  that  there  is  a  singl* 
thought  in  his  £legles  of  any  eminence,  that  is  not  litcnJiy 
translated.  I  am  astonislied  he  could  content  himself 
with  being  so  little  an  original.''  "  I  question,"  be  adds 
in  another  place.  *'  whether  they  had  taken  without  the 
interest  of  his  gpnteolRrqnainlanrfL  or  indeed  if  tlieauthor 
had  not  died  prei-rdintly."  What  naa  been  said  of  Klrke 
White,  that  (.-onsnmption  and  Southey  have  b«>en  the  sal- 
Tatlun  of  his  verse,  is  more  true  when  said  of  Hammond, 
of  disease  and  Lord  Cheeterfleld.] 


418 


JOHN  OLDMIXON. 


If  late  at  dusk,  while  carelessly  I  roam, 
I  meet  a  strolling  kid,  or  bleating  lamb, 
Under  my  arm  I'll  bring  the  wanderer  home, 
And  not  a  little  chide  its  thoughtless  dam. 

What  joy  to  hear  the  tempest  howl  in  vain, 
And  clasp  a  fearful  mistress  to  my  breast ! 
Or,  luU'd  to  slumber  by  the  beating  rain, 
Secure  and  happy,  sink  at  last  to  rest ! 

Or,  if  the  sun  in  flaming  Leo  ride, 

By  shady  rivers  indolently  stray. 

And  with  my  Delia,  walking  side  by  side, 

Hear  how  they  murmur  as  they  glide  away  ! 

What  joy  to  wind  along  the  cool  retreat. 
To  stop  and  gaze  on  Delia  as  I  go ! 
To  mingle  sweet  discourse  with  kisses  sweet, 
And  teach  my  lovely  scholar  all  I  know ! 

Thus  pleased  at  heart,  and  not  with  fancy's  dream. 
In  silent  happiness  I  rest  unknown ; 
Content  with  what  I  am,  not  what  I  seem, 
I  live  for  Delia  and  myself  alone. 


Hers  be  the  care  of  all  my  little  train. 
While  I  with  tender  indolence  am  blest, 
The  favourite  subject  of  her  gentle  reign, 
By  love  alone  distinguish'd  from  the  rest. 

For  her  I'll  yoke  my  oxen  to  the  plough, 
In  gloomy  forests  tend  my  lonely  flock ; 
For  her,  a  goatherd,  climb  the  mountain's  brow. 
And  sleep  extended  on  the  naked  rock : 


Ah,  what  avails  to  press  the  stately  bed. 
And  far  from  her  'midst  tasteless  grandeur  weep. 
By  marble  fountains  lay  the  pensive  head. 
And,  while  they  murmur,  strive  in  vain  to  sleep! 

Delia  alone  can  please,  and  never  tire. 
Exceed  the  paint  of  thought  in  true  delight; 
With  her,  enjoyment  wakens  new  desire, 
And  equal  rapture  glows  through  every  night: 

Beauty  and  worth  in  her  alike  contend. 
To  charm  the  fancy,  and  to  fix  the  mind ; 
In  her,  my  wife,  my  mistress,  and  my  friend, 
I  taste  the  joys  of  sense  and  reason  join'd. 

On  her  I'll  gaze,«when  others'  loves  are  o'er. 
And  dying  press  her  with  my  clay-cold  hand — 
Thou  weep'st  already,  as  I  were  no  more. 
Nor  can  that  gentle  breast  the  thought  withstand. 

Oh,  when  I  die,  my  latest  moments  spare. 
Nor  let  thy  grief  with  sharper  torments  kill, 
Wound  not  thy  cheeks,  nor  hurt  that  flowing  hair. 
Though  I  am  dead,  my  soul  shall  love  thee  still: 

Oh,  quit  the  room,  oh,  quit  the  deathfiil  bed. 
Or  thou  wilt  die,  so  tender  is  thy  heart ; 
Oh,  leave  me,  Delia,  ere  thou  see  me  dead. 
These  weeping  friends  will  do  thy  mournful  part ; 

Let  them  extended  on  the  decent  bier. 
Convey  the  corse  in  melancholy  state ; 
Through  all  the  village  spread  the  tender  tear, 
While  pitying  maids  our  wondrous  loves  relate. 


JOHN  OLDMIXON. 


[Born,  1673.    DM,  1U2.] 


RiDiCTTiED  in  the  Tatler  under  the  name  of 
Omikron,  the  unborn  poet,  and  one  of  the  heroes 
of  the  Dunciad,  who  mounts  the  side  of  a  lighter 


in  order  to  plunge  with  more  effect.  His  party 
virulence  was  rewarded  with  the  place  of  col- 
lector of  the  customs  at  the  port  of  Bridgewater. 


SONG. 

FBOH  HIS  POEMS  ON  SEVERAL  OCCASIONS,  IN  DOTATIOK  OW 
THE  MANNER  OF  ANACKEON. 

I  LATELY  vow'd,  but  'twas  in  haste, 

That  I  no  more  would  court 
The  joys  that  seem  when  they  are  past 

As  dull  as  they  are  short. 

I  oft  to  hate  my  mistress  swear, 
But  soon  my  weakness  find ; 
I  make  my  oaths  when  she's  severe, 
But  break  them  when  she's  kind, 


ON  HIMSELF. 

FROM  ANACBEON. 

Urdkkneath  a  myrtle  shade, 
On  a  bank  of  roses  laid. 
Let  me  drink,  and  let  me  play, 
Let  me  revel  all  the  day. 


Love,  descending  from  his  state. 
On  my  festivals  shall  wait ; 
Love  among  my  slaves  shall  shine, 
And  attend  to  fill  me  wine. 

Swift  as  chariot  wheels  we  fly, 
To  the  minute  we  must  die; 
Then  we  moulder  in  an  um. 
Then  we  shall  to  dust  return. 

Then  in  vain  you'll  'noint  my  tomb 

With  your  oils  and  your  perfume  ; 
Rather  let  them  now  be  mine, 
Roses  round  my  temples  twine. 

You  who  love  me  now  I  live, 
Give  me  what  you  have  to  give ; 
Let  Elysium  be  my  care. 
When  the  gods  shall  send  me  there. 


WILLIAM  SOMERVILE. 


[Bora,  1691.    Died,  1741.] 


William  Somehviib  was  bom  at  Edston,  in 
Warwickshire,  of  an  ancient  and  illustrious 
family.  He  possessed  an  estate  of  £  1 500  a  year,* 
was  amiable  and  hospitable,  and  united  elegant 
and  refined  pursuits  with  the  active  amusements 


which  he  has  celebn^ed  in   his  poem  of  Ihe 
Chase;   but   from    deficiency    in   economy  and 
temperance  was  driven,  according  to  Shenslone 
account,  to  drink  himself  into  pains  of  body  i_ 
order  to  get  rid  of  those  of  the  mind. 


BAOCHtTS  TRIUMPHANT. 

A  TALE. 

«  For  shame,"  said  Ebony,  "  for  shame ! 
Tom  Ruby,  troth,  you're  much  to  blame, 
To  drink  at  tiffs  confounded  rate, 
To  guzzle  thus,  early  and  late." 

Poor  Tom,  who  just  had  took  his  whet. 
And  at  the  door  his  uncle  met, 
Surprised  and  thunder-struck,  would  fain 
Make  his  escape,  but,  oh  !  in  vain 
Each  blush  that  glow'd  with  an  ill  grace, 
Lighted  the  flambeaux  in  his  face; 
No  ioop-hoie  left,  no  slight  pretence, 
To  palliate  the  foul  oiTence. 
"  I  own  (said  he)  I'm  very  bad— ■ 
A  sot — incorrigibly  mad — 
But,  sir — I  thank  you  for  your  love. 
And  by  your  lectures  would  improve: 
Yet,  give  me  leave  to  say,  the  street 
For  conference  is  not  so  meet. 

Here,  in  this  room — nay,  sir,  come  in 

Expose,  chastise  me  for  my  sin  ; 
Exert  each  trope,  your  utmost  art. 
To  touch  this  senseless,  flinty  heart. 
I'm  conscious  of  my  guilt,  'tis  true, 
But  yet  I  know  my  frailty  too; 
A  slight  rebuke  will  never  do, 
Urge  home  my  faults — come  in,  I  pray — 
Let  not  my  soul  be  cast  away." 

Wise  Ebony,  who  deem'd  it  good 
T'  encourage  by  all  means  he  could 
These  first  appearances  of  grace, 
Follow'd  up  stairs,  and  took  his  place. 
The  bottle  and  the  crust  appear'd, 
And  wily  Tom  demurely  sneer'd. 

[•  SomerTile'o  estate  was  part  in  Wnrwickshire  and  part 
In  Gloucestershire.  He  must  have  bean  boru  before  lliihJ, 
If  there  is  any  truth  in  the  ass.-i  tiuus  of  8oii)f.  tor  among 
his  works  is  an  epistle  to  Aikman  the  painter,  "on  hit 
fxiinting  a  full  length  portrait  nf  tite,  autkiir  in  the  decline 
of  life,  carrying  him  tiack,  b;/  Ihe.  afxiylance  n/  aiiollier por- 
trait, to  his  ynuthful.  days,"  wberelu  he  says  ittaX  he  is  tiien 
passed  his  zenith,  and 

All  the  poor  comfort  that  I  now  can  Rhare, 
Is  the  soft  blessing  of  an  elbow.chair — 

which  if  his  biographers  tell  the  truth  must  have  been 
said  of  himself  when  thirty-eight,  for  Aikmi.n  was  dead 
early  in  1731.  Shcnstoiie.  inoroover,  imputes  his  Ciiblea 
to  age :  the  bibles  of  fifty  are  not  the  foibles  of  age.  "The 


"My  duty,  sir !"— «  Thank  yon,  kind  Tom."— 

««Again,  an't  please  you." — "Thank  you:  Ck)me." 

"Sorrow  is  dry — I  must  once  more — " 

« Nay,  Tom,  I  told  you  at  the  door 

I  would  not  drink — what !  before  dinner  1 

Not  one  glass  more,  as  I'm  a  sinner — 

Come,  to  the  point  in  hand ;  is't  fit 

A  man  of  your  good  sense  and  wit 

Those    parts  which  Heaven  bestow'd  should 

drown, 
A  butt  to  all  the  sots  in  town  1 
Why,  tell  me,  Tom — what  fort  can  stand 
(Though  regular,  and  bravely  mann'd) 
If  night  and  day  the  fierce  foe  plies 
With  never-ceasing  batteries ; 
Will  there  not  be  a  breach  at  last  ?' — 
"  Uncle,  'tis  true — forgive  what's  past"' 
"  But  if  nor  interest,  nor  fame. 
Nor  health,  can  your  dull  soul  reclaim, 
Hast  not  a  conscience,  man  1  no  thought 
Of  an  hereafter  ?  dear  are  bought 
These  sensual  pleasures." — "  I  relent, 
Kind  sir — but  give  your  zeal  a  vent — " 
Then,  pouting,  hung  his  head  ;  yet  still 
Took  care  his  uncle's  glass  to  fill, 
Which  as  his  hurried  spirits  sunk, 
Unwittingly,  good  man  !  he  drunk. 
Each  pint,  alas  !  drew  on  the  next. 
Old  Ebony  stuck  to  his  text. 
Grown  warm,  like  any  angel  spoke. 
Till  intervening  hiccups  broke 
The  well  strung  argument.     Poor  Tom 
Was  now  too  forward  to  reel  home ; 
That  preaching  still,  this  still  repenting. 
Both  equally  to  drink  consenting, 


Cham."  the  monument  to  his  name,  was  first  puhlislMd  in 
tlie  Mny  of  17:^.  His  portniit  is  at  Ix>rd  SiraerviUc's,  aud 
•n/THTe'l  lefiire  the  Mem 'irs  of  the  Somcrville's— a  very 
extniordinary  perform  ino- :  a  portion  of  the  debt  due  by 
the  public  tn  Sir  Wsltrr  8rott.  He  wa*.  we  are  told  by 
Ijkly  Luzloroiich,  "  of  a  very  fair  rt.mplexlon,"  and  ho 
deroibes  himself  in  oue  of  his  rhyming  effusions  to 
Kamsay,  aa 

A  ftiuire  well-born  and  six  fcot  high. 

'•  WhateTer."  ■.lys  Shenstnne,  "the  w"r>d  micht  e-teem  in 
poor  ^on)erTilll>,  I  renlly  find  n|>on  rritinil  iiKiulry.  that  I 
loved  liim  for  ni'thing  .>io  murh  as  his  tlorri-nnu<'!'nihill- 
pili-ficnliou  of  money."  A  btippineas  of  exprcviOD  ua«4 
more  Uian  once  by  its  anthor.l 

419 


i20 


RICHARD  WEST. 


Till  both,  brimful,  could  swill  no  more, 
And  fell  dead  drunk  upon  the  floor. 

Bacchus,  the  jolly  god,  who  sate 
Wide-straddling  o'er  his  tun  in  state, 
Close  by  the  window  side,  from  whence 
He  heard  this  weighty  conference ; 
Joy  kindling  in  his  ruddy  cheeks. 
Thus  the  indulgent  godhead  speaks: 
"Frail  mortals,  know,  reason  in  vain 
Rebels,  and  would  disturb  my  reign. 
See  there  the  sophister  o'erthrown. 
With  stronger  arguments  knock'd  down 
Than  e'er  in  wrangling  schools  were  known  ? 
The  wine  that  sparkles  in  this  glass 
Smoothes  every  brow,  gilds  every  face : 


As  vapours  when  the  sun  appears, 

Far  hence  anxieties  and  fears: 

Grave  ermine  smiles,  lawn  sleeves  g^ow  gay, 

Each  haughty  monarch  owns  my  sway, 

And  cardinals  and  popes  obey  : 

Even  Cato  drank  his  glass,  'twas  I 

Taught  the  brave  patriot  how  to  die 

For  injured  Rome  and  liberty  ; 

'Twas  I  who  with  immortal  lays 

Inspired  the  bard  that  sung  his  praise. 

Let  dull  unsociable  fools 

Loll  in  their  cells,  and  live  by  rules ; 

My  votaries,  in  gay  delight 

And  mirth,  shall  revel  all  the  night; 

Act  well  their  parts  on  life's  dull  stage. 

And  make  each  moment  worth  an  age." 


RICHARD  WEST. 

[Born,  ins.     Died,  VO. 

Richard  West,  the  lamented  friend  of  Gray,  who  died  in  his  twenty-sixth  year. 


AD  AMICOS.* 

Fes,  happy  youths,  on  Camus's  sedgy  side, 
You  feel  each  joy  that  friendship  can  divide ; 
Each  realm  of  science  and  of  art  explore. 
And  with  the  ancient  blend  the  modern  lore. 
Studious  alone  to  learn  whate'er  may  tend 
To  raise  the  genius,  or  the  heart  to  mend ; 
Now  pleased  along  the  cloister'd  walk  you  rove. 
And  trace  the  verdant  mazes  of  the  grove. 
Where  social  oft,  and  oft  alone,  ye  chuse 
To  catch  the  zephyr,  and  to  court  the  muse. 
Meantime  at  me  (while  all  devoid  of  art 
These  lines  gave  back  the  image  of  my  heart) 
At  nfte  the  power  that  comes  or  soon  or  late, 
Oi  aims,  or  seems  to  aim,  the  dart  of  fate  ; 
From  you  remote,  methinks,  alone  I  stand. 
Like  some  sad  exile  in  a  desert  land ; 
Around  no  friends  their  lenient  care  to  join 
In  mutual  warmth,  and  mix  their  hearts  with  mine. 
Or  real  pains,  or  those  which  fancy  raise, 
For  ever  blot  the  sunshine  of  my  days; 
To  sickness  still,  and  still  to  grief  a  prey, 
Health  turns  from  me  her  rosy  face  away. 

Just  heaven  !  what  sin  ere  life  begins  to  bloom, 
Devotes  my  head  untimely  to  the  tombl 
Did  e'er  this  hand  against  a  brother's  life 
Drug  the  dire  bowl,  or  point  the  murderous  knife  1 
Did  e'er  this  tongue  the  slanderer's  tale  proclaim. 
Or  madly  violate  my  Maker's  namel 

»  An  imitation  of  Elegy  V.  3d  book  of  Tibullus.— This 
poem  wa*  written  by  tbi.^  interesting  youth  nt  the  ago  of 
twenty.  [Wet's  poems  are  very  few  in  number,  and  those 
few  are  chieHy  exerci.ie.s  in  Latin.  There  is  a  fine  vein  of 
'binder  feeling  throughout  this  puem,  and  though  the 


Did  e'er  this  heart  betray  a  friend  or  foe, 

Or  know  a  thought  but  all  the  world  might  know  * 

As  yet  just  started  from  the  lists  of  time. 

My  growing  years  have  scarcely  told  their  prime; 

Useless,  as  yet,  through  life  I've  idly  run. 

No  pleasures  tasted,  and  few  duties  done. 

Ah,  who,  ere  autumn's  mellowing  suns  appear, 

Would  pluck  the  promise  of  the  vernal  year; 

Or,  ere  the  grapes  their  purple  hue  betray. 

Tear  the  crude  cluster  from  the  morning  spray  1 

Stern  Power  of  Fate,  whose  ebon  sceptre  rules 

The  Stygian  deserts  and  Cimmerian  pools. 

Forbear,  nor  rashly  smite  my  youthful  heart, 

A  victim  yet  unworthy  of  thy  dart : 

Ah,  stay  till  age  shall  blast  my  withering  face, 

Shake  in  my  head,  and  falter  in  my  pace ; 

Then  aim  the  shaft,  then  meditate  the  blow. 

And  to  the  dead  my  willing  shade  shall  go. 

How  weak  is  man  to  Reason's  judging  eye! 
Born  in  this  moment,  in  the  next  we  die ; 
Part  mortal  clay,  and  part  ethereal  fire, 
Too  proud  to  creep,  too  humble  to  aspire. 
In  vain  our  plans  of  happiness  we  raise. 
Pain  is  our  lot,  and  patience  is  our  praise ; 
WeHJth,  lineage,  honours,  conquest,  or  a  throne, 
Are  what  the  wise  would  fear  to  call  their  own 
Health  is  at  best  a  vain  precarious  thing, 
And  fair-faced  youth  is  ever  on  the  wing; 
'Tis  like  the  stream  beside  whose  watery  bed, 
Some  blooming  plant  exalts  his  flowery  head; 


thoughts  are  from  TibuIIus  and  Pope,  yet  they  are  bor- 
rowed in  no  common  way :  with  that  kind  of  liberality 
whi(  h  give.s  a  return  for  what  it  steals.  We  m;iy  add  here 
what  ia  not  at  all  generally  known,  that  Toiu  Heame's 
Reply  to  Time  is  one  of  young  West's  felicitous  efitisioiu.] 


JAMES  EYRE  WEEKES. 


421 


Nursed  by  the  wave  the  spreading  branches  rise, 
Shade  all  the  ground  and  flourish  to  the  skies ; 
The  waves  the  while  beneath  in  secret  flow, 
And  undermine  the  hollow  bank  below  ; 
Wide  and  more  wide  the  waters  urge  their  way, 
Bare  all  the  roots,  and  on  their  fibres  prey. 
Too  late  the  plant  bewails  his  foolish  pride, 
And  sinks,  untimely,  in  the  whelming  tide. 

But  why  repine  1     Does  life  deserve  my  sigh; 
Few  will  lament  my  loss  whene'er  I  die. 
For  those  the  wretches  I  despise  or  hate, 
I  neither  envy  nor  regard  their  fate. 
For   me,   whene'er   all-conquering   Death  shall 

spread 
His  wings  around  my  unrepining  head, 


I  care  not:  though  this  face  be  seen  no  more, 
The  world  will  pass  as  cheerful  as  before ; 
Bright  as  before  the  day-star  will  appear. 
The  fields  as  verdant,  and  the  skies  as  clear ; 
Nor  storms  nor  comets  will  my  doom  declare, 
Nor  signs  on  earth  nor  portents  in  the  air  ; 
Unknown  and  silent  will  depart  my  breath. 
Nor  Nature  e'er  take  notice  of  my  death. 
Yet  some  there  are  (ere  spent  my  vital  days) 
Within  whose  breasts  my  tomb  I  wish  to  raise. 
Loved  in  my  life,  lamented  in  my  end, 
Their  praise  would  crown  me  as  tbeir  precepts 

mend : 
To  them  may  these  fond  lines  my  name  endear, 
Not  from  the  Poet  but  the  Friend  sincere. 


JAMES  EYRE  WEEKES. 


raOM  POEMS  FBIHTES  AT  OOKK,  1743. 


THE  FIVE  TRAITORS. 

A  BONO. 

There's  not  a  sense  but  still  betrays. 
Like  bosom-snakes,  their  master ; 

Where'er  my  various  fancy  strays, 
It  still  brings  some  disaster; 

For  all  my  difierent  senses  move 

To  the  same  centre — fatal  love ! 

My  rebel  eyes  betray  my  heart, 

And  ruin  me  by  gazing. 
Like  burning  glasses  flames  impart. 

And  set  me  all  a  blazing : 
These  treachrous  twins,  which  should  protect. 
Like  fatal  stars  my  peace  have  wreck'd. 

My  simple  ears  my  soul  betray, 

By  listening  to  the  syren  ; 
They  who  should  guard  th'  important  way. 

With  sounds  my  heart  environ  ; 
Bribed,  they  admit  such  potent  foes 
As  rob  me  of  my  sweet  repose. 

My  smell,  too,  plays  a  traitor's  part. 
Her  fragrant  breath  admitting ; 


Her  perfumed  sighs  sharp  stings  impart. 

My  simple  soul  outwitting : 
Poor  I  am  led  thus  by  the  nose. 
And  find  the  nettle  in  the  rose. 

My  taste  the  dangerous  nectar  sips, — 
Such  nectar  gods  ne'er  tasted  ; 

And  sucks  ambrosia  from  her  lips ; 
With  ruin  thus  I'm  feasted ; 

My  palate,  which  should  be  my  cook. 

Destroys  me  with  the  poison'd  book. 

My  touch — oh,  there  contagion  lies ! 

Whene'er  I  touch  I  tremble  ; 
Through  all  my  frame  the  enchantment  flies, 

An  aspen  I  resemble ; 
My  lips  deluding  me  with  bliss. 
Betray  their  master  with  a  kiss. 

Whate'er  I  see,  or  hear,  or  smelly 

Or  taste,  or  touch,  delighted, 
By  all  together,  like  a  spell. 

Am  I  to  love  invited  : 
And  other  things  their  ruin  shun. 
But  I  am  by  myself  undone. 

SL 


RICHARD  SAVAGE. 

[Bora,  169»-7.    Died,  1743.] 

Son  of  the  unnatural  Anne  Countess  of  Macclesfield,  by  Earl  Rivers,  was  bom  in  1696-7,  and  died 

in  a  jail  at  Bristol,  1743. 


THE  BASTAKD* 

IN8CBIBED,  WITH  ALL  DUB  REVERENCE,  TO  MRS.  BRSTT,   OHCB 
COUNTESS  OF  MACCLESFIELD. 

In  gayer  hours,t  when  high  my  fancy  ran, 

The  Muse  exulting,  thus  her  lay  began. 

'« Blest  be  the  Bastard's  birth !  through  wondrous 
ways. 

He  shines  eccentric  like  a  comet's  blaze ! 

No  sickly  fruit  of  faint  compliance  he ! 

He  !  stamp'd  in  nature's  mint  of  ecstacy  ! 

He  lives  to  build,  not  boast  a  generous  race  : 

No  tenth  transmitter  of  a  foolish  face : 

His  daring  hope  no  sire's  example  bounds ; 

His  first-born  lights  no  prejudice  confounds. 

He,  kindling  fi-om  within,  requires  no  flame; 

He  glories  in  a  Bastard's  glowing  name. 
«  Born  to  himself,  by  no  possession  led, 

In  fi-eedom  foster'd,  and  by  fortune  fed ; 

Nor  guides,  nor  rules,  his  sovereign  choice  control, 

His  body  independent  as  his  soul ; 

Loosed  to  the  world's  wide  range — enjoin'd  no 
aim. 

Prescribed  no  duty,  and  assign'd  no  name, 

Nature's  unbounded  son,  he  stands  alone, 

His  heart  unbiass'd,  and  his  mind  his  own. 
"  O  mother,  yet  no  mother !  'tis  to  you 

My  thanks  for  such  distinguish'd  claims  are  due ; 
You  unenslaved  to  Nature's  narrow  laws. 
Warm  championess  for  fi-eedom's  sacred  cause. 

From  all  the  dry  devoirs  of  blood  and  line, 

From  ties  maternal,  moral  and  divine. 
Discharged  my  grasping  soul ;  push'd  me  firom 

shore. 
And  launch'd  me  into  life  without  an  oar. 
"  What  had  I  lost,  if.  conjugally  kind. 
By  nature  hating,  yet  by  vows  confined, 
Untaught  the  matrimonial  bounds  to  slight, 
And  coldly  conscious  of  a  husband's  ritht. 
You  had  faint-drawn  me  with  a  form  alone, 
A  lawful  lump  of  life  by  force  your  own  ! 
Then,  while  your  backward  will  retrench'd  desire, 
And  unconcurring  spirits  lent  no  fire, 
I  had  been  born  your  dull,  domestic  heir. 
Load  of  your  life,  and  motive  of  your  care; 
Perhaps  been  poorly  rich,  and  meanly  great. 
The  slave  of  pomp,  a  cypher  in  the  state ; 

[*  Almost  all  things  written  from  the  heart,  as  this 
certniiily  wap,  have  Fome  merit.  The  poet  here  d&'crilies 
sorrows  and  mi-fortune?^  wKirh  were  by  no  means  imagi- 
nary :  and  thun  tin  rr  tuns  a  truth  of  thinliing  through 
tbii  poeni.  wiJiout  vhiih  it  would  be  of  little  value,  as 
42? 


Lordly  neglectful  of  a  worth  unknown, 
And  slumbering  in  a  seat  by  chance  my  own. 
"  Far  nobler  blessings  wait  the  bastard's  lot ; 
Conceived  in  rapture,  and  with  fire  begot ! 
Strong  as  necessity,  he  starts  away. 
Climbs    against    wrongs,    and    brightens    into 
day." 
Thus  unprophetic,  lately  misinspired, 
I  sung:  gay  fluttering  hope  my  fancy  fired: 
Inly  secure,  through  conscious  scorn  of  ill, 
Nor  taught  by  wisdom  how  to  balance  will. 
Rashly  deceived,  I  saw  no  pits  to  shun. 
But  thought  to  purpose  and  to  act  were  one ; 
Heedless  what  painted  cares  pervert  his  way, 
Whom    caution    arms    not,    and    whom    woes 

betray ; 
But  now  exposed,  and  shrinking  from  distress, 
I  fly  to  shelter  while  the  tempests  press ; 
My  Muse  to  grief  resigns  the  varying  tone, 
The  raptures  languish,  and  the  numbers  groan. 

O  Memory  !  thou  soul  of  joy  and  pain  ! 
Thou  actor  of  our  passions  o'er  again  ! 
Why  didst  thou  aggravate  the  wretch's  woe  1 
Why  add  continuous  smart  to  every  blow  1 
Few  are  my  joys ;  alas  !  how  soon  forgot ! 
On  that  kind  quarter  thou  invad'st  me  not; 
While  sharp  and  numberless  my  sorrows  fall. 
Yet  thou  repeat'st  and  muitiply'st  them  all. 

Is  chance  a  guilt  ?  that  my  disastrous  heart. 
For  mischief  never  meant,  must  ever  smart  1 
Can  self-defence  be  sin  1 — -Ah,  plead  no  more ! 
What  though  no  purposed  malice  stain'd  thee 

o'erl 
Had  Heaven  befriended  thy  unhappy  side. 
Thou  hadst  not  been  provoked — or  thou  badst 
died. 
Far  be  the  guilt  of  homeshed  blood  from  all 
On  whom,  unsought,  embroihng  dangers  fall  I 
Still  the  pale  dead  revives,  and  lives  to  me. 
To  me  !  through  Pity's  eye  condemn'd  to  see. 
Remembrance   vails   his    rage,   but  swells    his 

fate; 
Grieved  I  forgive,  and  am  grown  cool  too  late. 
Young,  and  unthoughtfui  then ;  who  knows,  one 

day. 
What  ripening  virtues  might  have  made  their 
way  1 

Savage  is,  in  other  respects,  but  an  indifferent  poet. — 

GuI.lisMlTH.] 

[t  'Die  reiider  will  ea.«ily  perceive  these  verses  were  begun, 
when  my  heart  was  gayer  than  it  has  been  of  late ;  and 
finished  in  hours  of  the  deepest  melancholy. — Savage.] 


ALEXANDER  POPE. 


428 


He  might  have  lived  till  folly  died  in  shame, 

Till  kindling  wisdom  felt  a  thirst  for  fame. 

He   might   perhaps   his   country's   friend  have 

proved ; 
Both  happy,  generous,  candid,  and  beloved, 
He  might  have  saved  some  worth,  now  doom'd  to 

faU; 
And  I,  perchance,  in  him,  have  murder'd  all. 

Oh  fate  of  late  repentance!  always  vain: 
Thy  remedies  but  lull  undying  pain. 
Where  shall  my  hope  find  resti — No  mother's 

care 
Shielded  my  infant  innocence  with  prayer : 
No   father's   guardian   hand   my   youth    main- 

tain'd, 
Call'd  forth  my  virtues,  or  from  vice  restrain'd. 
Is  it  not  time  to  snatch  some  powerful  arm. 
First  to  advance,  then  screen  from  future  harmi 


Am  I  retum'd  from  death  to  live  in  pain  1 
Or  would  imperial  Pity  save  in  vain  1 
Dbtrust  it  not — What  blame  can  mercy  find. 
Which  gives  at  once  a  life,  and  rears  a  mind  ! 

Mother,  miscall'd,  farewell — of  soul  severe. 
This  sad  reflection  yet  may  force  one  tear: 
All  I  was  wretched  by  to  you  I  ow'd. 
Alone  from  strangers  every  comfort  flow'd  ! 

Lost  to  the  life  you  gave,  your  son  no  more. 
And  now  adopted,  who  was  doom'd  before ; 
New-born,  I  may  a  nobler  mother  claim. 
But  dare  not  whisper  her  immortal  name; 
Supremely  lovely,  and  serenely  great ! 
Majestic  mother  of  a  kneeling  state ! 
Queen  of  a  people's  heart,  who  ne'er  before 
Agreed — ^yet  now  with  one  consent  adore ! 
One  con&st  yet  remains  in  this  desire. 
Who  most  shall  give  applause,  where  all  admire 


ALEXANDER  POPE. 


CBo^^l688.    DIad,  ITM.] 


The  faults  of  Pope's  private  character  have 
been  industriously  exposed  by  his  latest  editor 
and  biographer,*  a  gentleman  whose  talents  and 
virtuous  indignation  were  worthy  of  a  better  em- 
ployment. In  the  moral  portrait  of  Pope  which 
be  has  drawn,  all  the  agreeable  traits  of  tender 
and  faithful  attachment  in  his  nature  have  been 
thrown  into  the  shade,  while  his  deformities  are 
brought  out  in  the  strongest,  and  sometimes  ex- 
aggerated colours. 

The  story  of  his  publishing  a  character  of  the 
Duchess  of  Marlborough,  afler  having  received  a 
bribe  to  suppress  it,  rests  on  the  sole  authority  of 
Horace  Walpole :  but  Dr.  J.  Warton,  in  relating 
it,  adds  a  circumstance  which  contradicts  the 
statement  itself.  The  duchess's  imputed  cha- 
racter appeared  in  1746,  two  years  after  Pope's 
death ;  Pope,  therefore,  could  not  have  himself 
published  it;  and  it  is  exceedingly  improbable 
that  the  bribe  ever  existed.f  Pope  was  a  steady 
and  fond  friend.  We  shall  be  told,  perhaps,  of 
his  treachery  to  Bolingbroke,  in  publishing  the 
Patriot  King.  An  explanation  of  this  business 
was  given  by  the  late  Earl  of  Marchmont  to  a 
gentleman  still  living,  (1820,)  the  Honourable 
George  Rose,  which  is  worth  attending  to.  The 
Earl  of  Marchmont's  account  of  it,  first  pub- 
lished by  Mr.  A.  Chalmers,  in  the  Biographical 
Dictionary,  is  the  following. 

"  The  essay  on  the  Patriot  King  was  under- 
taken at  the  pressing  instance  of  Ijord  Cornbury, 
very  warmly  supported  by  the  earnest  entreaties 
of  Lord  Marchmont,  with  which  Lord  Bohng- 


[•  The  Rev.  W.  L.  Bowles :  but  Mr.  WUliam  Roscoe  U  his 
lateiit  editor  and  biograpber.] 

[+  'I'hiit  the  bribe  wan  paid,  and  the  character  in  print, 
the  piib.i'-utiou  if  the  -Man huiuut  I'apers  siute  tbid  WM 
nrilten  has  proved  beyond  all  question.] 


broke  at  length  complied.  When  it  was  written 
it  was  shown  to  the  two  lords  and  one  other  con- 
fidential friend,  who  were  so  much  pleased  with 
it  that  they  did  not  cease  their  importunities  to 
have  it  published,  till  his  lordship,  after  much 
hesitation,  consented  to  print  it,  with  a  positive 
determination,  however,  against  a  publication  at 
that  time ;  assigning  as  his  reason,  that  the 
work  was  not  finished  in  such  a  way  as  be  wished 
it  to  be  before  it  went  into  the  world.  Conform- 
ably to  that  determination  some  copies  of  the 
essay  were  printed,  which  were  distributed  to 
Lord  Cornbury,  Lord  Marchmont,  Sir  W.  Wynd- 
ham,  Mr.  Lyttleton,  Mr.  Pope,  and  Lord  Chester 
field.  Mr.  Pope  put  his  copy  into  the  hands  of 
Mr.  Allen,  of  Prior  Park,  near  Bath,  slating  la 
him  the  injunction  of  Lord  Bolingbroke ;  but  that 
gentleman  was  so  captivated  with  it  as  to  presa 
Mr.  Pope  to  allow  him  to  print  a  small  im- 
pression at  his  own  expense,  using  such  caution 
as  should  effectually  prevent  a  single  copy  get* 
ting  into  the  possession  o(  any  one  till  the  con- 
sent of  the  author  should  be  obtained.  Under  a 
solemn  engagement  to  that  effect,  Mr.  Pope  very 
reluctantly  consented :  the  edition  was  then 
printed,  packed  up,  and  deposited  in  a  separate 
warehouse,  of  which  Mr.  Pope  had  the  key.  On 
the  circumstance  being  made  known  to  I<ord  Bo- 
lingbroke, who  was  then  a  guest  in  his  own  house 
at  Battersea  with  Lord  Marchmont,  to  whom  he 
had  lent  it  for  two  or  three  years,  his  lordship 
was  in  great  indignation,  to  appease  which.  Lord 
Marchmont  sent  Mr.  Grevenkop,  (a  German  gen- 
tleman who  had  travelled  with  him,  and  was 
afterward  in  the  household  of  IjOtA  Chesterfield, 
when  lord  lieutenant  of  Ireland.)  to  bring  out 
the  whole  edition,  of  which  a  bonfire  wm  in* 
Btautly  made  on  the  terrace  of  Battersea.*' 


424 


ALEXANDER   POPE. 


THE  DYING  CHRISTIAN  TO  HIS  80UL. 
Vital  spark  of  heavenly  flame, 
Quit,  oh  quit  this  mortal  frame : 
TrembUng,  hoping,  lingering,  flying — 
Oh  the  pain,  the  bliss  of  dying ! 

Cease,  fond  Nature,  cease  thy  strife, 

And  let  me  languish  into  life ! 

Hark  !  they  whisper ;  angels  say, 

Sister  spirit,  come  away!* 

What  is  this  absorbs  me  quite? 

Steals  my  senses,  shuts  my  sight. 
Drowns  my  spirits,  draws  my  breath  ? 
Tell  me,  my  soul,  can  this  be  death  ] 

The  world  recedes ;  it  disappears ! 
Heaven  opens  on  my  eyes !  my  ears 

With  sounds  seraphic  ring : 
Lend,  lend  your  wings !  I  mount !  I  fly : 
O  Grave  !  where  is  thy  victory  ? 

O  Death!  where  is  thy  sting  I 


THE  RAPE  OF  THE  LOCK.t 

AN  HEBOI-COmCAL  POEM. 

CANTO  I. 
What  dire  offence  from  amorous  causes  springs, 
What  mighty  contests  rise  from  trivial  things, 
I  sing — this  verse  to  Caryl,J  Muse !  is  due : 
This  ev'n  Belinda  may  vouchsafe  to  view : 
Slight  is  the  subject,  but  not  so  the  praise, 
If  she  inspire,  and  he  approve  my  lays. 

Say  whatstrange  motive,  goddess !  could  compel 
A  well-bred  lord  t'  assault  a  gentle  belle  1 
O  say  what  stranger  cause,  yet  unexplored, 
Could  make  a  gentle  belle  reject  a  lord  ] 
In  tasks  so  bold  can  little  men  engage ! 
And  in  soft  bosoms  dwells  such  mighty  rage? 

Sol  through  white  curtains  shot  a  timorous  ray. 
And  oped  those  eyes  that  must  eclipse  the  day : 
Now  lapdogs  give  themselves  the  rousing  shake. 
And  sleepless  lovers,  just  at  twelve  awake  : 
Thrice  rung  the  bell,  the  slipper  knock'd  the 

ground, 
And  the  press'd  watch  return'd  a  silver  sound. 
Belinda  still  her  downy  pillow  prest, 
Her  guardian  sylph  prolong'd  the  balmy  rest : 
'Twas  he  had  summon'd  to  her  silent  bed 
The  morning  dream  that  hover'd  o'er  her  head. 
A  youth  more  glittering  than  a  birth-night  beau 
(That  even  in  slumber  caused  her  cheek  t*  glow) 
Seem'd  to  her  ear  his  winning  lips  to  lay, 
And  thus  in  whisper  said,  or  seem'd  to  i«.y : 

Fairest  of  mortals,  thou  distinguish'd  care 
Of  thousand  bright  inhabitants  of  air ! 
If  e'er  one  vision  touch  thy  infant  thought, 
Of  all  the  nurse  and  all  the  priest  have  taught; 

r*  See  Flatman's  verses,  ante  p.  331.] 

[t  This  seems  to  be  Mr.  Pope's  most  finished  production, 
and  is,  perhaps,  the  most  perfect  in  our  language.  It 
exhibits  stronger  powers  of  imagination,  more  harmony 
of  numbers,  and  a  greater  Itnowledge  of  the  world,  than 
any  other  of  this  poet's  works;  and  it  is  probable,  if  our 
oountiymen  were  called  upon  to  show  a  specimen  of  their 


Of  airy  elves  by  mooi  light  shadows  seen. 

The  silver  token,  and  the  circled  green, 

Of  virgins  visited  by  angel-powers, 

With  golden  crowns  and  wreaths  of  heavenly 

flowers ; 
Hear  and  believe  !  thy  own  importance  know. 
Nor  bound  thy  narrow  views  to  things  below  ; 
Some  secret  truths,  from  learned  pride  conceal'd. 
To  maids  alone  and  children  are  reveal'd : 
What  though  no  credit  doubting  wits  may  give. 
The  fair  and  innocent  shall  still  believe. 
Know  then,  unnumber'd  spirits  round  thee  fly. 
The  light  militia  of  the  lower  sky : 
These,  though  unseen,  are  ever  on  the  wing, 
Hang  o'er  the  box,  and  hover  round  the  ring. 
Think  what  an  equipage  thou  hast  in  air, 
And  view  with  scorn  two  pages  and  a  chair. 
As  now  your  own,  our  beings  were  of  old. 
And  once  inclosed  in  woman's  beauteous  mould 
Thence,  by  a  soft  transition,  we  repair 
From  earthly  vehicles  to  these  of  air. 
Think  not  when  woman's  transient  breath  is  fled, 
That  all  her  vanities  at  once  are  dead. 
Succeeding  vanities  she  still  regards. 
And  though  she  plays  no  more,  o'erlooks   the 

cards. 
Her  joy  in  gilded  chariots,  when  alive. 
And  love  of  ombre,  after  death  survive. 
For  when  the  fair  in  all  their  pride  expire. 
To  their  first  elements  their  souls  retire : 
The  sprites  of  fiery  termagants  in  flame 
Mount  up,  and  take  a  salamander's  name ; 
Soft  yielding  minds  to  water  glide  away. 
And  sip,  with  nymphs,  their  elemental  tea. 
The  graver  prude  sinks  downward  to  a  gnome. 
In  search  of  mischief  still  on  earth  to  roam. 
The  light  coquettes  in  sylphs  aloft  repair. 
And  sport  and  flutter  in  the  fields  of  air. 

Know  farther  yet;   whoever  fair  and  chaste 
Rejects  mankind,  is  by  some  sylph  embraced : 
For  spirits,  freed  from  mortal  laws,  with  ease 
Assume  what  sexes  and  what  shape  they  please. 
What  guards  the  purity  of  melting  maids. 
In  courtly  balls,  and  midnight  masquerades. 
Safe  from  the   treacherous   friends,  the  daring 

spark, 
The  glance  by  day,  the  whisper  in  the  dark, 
When  kind  occasion  prompts  their  warm  desires. 
When  music  softens,  and  when  dancing  fires  1 
'Tis  but  their  sylph,  the  wise  celestials  know. 
Though  honour  is  the  word  with  men  below. 
Some  nymphs  there  are,  too  conscious  of  their 

face, 
For  life  predestined  to  the  gnomes'  embrace. 
These  swell  their  prospects,  and  exalt  their  pride. 
When  offers  are  disdain'd,  and  love  denied : 
Then  gay  ideas  crowd  the  vacant  brain, 
While  peers,  and  dukes,  and  all  their  sweeping 

train, 

genius  to  foreigners,  this  would  be  the  work  fixed  upon. — 

GOLDS.MITH.] 

[J  Secretary  to  Queen  Mary,  wife  of  James  II.:  and  au- 
thor of  Sir  Solomon  Singh,  a  Comedy,  and  ol  several 
translations  in  Dryden's  Mitcdlanies.  He  firet  i  uggested 
the  sabject  of  this  poem  to  the  author.] 


IL 


ALEXANDER  POPE. 


426 


And  garters,  stars,  and  coronets  appear, 
And  in  soft  sounds,  <  your  Grace'  salutes  their  ear. 
'Tis  these  that  early  taint  the  female  soul. 
Instruct  the  eyes  of  young  coquettes  to  roll, 
Teach  infant  cheeks  a  bidden  blush  to  know, 
And  Httle  hearts  to  flutter  at  a  beau. 

Oft,  when  the  world  imagine  women  stray, 
The  sylphs  through  mystic  mazes  guide  their  way, 
Through  all  the  giddy  circle  they  pursue, 
And  old  impertinence  expel  by  new. 
What  tender  maid  but  must  a  victim  fall 
To  one  man's  treat,  but  for  another's  balll 
When  Florio  speaks,  what  virgin  could  withstand, 
If  gentle  Damon  did  not  squeeze  her  hand  1 
With  varying  vanities,  from  every  part, 
They  shift  the  moving  toy-shop  of  their  heart ; 
Where  wigs  with  wigs,  with  sword-knots  sword- 
knots  strive. 
Beaux  banish  beaux,  and  coaches  coaches  drive. 
This  erring  mortals  levity  may  call ; 
Oh,  blind  to  truth  !  the  sylphs  contrive  it  all. 

Of  these  am  I,  who  thy  protection  claim, 
A  watchful  sprite,  and  Ariel  is  my  name. 
Late,  as  I  ranged  the  crystal  wilds  of  air. 
In  the  clear  mirror  of  thy  ruling  star 
I  saw,  alas!  some  dread  event  impend, 
Ere  to  the  main  this  morning  sun  descend ; 
But  heaven  reveals  not  what,  or  how,  or  where  : 
Warn'd  by  the  sylph,  oh  pious  maid,  beware ! 
This  to  disclose  is  all  thy  guardian  can ; 
Beware  of  all,  but  most  beware  of  man  ! 

He  said ;  when  Shock,  who  thought  she  slept 
too  long, 
Leap'd  up,  and    waked   his   mistress   with   bis 

tongue. 
'Twas  then,  Belinda,  if  report  say  true, 
Thy  eyes  first  open'd  on  a  billet-doux ; 
Wounds,  charms,  and  ardours,  were  no  sooner 

read. 
But  all  the  vision  vanish'd  from  thy  head. 

And  now,  unveil'd,  the  toilet  stands  display'd, 
Each  silver  vase  in  mystic  order  laid. 
First,  robed  in  white,  the  nymph  intent  adores. 
With  head  uncover'd,  the  cosmetic  powers. 
A  heavenly  image  in  the  glass  appears. 
To  that  she  bends,  to  that  her  eyes  she  rears ; 
Th'  inferior  priestess,  at  her  altar  side, 
Trembling,  begins  the  sacred  rites  of  pride. 
Unnumber'd  treasures  ope  at  once,  and  here 
The  various  otferings  of  the  world  appear; 
From  each  she  nicely  culls  with  curious  toil. 
And  decks  the  goddess  with  the  glittering  spoil. 
This  casket  India's  glowing  gems  unlocks, 
And  all  Arabia  breathes  from  yonder  box. 
The  tortoise  here  and  elephant  unite, 
Transform'd  to    combs,  the   speckled    and    the 

white. 
Here  files  of  pins  extend  their  shining  rows. 
Puffs,  powders,  patches.  Bibles,  billet-doux. 
^ow  awful  beauty  puts  on  all  its  arms; 
The  fair  each  moment  rises  in  her  charms. 
Repairs  her  smiles,  awakens  every  grace. 
And  calls  forth  all  the  wonders  of  her  face : 
8ees  by  degrees  a  purer  blush  arise. 
And  keener  lightnings  quicken  in  her  eyes. 


The  busy  sylphs  surround  their  darling  care; 
These  set  the  head,  and  those  divide  the  hair ; 
Some  fold  the  sleeve,  whilst  others  plait  the  gown; 
And  Betty's  praised  for  labours  not  her  own. 


CANTO  n. 


Not  with  more  glories  in  th'  etherial  plain. 
The  sun  rises  first  o'er  the  purpled  main. 
Than,  issuing  forth,  the  rival  of  his  beams 
Launch'd  on  the  bosom  of  the  silver  Thames. 
Fair  nymphs  and  well-dress'd  youths  around  her 

shone, 
But  every  eye  was  fix'd  on  her  alone. 
On  her  white  breast  a  sparkling  cross  she  wore. 
Which  Jews  might  kiss,  and  Infidels  adore. 
Her  lively  looks  a  sprightly  mind  disclose. 
Quick  as  her  eyes,  and  as  unfix'd  as  those : 
Favours  to  none,  to  all  she  smiles  extends ; 
Oft  she  rejects,  but  never  once  offends. 
Bright  as  the  sun,  her  eyes  the  gazers  strike, 
And,  like  the  sun,  they  shine  on  all  alike. 
Yet  graceful  ease,  and  sweetness  void  of  pride. 
Might  hide  her  faults,  if  belles  had  faults  to  hide : 
If  to  her  share  some  female  errors  fall. 
Look  on  her  face,  and  you'll  forget  them  all. 

This  nymph,  to  the  destruction  of  mankind, 
Nourish'd  two  locks,  which  graceful  hung  behind 
In  equal  curls,  and  well  conspired  to  deck 
With  shining  ringlets  the  smooth  ivory  neck. 
Love  in  these  labyrinths  his  slaves  detains, 
And  mighty  hearts  are  held  in  slender  chains. 
With  hairy  springes  we  the  birds  betray; 
Slight  hues  of  hair  surprise  the  finny  prey; 
Fair  tresses  man's  imperial  race  ensnare. 
And  beauty  draws  us  with  a  single  hair. 
Th'   adventurous  Baron*   the   bright  locks  ad 

mired; 
He  saw,  he  wish'd,  and  to  the  prize  aspired. 
Resolved  to  win,  he  meditates  the  way. 
By  force  to  ravish,  or  by  fraud  betray ; 
For  when  success  a  lover's  toil  attends. 
Few  ask,  if  fraud  or  force  attain'd  his  ends. 

For  this,  ere  Phoebus  rose,  he  had  implored 
Propitious  heaven,  and  every  power  adored ; 
But  chiefly  Love — to  Love  an  altar  built. 
Of  twelve  vast  French  romances  neatly  gilt. 
There  lay  three  garters,  half  a  pair  of  gloves, 
And  all  the  trophies  of  his  former  loves. 
With  tender  billet-doux  he  lights  the  pyre. 
And  breathes  three  amorous  sighs  to  raise  the  fire. 
Then  prostrate  falls,  and  begs  with  ardent  eyes 
Soon  to  obtain,  and  long  possess  the  prize : 
The  powers  gave  oar,  and  granted  half  his  prayer; 
The  rest,  the  winds  dispersed  in  empty  air. 
But  now  secure  the  painted  vessel  glides, 
The  sunbeams  trembling  on  the  floating  tides  : 
While  melting  music  steals  upon  the  sky. 
And  soflen'd  sounds  along  the  waters  die  ; 
Smooth  flow  the  waves,  the  zephyrs  gently  play. 
Belinda  smiled,  and  all  the  world  was  gay ; 
All  but  the  sylph— with  careful  thoughu  oppreil 
Th'  impending  woe  sat  heavy  on  his  breast. 


[•  Lonl  Pctre.] 
3l2 


i26 


ALEXANDER   POPE. 


Ke  summons  straight  his  denizens  of  ait ; 
The  lucid  squadrons  round  the  sails  repair; 
Soft  o'er  the  shroud  aerial  whispers  breathe, 
That  seem'd  but  zephyrs  to  the  train  beneath. 
Some  to  the  sun  their  insect  wings  unfold, 
Waft  on  the  breeze,  or  sink  in  clouds  of  gold ; 
Transparent  forms,  too  fine  for  mortal  sight, 
Their  fluid  bodies  half  dissolved  in  light. 
Loose  to  the  wind  their  airy  garments  flew. 
Thin  glittering  textures  of  the  filmy  dew, 
Dipp'd  in  the  richest  tinctures  of  the  skies. 
Where  light  disports  in  ever-mingling  dyes, 
While  every  beam  new  transient  colours  flings. 
Colours  that  change  whene'er  they  wave  their 

wings. 
Amid  the  circle,  on  the  gilded  mast, 
Superior  by  the  head  was  Ariel  placed : 
His  purple  pinions  opening  to  the  sun, 
He  raised  his  azure  wand,  and  thus  begun: 

Ye  sylphs  and  sylphids,  to  your  grief  give  ear; 
Fays,  fairies,  genu,  elves,  and  daemons,  hear ! 
Ye  know  the  spheres,  and  various  tasks  assign'd 
By  laws  eternal  to  th'  aerial  kind. 
Some  in  the  fields  of  purest  aether  play, 
And  bask  and  whiten  in  the  blaze  of  day ; 
Some  guide  the  course  of  wandering  orbs  on  high, 
Or  roll  the  planets  through  the  boundless  sky ; 
Some,  less  refined,  beneath  the  moon's  pale  light 
Pursue  the  stars  that  shoot  athwart  the  night, 
Or  suck  the  mists  in  grosser  air  below, 
Or  dip  their  pinions  in  the  painted  bow, 
Or  brew  fierce  tempests  on  the  wintry  main, 
Or  o'er  the  glebe  distil  the  kindly  rain. 
Others  on  earth  o'er  human  race  preside. 
Watch  all  their  ways,  and  all  their  actions  guide: 
Of  these  the  chief  the  care  of  nations  own. 
And  guard  with  arms  divine  the  British  throne. 

Our  humbler  province  is  to  tend  the  fair. 
Not  a  less  pleasing,  though  less  glorious  care ; 
To  save  the  powder  from  too  rude  a  gale. 
Nor  let  th'  imprison'd  essences  exhale  ; 
To  draw  fresh  colours  from  the  vernal  flowers ; 
To  steal  from  rainbows,  ere  they  drop  in  showers, 
A  brighter  wash ;  to  curl  their  waving  hairs, 
Assist  their  blushes,  and  inspire  their  airs ; 
Nay  oft,  in  dreams,  invention  we  bestow. 
To  change  a  flounce,  or  add  a  furbelow. 

This  day,  black  omens  threat  the  brightest  fair 
That  e'er  deserved  a  watchful  spirit's  care ; 
Some  dire  disaster,  or  by  force,  or  slight ; 
But  what,  or  where,  the  fates  have  wrapp'd  in 

night 
Whether  the  nymph  shall  break  Diana's  law, 
Or  some  frail  china-jar  receive  a  flaw  ; 
Or  btain  her  honour,  or  her  new  brocade ; 
Forget  her  prayers,  or  miss  a  masquerade ; 
Oj  lose  her  heart,  or  necklace  at  a  ball ; 
Or  whether  heaven  has  doom'd  that  Shock  must 

fall. 
Haste  then,  ye  spirits !  to  your  charge  repair: 
The  fluttering  fan  be  Zephyretta's  care  ; 
The  drops  to  thee,  Brilliante,  we  consign ; 
And,  Momentilla,  let  the  watch  be  thine : 
Do  thou,  Crispissa,  tend  her  favourite  Lock; 
Ariel  himself  shall  be  the  guard  of  Shock. 


To  fif^y  chosen  sylphs,  of  special  note. 
We  trust  th'  important  charge,  the  petticoat : 
Oft  have  we  known  that  seven-fold  fence  to  fail. 
Though  stiff  with  hoops,  and  arm'd  with  ribs  of 

whale. 
Form  a  strong  line  about  the  silver  bound. 
And  guard  the  wide  circumference  around. 

Whatever  spirit,  careless  of  his  charge. 
His  post  neglects,  or  leaves  the  fair  at  large 
Shall  feel  sharp  vengeance  soon  o'ertake  his  sins 
Be  stopp'd  in  vials,  or  transfix'd  with  pins ; 
Or  plunged  in  lakes  of  bitter  washes  lie, 
Or  wedged  whole  ages  in  a  bodkin's  eye: 
Gums  and  pomatums  shall  his  flight  restrain. 
While  clogg'd  he  beats  his  silken  wings  in  vain ; 
Or  alum  styptics,  with  contracting  power, 
Shrink  his  thin  essence  like  a  shrivell'd  flower: 
Or,  as  Ixion  fix'd,  the  wretch  shall  feel 
The  giddy  motion  of  the  whirling  mill. 
In  fumes  of  burning  chocolate  shall  glow. 
And  tremble  at  the  sea  that  froths  below ! 

He  spoke;  the  spirits  from  the  sails  descend: 
Some,  orb  in  orb,  around  the  nymph  extend ; 
Some  thrid  the  mazy  ringlets  of  her  hair; 
Some  hang  upon  the  pendents  of  her  ear; 
With  beating  hearts  the  dire  event  they  wait. 
Anxious  and  trembling  for  the  birth  of  fate. 


CANTO  m. 
Close  by  those  meads,  for  ever  crown'd  with 

flowers. 
Where   Thames  with  pride  surveys   his  rising 

towers. 
There  stands  a  structure  of  majestic  frame. 
Which  from  the  neighbouring  Hampton  takes  its 

name. 
Here  Britain's  statesmen  ofl  the  fall  foredoom 
Of  foreign  tyrants,  and  of  nymphs  at  home ; 
Here  thou,  great  Anna!  whom  three  realms  obey. 
Dost  sometimes  counsel  take — and  sometimes  tea. 

Hither  the  heroes  and  the  nymphs  resort. 
To  taste  awhile  the  pleasures  of  a  court ; 
In  various  talk  th'  instructive  hours  they  past, 
Who  gave  the  ball,  or  paid  the  visit  last; 
One  speaks  the  glory  of  the  British  queen. 
And  one  describes  a  charming  Indian  screen ; 
A  third  interprets  motions,  looks,  and  eyes; 
At  every  word  a  reputation  dies. 
Snuflf,  or  the  fan,  supply  each  pause  of  chat. 
With  singing,  laughing,  ogling,  and  all  that. 

Meanwhile,  declining  from  the  noon  of  day. 
The  sun  obliquely  shoots  his  burning  ray  ; 
The  hungry  judges  soon  the  sentence  sign. 
And  wretches  hang,  that  jurymen  may  dine  ; 
The   merchant   from   th'  Exchange  returns  m 

peace. 
And  the  long  labours  of  the  toilet  cease. 
Belinda  now,  whom  thirst  of  fame  invites. 
Burns  to  encounter  two  adventurous  knights. 
At  Ombre  singly  to  uecide  their  doom  ; 
And   swells    her   breast   with   conquests  yet  to 

come. 
Straight  the  three  bands  prepare  in  arms  to  join. 
Each  band  the  number  of  the  sacred  nine, 


ALEXANDER  POPE. 


427 


Soon  as  she  spreads  her  hand,  th'  aerial  guard 
Descend,  and  sit  on  each  important  card : 
First  Ariel  perch'd  upon  a  Matadore, 
Then  each  according  to  the  rank  they  bore  : 
For  aj'lphs,  yet  mindful  of  their  ancient  race. 
Are,  as  when  women,  wondrous  fond  of  place. 

Behold,  four  Kings  in  majesty  revered. 
With  hoary  whiskers  and  a  forky  beard  ; 
And  four  fair  Queens,   whose  hands  sustain  a 

flower, 
Th'  expressive  emblem  of  their  softer  power ; 
Four  Knaves  in  garbs  succinct,  a  trusty  band ; 
Caps  on  their  heads,  and  halberds  in  their  hand ; 
And  party-colour'd  troops,  a  shining  train. 
Drawn  forth  to  combat  on  the  velvet  plain. 

The  skilful  nymph  reviews  her  force  with  care : 
Let  Spades  be  trumps !  she  said,   and   trumps 
they  were. 
Now  move  to  war  her  sable  Matadores, 
In  show  like  leaders  of  the  swarthy  Moors. 
Spadillio  first,  unconquerable  Lord! 
Led  off  two  captive  trumps,  and  swept  the  board. 
As  many  more  Miinillio  forced  to  yield. 
And  march'd  a  victor  from  the  verdant  field. 
Him  Basto  follow'd,  but  his  fate  more  hard 
Gain'd  but  one  trump,  and  one  plebeian  card. 
With  his  broad  sabre  next,  a  chief  in  years, 
The  hoary  Majesty  of  Spades  appears. 
Puts  forth  one  manly  leg,  to  sight  reveal'd, 
The  rest,  his  many-colour'd  robe  conceal'd. 
The  rebel  Knave,  who  dares  his  prince  engage, 
Proves  the  just  victim  of  his  royal  rage. 
Ev'n  mighty  Pam,  that  Kings  and  Queens  o'er- 

threw, 
And  mow'd  down  armies  in  the  fights  of  Loo, 
Sad  chance  of  war !  now  destitute  of  aid. 
Fall's  undistinguish'd  by  the  victor  Spade ! 

Thus  far  both  armies  to  Belinda  yield  ; 
Now  to  the  Baron  fate  inclines  the  field. 
His  warlike  Amazon  her  host  invades, 
Th'  imperial  consort  of  the  crown  of  Spades. 
The  Clubs'  black  tyrant  first  her  victim  died, 
Spite  of  his  haughty  mien,  and  barbarous  pride: 
What  boots  the  regal  circle  on  his  head, 
His  giant  limbs  in  state  unwieldy  spread ; 
That  long  behind  he  trails  his  pompous  robe, 
And,  of  all  monarchs,  only  grasps  the  globe  1 
The  Baron  now  his  Diamonds  pours  apace; 
Th'  embroider'd   King  who  shows   but  half  his 

face. 
And  his  refulgent  Queen  with  powers  combined, 
Of  broken  troops  an  easy  conquest  find. 
Clubs,  Diamonds,  Hearts,  in  wild  disorder  seen, 
'  With  throngs  promiscuous  strow  the  level  green. 
Thus  when  dispersed  a  routed  army  runs, 
Of  Asia's  troops,  and  Afric's  sable  sons, 
With  like  confusion  diflerent  nations  fly, 
Of  various  habit,  and  of  various  dye; 
The  pierced  battalions  disunited  fall. 
In  heaps  on  heaps ;  one  fate  o'erwhelms  them  all. 

The  Knave  of  Diamonds  tries  his  wily  arts, 
\nd  wins  (oh  shameful  chance !)  the  Queen  of 

Hearts. 
At  this,  the  blood  the  virgin's  face  forsook, 
A  livid  paleness  spreads  o'er  all  her  look ; 


She  sees,  and  trembles  at  th'  approaching  ill, 

Just  in  the  jaws  of  ruin,  and  codilie. 

And  now  (as  oft  in  some  distemper'd  state) 

On  one  nice  trick  depends  the  general  fate. 

An  Ace  of  Hearts  steps  forth:  the  King  unseen 

Lurk'd  in  her  hand,  and  moom'd  his  captive 

Queen : 
He  springs  to  vengeance  with  an  eager  pace, 
And  falls  like  thunder  on  the  prostrate  Ace. 
The  nymph  exulting  fills  with  shouts  the  sky ; 
The  walls,  the  woods,  and  long  canals  reply. 
O  thoughtless  mortals !  ever  blind  to  fate. 
Too  soon  dejected,  and  too  soon  elate. 
Sudden  these  honours  shall  be  snatch'd  away. 
And  cursed  for  ever  this  victorious  day. 

For  lo !  the  board  with  cups  and  spoons  is 
crown'd, 
The  berries  crackle,  and  the  mill  turns  round : 
On  shining  altars  of  Japan  they  raise 
The  silver  lamp;  the  fiery  spirits  blaze: 
From  silver  spouts  the  grateful  liquors  glide. 
While  China's  earth  receives  the  smoking  tide: 
At  once  they  gratify  their  scent  and  taste. 
And  frequent  cups  prolong  the  rich  repast 
Straight  hover  round  the  fair  her  airy  band ; 
Some,  as  she  sipp'd,  the  fuming  liquor  fann'd ; 
Some  o'er  her  lap  their  careful  plumes  display'd 
Trembling,  and  conscious  of  the  rich  brocade. 
CoiTee  (which  makes  the  politician  wise. 
And  see  through  all  things  with  his  half-shut 

eyes) 
Sent  up  in  vapours  to  the  Baron's  brain 
New  stratagems,  the  radiant  Lock  to  gain. 
Ah  cease,  rash  youth  I  desist  ere  'tis  too  late, 
Fear  the  just  gods,  and  think  of  Scylla's  fate ! 
Changed  to  a  bird,  and  sent  to  flit  in  air, 
She  dearly  pays  for  Nisus'  injured  hair! 

But  when  to  mischief  mortals  bend  their  will. 
How  soon  they  find  fit  instruments  of  ill ! 
Just  then  Clarissa  drew  with  tempting  grace 
A  two-edged  weapon  from  her  shining  case  • 
So  ladies,  in  romance,  assist  their  knight. 
Present  the  spear,  and  arm  him  for  the  fight. 
He  takes  the  gift  with  reverence,  and  ext^ds 
The  little  engine  on  his  finjjers'  ends ; 
This  just  behind  Belinda's  neck  he  spread, 
As  o'er  the  fragrant  steams  she  bends  her  head. 
Swift  to  the  Lock  a  thousand  sprites  repair, 
A  thousand  wings,  by  turns,  blow  back  the  hair  ; 
And  thrice  they  twitch'd  the  diamond  in  her  ear; 
Thrice  she  look'd  back,  and  thrice  the  foe  drew 

near. 
Just  in  that  instant,  anxious  Ariel  sought 
The  close  recesses  of  the  virgin's  thought ; 
As  on  the  nosegay  in  her  breast  reclined. 
He  watch'd  the  ideas  rising  in  her  mind, 
Sudden  he  view'd,  in  spite  of  all  her  art, 
An  earthly  lover  lurking  at  her  heart. 
Amazed,  confused,  he  found  his  power  expired, 
Resign'd  to  fate,  and  with  a  sigh  retired. 

The   Peer  now   spreads  the  glittering  forfei 
wide, 
T'  inclose  the  Lock ;  now  joins  it,  to  divide. 
Ev'u  then,  l>efore  the  fatal  engine  closed, 
A  wretched  sylph  too  fondly  interposed ; 


428 


ALEXANDER  POPE. 


Fate  urged  the  shears,  and  cut  the  sylph  in  twain, 
(But  airy  substance  soon  unites  again  ;) 
The  meeting  points  the  sacred  hair  dissever 
From  the  fair  head,  for  ever,  and  for  ever ! 

Then  flash'd  the  living  lightning  from  her  eyes, 
And  screams  of  horror  rend  th'  affrighted  skies. 
Not  louder  shrieks  to  pitying  heaven  are  cast, 
When  husbands,  or  when  lap-dogs,  breathe  their 

last ! 
Or  when  rich  china  vessels,  fallen  from  high. 
In  glittering  dust  and  painted  fragments  lie  ! 

Let  wreaths  of  triumph  now  rny  temples  twine 
(The  victor  cried),  the  glorious  prize  is  mine! 
While  fish  in  streams,  or  birds  delight  in  air, 
Or  in  a  coach-and-six  the  British  fair, 
As  long  as  Atalantis*  shall  be  read. 
Or  the  small  pillow  grace  a  lady's  bed. 
While  visits  shall  be  paid  on  solemn  days, 
When  numerous  wax -lights  in  bright  order  blaze, 
While  nymphs  take  treats,  or  assignations  give. 
So  long  my  honour,  name,  and  praise,  shall  live ! 
What  time  would  spare,  from  steel  receives  its 

date. 
And  monuments,  like  men,  submit  to  fate! 
Steel  could  the  labour  of  the  gods  destroy, 
And  strike  to  dust  the  imperial  powers  of  Troy : 
Steel  could  the  works  of  mortal  pride  confound. 
And  hew  triumphal  arches  to  the  ground. 
What  wonder  then,  fair  nymph  !  thy  hairs  should 

feel 
The  conquering  force  of  unresisted  steel  1 


CANTO  IV. 

But  anxious  cares  the  pensive  nymph  oppress'd, 
And  secret  passions  labour'd  in  her  breast. 
Not  youthful  kings  in  battle  seized  alive. 
Not  scornful  virgins  who  their  charms  survive, 
Not  ardent  lovers  robb'd  of  all  their  bliss, 
Not  ancient  ladies  when  refused  a  kiss. 
Not  tyrants  fierce  that  unrepenting  die. 
Not  ('ynthia  when  her  mantua's  pinn'd  awry. 
E'er  felt  such  rage,  resentment,  and  despair, 
As  thou,  sad  virgin !  for  thy  ravish'd  hair. 

For,  that  sad  moment,  when  the  sylphs  with- 
drew. 
And  Ariel  weeping  from  Belinda  flew, 
Umbriel,  a  dusky,  melancholy  sprite. 
As  ever  sullied  the  fair  face  of  light, 
Down  to  the  central  earth,  his  proper  scene, 
Repair'd  to  search  the  gloomy  cave  of  Spleen. 

Swift  on  his  sooty  pinions  flits  the  gnome, 
And  in  a  vapour  reach'd  the  dismal  dome. 
No  cheerful  breeze  this  sullen  region  knows, 
The  dreaded  east  is  all  the  wind  that  blows. 
Here  in  a  grotto,  shelter'd  close  from  air. 
And  screeu'd  in  shades  from  day's  detested  glare, 
She  sighs  for  ever  on  her  pensive  bed. 
Pain  at  her  side,  and  Megrim  at  her  head. 

'i'wo  handmaids  wait  the  throne;  alike  in  place, 
But  difllering  far  in  figure  and  in  face. 
Here  stood  Ill-nature  like  an  ancient  maid. 
Her  wrinkled  form  in  black  and  white  array'd ; 

I  *  A  book  full  of  oouit  and  party  scandal,  written  by 
Vra  Maiiley.] 


With  store  of  prayers,  for  mornings,  nights,  andS 

noons, 
Her  hand  is  fill'd ;  her  bosom  with  lampoons. 
There  Affectation,  with  a  sickly  mien, 
Shows  in  her  cheek  the  roses  of  eighteen. 
Practised  to  lisp,  and  hang  the  head  aside. 
Faints  into  airs,  and  languishes  with  pride; 
On  the  rich  quilt  sinks  with  becoming  woe, 
Wrapp'd  in  a  gown,  for  sickness,  and  for  show. 
The  fair  ones  feel  such  maladies  as  these. 
When  each  new  night-dress  gives  a  new  disease 

A  constant  vapour  o'er  the  palace  flies ; 
Strange  phantoms  rising  as  the  mists  arise ; 
Dreadful,  as  hermits'  dreams  in  haunted  shades, 
Or  bright,  as  visions  of  expiring  maids. 
Now  glaring  fiends,  and  snakes  on  rolling  spires, 
Pale  spectres,  gaping  tombs,  and  purple  fires: 
Now  lakes  of  liquid  gold,  Elysian  scenes. 
And  crystal  domes,  and  angels  in  machines. 

Unnumber'd  throngs  on  every  side  are  seen, 
Of  bodies  changed  to  various  forms  by  Spleen. 
Here  living  tea-pots  stand,  one  arm  held  out. 
One  bent;  the  handle  this,  and  that  the  spout: 
A  pipkin  there,  like  Homer's  tripod,  walks  ; 
Here  sighs  a  jar,  and  there  a  goose-pie  talks ; 
Men  prove  with  child,  as  powerful  fancy  works. 
And  maids,  turn'd  bottles,  call  aloud  for  corks. 

Safe  pass'd  the  gnome  through  this  fantastic 
band, 
A  branch  of  healing  spleen-wort  in  his  hand, 
Then  thus  address'd  the  power : — Hail,  wayward 

queen! 
Who  rule  the  sex  to  fifty  from  fifteen : 
Parent  of  vapours,  and  of  female  wit, 
Who  give  the  hysteric  or  poetic  fit. 
On  various  tempers  act  by  various  ways. 
Make  some  take  physic,  others  scribble  plays; 
Who  cause  the  proud  their  visits  to  delay, 
And  send  the  godly  in  a  pet  to  pray. 
A  nymph  there  is,  that  all  thy  power  disdains, 
And  thousands  more  in  equal  mirth  maintains. 
But  oh  !  if  e'er  thy  gnome  could  spoil  a  gnrace 
Or  raise  a  pimple  on  a  beauteous  face, 
Like  citron-waters  matrons'  cheeks  inflame. 
Or  change  complexions  at  a  losing  game ; 
If  e'er  with  airy  horns  I  planted  heads. 
Or  rumpled  petticoats,  or  tumbled  beds, 
Or  caused  suspicion  where  no  soul  was  rude, 
Or  discomposed  the  head-dress  of  a  prude, 
Or  e'er  to  costive  lap-dog  gave  disease. 
Which  not  the  tears  of  brightest  eyes  could  ease: 
Hear  me,  and  touch  Belinda  with  chagrin  ; 
That  single  act  gives  half  the  world  the  spleen. 

The  goddess  with  a  discontented  air 
Seems  to  reject  him,  though  she  grants  his  prayer. 
A  wonderous  bag  with  both  her  hands  she  binds. 
Like  that  where  once  Ulysses  held  the  winds; 
There  she  collects  the  force  of  female  lungs. 
Sighs,  sobs,  and  passions,  and  the  war  of  tongues. 
A  vial  next  she  fills  with  fainting  fears. 
Soft  sorrows,  melting  griefs,  and  flowing  tears. 
The  gnome  rejoicing  bears  her  gifts  away. 
Spreads  his  black  wings  and  slowly  mounts  today. 

Sunk  in  Thalestris'  arms  the  nymph  he  foi  nd, 
Her  eyes  dejected,  and  her  hair  unbound. 


ALEXANDER  POPE. 


429 


Full  o'er  their  heads  the  swelling  bag  he  rent, 

And  all  the  furies  issued  at  the  vent. 

Belinda  burns  with  more  than  mortal  ire. 

And  fierce  Thalestris  fans  the  rising  fire. 

O  wretched  maid !    she  spread   her  hands   and 

cried, 
(While  Hampton's  echoes,  wretched  maid!  replied) 
Was  it  for  this  you  took  such  constant  care 
The  bodkin,  comb,  and  essence,  to  prepare  1 
For  this  your  locks  in  paper  durance  bound, 
For  this  with  torturing  irons  wreathed  around  1 
For  this  with  fillets  strain 'd  your  tender  head, 
And  bravely  bore  the  double  loads  of  lead  1 
Gods !  shall  the  ravisher  display  your  hair. 
While  the  fops  envy,  and  the  ladies  stare  1 
Honour  forbid  !  at  whose  unrivall'd  shrine 
Ease,  pleasure,  virtue,  all  our  sex  resign. 
Methinks  already  I  your  tears  survey, 
Already  hear  the  horrid  things  they  say, 
Already  see  you  a  degraded  toast, 
And  all  your  honour  in  a  whisper  lost! 
How  shall  I  then  your  helpless  fame  defend  ? 
'Twill  then  be  infamy  to  seem  your  friend  ! 
And  shall  this  prize,  th'  inestimable  prize, 
Exposed  through  crystal  to  the  gazing  eyes, 
And  heighten'd  by  the  diamond's  circling  rays, 
On  that  rapacious  hand  for  ever  blaze  1 
Sooner  shall  grass  in  Hyde  Park  circus  grow. 
And  wits  take  lodgings  in  the  sound  of  Bow  ! 
Sooner  let  earth,  air,  sea,  to  chaos  fall. 
Men,  monkeys,  lap-dogs,  parrots,  perish  all ! 

She  said  ;  then  raging  to  Sir  Plume  repairs. 
And  bids  her  beau  demand  the  precious  hairs : 
(Sir  Plume,  of  amber  snuff-box  justly  vain. 
And  the  nice  conduct  of  a  clouded  cane) 
With  earnest  eyes  and  round  unthinking  face, 
He  first  the  snuff-box  open'd,  then  the  case. 
And  thus  broke  out — "  My  Lord,  why,  what  the 

devil  ] 
Z — ds  !  damn  the  Lock!  'fore  Gad,  you  must  be 

civil ! 
Plague  on't!  'tis  past  a  jest — nay  prithee,  pox  ! 
Give  her  the  hair" — he  spoke,  and  rapp'd  his  box. 

It  grieves  me  much  (replied  the  peer  again) 
Who  speaks  so  well  should  ever  speak  in  vain ; 
But  by  this  Lock,  this  sacred  Lock,  I  swear, 
(Which  never  more  shall  join  its  parted  hair; 
Which  never  more  its  honour  shall  renew, 
Clipp'd  from  the  lovely  head  where  late  it  grew) 
That  while  my  nostrils  draw  the  vital  air. 
This  hand,  which  won  it,  shall  for  ever  wear. 
He  spoke,  and  speaking,  in  proud  triumph  spread 
The  long-contended  honours  of  her  head. 

But  Umbriel,  hateful  gnome  I  forbears  not  so ; 
He  breaks  the  vial  whence  the  sorrows  flow. 
Then,  see !  the  nymph  in  beauteous  grief  appears, 
Her  eyes  half-languishing,  half-drown'd  in  tears; 
On  her  heaved  bosom  hung  her  drooping  head, 
Which,  with  a  sigh,  she  raised  :  and  thus  she  said : 

For  ever  cursed  be  this  detested  day, 
Which  snatch'd  my  best,  my  favourite  curl  away  ! 
Happy  !  ah,  ten  times  happy  had  I  been. 
If  Hampton-court  these  eyes  had  never  seen  ! 
Yet  am  I  not  the  first  mistaken  maid 
By  love  of  courts  to  numerous  ills  betray'd. 


Oh,  had  I  rather  unadmired  remain'd 
In  some  lone  isle,  or  distant  northern  land ; 
Where  the  gilt  chariot  never  marks  the  way, 
Where  none  learn  ombre,  none  e'er  taste  bohea! 
There  kept  my  charms  conceal'd  from  mortal  eye ! 
Like  roses  that  in  deserts  bloom  and  die. 
What  moved  my  mind  with  youthful  lords  to  roam ! 
Oh,  had  I  staid,  and  said  my  prayers  at  home ! 
'Twas  this,  the  morning  omens  seem'd  to  tell, 
Thrice  from  my  trembling  hand  the  patch-box  fell; 
The  tottering  china  shook  without  a  wind, 
Nay,  Poll  sat  Mute,  and  Shock  was  most  unkind ! 
A  sylph,  too,  warn'd  me  of  the  threats  of  fate. 
In  mystic  visions,  now  believed  too  late  ! 
See  the  poor  remnants  of  these  slighted  hairs ! 
My  hand  shall  rend  what  even  thy  rapine  spares: 
These,  in  two  sable  ringlets  taught  to  break, 
Once  gave  new  beauties  to  the  snowy  neck ; 
The  sister  lock  now  sits  uncouth,  alone. 
And  in  its  fellow's  fate  foresees  its  own; 
Uncurl'd  it  hangs,  the  fatal  shears  demands. 
And  tempts,  once  more,  thy  sacrilegious  hands. 
Oh,  hadst  thou,  cruel !  been  content  to  seize 
Hairs  less  in  sight,  or  any  hairs  but  these ! 


CANTO  V. 


She  said  :  the  pitying  audience  melt  in  tears ; 
But  fate  and  Jove  had  stopp'd  the  Baron's  ears. 
In  vain  Thalestris  with  reproach  assails. 
For  who  can  move  when  fair  Belinda  fails  1 
Not  half  so  fix'd  the  Trojan  could  remain, 
While  Anna  begg'd  and  Dido  raged  in  vain. 
Then  grave  Clarissa  graceful  waved  her  fan ; 
Silence  ensued,  and  thus  the  nymph  began. 
Say,  why  are  beauties  praised  and  honour'c 

most. 
The  wise  man's  passion,  and  the  vain  man's  toast  1 
Why  deck'd  with  all  that  land  and  sea  afford. 
Why  angel's  call'd  and  angel-like  adored  1 
Why  round  our  coaches  crowd  the  white-gloved 

beaux ! 
Why  bows  the  side-box  from  its  inmost  rows  1 
How  vain  are  all  these  glories,  all  our  pains. 
Unless  good  sense  preserve  what  beauty  gains ; 
That  men  may  say  when  we  the  front-box  grace, 
Behold  the  first  in  virtue  as  in  face  ! 
Oh  !  if  to  dance  all  night  and  dress  all  day, 
Charm'd  the  small-pox,  or  chased  old  age  away ; 
Who  would  not  scorn  what  housewife's  cares 

produce, 
Or  who  would  learn  one  earthly  thing  to  use  1 
To  patch,  nay  ogle,  may  become  a  saint ; 
Nor  could  it  sure  be  such  a  sin  to  paint. 
But  since,  alas !  frail  iieauty  must  decay ; 
Curl'd  or  uncurl'd,  since  locks  will  turn  to  gray; 
Since  painted,  or  not  painted,  all  shall  fatle. 
And  she  who  scorns  a  man  must  die  a  maid; 
What  then  remains,  but  well  our  power  to  use, 
And  keep  good-humour  still,  whate'or  we  lo>«J 
And  trust  me,  dear !  good-humour  can  prevail. 
When  airs,  and  flights, and  screams,  and  scolding 

fail. 
Beauties  in  vain  their  pretty  eyes  may  roll ; 
Charms  strike  the  sight,  but  merit  wins  the  soul, 


430 


ALEXANDER  POPE. 


So  spoke  the  dame,  but  no  applause  ensued; 
Belinda  frown'd,  Thalestris  call'd  her  prude. 
To  arms,  to  arms  !  the  fierce  virago  cries, 
And  swift  as  lightning  to  the  combat  flies. 
All  side  in  parties,  and  begin  th'  attack;  [crack: 
Fans  clap,   silks  rustle,  and  tough   whalebones 
Heroes'  and  heroines'  shouts  confusedly  rise, 
And  brass  and  treble  voices  strike  the  skies. 
No  common  weapon  in  their  hands  are  found ; 
Like  gods  they  fight,  nor  dread  a  mortal  wound. 

So  when  bold  Homer  makes  the  gods  engage, 
And  heavenly  breasts  with  human  passions  rage ; 
'Gainst  Pallas,  Mars;  Latona  Hermes  arms; 
And  all  Olympus  rings  with  loud  alarms ; 
Jove's  thunder  roars,  heaven  trembles  all  around, 
Blue  Neptune  storms,  the  bellowing  deeps  resound : 
Earth  shakes   her  nodding   towers,  the  ground 

gives  way 
And  the  pale  ghosts  start  at  the  flash  of  day  ! 

Triumphant  Umbriel  on  a  sconce's  height 
Clapp'd  his  glad  wings,  and  sat  to  view  the  fight : 
Propp'd  on  their  bodkin  spears,  the  sprites  survey 
The  growing  combat,  or  assist  the  fray. 

While  through  the  press  enraged  Thalestris  flies, 
And  scatters  death  around  from  both  her  eyes, 
A  beau  and  witling  perish'd  in  the  throng, 
One  died  in  metaphor,  and  one  in  song. 
"  O  cruel  nymph  !  a  living  death  I  bear," 
Cried  Dapperwit,  and  sunk  beside  his  chair. 
A  mournful  glance  Sir  Fopling  upward  cast, 
"  Those  eyes  are  made  so  killing"* — was  his  last. 
Thus  on  Meander's  flowery  margin  lies 
Th'  expiring  swan,  and  as  he  sings  he  dies. 

When  bold  Sir  Plume  had  drawn  Clarissa  down, 
Chloe  stepp'd  in,  and  kill'd  him  with  a  frown; 
She  smiled  to  see  the  doughty  hero  slain, 
But,  at  her  smile,  the  beau  revived  again. 

Now  Jove  suspends  his  golden  scales  in  air, 
W'eighs  the  men's  wits  against  the  lady's  hair. 
The  doubtful  beam  long  nods  from  side  to  side; 
At  length  the  wits  mount  up,  the  hairs  subside. 

See  fierce  Belinda  on  the  Baron  flies. 
With  more  than  usual  lightning  in  her  eyes: 
Nor  fear'd  the  chief  the  unequal  fight  to  try. 
Who  sought  no  more  than  on  his  foe  to  die. 
But  this  bold  lord,  with  manly  strength  endued. 
She  with  one  finger  and  a  thumb  subdued  : 
Just  where  the  breath  of  life  his  nostrils  drew, 
A  charge  of  snuff  the  wily  virgin  threw  ; 
The  gnomes  direct,  to  every  atom  just, 
The  pungent  grains  of  titillating  dust. 
Sudden,  with  starting  tears,  each  eye  o'erflows, 
And  the  high  dome  re-echoes  to  his  nose. 

Now  meet  thy  fate,  incensed  Belinda  cried, 
And  drew  a  deadly  bodkin  from  her  side. 
(The  same,  his  ancient  personage  to  deck. 
Her  great-great-grandsire  wore  about  his  neck, 
In  three  seal-rings ;  which  after,  melted  down, 
Form'd  a  vast  buckle  for  his  widow's  gown : 

j*  From  a  nong  in  the  once  faTourite  opera  of  Camilla, 
with  which  VaDbrugb  opened  hi<i  new  hunse  in  the  Hay- 
markot.] 


Her  infant  grandarae's  whistle  next  it  grew. 
The  bells  she  jingled,  and  the  whistle  blew; 
Then  in  a  bodkin  graced  her  mother's  hairs, 
Which  long  she  wore,  and  now  Belinda  wears.) 

Boast  not  my  fall,  (he  cried,)  insulting  foe ! 
Thou  by  some  other  shalt  be  laid  as  low. 
Nor  think,  to  die  dejects  my  lofty  mind : 
All  that  I  dread  is  leaving  you  behind ! 
Rather  than  so,  ah  !  let  me  still  survive. 
And  burn  in  Cupid's  flames — but  burn  alive. 

Restore  the  Lock,  she  cries,  and  all  aroundi 
Restore  the  Lock !  the  vaulted  roofs  rebound. 
Not  fierce  Othello  in  so  loud  a  strain 
Roar'd  for  the  handkerchief  that  caused  his  pain 
But  see  how  oft  ambitious  aims  are  cross'd, 
And  chiefs  contend  till  all  the  prize  is  lost ! 
The  Lock,  obtain'd  with  guilt,  and  kept  with  pain, 
In  every  place  is  sought,  but  sought  in  vain : 
With  such  a  prize  no  mortal  must  be  blest, 
So  heaven  decrees !  with  heaven  who  can  contest  T 

Some  thought  it  mounted  to  the  lunar  sphere. 
Since  all  things  lost  on  earth  are  treasured  there. 
There  heroes'  wits  are  kept  in  ponderous  vases. 
And  beaux'  in  snufl-boxes  and  tweezer  cases: 
There  broken  vows  and  death-bed  alms  are  found, 
And  lovers'  hearts  with  ends  of  riband  bound  ; 
The  courtier's  promises,  and  sick  man's  prayers, 
The  smiles  of  harlots,  and  the  tears  of  heirs. 
Cages  for  gnats,  and  chains  to  yoke  a  flea, 
Dried  butterflies,  and  tomes  of  casuistry. 

But  trust  the  Muse — she  saw  it  upward  rise, 
Though  mark'd  by  none  but  quick  poetic  eyes: 
(So  Rome's  great  founder  to  the  heavens  with- 
To  Proculus  alone  confess'd  in  view :)       [drew, 
A  sudden  star  it  shot  through  liquid  air. 
And  drew  behind  a  radiant  trail  of  hair. 
Not  Berenice's  locks  first  rose  so  bright. 
The  heaven  bespangling  with  dishevell'd  light. 
The  Sylphs  behold  it  kindling  as  it  flies. 
And  pleased  pursue  its  progress  through  the  skies. 

This  the  beau-monde  shall  from  the  Mall  survey, 
And  hail  with  music  its  propitious  ray. 
This  the  blest  lover  shall  for  Venus  take, 
And  send  up  vows  from  Rosamonda's  lake. 
This  Partridgef  soon  shall  view  in  cloudless  skies, 
When  next  he  looks  through  Galileo's  eyes ; 
And  hence  th'  egregious  wizard  shall  foredoom 
The  fate  of  Louis,  and  the  fall  of  Rome. 

Then   cease,   bright  nymph !    to  mourn    thy 
ravish'd  hair, 
Which  adds  new  glory  to  the  shining  sphere ! 
Not  all  the  tresses  that  fair  head  can  boast 
Shall  draw  such  envy  as  the  Lock  you  lost. 
For,  after  all  the  murders  of  your  eye. 
When,  after  millions  slain,  yourself  shall  die; 
When  those  fair  suns  shall  set,  as  set  they  must, 
And  all  those  tresses  shall  be  laid  in  dust. 
This  Lock  the  Muse  shall  consecrate  to  fame. 
And  'midst  the  stars  inscribe  Belinda's  name. 


[t  The  &mou«  Almanack-maker,  the  Lily,  Qadboiy,  anc* 
Murphy  of  his  day.] 


JONATHAN  SWIFT.* 


[Bora,166T.    Dieii,lT44.] 


BAtJCTS  AND  PHItEMON.t 

BB  THl  EVIE-LAMENTBD  LOSS  OP  THB  TWO  TEW-TREES  II»  IHJ 
PARISH  OF  CRItTHORNE,  SOMERSET.  1708. 

Imttattdfrcm  the  Eighth  Book  of  Ovid. 

In  ancient  times,  as  story  tells, 
The  saints  would  often  leave  their  cells, 
And  stroll  about,  but  hide  their  quality, 
To  try  good  people's  hospitality. 

It  happen'd  on  a  winter-night. 
As  authors  of  the  legend  write, 
Two  brother-hermits,  saints  by  trade, 
Taking  their  tour  in  masquerade, 
Disguised  in  tatter'd  habits,  went 
To  a  small  village  down  in  Kent; 
Where,  in  the  sti-oUers'  canting  strain, 
They  begg'd  from  door  to  door  in  vain; 
Tried  every  tone  might  pity  win, 
But  not  a  soul  would  let  them  in. 

Our  wandering  saints,  in  woeful  state, 
Treated  at  this  ungodly  rate. 
Having  through  all  the  village  past. 
To  a  small  cottage  came  at  last. 
Where  dwelt  a  good  old  honest  ye'man, 
Call'd  in  the  neighbourhood'  Philemon ; 
Who  kindly  did  these  saints  invite 
In  his  poor  hut  to  pass  the  night ; 
And  then  the  hospitable  sire 
Bid  goody  Baucis  mend  the  fire; 
While  he  from  out  the  chimney  took 
A  flitch  of  bacon  off  the  hook, 
And  freely  from  the  fattest  side 
Cut  out  large  slices  to  be  fried ; 
Then  stepp'd  aside  to  fetch  them  drink, 
Fill'd  a  large  jug  up  to  the  brink, 
And  saw  it  fairly  twice  go  round; 
Yet  (what  is  wonderful!)  they  found 
'Twas  still  replenish'd  to  the  top. 
As  if  they  ne'er  had  touched  a  drop. 
The  good  old  couple  were  amazed. 
And  often  on  each  other  gazed ; 


ted, 


[♦  Mr.  Campbell's  idlence  upon  Swift  is  less  to  be  regret- 
d,  as  we  seem  now,  with  the  narrnliTcs  of  Lord  Orrery, 
Sheridan,  Delany,  Mr.  Swift,  Dr.  Johnnon,  Mr.  Mitford,  Sir 
Walter  Scutt,  and  the  collected  circumstances  of  Monck 
Mason  and  Dr.  Barret,  to  know  enoujih  of  Cailenus  or  the 
Dean,  who  gains  on  our  dislike  rather  than  our  esteem  by 
additional  acquaintance.  The  life  of  this  hateful  fellow 
was  one  continuous  growl  of  discontent.  His  loves.  If 
loves  they  were,  ii  series  of  shuffles,  to  be  accounted  for 
alone  by  a  charitable  supposition,  that  the  malady  which 
overthrew  his  intellect,  touched  his  heart,  before  he  bo- 
camo  "The  driveller  and  the  show,"  of  Johnson's  Terseg; 
"  The  solitary  idiot"  of  Byron's  Letters. 

"  His  Muse,"  says  Smollet,  "  was  mere  misanthropy,"  he 
might  have  added. — and  nastinc^s.  He  is  as  obscene  and 
outspoken  as  iord  Kochester,  and  writes  rather  in  the 


For  both  were  frighten'd  to  the  heart. 
And  just  began  to  cry, — What  arti 
Then  softly  turn'd  aside  to  view 
Whether  the  lights  were  burning  blue. 
The  gentle  pilgrims,  soon  aware  on't. 
Told  them  their  calling  and  their  errand : 
Good  folks,  you  need  not  be  afraid. 
We  are  but  saints,  the  hermits  said  ; 
No  hurt  shall  come  to  you  or  yours : 
But  for  that  pack  of  churlish  boors, 
Not  fit  to  live  on  Christian  ground. 
They  and  their  houses  shall  be  drown'd; 
Whilst  you  shall  see  your  cottage  rise, 
And  grow  a  church  before  your  eyes. 

They  scarce  had  spoke,  when  fair  and  soft 
The  roof  began  to  mount  aloft; 
Aloft  rose  every  beam  and  rafter ; 
The  heavy  wall  climb'd  slowly  after. 

The  chimney  widen'd,  and  grew  higher. 
Became  a  steeple  with  a  spire. 

The  kettle  to  the  top  was  hoist, 
And  there  stood  fasten'd  to  a  joist. 
But  with  the  upside  down  to  show 
Its  inclination  for  below: 
In  vain  :  for  a  superior  force. 
Applied  at  bottom,  stops  its  course; 
Doom'd  ever  in  suspense  to  dwell, 
'Tis  now  no  kettle,  but  a  bell. 

A  wooden  jack  which  had  almost 
Lost  by  disuse  the  art  to  roast, 
A  sudden  alteration  feels. 
Increased  by  new  intestine  wheels ; 
And,  what  exalts  the  wonder  more. 
The  number  made  the  motion  slower : 
The  flier,  though  't  had  leaden  feet, 
Turn'd  round  so  quick,  you  scarce  could  see  *t " 
But,  slacken'd  by  some  secret  power, 
Now  hardly  moves  an  inch  an  hour. 
The  jack  and  chimney,  near  allied. 
Had  never  left  each  other's  side : 


style  of  the  stews  than  the  pulpit  "Almost  all  hia 
works,"  says  Jeffrey,  "are  libels,  generally  upon  indivi- 
duals, sometimes  u|«n  sects  and  parties,  sometimes  u|>on 
human  nature."  No  one's  writinirs  nee<l  castration  more. 
This  done,  and  the  cleriryman  and  liis  bea-ttineys  for.^);  ten, 
how  lndi)(nanl  and  admirable  Ik  his  satire,  liow  pl••a^Knt 
and  pointed  his  hnmourl  He  hred  to  verify  the  |iredi<tion 
of  Dryden,  and  was  not  a  poet  but  a  wit :  a  word  whiih  in 
this  si^'nifl'-ation  merits  reviTal. 

For  some  sensible  remarlu  oo  Swift  see  Lord  Mabon't 
Uift.  of  Eng.  vol.  i  p.  ti«.] 

[  t  This  poem  is  very  fine.— CtoumnTB. 

At  Addison's  suggestion,  In  the  short  po«m  of  Baurlf 
and  I'hilemon.  Swift  struck  out  forty  Tenmt,  added  forty 
verses,  and  altered  the  i«me  number.— Sir  WaUtr  Seotft 
Li/t  of  Sw^/t,  p.  -430.] 

481 


(32 


JONATHAN  SWIFT. 


The  chimney  to  a  steeple  grown, 
The  jack  would  not  be  left  alone  ; 
But,  up  against  the  steeple  rear'd, 
Became  a  clock,  and  still  adhered ; 
And  still  its  love  to  household  cares, 
By  a  shrill  voice  at  noon,  declares, 
Warning  the  cookmaid  not  to  hum 
That  roast-meat  which  it  cannot  turn. 

The  groaning-chair  began  to  crawl, 
Like  a  huge  snail,  along  the  wall; 
There  stuck  aloft  in  public  view, 
And,  with  small  change,  a  pulpit  grew. 

The  porringers,  that  in  a  row 
Hung  high,  and  made  a  glittering  show. 
To  a  less  noble  substance  changed, 
Were  now  but  leathern  buckets  ranged. 

The  ballads,  pasted  on  the  wall. 
Of  Joan  of  France,  and  English  Moll, 
Fair  Rosamond,  and  Robin  Hood, 
The  Little  Children  in  the  Wood, 
Now  seem'd  to  look  abundance  better. 
Improved  in  picture,  size,  and  letter ; 
And,  high  in  order  placed,  describe 
The  heraldry  of  every  tribe. 

A  bedstead  of  the  antique  mode, 
Compact  of  timber  many  a  load, 
Such  as  our  ancestors  did  use. 
Was  metamorphosed  into  pews ; 
Which  still  their  ancient  nature  keep 
By  lodging  folks  disposed  to  sleep. 

The  cottage  by  such  feats  as  these 
Grown  to  a  church  by  just  degrees. 
The  hermits  then  desired  their  host 
To  ask  for  what  he  fancied  most. 
Philemon,  having  paused  a  while, 
Return'd  them  thanks  in  homely  style: 
Then  said,  My  house  is  grown  so  fine, 
Methinks  I  still  would  call  it  mine ; 
I'fn  old,  and  fain  would  live  at  ease ; 
Make  me  the  parson,  if  you  please. 

He  spoke,  and  presently  he  feels 
His  grazier's  coat  fall  down  his  heels : 
He  sees,  yet  hardly  can  believe. 
About  each  arm  a  pudding-sleeve ; 
His  waistcoat  to  a  cassock  grew, 
And  both  assumed  a  sable  hue ; 
But,  being  old,  continued  just 
As  thread-bare,  and  as  full  of  dust. 
His  talk  was  now  of  tithes  and  dues; 
He  smoked  his  pipe,  and  read  the  news ; 
Knew  how  to  preach  old  sermons  next, 
Vamp'd  in  the  preface  and  the  text ; 
At  christenings  well  could  act  his  part. 
And  had  the  service  all  by  heart; 
Wish'd  women  might  have  children  fast. 
And  tl\ought  whose  sow  had  farrow'd  last ; 
Against  dissenters  would  repine. 
And  stood  up  firm  for  right  divine ; 
Found  his  head  fill'd  with  many  a  system  : 
But  classic  authors: — he  ne'er  miss'd  'em. 


Thus  having  furbish'd  up  a  parson. 
Dame  Baucis  next  they  play'd  their  farce  on. 
Instead  of  homespun  coife,  were  seen 
Good  pinners  edged  with  colberteen ; 
Her  petticoat,  transform'd  apace. 
Became  black  satin  flounced  with  lace. 
Plain  Goody  would  no  longer  down ; 
'Twas  Madam,  in  her  grogram  gown. 
Philemon  was  in  great  surprise. 
And  hardly  could  believe  his  eyes, 
Amazed  to  see  her  look  so  prim ; 
And  she  admired  as  much  at  him. 

Thus  happy  in  their  change  of  life 
Were  several  years  this  man  and  wife  ; 
When  on  a  day,  which  proved  their  last, 
Discoursing  o'er  old  stories  past. 
They  went  by  chance,  amidst  their  talk. 
To  the  church-yard  to  take  a  walk ; 
When  Baucis  hastily  cried  out. 
My  dear,  I  see  your  forehead  sprout  T 
Sprout !  quoth  the  man :  what's  this  you  tell  usi 
I  hope  you  don't  believe  me  jealous  ; 
But  yet,  methinks,  I  feel  it  true ; 
And  really,  yours  is  budding  too — 
Nay, — now  I  cannot  stir  my  foot ; 
It  feels  as  if  'twere  taking  root. 

Description  would  but  tire  my  Muse  ; 
In  short,  they  both  were  turn'd  to  yews. 

Old  Goodman  Dobson  of  the  Green 
Remembers,  he  the  trees  has  seen ; 
He'll  talk  of  them  from  noon  till  night, 
And  goes  with  folks  to  show  the  sight : 
On  Sundays  after  evening  prayer, 
He  gathers  all  the  parish  there ; 
Points  out  the  place  of  either  yew; 
Here  Baucis,  there  Philemon  grew: 
Till  once  a  Parson  of  our  town. 
To  mend  his  barn,  cut  Baucis  down ; 
At  which,  'tis  hard  to  be  believed. 
How  much  the  other  tree  was  grieved, 
Grew  scrubbled,  died  a-top,  was  stunted  ; 
So  the  next  parson  stubb'd  and  burnt  it. 


ON  POETRY.* 

A  RHAPSODY.      1703. 

All  human  race  would  fain  be  wits, 
And  millions  miss  for  one  that  hits. 
Young's  Universal  Passion,  pride, 
Was  never  known  to  spread  so  wide. 
Say,  Britain,  could  you  ever  boast 
Three  poets  in  an  age  at  most  1 
Our  chilling  climate  hardly  bears 
A  sprig  of  bays  in  fifty  years  ; 

[*  Here  follows  one  of  the  best  vereifled  poems  iu  our 
languajre.  and  the  most  masterly  proiJuetion  of  its  author. 
The  severity  with  wiiich  Walpole  is  here  treated,  was  in 
consequence  of  that  minister's  having  refused  t"i  provide 
for  Swift  in  England,  when  applied  to  f  t  that  purpose,  in 
the  year  I'l'S,  if  I  remember  right.  The  severity  of  a 
poet,  however,  gave  Walpole  very  little  unea-^iness.  A 
man  whose  fchemes,  like  this  minister's,  seldom  extended 
beyond  the  exigency  of  the  year,  but  little  regarded  th« 
contempt  of  posterity. — OoiDSiirra.] 


JONATHAN  SWIFT. 


433 


Whilp  every  fool  his  claim  alleges, 
As  if  it  grew  in  common  hedgw. 
What  reason  can  there  be  assign'd 
For  this  perverseness  in  the  mind  ? 
Brutes  find  out  where  their  talents  lie: 
A  bear  will  not  attempt  to  fly  ; 
A  founder'd  horse  will  oft  debate 
Before  he  tries  a  five-barr'd  gate; 
A  dog  by  instinct  turns  aside. 
Who  sees  the  ditch  too  deep  and  wide. 
But  man  we  find  the  only  creature, 
Who,  led  by  Folly,  combats  Nature; 
Who,  when  she  loudly  cries,  Forbear, 
With  obstinacy  fixes  there ; 
And,  where  his  genius  least  inclines, 
Absurdly  bends  his  whole  designs.  • 

Not  empire  to  the  rising  sun 
By  valour,  conduct,  fortune  wort; 
Not  highest  wisdom  in  debates 
For  framing  laws  to  govern  states  ; 
Not  skill  in  sciences  profound, 
So  large  to  grasp  the  circle  round ; 
Such  heavenly  influence  require. 
As  how  to  strike  the  Muse's  lyre. 

Not  beggar's  brat  oh  bulk  begot ; 
Not  bastard  of  a  pedlar  Scot : 
Not  boy  brought  up  to  cleaning  shoes, 
The  spawn  of  Bridewell  or  the  stews ; 
Not  infants  dropt,  the  spurious  pledges 
Of  gipsies  littering  under  hedges ; 
Are  so  disqualified  by  fate 
To  rise  in  church,  or  law,  or  state, 
As  he  whom  Phcebus  in  his  ire 
Hath  blasted  with  poetic  fire. 
What  hope  of  custom  in  the  fair, 
VN'hile  not  a  soul  demands  your  ware  1 
Where  you  have  nothing  to  produce 
For  private  life,  or  public  use  ] 
Court,  city,  country,  want  you  not ; 
You  cannot  bribe,  betray,  or  plot. 
For  poets,  law  makes  no  provision; 
The  wealthy  have  you  in  derision  : 
Of  state  affairs  you  cannot  sm alter; 
Are  awkward  when  you  try  to  flatter. 
Your  portion,  taking  Britain  round. 
Was  just  one  annual  hundred  pound; 
Now  not  so  much  as  in  remainder. 
Since  Gibber  brought  in  an  attainder; 
For  ever  fix'd  by  right  divine 
(A  monarch's  right)  on  Grub-street  line. 

Poor  starveling  bard,  how  small  thy  gains! 
How  unproportion'd  to  thy  pains ! 
And  here  a  simile  comes  pat  in: 
Though  chickens  take  a  month  lo  fatten. 
The  guests  in  less  than  half  an  hour 
Will  more  than  half  a  score  devour. 
So,  after  toiling  twenty  days 
I'o  earn  a  stock  of  pence  and  praise. 
Thy  labours,  grown  the  critic's  prey. 
Are  swallow'd  o'er  a  dish  of  tea ; 
Gone  to  be  never  heard  of  more. 
Gone  where  the  chickens  went  before. 

How  shall  a  new  attempter  learn 
Of  different  spirits  to  discern, 
55 


And  how  distinguish  which  is  which, 

The  poet's  vein,  or  scribbling  itch  ? 

Then  hear  an  old  experienced  sinner, 

Instructing  thus  a  youn^  beginner. 

Consult  yourself;  and  if  you  find 

A  powerful  impulse  urge  your  mind. 

Impartial  judge  within  your  breast 

What  subject  you  can  manage  best ; 

Whether  your  genius  most  inclines 

To  satire,  praise,  or  humorous  lines, 

To  elegies  in  mournful  tone, 

Or  prologues  sent  from  hand  unknown. 

Then,  rising  with  Aurora's  light. 

The  Muse  invoked,  sit  down  to  write ; 

Blot  out,  correct,  insert,  refine. 

Enlarge,  diminish,  interline; 

Be  mindful,  when  invention  fails, 

To  scratch  your  head,  and  bite  your  naik 

Your  poem  finish'd,  next  your  care 
Is  needful  to  transcribe  it  fair. 
In  modern  wit  all  printed  trash  is 
Set  off  with  numerous  breaks  and  dashes. 

To  statesmen  would  you  give  a  wipe, 
You  print  it  in  Italic  type. 
When  letters  are  in  vulgar  shapes, 
'Tis  ten  to  one  the  wit  escapes  : 
But,  when  in  capitals  exprest, 
The  dullest  reader  smokes  the  jest : 
Or  else  perhaps  he  may  invent 
A  better  than  the  poet  meant; 
As  learn'd  commentators  view 
In  Homer,  more  than  Homer  knew. 

Your  poem  in  its  modish  dress. 
Correctly  fitted  for  the  press. 
Convey  by  penny-post  to  Lintot, 
But  let  no  friend  alive  look  into  't 
If  Lintot  thinks  'twill  quit  the  cost. 
You  need  not  fear  your  labour  lost: 
And  how  agreeably  surprised 
Are  you  to  see  it  advertised ! 
The  hawker  shows  you  one  in  print. 
As  fresh  as  farthings  from  the  mint : 
The  product  of  your  toil  and  sweating; 
A  bastard  of  your  own  begetting. 

Be  sure  at  Will's  the  following  day. 
Lie  snug,  and  hear  what  critics  say; 
And,  if  you  find  the  general  vogue 
Pronounces  you  a  stupid  rogue, 
Damns  all  your  thoughts  as  low  and  little^ 
Sit  still,  and  swallow  down  your  spittle. 
Be  silent  as  a  politician, 
For  talking  may  beget  suspicion : 
Or  praise  the  judgment  of  the  town, 
And  help  yourself  to  run  it  down. 
Give  up  your  fond  paternal  pride. 
Nor  argue  on  the  weaker  side : 
For  poems  read  without  a  name 
We  justly  praise  or  justly  blame  ; 
And  critics  have  no  partial  views, 
£xcept  they  know  whom  they  abuse : 
And,  since  you  ne'er  provoke  their  spite. 
Depend  u])on  't  their  judgment's  right. 
But  if  you  blab,  you  are  undone : 
Consider  what  a  risk  you  run: 
2M 


484                                                     JONATHAN  SWIFT. 

You  lose  your  credit  all  at  once ; 

His  humble  senate  this  professes. 

The  ♦own  will  mark  you  for  a  dunce  ; 

In  all  their  speeches,  votes,  addresses. 

The  vilest  doggrel,  Grub-street  sends, 

But  once  you  fix  him  in  a  tomb, 

Will  pass  for  yours  with  foes  and  friends ; 

His  virtues  fade,  his  vices  bloom: 

And  you  must  bear  the  whole  disgrace, 

And  each  perfection,  wrong  imputed, 

Till  some  fresh  blockhead  takes  your  place. 

Is  fully  at  his  death  confuted. 

Your  secret  kept,  your  poem  sunk, 

The  loads  of  poems  in  his  praise, 

And  sent  in  quires  to  line  a  trunk, 

Ascending,  make  one  funeral  blaze: 

If  still  you  be  disposed  to  rhyme, 

As  soon  as  you  can  hear  his  knell. 

Go  tr)  your  hand  a  second  time. 

This  god  on  earth  turns  devil  in  hell: 

Again  you  fail :  yet  Safe's  the  word ; 

And  lo !  his  ministers  of  state, 

Take  courage,  and  attempt  a  third. 

Transform'd  to  imps,  his  levee  wait ; 

But  first  with  care  employ  your  thoughts 

Where,  in  the  scenes  of  endless  woe, 

Where  critics  mark'd  your  former  faults; 

They  ply  their  former  arts  below  ; 

The  trivial  turns,  the  borrow'd  wit, 

And,  as  they  sail  in  Charon's  boat. 

The  similes  that  nothing  fit ; 

Centrive  to  bribe  the  judge's  vote; 

Th«  cant  which  every  fool  repeats. 

To  Cerberus  they  give  a  sop, 

Town  jests  and  coffee-house  conceits ; 

His  triple-barking  mouth  to  stop : 

Descriptions  tedious,  flat,  and  dry, 

Or  in  the  ivory  gate  of  dreams 

And  introduced  the  Lord  knows  why : 

Project  excise  and  South-sea  schemes; 

Or  where  we  find  your  fury  set 

Or  hire  their  party  pamphleteers 

Against  the  harmless  alphabet ; 

To  set  Elysium  by  the  ears. 

And  A's  and  B's  your  malice  vent, 

Then,  poet,  if  you  mean  to  thrive. 

While  readers  wonder  whom  you  meant ; 

Employ  your  Muse  on  kings  alive ; 

A  public  or  a  private  robber. 

With  prudence  gathering  up  a  cluster 

A  statesman,  or  a  South-sea  jobber; 

Of  all  the  virtues  you  can  muster. 

A  prelate  who  no  God  believes ; 

Which,  form'd  into  a  garland  sweet, 

A  parliament,  or  den  of  thieves  ; 

Lay  humbly  at  your  monarch's  feet; 

A  pick-purse  at  the  bar  or  bench ; 

Who,  as  the  odours  reach  his  throne. 

A  duchess,  or  a  suburb  wench: 

Will  smile,  and  think  them  all  his  own ; 

Or  oft,  when  epithets  you  link 

For  law  and  gospel  both  determine 

In  gaping  lines  to  fill  a  chink  ; 

All  virtues  lodge  in  royal  ermine : 

Like  stepping-stones  to  save  a  stride. 

(I  mean  the  oracles  of  both. 

In  streets  where  kennels  are  too  wide ; 

Who  shall  depose  it  upon  oath.) 

Or  like  a  heel-piece,  to  support 

Your  garland  in  the  following  reign. 

A  cripple  with  one  foot  too  short ; 

Change  but  the  names,  will  do  again. 

Or  like  a  bridge  that  joins  a  marsh 

But  if  you  think  this  trade  too  base. 

To  moorland  of  a  difierent  parish. 

(Which  seldom  is  the  dunce's  case,) 

• 

So  have  I  seen  ill-coupled  hounds 

Put  on  the  critic's  brow,  and  sit 

Drag  different  ways  in  miry  grounds. 

At  Will's  the  puny  judge  of  wit. 

So  geographers  in  Afric  maps 

A  nod,  a  shrug,  a  scornful  smile, 

With  savage  pictures  fill  their  gaps. 

With  caution  used,  may  serve  a  while. 

And  o'er  unhabitable  downs 

Proceed  no  further  in  your  part, 

Place  elephants  for  want  of  towns. 

Before  you  learn  the  terms  of  art ; 

But,  though  you  miss  your  third  essay 

For  you  can  never  be  too  far  gone 

You  need  not  throw  your  pen  away. 

In  all  our  modern  critics' jargon  : 

Lay  now  aside  all  thoughts  of  fame, 

Then  talk  with  more  authentic  face 

To  spring  more  profitable  game. 

Of  unities,  in  time  and  place  ; 

From  party-merit  seek  support ; 

Get  scraps  of  Horace  from  your  friends. 

The  vilest  verse  thrives  best  at  court. 

And  have  them  at  your  fingers'  ends ; 

A  pamphlet  in  Sir  Bob's*  defence 

Learn  Aristotle's  rules  by  rote, 

Will  never  fail  to  bring  in  pence : 

And  at  all  hazards  boldly  quote; 

Nor  be  concern'd  about  the  sale, 

Judicious  Rymer  oft'  review, 

He  pays  his  workmen  on  the  nail. 

Wise  Dennis,  and  profound  Bossu; 

A  prince,  the  moment  he  is  crown'd, 

Read  all  the  prefaces  of  Dryden, 

Inherits  every  virtue  round, 

For  these  our  critics  much  confide  in 

As  emblems  of  the  sovereign  power. 

(Though  merely  writ  at  first  for  filling. 

Iiike  other  baubles  in  The  Tower : 

To  raise  the  volume's  price  a  shilling.)! 

Is  generous,  valiant,  just,  and  wise. 

A  forward  critic  often  dupes  us 

And  so  continues  till  he  dies : 

With  sham  quotations  peri  hupsous; 
And  if  we  have  not  read  Longinus, 
Will  magisterially  outshine  us. 

[•  Sir  Robert  Walpole,  who  employed  the  scurrility,  not 
the  genius  of  his  age,  to  defend  his  administration,  and 

patronized,  not  the  poet«,  but  the  rhymers,  the  Mitchells 

[t  This  is  one  of  Swift" s  many  flings  at  iJryden,  thai 
thread  and  disgrace  his  writings.] 

and  Oldmixons  of  his  times.] 

JONATHAN  SWIFT. 


436 


Then,  lest  with  Greek  he  overrun  ye, 
Procure  the  book  for  love  or  money, 
Translated  from  Boileau's  translation, 
And  quote  quotation  on  quotation. 

At  Will's  you  hear  a  poem  read, 
Where  Battus  from  the  table-head. 
Reclining  on  his  elbow-chair, 
Gives  judgment  with  decisive  air ; 
To  whom  the  tribe  of  circling  wits 
As  to  an  oracle  submits. 
He  gives  directions  to  the  town, 
To  cry  it  up,  or  run  it  down ; 
Like  courtiers,  when  they  send  a  note. 
Instructing  members  how  to  vote. 
He  sets  the  stamp  of  bad  and  good. 
Though  not  a  word  be  understood. 
Your  lesson  learn'd,  you'll  be  secure 
To  get  the  name  of  connoisseur ; 
And,  when  your  merits  once  are  known. 
Procure  disciples  of  your  own. 
For  poets  (you  can  never  want  'em) 
Spread  through  Augusta  Trinobantum,* 
Computing  by  their  pecks  of  coiils, 
Amount  to  just  nine  thousand  souls : 
These  o'er  their  proper  districts  govern, 
Of  wit  and  humour  judges  sovereign. 
In  every  street  a  city-bard 
Rules,  like  an  alderman,  his  ward; 
His  undisputed  rights  extend 
Through  all  the  lane,  from  end  to  end; 
The  neighbours  round  admire  his  shrewdness 
For  songs  of  loyalty  and  lewdness ; 
Outdone  by  none  in  rhyming  well, 
Although  he  never  learn'd  to  spell. 

Two  bordering  wits  contend  for  glory  ; 
And  one  is  Whig,  and  one  is  Tory : 
And  this  for  epics  claims  the  bays, 
And  that  for  elegiac  lays: 
Some  famed  for  numbers  soft  and  smooth, 
By  lovers  spoke  in  Punch's  booth; 
And  some  as  justly  fame  extols 
For  lofty  lines  in  Smithtield  drolls. 
Bavins  in  Wapping  gains  renown. 
And  Mffivius  reigns  o'er  Kentish-town : 
Tigellius,  placed  in  Phcebus'  car. 
From  Ludgate  shines  to  Temple-bar : 
Harmonious  Gibber  entertains 
The  court  with  annual  birth-day  strains ; 
Whence  Gay  was  banish'd  in  disgrace; 
Where  Pope  will  never  show  his  fac« ; 
Where  Young  must  torture  his  invention 
To  flatter  knaves,  or  lose  his  pension.f 

But  these  are  not  a  thousandth  part 
Of  jobbers  in  the  poet's  art, 
Attending  each  his  proper  station. 
And  all  in  due  subordination. 
Through  every  alley  to  be  found, 
In  garrets  high,  or  under  ground; 


[*  The  ancient  name  of  London.] 

[t  Young  (JiKKracwl  his  talents,  and  lowered  his  reputar 
tton.  by  tlio  mean  Hatlerv  with  which  hf  Htuffed  his  dedl- 
cntiong  to  great  men :  and  Swift,  with  bis  usual  acutenesa, 
has  toucbui  this  fuible  of  bis  cbanicter : 

Ami  Young  must  torture  bii  invention 
To  flatter  knaves,  or  lo-e  bin  jiension. 

J.  W.  Ckoker,  SuffM  Papen,  vol.  1.  p.  284.] 


And  when  they  join  their  pericranies. 
Out  skips  a  book  of  miscellanies. 
Hobbes  clearly  proves  that  every  creature 
Lives  in  a  state  of  war  by  nature. 
The  greater  for  the  smallest  watch, 
But  meddle  seldom  with  their  match. 
A  whale  of  moderate  size  will  draw 
A  shoal  of  herrings  down  his  maw ; 
A  fox  with  geese  his  belly  crams; 
A  wolf  destroys  a  thousand  lambs: 
But  search  amon^  the  rhyming  race. 
The  brave  are  worried  by  the  base. 
If  on  Parnassus'  top  you  sit. 
You  rarely  bite,  are  always  bit. 
Each  poet  of  inferior  size 
On  you  shall  rail  and  criticise. 
And  strive  to  tear  you  limb  from  limb ; 
While  others  do  as  much  for  him. 

The  vermin  only  tease  and  pinch 
Their  foes  superior  by  an  inch. 
So,  naturalists  observe,  a  flea 
Hath  smaller  fleas  that  on  him  prey; 
And  these  have  smaller  still  to  bite  'em, 
And  so  proceed  ad  infinitum. 
Thus  every  poet  in  his  kind 
Is  bit  by  him  that  comes  behind : 
Who  though  too  little  to  be  seen, 
Can  tease,  and  gall,  and  give  the  spleen , 
Call  dunces  fools  and  sons  of  whores. 
Lay  Grub-street  at  earh  other's  doors ; 
Extol  the  Greek  and  Roman  masters. 
And  curse  our  modern  poetasters; 
Complain,  as  many  an  ancient  bard  did, 
How  genius  is  no  more  rewarded ; 
How  wrong  a  taste  prevails  among  us; 
How  much  our  ancestors  outsung  us; 
Can  personate  an  awkward  scorn 
For  those  who  are  not  poets  born  ; 
And  all  their  brother-dunces  lash. 
Who  crowd  the  press  with  hourly  trash. 

O  Grul)-street!   how  do  I  bemoan  thee, 
Whose  graceless  children  scorn  to  own  thee' 
Their  filial  piety  forgot. 
Deny  their  country,  like  a  Scot ; 
Though,  by  their  idiom  and  grimace, 
They  soon  betray  their  native  place: 
Yet  thou  hast  greater  cause  to  be 
Ashamed  of  them,  than  they  of  thee. 
Degenerate  from  their  ancient  brood. 
Since  first  the  court  allow'd  them  food. 

Remains  a  difficulty  still. 
To  purchase  fame  by  writing  ill. 
From  Fiecknoe  down  to  Howard's  time, 
How  few  have  reach'd  the  low  sublime ! 
For  when  our  high-born  Howard  died, 
Blackmore  alone  his  place  supplied: 
And,  lest  a  chasm  should  intervene. 
When  Death  had  finish 'd  Blackmore's  reign, 
The  leaden  crown  devolved  to  thee, 
Great  poet  of  the  Hollow  Tree.| 


[t  Lord  Grim«ton  was  the  author  of  Ihi--  oolobmted  per 
fnrmnn'-«'.  of  which  he  wn.«  sftiT«»nl  mj  mu<hai<l'»iue<i  m 
tobuyupall  tiieoopios.  The malikMiity  of  tho  l>u  her"  of 
Mnrllx>rciiigli  dim-ouuerted  his  purpoM,  by  reprioUug  iL— 
Bib  Walter  ScuTT. 


436                                                        JONATHAN   SWIFT. 

But  ah  !  how  unsecure  thy  throne! 

An  heir  for  Britain  to  secure 

A  thousand  bards  thy  right  disown : 

As  long  as  sun  and  moon  endure. 

They  plot  to  turn,  in  factious  zeal, 

The  remnant  of  the  royal  blood 

Duncenia  to  a  common  weal ; 

Comes  pouring  on  me  like  a  flood : 

And  with  rebellious  arms  pretend 

Bright  goddesses,  in  number  five; 

An  equal  privilege  to  descend. 

Duke  Willii^rn,  sweetest  prince  alive. 

In  bulk  there  are  not  more  degrees, 

Now  sing  the  minister  of  slate, 

From  elephants  to  mites  in  cheese, 

Who  shines  alone  without  a  mate. 

, 

Than  what  a  curious  eye  may  trace 

Observe  with  what  majestic  port 

In  creatures  of  the  rhyming  race. 

This  Atlas  stands  to  prop  the  court; 

From  bad  to  worse,  and  worse,  they  fall; 

Intent  the  public  debts  to  pay. 

But  who  can  reach  the  worst  of  all? 

Like  prudent  Fabius,  by  delay. 

For  though,  in  nature,  depth  and  height 

Thou  great  vicegerent  of  the  king, 

Are  equally  held  infinite ; 

Thy  praises  every  Muse  shall  sing; 

In  poetry,  the  height  we  know; 

In  all  afl'airs  thou  sole  director. 

'Tis  only  infinite  below. 

Of  wit  and  learning  chief  protector; 

For  instance,  when  you  rashly  think 

Though  small  the  time  thou  hast  to  spare. 

No  rhymer  can  like  Welsted  sink, 

The  church  is  thy  peculiar  care. 

His  merits  balanced,  you  shall  find 

Of  pious  prelates  what  a  stock 

The  Laureate*  leaves  him  far  behind. 

You  choose,  to  rule  the  sable  flock ! 

Concanen,  more  aspiring  bard. 

You  raise  the  honour  of  your  peerage, 

Soars  downward  deeper  by  a  yard. 

Proud  to  attend  you  at  the  steerage. 

Smart  Jemmy  Moore  with  vigour  drops ; 

You  dignify  the  noble  race. 

The  rest  pursue  as  thick  as  hops. 

Content  yourself  with  humbler  place. 

With  heads  to  points  the  gulf  they  enter. 

Now  learning,  valour,  virtue,  sense. 

Link'd  perpendicular  to  the  centre ; 

To  titles  give  the  sole  pretence. 

And,  as  their  heels  elated  rise, 

St.  George  beheld  thee  with  delight 

Their  heads  attempt  the  nether  skies. 

Vouchsafe  to  be  an  azure  knight, 

Oh,  what  indignity  and  shame, 

When  on  thy  breasts  and  sides  Herculean 

To  prostitute  the  Muse's  name  ! 

He  fix'd  the  star  and  string  cerulean. 

By  flattering  kings,  whom  Heaven  design'd 

Say,  poet,  in  what  other  nation 

The  plagues  and  scourges  of  mankind ; 

Shone  ever  such  a  constellation  ! 

Bred  up  in  ignorance  and  sloth. 

Attend,  ye  Popes,  and  Youngs,  and  Gays, 

And  every  vice  that  nurses  both. 

And  tune  your  harps,  and  strow  your  bayst 

Fair  Britain,  in  thy  monarch  blest. 

Your  panegyrics  here  provide ; 

Whose  virtues  bear  the  strictest  test; 

You  cannot  err  on  flattery's  side. 

Whom  never  faction  could  bespatter, 

Above  the  stars  exalt  your  style. 

Nor  minister  nor  poet  flatter ; 

You  still  are  low  ten  thousand  mile. 

What  justice  in  rewarding  merit ! 

On  Lewis  all  his  bards  bestow'd 

What  magnanimity  of  spirit ! 

Of  incense  many  a  thousand  load ; 

What  lineaments  divine  we  trace 

But  Europe  mortified  his  pride, 

Through  all  his  figure,  mien,  and  face ! 

And  swore  the  fawning  rascals  lied. 

Though  peace  with  olive  bind  his  hands. 

Yet  what  the  world  refused  to  Lewis, 

Confess'd  the  conquering  hero  stands. 

Applied  to  George,  exactly  true  is. 

Hydaspes,  Indus,  and  the  Ganges, 

Exactly  true!  invidious  poet ! 

Dread  from  his  hand  impending  changes. 

'Tis  fifty  thousand  times  below  it. 

From  him  the  Tartar  and  Chinese, 

Translate  me  now  some  lines,  if  you  can. 

Short  by  the  knees,  entreat  for  peace. 

From  Virgil,  Martial,  Ovid,  Lucan. 

The  consort  of  his  throne  and  bed, 

They  could  all  power  in  heaven  divide, 

A  perfect  goddess  born  and  bred, 

And  do  no  wrong  on  either  side ; 

Appointed  sovereign  judge  to  sit 

They  teach  you  how  to  split  a  hair, 

On  learning,  eloquence,  and  wit. 

Give  George  and  Jove  an  equal  share. 

Our  eldest  hope,  divine  liilus. 

Yet  why  should  we  be  laced  so  strait  1 

(Late,  very  late,  oh  may  he  rule  us !) 

I'll  give  my  monarch  better  weight. 

What  early  manhood  has  he  shown, 

And  reason  good ;  for  many  a  year 

Before  his  downy  beard  was  grown ! 

Jove  never  intermeddled  here : 

Then  think,  what  wonders  will  be  done, 

Nor,  though  his  priests  be  duly  paid, 

By  going  on  as  he  begun. 

Did  ever  we  desire  his  aid : 

We  now  can  better  do  without  him. 

Since  Woolston  gave  us  arms  to  rout  him, 

[•  Colley  Cibber— originally  «That  Fieldlng,"&c. ;  mean- 

Ini:  the  noveUst.] 

Ocettra  desiderantur. 

JAMES   BRAMSTON. 


tWed,  ITUJ 


I  HATE  applied  to  many  individuals  for  infor- 
mation respecting  the  personal  history  of  this 
writer,  but  have  not  been  able  to  ol>tain  it,  even 
from  the  quarters  where  it  was  most  likely  to  be 
found.  He  was  bom,  probably,  about  the  year 
1700 ;  was  of  Christ  Church,  Oxford,  where  he 


took  his  degree  of  A.  M. ;  and  was  finally  vicar 
of  Starting,  in  Sussex.  Besides  The  Man  of 
Taste,  he  wrote  a  political  satire,  entitled  The 
Art  of  Politics,  and  The  Crooked  Sixpence,  in 
imitation  of  Philips's  Splendid  ShilUng. 


THE  MAN  OF  TASTE. 

Whoe'er  he  be  that  to  a  taste  aspires, 
Let  him  read  this  and  be  what  he  desires. 
In  men  and  manners  versed,  from  life  I  write. 
Not  what  was  once,  but  what  is  now  polite. 
Those  who  of  courtly  France  have  made  the  tour 
Can  scarce  our  English  awkwardness  endure. 
But  honest  men  who  never  were  abroad, 
Like  England  only,  and  its  taste  applaud. 
Strife  still  subsists,  which  yields  the  better  gout ; 
Books  or  the  world,  the  many  or  the  few. 

True  taste  to  me  is  by  this  touchstone  known. 
That's  always  best  that's  nearest  to  my  own. 
To  show  that  my  pretensions  are  not  yain. 
My  father  was  a  play'r  in  Drury-lane. 
Pears  and  pistachio-nuts  my  mother  sold ; 
He  a  dramatic  poet,  she  a  scold. 
Her  tragic  Muse  could  countesses  affright, 
His  wit  in  boxes  was  my  lord's  delight. 
No  mercenary  priest  e'er  join'd  their  hands, 
Uncrarap'd  by  wedlock's  unpoetic  bands. 
Laws  my  Pindaric  parents  matter'd  not, 
So  I  was  tragi-comically  got. 
My  infant  tears  a  sort  of  measure  kept, 
I  squalled  in  distichs,  and  in  triplets  wept. 
No  youth  did  I  in  education  waste, 
Happy  in  an  hereditary  taste. 
Writing  ne'er  cramped  the  sinews  of  my  thumb, 
Nor  barbarous  birch  e'er  brush'd  my  tender  bum. 
My  guts  ne'er  suffer'd  from  a  college  cook. 
My  name  ne'er  enter'd  in  a  buttery-book. 
Grammar  in  vain  the  sons  of  Priscian  teach, 
Good  parts  are  better  than  eight  parts  of  speech: 
Since  these  declined,  those  undeclined  they  call, 
I  thank  my  stars  that  I  declined  them  all. 
To  Greek  or  Latin  tongues  without  pretence, 
I  trust  to  mother  wit  and  father  sense. 
Nature's  my  guide,  all  sciences  I  scorn. 
Pains  I  abhor ;  I  was  a  poet  Horn. 

Yet  is  my  gout  for  criticism  such, 
I've  got  some  French,  and  know  a  little  Dutch. 
Huge  commentators  grace  my  learned  shelves. 
Notes  upon  books  out-do  the  books  themselves. 
Critirs  indeed  are  valuable  men. 
But  hyper-critics  are  as  good  again. 
Though  Blackmore's  works  my  soul  with  rapture 

fill. 
With  notes  by  Bentley  they'd  be  better  still. 
The  Boghousc-Misceliany's  well  designed 
To  ease  the  body,  and  improve  the  mmd. 


Swift's  whims  and  jokes  for  my  resentment  call. 
For  he  displeases  me  that  pleases  all. 
Verse  without  rhyme  I  never  could  endure. 
Uncouth  in  numbers,  and  in  sense  obscure. 
To  him  as  nature,  when  he  ceased  to  see 
Milton's  an  universal  blank  to  me. 
Confirm'd  and  settled  by  the  nation's  voice. 
Rhyme  is  the  poet's  pride,  and  people's  choice. 
Always  upheld  by  national  support, 
Of  market,  university,  and  court;  [son 

Thomson,  write  blank !  but  know  that  for  that  rea- 
These  lines  shall  live  when  thine  are  out  of  sea- 
Rhyme  binds  and  beautifies  the  poet's  lays,  [son. 
As  London  ladies  owe  their  shape  to  stays. 

Had  Cibber's  self  The  Careless  Husband  wrote. 
He  for  the  laurel  ne'er  had  had  my  vote; 
But  for  his  epilogues  and  other  plays. 
He  thoroughly  deserves  the  modern  bays. 
It  pleases  me,  that  Pope  urilaurell'd  goes, 
W  hile  Cibber  wears  the  bays  for  play-house  prose , 
So  Britain's  monarch  once  uncover'd  sat. 
While  Bradshaw  bullied  in  a  broad-brimm'd  hat. 

Long  live  old  Curll !  he  ne'er  to  publish  feam 
The  speeches,  verses,  and  last  wills  of  peers. 
How  oft  has  he  a  public  spirit  shown. 
And  pleased  our  ears  regardless  of  bis  own  ! 
But  to  give  merit  due,  though  Curll's  the  fame, 
Are  not  his  brother  booksellers  the  same  ? 
Can  statutes  keep  the  British  press  in  awe, 
While  that  sells  best  that's  most  against  the  lawT 

Lives  of  dead  play'rs  my  leisure  hours  beguile. 
And  sessions-papers  tragedize  my  style. 
'Tis  charming  reading  in  Ophelia's  life.* 
So  oft  a  mother,  and  not  once  a  wife  * 
She  could  with  just  propriety  behave. 
Alive  with  peers,  with  monarchs  in  her  grave. 
Her  lot  how  oft  have  envious  harlots  wept. 
By  i^rebends  buried,  and  by  generals  kept. 

T'improve  in  morals  Mandevil  I  read. 
And  Tyndal's  scruples  are  my  settled  creed. 
I  travell'd  early,  and  I  soon  saw  through 
Religion  all,  ere  I  was  twenty-two. 
Shame,  pain,  or  poverty  shall  I  endure. 
When  ropes  or  opium  can  my  ease  procure  t 
When  money's  gone,  and  I  no  debts  can  pay, 
Self-murder  is  an  honourable  way. 
As  Pasaran  directs,  I'd  end  my  life, 
And  kill  myself,  my  daughter,  and  my  wiie. 

[*  Mrs.  0:dfl.>ld  the  actntsa.    The  f>ting  of  Mrerity  a  la 
Its  truth,  aud  here  satire  is  in  its  strength.] 

xtt^  437 


i88 


JAMES  BRAMSTON. 


Bum  but  that  Bible  which  the  parson  quotes. 
And  men  of  spirit  all  shall  cut  their  throats. 

But  not  to  writings  I  confine  my  pen, 
I  have  a  taste  for  buildings,  music,  men. 
Young  travell'd  coxcombs  mighty  knowledge  boast, 
With  superficial  smattering  at  most. 
Not  so  my  mind,  unsatisfied  with  hints,    [prints. 
Knows   more   than    Budgell   writes,  or   Roberts 
I  know  the  town,  all  houses  I  have  seen. 
From  Hyde-Park  corner  down  to  Bednal-Green. 
Sure  wretched   Wren  was  taught  by   bungling 
To  murder  mortar,  and  disfigure  stones  !     [Jones, 
Who  in  Whitehall  can  symmetry  discern  1 
I  reckon  Covent-Garden  church  a  barn. 
Nor  hate  I  less  thy  vile  cathedral,  Paul  1 
The  choir's  too  big,  the  cupola's  too  small : 

Substantial  walls  and  heavy  roofs  I  like, 
'Tis  Vanbrugh's  structures  that  my  fancy  strike : 
Such  noble  ruins  every  pile  would  make, 
I  wish  they'd  tumble  for  the  prospect's  sake. 
To  lofty  Chelsea,  or  to  Greenwich  dome. 
Soldiers  and  sailors  all  are  welcomed  home. 
Her  poor  to  palaces  Britannia  brings, 
St.  James's  hospital  may  serve  for  kings. 
Buildings  so  happily  I  understand,  ^ 

That  for  one  house  I'd  mortgage  all  my  land. 
Doric,  Ionic,  shall  not  there  be  found. 
But  it  shall  cost  me  threescore  thousand  pound. 
From  out  my  honest  workmen  I'll  select 
A  bricklayer,  and  proclaim  him  architect; 
First  bid  him  build  me  a  stupendous  dome. 
Which  having  finish'd,  we  set  out  for  Rome ; 
Take  a  week's  view  of  Venice  and  the  Brent ; 
Stare  round,  see  nothing,  and  come  home  content. 
I'll  have  my  villa  too,  a  sweet  abode, 
Its  situation  shall  be  London  road : 
Pots  o'er  the  door  I'll  place  like  cit's  balconies, 
Which  Bentley  calls  the  gardens  of  Adonis. 

I'll  have  my  gardens  in  the  fashion  too, 
For  what  is  beautiful  that  is  not  new  1 
Fair  four-legg'd  temples,  theatres  that  vie 
With  all  the  angles  of  a  Christmas-pie. 
Does  it  not  merit  the  beholder's  praise. 
What's  high  to  sink,  and  what  is  low  to  raise  1 
Slopes  shall  ascend  where  once  a  green-house 

stood. 
And  in  my  horse-pond  I  will  plant  a  wood. 
Let  misers  dread-  the  hoarded  gold  to  waste. 
Expense  and  alteration  shows  a  taste. 

In  curious  paintings  I'm  exceeding  nice, 
And  know  their  several  beauties  by  their  price. 
Auctions  and  sales  I  constantly  attend. 
But  choose  my  pictures  by  a  skilful  friend, 
Originals  and  copies  much  the  same. 
The  picture's  value  is  the  painter's  name. 

My  taste  in  sculpture  from  my  choice  is  seen, 
I  buy  no  statues  that  are  not  obscene, 
in  spite  of  Addison  and  ancient  Rome, 
Sir  Cloudesley  Shovel's  is  my  favourite  tomb. 
How  oft  have  I  with  admiration  stood. 
To  view  some  city-magistrate  in  wood ! 
I  gaze  with  pleasure  on  a  lord-mayor's  head, 
Cast  with  propriety  in  gilded  lead. 
Oh  could  I  view,  through  London  as  I  pass. 
Some  broad  Sir  Baal  am  in  Corinthian  brass : 


High  on  a  pedestal,  ye  fi-eemen,  place 
His  magisterial  paunch  and  griping  face ; 
Letter'd  and  gilt,  let  him  adorn  Cheapside, 
And  grant  the  tradesman  what  a  king's  denied. 

Old  coins  and  medals  I  collect,  'tis  true ; 
Sir  Andrew  has  'em,  aftd  I'll  have  em  too. 
But  among  friends,  if  I  the  truth  might  speak, 
I  like  the  modern,  and  despise  th'  antique. 
Though  in  the  drawers  of  my  japan  bureau, 
To  lady  Gripeall  I  the  Csesars  show, 
'Tis  equal  to  her  ladyship  or  me, 
A  copper  Otho,  or  a  Scotch  bawbee. 

Without  Italian,  or  without  an  ear, 
To  Bononcini's  music  I  adhere ; 
Music  has  charms  to  soothe  a  savage  breast, 
And  therefore  proper  at  a  sheriff's  feast. 
My  soul  has  oft  a  secret  pleasure  found 
In  the  harmonious  bagpipe's  lofty  sound. 
Bagpipes  for  men,  shrill  German-flutes  for  boys, 
I'm  English  born,  and  love  a  grumbling  noise. 
The  stage  should  yield  the  solemn  organ's  note, 
And  Scripture  tremble  in  the  eunuch's  throat. 
Let  Sensino  sing  what  David  writ. 
And  hallelujahs  charm  the  pious  pit. 
Eager  in  throngs  the  town  to  Esther  came. 
And  oratario  was  a  lucky  name. 
Thou,  Heidegger !  the  English  taste  hast  found, 
And  rulcst  the  mob  of  quaUty  with  sound. 
In  Lent,  if,  masquerades  displease  the  town. 
Call  'em  ridottos,  and  they  still  go  down. 
Go  on,  prince  Phiz !  to  please  the  British  nation 
Call  thy  next  masquerade  a  convocation. 

Bears,  lions,  wolves,  and  elephants  I  breed, 
And  Philosophical  Transactions  read. 
Next  lodge  I'll  be  Free-mason,  nothing  less. 
Unless  I  happen  to  be  F.  R.  S. 

I  have  a  palate,  and  (as  yet)  two  ears, 
Fit  company  for  porters  or  for  peers. 
Of  every  useful  knowledge  I've  a  share. 
But  my  top  talent  is  a  bill  of  fare. 
Sirloins  and  rumps  of  beef  offend  my  eyes. 
Pleased  with  frogs  fricasseed,  and  coxcomb-pies ; 
Dishes  I  choose,  though  little,  yet  genteel. 
Snails  the  first  course,  and  peepers  crown  the 

meal. 
Pigs'    heads,   with    hair    on,   much    my   fancy 

please ; 
I  love  young  cauliflow'rs  if  stew'd  in  cheese. 
And  give  ten  guineas  for  a  pint  of  peas. 
No  tattling  servants  to  my  table  come. 
My  grace  is  silence,  and  my  waiter  dumb. 
Queer  country-puts  extol  queen  Bess's  reign, 
And  of  lost  hospitality  complain. 
Say,  thou  that  dost  thy  father's  table  praise, 
W^as  there  mahogany  in  former  daysl 

Oh,  could  a  British  barony  be  sold  ! 
I  would  bright  honour  buy  with  dazzling  gold. 
Could  I  the  privilege  of  peer  procure, 
The  rich  I'd  bully,  and  oppress  the  poor. 
To  give  is  wrong,  but  it  is  wronger  still 
On  any  terms  to  pay  a  tradesman's  bill. 
I'd  make  the  insolent  mechanics  stay, 
And  keep  my  ready  money  all  for  play. 
I'd  try  if  any  pleasure  could  be  found 
In  tossing  up  for  twenty  thousand  pound: 


WILLIAM  MESTON. 


439 


Had  I  whole  counties,  I  to  White'i  would  go, 
And  set  Ipnd,  woods,  and  rivers,  at  a  throw. 
But  should  I  meet  with  an  unlucky  run. 
And  at  a  throw  be  gloriously  undone ; 
My  debts  of  honour  I'd  discharge  the  first; 
Let  ail  my  lawful  creditors  be  cursed : 
My  title  would  preserve  me  from  arrest. 
And  seizing  hired  horses  is  a  jest 

I'd  walk  the  morning  with  an  oaken  stick. 
With  gloves  and  hat,  like  my  own  footman  Dick; 
A  footman  I  would  be  in  outward  show, 
In  sense  and  education  truly  so. 
As  for  my  head,  it  should  ambiguous  wear 
At  once  a  periwig  and  its  own  hair. 
My  hair  I'd  powder  in  the  women's  way. 
And  dress  and  talk  of  dressing  more  than  they. 
I'll  please  the  maids  of  honour  if  I  can  ; 
Without  black  velvet  breeches,  what  is  man  1 
I  will  my  skill  in  button-holes  display. 
And  brag  how  oft  I  shift  me  every  day. 
Shall  I  wear  clothes  in  awkward  England  madel 
And  sweat  in  cloth  to  help  the  woollen  trade  1 
In  French  embroid'ry  and  in  Flanders  lace, 
I'll  spend  the  income  of  a  treasurer's  place. 
Deard's  bill  for  baubles  shall  to  thousands  mount. 
And  I'd  out-di'mond  even  the  di'mond  count. 
I  would  convince  the  world  by  tawdry  clothes, 
That  belles  are  less  effeminate  than  beaux. 
And  doctor  Lamb  should  pare  my  lordship's  toes. 

To  boon  companions  I  my  time  would  give ; 
With  players,  pimps,  and  parasites,  I'd  live. 
I  would  with  jockeys  from  Newmarket  dine. 
And  to  rough-riders  give  my  choicest  wine ; 
I  would  caress  some  stableman  of  note, 
And  imitate  his  language  and  his  coat. 
My  evenings  all  I  would  with  sharpers  spend. 
And  make  the  thief-catcher  my  bosom  friend ; 
In  Fig  the  prize-fighter  by  day  delight. 
And  sup  with  Colley  Gibber  every  night. 
Should  I  perchance  be  fashionably  ill, 
I'd  send  for  Misaubin,  and  take  his  pill. 
I  should  abhor,  though  in  the  utmost  need, 
Arbuthinot,  Hollins,  Wigan,  Lee,  or  Mead  ; 


But  if  I  found  that  I  grew  worse  and  worse, 

I'd  turn  off  Misaubin  and  take  a  nurse. 

How  oft  when  eminent  physicians  fail. 

Do  good  old  women's  remedies  prevail!     [yearB, 

When  beauty's  gone,  and   Chloe's  struck  with 

Eyes  she  can  couch,  or  she  can  syringe  ears 

Of  graduates  I  dislike  the  learned  rout. 

And  choose  a  female  doctor  for  the  gout  . 

Thus  would  I  live,  with  no  dull  pedants  cursed; 
Sure,  of  all  blockheads,  scholars  are  the  worst. 
Back  to  your  universities,  ye  fools! 
And  dangle  arguments  on  strings  in  schools: 
Those  schools  which  universities  they  call, 
'Twere  well  for  England  were  there  none  at  all. 
With  ease  that  loss  the  nation  might  sustsnn, 
Supplied  by  Goodnian's-fields  and  Drury-lane. 
Oxford  and  Cambridge  are  not  worth  one  farthing, 
Compared  to  Haymarket  and  Covent-garden ; 
Quit  those,  ye  British  youth,  and  follow  these, 
Turn  players  all,  and  take  your  'squire's  degrees. 
Boast  not  your  incomes  now,  as  heretofore. 
Ye  book-learn'd  seats  !  the  theatres  have  more : 
Ye  stifT-rump'd  heads  of  colleges,  be  dumb ; 
A  single  eunuch  gets  a  larger  sum. 
Have  some  of  you  three  hundred  by  the  year? 
Booth,  Rich,  and.  Gibber,  twice  three  thousand 

clear. 
Should  Oxford  to  her  sister  Cambridge  join 
A  year's  rack-rent  and  arbitrary  fine. 
Thence  not  one  winter's  charge  would  bedefrny'd, 
For  play-house,  opera,  ball,  and  masquerade. 
Glad  I  congratulate  the  judging  age, 
The  players  are  the  world,  the  world  the  stage. 

I  am  a  politician  too,  and  hate, 
Of  any  party,  ministers  of  state : 
I'm  for  an  act,  that  he,  who  sev'n  whole  yean 
Has  served  his  king  and  country,  lose  his  ears. 

Thus  from  my  birth  I'm  qualified,  you  find. 
To  give  the  laws  of  taste  to  human  kind. 
Mine  are  the  gallant  schemes  of  politesse, 
For  books  and  buildings,  politics  and  dress. 
This  is  true  taste,  and  whoso  likes  it  not, 
Is  blockhead,  coxcomb,  puppy,  fool,  and  sot. 


WILLIAM  MESTON. 


[Bom,  U88.     Died,  17«6.] 


William  Meston  was  bom  in  the  parish  of 
Midmar,  in  Aberdeenshire.  He  received  a  liberal 
education  at  the  Marischal  College  of  Aberdeen, 
and  was  for  some  time  one  of  the  teachers  in  the 
High  School  of  that  city.  He  removed  from  that 
situation  to  be  preceptor  to  the  young  Earl  of 
Marshal,  and  to  his  brother,  who  was  afterward 
the  celebrated  Marshal  Keith,  and  by  the  interest 
of  the  family  was  appointed  professorof  philosophy 
in  the  Marischal  College.  On  the  breaking  out  of 
the  rebellion  of  1715,  he  followed  the  fortunes  of 
his  misguided  patrons,  who  made  him  governor 
of  Dunotter  Castle.  After  the  battle  of  Sherrif- 
Muir,  till  the  act  of  indemnity  was  passed,  he 
lurked  with  a  few  fugitive  associates,  for  whose 


amusement  he  wrote  several  of  the  burlesque 
poems  to  which  he  gave  the  title  of  Mother 
Grim's  Tales.  Not  being  restored  to  his  profes- 
sorship, he  lived  for  some  time  on  the  hospitality 
of  the  Countess  of  Marshal,  and  after  her  death 
established  an  academy  successively  at  Elgin, 
Turiff,  Montrose,  and  Perth,  in  all  of  which 
places  he  failed,  apparently  from  habits  of  care- 
less expense  and  conviviality.  The  Countess  of 
Elgin  supported  him  during  the  decline  of  his 
latter  days,  till  he  removed  to  Aberdeen,  where 
he  died  of  a  languishing  distemper.  He  i^  said 
to  have  been  a  man  of  wit  and  pleasantry  in 
conversation,  and  of  considerable  attainmo"^  in 
classical  and  mathematical  knowledge. 


440 


WILLIAM  MESTON. 


THE  COBBLER.    AN  IRISH  TALE. 

FROM   MOTHER  QRIH'S  TALES. 

Sages  and  moralists  can  show 
Many  misfortunes  here  below ; 
A  truth  which  no  one  ever  niiss'd, 
Though  neither  sage  nor  moralist. 
Yet  all  the  troubles  notwithstanding, 
Which  fate  or  fortune  has  a  hand  in, 
Fools  to  themselves  will  more  create, 
In  spite  of  fortune  and  of  fate. 
Thus  oft  are  dreaming  wretches  seen, 
Tortured  with  vapours  and  with  spleen, 
Transform'd,  at  least  in  their  own  eyes, 
To  China,  glass,  or  mutton  pies; 
Others  will  to  themselves  appear 
Stone  dead  as  Will  the  Conqueror. 
*  *  *  « 

There  lived  a  gentleman,  possess'd 
Of  all  that  mortals  reckon  best ; 
A  seat  well  chosen,  wholesome  air, 
With  gardens  and  with  prospect  fair ; 
His  land  from  debt  and  jointure  free, 
His  money  never  in  South  Sea ; 
His  health  of  body  firm  and  good, 
Though  past  the  hey-day  of  his  blood ; 
His  consort  fair,  and  good,  and  kind. 
His  children  rising  to  his  mind  ; 
His  friends  ingenuous  and  sincere. 
His  honour,  nay,  his  conscience,  clear : 
He  wanted  naught  of  human  bliss 
But  power  to  taste  his  happiness. 
Too  near,  alas !  this  great  man's  hall, 
A  merry  Cobbler  had  a  stall ; 
An  arch  old  wag  as  e'er  you  knew. 
With  breeches  red  and  jerkin  blue ; 
Cheerful  at  working  as  at  play. 
He  sung  and  whistled  life  away. 
When  rising  morning  glads  the  sky, 
Clear  as  the  merry  lark  on  high ; 
When  evening  shades  the  landscape  veil. 
Late  warbling  as  the  nightingale. 
Though  pence  came  slow,  and  trade  was  ill. 
Yet  still  he  sung,  and  whistled  still ; 
Though  patch'd  his  garb,  and  coarse  his  fare, 
He  laugh'd  and  cast  away  old  care. 
The  rich  man  viewd  with  discontent 
His  tatter'd  neighbour's  merriment; 
With  onvy  grudged,  and  pined  to  see 
A  beggar  pleasanter  than  he  ; 
And  by  degrees  to  hate  began 
Th'  intolerable  happy  man, 
Who  haunted  him  like  any  sprite. 
From  morn  to  eve,  by  day  and  night. 

It  chanced  as  once  in  bed  he  lay. 
When  dreams  are  true,  at  break  of  day, 
He  heard  the  Cobbler  at  his  sport. 
And  on  a  sudden  to  cut  short. 
Whether  his  morning  draught  he  took. 
Or  warming  whiff  of  morning  smoke. 
The  squire  suspected,  being  shrewd. 
This  silence  boded  him  no  good ; 
And  'cause  he  nothing  saw  or  heard, 
A  Machiavelian  plot  he  fear'd. 


Straight  circumstances  crowded  plain, 
To  vex  and  plague  his  jealous  brain  ; 
Trembling,  in  panic  dread  he  lies. 
With  gaping  mouth  and  staring  eyes ; 
And  straining,  lustful,  both  his  ears. 
He  soon  persuades  himself  he  hears 
One  skip  and  caper  up  the  stairs; 
Sees  the  door  open  quick,  and  knew 
His  dreaded  foe  in  red  and  blue ; 
Who,  with  a  running  jump,  he  thought, 
Leapt  plumb  directly  down  his  throat. 
Laden  with  tackle  of  his  stall. 
Last,  ends  and  hammer,  strap  and  awL 
No  sooner  down,  than,  with  a  jerk, 
He  fell  to  music  and  to  work. 
If  much  he  grieved  our  Don  before. 
When  but  o'  th'  outside  of  the  door, 
How  sorely  must  he  now  molest. 
When  got  the  inside  of  his  breast? 
The  waking  dreamer  groans  and  swells, 
And  pangs  imaginary  feels : 
Catches  and  scraps  of  tunes  he  bears 
For  ever  ringing  in  his  ears ; 
lU-savour'd  smells  his  nose  displease, 
Mundungus  strong,  and  rotten  cheese: 
He  feels  him  when  he  draws  his  breath, 
Or  tugs  the  leather  with  his  teeth, 
Or  beats  the  sole,  or  else  extends 
His  arm  to  the  utmost  of  his  ends ; 
Enough  to  crack,  when  stretch'd  so  wide, 
The  ribs  of  any  mortal  side. 
Is  there  no  method,  then,  to  fly 
This  vile  intestine  enemy  1 
What  can  be  done  in  this  condition, 
But  sending  instant  for  physician ! 
The  doctor,  having  heard  the  case, 
Burst  into  laughter  in  his  face, 
Told  him  he  need  no  more  than  rise. 
Open  his  windows  and  his  eyes. 
Whistling  and  stitching,  there  to  see 
The  Cobbler  as  he  used  to  be. 
"Sir,"  quoth  the  patient,  "your  pretences 
Shall  ne'er  persuade  me  from  my  senses. 
How  should  I  rise  ?  the  heavy  brute 
Will  hardly  let  me  wag  a  foot. 
Though  seeing  for  belief  may  go. 
Yet  feeling  is  the  truth  you  know. 
I  feel  him  in  my  sides,  I  tell  ye ; 
Had  you  a  Cobbler  in  your  belly. 
You  scarce  could  stir  as  now  you  do ; 
I  doubt  your  guts  would  grumble  too. 
Still  do  you  laugh  1  I  tell  you,  sir, 
I'd  kick  you  soundly,  could  I  stir. 
Thou  quack,  that  never  hadst  degree 
In  either  University; 
Thou  mere  licentiate  without  knowledge, 
The  shame  and  scandal  of  the  college ; 
I'll  call  ray  servants  if  you  stay ; 
So,  doctor,  scamper  while  you  may  !" 

One  thus  despatch'd,  a  second  came, 
Of  equal  or  of  greater  fame. 
Who  swore  him  mad  as  a  March  hare ; 
For  doctors,  when  provoked,  will  swear. 
To  drive  such  whimsies  from  his  pate. 
He  dragg'd  him  to  the  window  straight ; 


But  jilting  fortune  can  devise 

To  Saffle  and  outwit  the  wise. 

Tlie  (/obhier,  ere  exposed  to  view, 

Had  just  puU'd  off  his  jerkin  blue, 

Not  dreaming  'twould  his  neighbour  hurt, 

To  sit  in  fresco  in  his  shirt. 

"  Oh,"  quoth  the  patient,  with  a  sigh, 

"  You  know  him  not  so  well  as  I. 

The  man  that  down  my  throat  is  run. 

Hub  got  a  true  blue  jerkin  on." 

In  vain  the  doctor  raved  and  tore, 

Argued  and  fretted,  stamp'd  and  swore ; 

Told  him  he  might  believe  as  well. 

The  giant  of  Pantagruel 

Did  oft,  to  break  his  fast,  and  sup,    . 

For  potch'd  eggs  swallow  windmills  up; 

Or  that  the  Holland  dame  could  bear 

A  child  for  every  day  o'  th'  year. 

The  vapour'd  dotard,  grave  and  sly, 

Mistook  for  truth  each  rapping  lie. 

And  drew  conclusions  such  as  these. 

Resistless  from  the  premises. 

»'  I  hope,  my  friends,  you'll  grant  me  all, 

A  windmill's  bigger  than  a  stall : 

And  siiice  the  lady  brought  alive. 

Children  three  hundred  sixty-five. 

Why  should  you  think  there  is  not  room 

For  one  poor  Cobbler  in  my  womb  1" 

Thus,  every  thing  his  friends  could  say. 

The  more  confirmed  him  in  his  way ; 

Further  convinced  by  what  they  tell, 

'Twas  certain,  though  impossible. 

Now  worse  and  worse  his  piteous  state 
Was  grown,  and  almost  desperate; 
Yet  stdl  the  utmost  bent  to  try, 
Without  more  help  he  would  not  die. 
An  old  physician,  sly  and  shrewd, 
With  management  of  face  endued, 
Heard  all  his  tale,  and  ask'd,  with  care, 
How  long  the  Cobbler  had  been  there ; 
Noted  distinctly  what  he  said. 
Lift  up  his  eyes  and  shook  his  head ; 
And,  grave,  accosts  him  in  this  fashion. 
After  mature  deliberation. 
With  serious  and  important  face: 
"  Su,  yours  is  an  uncommon  case ; 
Though  I've  read  Galen's  Latin  o'er, 
I  never  met  with  it  before ; 
Nor  have  I  found  the  like  disease 
In  stories  of  Hippocrates." 
'I'hen,  atter  a  convenient  stay, 
"  Sir,  if  prescription  you'll  obey. 
My  life  for  yours,  I'll  set  you  free 
From  this  same  two-legg'd  tympany. 
*  *  *   Your  throat,  you  know,  is  wide. 
And  scarcely  closed  since  it  was  tried. 
The  same  way  he  got  in,  'tis  plain. 
There's  room  to  fetch  him  back  again. 
I'll  bring  the  forked  worm  away 
Without  a  dysenteria. 
Emetics  strong  will  do  the  feat. 
If  taken  quauium  sujjicit. 
I'll  see  myself  the  proper  dose. 
And  go  hypnotics  to  compose." 


The  wretch,  though  languishing  and  weak. 
Revived  already  by  the  Greek, 
Cries,  "  What  so  learn'd  a  man  as  you 
Prescribes,  dear  doctor,  I  shall  do." 

The  vomit  speedily  was  got, 
The  Cobbler  sent  for  to  the  spot. 
And  taught  to  manage  the  deceit. 
And  not  his  doublet  to  forget. 
But  first  the  operator  wise 
Over  his  eyes  a  bandage  ties. 
For  vomits  always  strain  the  eyes. 
"  Courage !  I'll  make  you  disembogue, 
Spite  of  his  teeth,  th'  unlucky  rogue ; 
I'll  drench  the  rascal,  never  fear. 
And  bring  him  up,  or  drown  him  there." 
Warm  water  down  he  makes  him  pour. 
Till  his  stretch'd  guts  r^uld  hold  no  more 
Which,  doubly  swoln,  as  you  may  think. 
Both  with  the  Cobbler  and  the  drink, 
What  they  received  against  the  grain. 
Soon  paid  with  interest  back  again. 
'<  Here  comes  his  tools :  he  can't  be  long 
Without  his  hammer  and  his  thong." 
The  Cobbler  humour'd  what  was  spoke. 
And  gravely  carried  on  the  joke ; 
As  he  heard  named  each  single  matter. 
He  dhuck'd  it  souse  into  the  water ; 
And  then,  not  to  be  seen  as  yet. 
Behind  the  door  made  his  retreat. 
The  sick  man  now  takes  breath  awhile. 
Strength  to  recruit  for  further  toil : 
Unblinded,  he,  with  joyful  eyes. 
The  tackle  floating  there  espies ; 
Fully  convinced  with  his  mind. 
The  Cobbler  would  not  stay  behind. 
Who  to  the  alehouse  still  would  go. 
Whene'er  he  wanted  work  to  do ; 
Nor  could  he  like  his  present  place. 
He  ne'er  loved  water  in  his  days. 
At  length  he  takes  a  second  bout, 
Enough  to  turn  him  inside  out: 
With  vehcnu-nce  so  sore  he  strains, 
As  would  have  split  another's  brains. 
"  Ah  !  here  the  Cobbler  comes,  1  swear !" 
And  truth  it  was,  for  he  was  there; 
And,  like  a  rude  ill-manner'd  clown, 
Kick'd,  with  his  foot,  the  vomit  down. 
The  patient,  now  grown  wondrous  light, 
Whipt  oHthe  napkin  from  his  sight; 
Briskly  lift  up  his  head,  and  knew 
The  breeches  and  the  jerkin's  hue ; 
And  smiled  to  hear  him  grumbling  say. 
As  down  the  stairs  he  ran  away. 
He'd  ne'er  set  foot  within  his  door. 
And  jump  down  open  throats  no  more; 
No,  while  he  lived,  he'd  ne'er  again 
Run,  like  a  fox,  down  the  red  lane. 
Our  patient  thus  (his  inmate  gone) 
Cured  of  the  crotchets  in  his  crown. 
Joyful,  his  gratitude  expiease*. 
With  thousand  thanks  and  hundred  piece* 
And  thus,  with  much  of  pains  and  cost, 
Regain'd  the  health — he  never  lost 


THOMAS  SOUTHERNE * 


[Born,  I6Se.     Died,  1746.] 


FROM  THE  TRAGEDY  OF  THE  "FATAL  MARRIAGE." 

ACT  IV.  SCENE  n. 

Isabella  meeting  with  Biron  after  her  marriage  with 
Villeroy. 

Enter  Nurse. 

Nurse.  Madam,  the  gentleman's  below,    [him. 

Isabella.  I  had  forgot ;  pray  let  me  speak  with 

[Exit  Nurse. 
This  ring  was  the  first  present  of  my  love 
To  Biron,  my  first  husband;  I  must  blush 
To  think  I  have  a  second.     Biron  died 
(Still  to  my  loss)  at  Candy ;  there's  my  hope. 
Oh,  do  I  live  to  hope  that  he  died  there  1 
It  must  be  so,  he's  dead,  and  this  ring  left 
By  his  last  breath,  to  some  known  faithful  friend, 
To  bring  me  back  again. 

[Biron  introduced — Nurse  retire*. 
That's  all  I  have  to  trust  to — 
My  fears  were  woman's — I  have  viewed  him  all: 
And  let  me,  let  me  say  it  to  myself, 
I  live  again,  and  rise  but  from  his  tomb. 

Biron.  Have  you  forgot  me  quite  1 

Isa.  Forgot  you  !  [fortunes, 

Bir.  Then  farewell  my  disguise,  and  my  mis- 
My  Isabella! 

[Hi',  goes  to  Jit;  she  shrieks,  and  falls  into  a  svooon. 

Isa.  Ha! 

Bir.  Oh,  come  again  ! 
Thy  Biron  summons  thee  to  life  and  love ; 
Once  I  had  charms  to  wake  thee : 
Thy  once-loved,  ever-loving  husband  calls — 
Thy  Biron  speaks  to  thee. 

Isa.  My  husband  !   Biron  ! 

Bir.  Excess  of  love,  and  joy  for  my  return 
Has  overpower'd  her.     I  was  to  blame 
To  take  thy  sex's  softness  unprepared: 
But  sinking  thus,  thus  dying  in  my  arms, 
This  ecstasy  has  made  my  welcome  more 
Than  words  could  say  :  words  may  be  counterfeit, 
False-coin'd,  and  current  only  from  the  tongue, 
Without  the  mind  ;  but  passion's  in  the  soul, 
And  always  speaks  the  heart. 

Isa.  Where  have  I  been  1     Why  do  you  keep 
him  from  mel 
I  know  his  voice ;  rny  life  upon  the  wing. 
Here's  the  soft  lure  that  brings  me  back  again  ; 
'Tis  he  himself,  my  Biron,  the  dear  man  ! 
My  true-loved  husband  !    Do  I  hold  you  fast. 
Ne'er  to  part  again  1  Can  I  believe  it  I 
Nothing  but  you  could  work  so  great  a  change : 
There's  more  than  life  itself  in  dying  here  ; 
If  I  must  fall,  death's  welcome  in  these  arms. 


[•In  all  debates  where  critics  bear  a  part, 

Not  one  but  nods  and  talk>  of  Jonson's  art, 

Of  Shakspeare's  nature  and  of  Cowley's  wit: 

How  Beaumont's  judgment  check"d  what  Fletcher  writ; 


Bir.  Live  ever  in  these  arms  ! 

Isa.  But  pardon  me — 
Excuse  the  wild  disorder  of  my  soul : 
The  joy,  the  strange  surprising  joy,  of  seeing  you, 
Of  seeing  you  again,  distracted  me 

Bir.  Thou  everlasting  goodness ! 

Isa.  Answer  me : 
What  hand  of  Providence  has  brought  you  back 
To  your  own  home  again  !  Oh,  satisfy 
The  impatience  of  my  heart !  I  long  to  know 
The  story  of  your  sufferings.    You  would  think 
Your  pleasures  sufferings,  so  long  removed 
From  Isabella's  love.     But  tell  me  all. 
For  every  thought  confounds  me. 

Bir.  My  best  life !  at  leisure,  all.  [of  Candy — 

Isa.  We  thought  you  dead  ;  kill'd  at  the  siege 

Bir.  There  I  fell  among  the  dead ; 
But  hopes  of  life  reviving  from  my  wounds, 
I  was  preserved  but  to  be  made  a  slave : 
I  often  writ  to  my  hard  father,  but  never  had 
An  answer ;  I  writ  to  thee,  too 

Isa.  What  a  world  of  woe 
Had  been  prevented,  but  in  hearing  from  you ! 

Bir.  Alas  !  thou  couldst  not  help  me  !  [done  ; 

Isa.  You  do  not  know  how  much  I  could  have 
At  least,  I'm  sure  I  could  have  suffer'd  all: 
I  would  have  sold  myself  to  slavery. 
Without  redemption  ;  given  up  my  child. 
The  dearest  part  of  me,  to  basest  wants 

Bir.  My  little  boy  ! 

Isa.  My  life,  but  to  have  heard 
You  were  alive — which  now  too  late  I  find. 

[Aside. 

Bir.  No  more,  my  love.     Complaining  of  the 
We  lose  the  present  joy.    'Tis  over  price     [past. 
Of  all  my  pains  that  thus  we  meet  again — 
I  have  a  thousand  things  to  say  to  thee — 

Isa.  Would  I  were  past  the  hearing  !       [Asidt. 

Bir.  How  does  my  child,  my  boy,  my  father 
I  hear  he's  living  still.  [too  1 

Isa.  Well  both,  both  well ; 
And  may  he  prove  a  father  to  your  hopes, 
Though  we  have  found  him  none! 

Bir.  Come,  no  more  tears. 

Isa.  Seven  long  years  of  sorrow  for  your  loss. 
Have  mourn'd  with  me 

Bir.  And  all  my  days  behind 
Shall  be  employ'd  in  a  kind  recompense 
For  thy  afflictions, — Can't  I  see  my  boy  ? 

Isa.  He's  gone  to  bed,  I'll  have  him  brought 
to  you  1 

Bir.  To-morrow  I  shall  see  him  :  I  want  rest 
Myself,  after  this  weary  pilgrimage. 


How  Shadwell  ha«ty,  Wycherley  was  slow; 
But  for  the  passions,  Southerne  sure  and  Rowe. — Popb. 
Southeme  and  Rowe  possesfed  these  parts  with  Lee  and 
Otway ;  they  touched  the  passious  and  expressed  them.] 


THOMAS  SOUTHERNE. 


443 


lia.  Alas  !  what  shall  I  get  for  you  1 

Bir,  Nothing  but  rest,  my  love !    To-night  I 
would  not 
Be  known,  if  possible,  to  your  family  : 
(  see  my  nurse  is  with  you ;  her  welcome 
Would  be  tedious  at  this  time  : 
To-morrow  will  do  better. 

Isa.  I'll  dispose  of  her,  and  order  every  thing 
As  you  would  have  it.  [Exit 

bir.  Grant  me  but  life,  good  Heaven,  and  give 
the  means 
To  make  this  wondrous  goodness  some  amends. 
And  let  me  then  forget  her,  if  I  can  ! 
Oh !  she  deserves  of  nie  much  more  than  I 
Can  lose  for  her,  though  I  again  could  venture 
A  father,  and  his  fortune,  for  her  love  ! 
You  wretched  fathers,  blind  as  fortune  all ! 
Not  to  perceive  that  such  a  woman's  worth 
Weighs  down  the  portions  you  provide  your  sons ; 
What  is  your  trash,  what  all  your  heaps  of  gold, 
Compared  to  this  my  heart-felt  happiness  ! 

IBuraU  into  teart. 
What  has  she,  in  my  absence,  undergone  ! 
I  must  not  think  of  that ;  it  drives  me  back 
Upon  myself,  the  fatal  cause  of  all. 

Isabella  returns. 

ha,  I  have  obey'd  your  pleasure ; 
Every  thing  is  ready  for  you. 

Bir.  I  can  want  nothing  here ;  possessing  thee, 
All  my  desires  are  carried  to  their  aim 
Of  happiness  ;  there's  no  room  for  a  wish. 
But  to  continue  still  this  blessing  to  me ; 
I  know  the  way,  my  love ;  I  shall  sleep  sound. 

Isa.  Shall  I  attend  you  ] 

Bvr.  By  no  means  ; 
I've  been  so  long  a  slave  to  others'  pride, 
To  learn,  at  least,  to  wait  upon  myself; 
You'll  make  haste  after [Ches  in. 

Isa.  I'll  but  say  my  prayers,  and  follow  you — 
My  prayers !  no,  I  must  never  pray  again. 
Prayers  have  their  blessings  to  reward  our  hopes, 
But  I  have  nothing  left  to  hope  for  more. 
What  Heaven  could  give,  I  have  enjoy 'd ;  but  now 
The  baneful  planet  rises  on  my  fate, 
And  what's  to  come  is  a  long  line  of  woe. 

Yet  I  may  shorten  it 

I  promised  him  to  follow — him  ! 

Is  he  without  a  name  1   Biron,  my  husband, 

To  follow  him  to  bed my  husband  !  ha ! 

What  then  is  Villeroy  !  But  yesterday 

That  very  bed  received  him  for  its  lord. 

Yet  a  warm  witness  of  my  broken  vows. 

Oh,  Biron,  hadst  thou  come  but  one  day  sooner, 

I  would  have  follow'd  thee  through  beggary. 

Through  all  the  chances  of  this  weary  life ; 

Wander'd  the  many  ways  of  wretchedness 

With  thee,  to  find  an  hospitable  grave ; 

For  that's  the  only  bed  that's  left  me  now ! 

[  Weeping. 

What's  to  be  done  1 — for  something  must  be 

done. 
Two  husbands !  yet  not  one !   By  both  enjoy'd, 

And  yet  a  wife  to  neither  !  Hold  my  brain 

This  ia  to  live  in  common !  Very  beasts, 


That  welcome  all  they  meet,  make  just  such  wives. 
My  reputation  !   Qh,  'twas  all  was  left  me  ! 
The  virtuous  pride  of  an  uncensured  life; 
Which  the  dividing  tongues  of  Biron's  wrongs, 
And  Villeroy's  resentments,  tear  asunder. 
To  gorge  the  throate  of  the  blaspheming  rabble. 
This  is  the  best  of  what  can  come  to-morrow, 
Besides  old  Baldwin's  triumph  in  my  ruin ! 

I  cannot  bear  it 

Therefore  no  morrow :  Ha  :  a  lucky  thought 
Works  the  right  way  to  rid  me  of  them  all ; 
All  the  reproaches,  infamies,  and  scorns, 
That  every  tongue  and  finger  will  find  for  me. 
Let  the  just  horror  of  my  apprehensions 
But  keep  me  warm — no  matter  what  can  come. 

'Tis  but  a  flow — yet  I  will  see  him  first 

Have  a  last  look  to  heighten  my  despair, 
And  then  to  rest  for  ever. — 

BmoN  meets  her. 

Bir.  Despair,  and  rest  for  ever,  Isabella ! 
These  words  are  far  from  thy  condition. 
And  be  they  ever  so !  I  heard  thy  voice. 
And  could  not  bear  thy  absence:  come,  my  love! 
You  have  staid  long ;  there's  nothing,  nothing 

^ure 
Now  to  despair  of  in  succeeding  fate. 

Isa.  I  am  contented  to  be  miserable. 
But  not  this  way  :  I  have  been  too  long  abused, 
And  can  believe  no  more. 
Let  me  sleep  on  to  be  deceived  no  more. 

Bir.  Look  up,  my  love !    I  never  did  dfi;eive 
Nor  never  can  ;  believe  thyself,  thy  eyes,    [then, 
That  first  inflamed,  and  lit  me  to  my  love ; 
Those  stars,  that  still  must  guide  me  to  my  joys— 

Isa.  And  me  to  my  undoing;  I  look  round. 
And  find  no  path,  but  leading  to  the  grave. 

Bir.  I  cannot  understand  thee. 

Isa.  My  good  friends  above, 
I  thank  them,  have  at  last  found  out  a  way 
To  make  my  fortune  perfect;  having  you, 
I  need  no  more ;  my  fate  is  finish'd  here. 

Bir.  Both  our  ill  fates,  I  hope. 

Isa.  Hope  is  a  lying,  fawning  flatterer. 
That  shows  the  fair  side  only  of  our  fortunes. 
To  cheat  us  easier  into  our  fall; 
A  trusted  friend,  who  only  can  betray  you ; 
Never  believe  him  more.     If  marriages 
Are  made  in  heaven,  they  should  be  happier: 
Why  was  I  made  this  wretch  1 

Bir.  Has  marriage  made  thee  wretched! 

Isa.  Miserable,  beyond  the  reach  of  comfort. 

Bir.  Do  I  live  to  hear  thee  say  so  1 

Isa.  Why,  what  did  I  say  1 

Bir.  That  I  have  made  thee  miserable. 

Isa.  No:  you  are  my  only  earthly  happiness: 
And  my  false  tongue  belied  my  honest  heart. 
If  it  said  otherwise. 

Bir.  And  yet  you  said, 
Your  marriage  made  you  miserable. 

Isa.  I  know  not  what  I  said: 
I  have  said  too  much,  unless  I  could  speak  all. 

Bir.  Thy  words  are  wild ;  my  eyes,  my  eara, 
my  heart. 
Were  all  so  full  of  thee,  so  much  employ'd 


444 


THOMAS  SOUTHERNE. 


In  wonder  of  thy  charms,  I  could  not  find  it: 
Now  I  perceive  it  plain 

Isa.  You  will  tell  nobody [DittraeUidly. 

Bir.  Thou  art  not  well. 

Isa.  Indeed  I  am  not ;  I  knew  that  before ; 
But  Where's  the  remedy  ? 

liir.  Rest  will  relieve  thy  cares :  come,  come, 
I'll  banish  sorrow  from  thee.  fno  more : 

Isa.  Banish  first  the  cause. 

Bir.  Heaven  knows  how  willingly  ! 

ha.  You  are  the  only  cause.  [tunes  1 

Bir.  Am  I  the  cause  1  the  cause  of  thy  misfor- 

ha.  The  fatal,  innocent  cause  of  all  my  woes. 

Bir.  Is  this  my  welcome  home  !  this  the  reward 
Of  all  my  miseries,  long  labours,  pains. 
And  pining  wants  of  wretched  slavery. 
Which  I  have  outlived,  only  in  hopes  of  thee! 
Am  I  thus  paid  at  last  for  deathless  love, 
And  call'd  the  cause  of  thy  misfortunes  now  ] 

Isa.  Inquire  no  more ;  'twill  be  explain'd  too 
soon.  [*'«  «  going  off. 

Bir.  What !  canst  thou  leave  me  too  1 

[He  stays  Tier. 

Isa.  Pray  let  me  go: 
For  both  our  sakes,  permit  me. 

Bir.  Rack  me  not  with  imaginations 

Of  things  impossible Thou  canst  not  mean 

What  thou  hast  said Yet  something  she  must 

mean. — 

"Twas  madness  all Compose  thyself,  my  love ! 

The  fit  Ls  past ;  all  may  be  well  again : 
Let  us  to  bed. 

Isa.  To  bed  !  You  have  raised  the  storm 
Will  sever  us  for  ever.     Oh,  Biron ! 
While  I  have  life,  still  I  must  call  you  mine. 
I  know  I  am,  and  always  was,  unworthy 
To  be  the  happy  partner  of  your  love ; 
And  now  must  never,  never  share  it  more. 
But  oh  !  if  ever  I  was  dear  to  you. 
As  sometimes  you  have  thought  me,  on  my  knees 
(The  last  time  I  shall  care  to  be  believed,) 
I  beg  you,  beg  to  think  me  innocent, 
Clear  of  all  crimes,  that  thus  can  banish  me 
From  this  world's  comforts,  in  my  losing  you. 

Bir.  Where  will  this  end  ? 

Isa.  The  rugged  hand  of  fate  has  got  between 
Our  meeting  hearts,  and  thrusts  them  from  their 
Since  we  must  part |j°y^' 

Bir.  Nothing  shall  ever  part  us. 

Isa.  Parting's  the  least  that  is  set  down  for  me: 
Heaven  has  decreed,  and  we  must  suffer  all. 

Bir.  I  know  thee  innocent;  I  know  myself  so: 
Indeed  we  both  have  been  unfortunate ; 
But  sure  misfortunes  ne'er  were  faults  in  love. 

Isa.  Oh  !  there's  a  fatal  story  to  be  told  ; 
Be  deaf  to  that,  as  Heaven  has  been  to  me ! 
And  rot  the  tongue  that  shall  reveal  my  shame : 
When  thou  shalt  hear  how  much  thou  hast  been 

wrong'd, 
How  wilt  thou  curse  thy  fond  believing  heart, 
Tear  me  from  the  warm  bosom  of  thy  love. 
And  throw  me  like  a  poisonous  weed  away ! 
Can  I  bear  that  1  bear  t/>  be  curst  and  torn, 
And  thrown  out  of  thy  family  and  name. 
Like'  a  disease  ?  Can  I  bear  this  from  thee  1 


I  never  can:  no,  all  things  have  their  end. 
When  I  am  dead,  forgive  and  pity  me.  [^^ 

Bir.  Stay,  my  Isabella 

What  can  she  mean  1    These  doubtings  will  di» 

tract  me  : 
Some  hidden  mischief  soon  will  burst  to  light ; 

I  cannot  bear  it 1  must  be  satisfied 

'Tis  she,  my  wife,  must  clear  this  darkness  to  me. 

She  shall — if  the  sad  tale  at  last  must  come. 

She  is  my  fate,  and  best  can  speak  my  doom. 

[JEri/. 


ACT  V. 


Scene  I. — Enter  BmoN.    UnrsefoBounnff  him. 

Bir.  I  know  enough  :  the  important  question 
Of  life  or  death,  fearful  to  be  resolved. 
Is  clear'd  to  me:  I  see  where  it  must  end. 
And  need  inquire  no  more — Pray  let  me  have 
Pen,  ink  and  paper.     I  must  write  awhile, 

And  then  I'll  try  to  rest to  rest  for  ever ! 

[Exit  Nvirse 
Poor  Isabella !  now  I  know  the  cause. 
The  cause  of  thy  distress,  and  cannot  wonder 
That  it  has  turn'd  thy  brain.     If  I  look  back 
Upon  thy  loss,  it  will  distract  me  too. 
Oh,  any  curse  but  this  might  be  removed ! 
But  'twas  the  rancorous  malignity 
Of  all  ill  stars  combined,  of  heaven  and  fate- 
Hold,  hold,  my  impious  tongue — Alas  !  I  rav»  ; 
Why  do  I  tax  the  stars,  or  heaven,  or  fate  1 
They  are  all  innocent  of  driving  us 
Into  despair  ;  they  have  not  urged  my  doom ; 
My  father  and  my  brother  are  my  fates 
That  drive  me  to  my  ruin.     They  knew  well 
I  was  alive.     Too  well  they  knew  how  dear 
My  Isabella — Oh,  my  wife  no  more ! 
How  dear  her  love  was  to  me — 'Yet  they  stood. 
With  a  malicious  silent  joy,  stood  by, 
And  saw  her  give  up  all  my  happiness, 
The  treasure  of  her  beauty  to  another; 
Stood  by,  and  saw  her  married  to  another. 
Oh,  cruel  father  !   and  unnatural  brother  ! 
Shall  I  not  tell  you  that  you  have  undone  me  ! 
I  have  but  to  accuse  you  of  my  wrongs. 
And  then  to  fall  forgotten — Sleep  or  death 
Sits  heavy  on  me,  and  benumbs  my  pains: 
Either  is  welcome ;  but  the  hand  of  death 
Works  always  sure,  and  best  can  close  my  eyes. 

[Exit  BlRO» 


ScESE  n. — Draws,  shows  Braos  asleep  on  a  couch. 
Enter  Isabella. 
Isa.  Asleep  so  soon  !  Oh,  happy,  happy  thou, 
Who  thus  can  sleep  !  I  never  shall  sleep  more — 
If  then  to  sleep  be  to  be  happy,  he 
Who  sleeps  the  longest  is  the  happiest: 
Death  is  the  longest  sleep — Oh,  have  a  care ! 
Mischief  will  thrive  apace. — Never  wake  more. 

[li^BlBOK 

If  thou  didst  ever  love  thy  Isabella, 
To-morrow  must  be  doomsday  to  thy  peace. 
The  sight  of  him  disarms  even  death  itselt 


THOMAS   SOUTHERNE. 


445 


The  starting  transport  of  new  quickening  life 
Gives  just  such  hopes:  and  pleasure  grows  again 
With  looking  on  him — Let  me  look  my  last — 
But  is  a  look  enough  for  parting  love ! 
Sure  I  may  take  a  kiss — Where  am  I  going! 
Help,  help  me  Villeroy  !  Mountains  and  seas 
Divide  your  love,  never  to  meet  my  shame ! 

IT/irows  lievsdf  upon  Ihe.floiir;  ajler  a  short  patut 
she  raii-et  herself  upon  Iter  elbow. 

What  will  this  battle  of  the  brain  do  with  me ! 
This  little  ball,  this  ravaged  province,  long 

Cannot  maintain The  globe  of  earth  wants 

room 
And  food  for  such  a  war — I  find  I  am  going — 
Famine,  plagues,  and  flames, 
Wide  waste  and  desolation,  do  your  work 
Upon  the  world,  and  then  devour  yourselves ! 
The  scene  shifts  fast — [S/ie  risesj — and  now  'tis 

better  with  me ; 
Conflicting  passions  have  at  last  unhinged 
The  great  machine!  the  soul  itself  seems  changed! 
Oh,  'tis  a  happy  revolution  here ! 
The  reasoning  faculties  are  all  deposed ; 
Judgment,  and  understanding,  common  sense, 
Driven  out  as  tradtors  to  the  public  peace. 
Now  I  am  revenged  upon  my  memory  ! 
Her  seat  dug  up,  where  all  the  images 
Of  a  long  mis-spent  Ufe  were  rising  still, 
To  glare  a  sad  reflection  of  my  crimes, 
And  stab  a  conscience  through  them !     You  are 

safe. 
You  monitors  of  mischief!    What  a  change  ! 
Better  and  better  still !  'J'his  is  the  infant  state 
Of  innocence,  before  the  birth  of  care. 
My  thoughts  are  smooth  as  the  Elysian  plains. 
Without  a  rub :  the  drowsy  falling  streams 
Invite  me  to  their  slumbers. 

Would  I  were  landed  there— ^^[iSint*  into  a  cAair. 
What  noise  was  that  1     A  knocking  at  the  gate ! 

It  may  be  Villeroy No  matter  who. 

liir.  Come,  Isabella,  come. 

Isa.  Hark  !  I  am  call'd ! 

Bir.  You  stay  too  long  from  me.  [there  1 

ha.  A  man's  voice  !  in  my  bed  !  How  came  he 

Nothing  but  villainy  in  this  bad  world !        [Kites. 

Coveting  neighbours' goods,  or  neighbours' wives: 

Here's  physic  for  your  fever. 

[Draws  a  dagger,  and  goes  backward  to  the  cnueh. 
Breathing  a  vein  is  the  old  remedy. 
If  husbands  go  to  heaven, 

Where  do  they  go  that  send  them? — This  to  try 

[Just  going  to  stab  him,  fie  rises;  she  knows  hivh 
and  shrieks. 
What  do  I  see ! 

liir.  Isabella,  arra'd ! 
ha.  Against  my  husband's  life! 
Who,  but  the  wretch,  most  reprobate  to  grace. 
Despair  e'er  harden'd  for  damnation, 
Could  think  of  such  a  deed — Murder  my  husband! 
lAr.  Thou  didst  not  think  it. 
ha.  Madness  has  bronebtme  to  the  gatesof  hell. 


And  there  has  left  me.     Oh,  the  frightful  change 

Of  my  distractions !  Or  is  this  interval 

Of  reason  but  to  aggravate  my  woes, 

To  drive  the  horror  back  with  greater  force 

Upon  my  soul,  and  fix  me  mad  for  ever? 

Bir.  Why  dost  thou  fly  me  so  1 

ha.  I  cannot  l>ear  his  sight ;  Distraction,  come. 
Possess  me  all,  and  take  me  to  thyself! 
Shake  off  thy  chains,  and  hasten  to  my  aid ; 

Thou  art  my  only  cure Like  other  friends. 

He  will  not  come  to  my  necessities; 
Then  I  must  go  to  find  the  tyrant  ou^~ 
Which  is  the  nearest  way  1  [Running  out. 

Bir.  Poor  l^ltella !  she's  not  in  a  condition 
To  give  me  any  comfort,  if  she  could : 

Lost  to  herself as  quickly  I  shall  be 

To  all  the  world Horrors  come  fast  around  me; 

My  mind  is  overcast — the  gathering  clouds 
Darken  the  prospect — I  approach  the  brink. 
And  soon  must  leap  the  precipice !  Oh,  heaven  ! 
While  yet  my  senses  are  my  own,  thus  kneeling. 
Let  me  implore  thy  mercies  on  my  wife : 
Release  her  from  her  pangs ;  and  if  my  reason, 
O'erwhelm'd    with    miseries,   sink    before    the 

tempest. 
Pardon  those  crimes  despair  may  bring  upon  me ! 

[Bise*. 
Enter  Nurse. 

Nurse.  Sir,  there  is  somelxxly  at  the  door  must 
needs  speak  with  you ;  he  will  not  tell  his  name. 
Bir.  I  come  to  him.                              [Exit  Nurse. 
'Tis  Belford,  I  suppose ;  he  little  knows 
Of  what  has  happen'd  here;  I  wanted  him. 
Must  employ  his  friendship,  and  then [iwt 


SONO. 


m  Snt  A»THO»T  lOVE,  OR  THK  RANBLnCO  LADT. 

Pursuing  beauty,  men  descry 

The  distant  shore,  and  long  to  prove 

Still  richer  in  variety 

The  treasures  of  the  land  of  love. 

We  women,  like  weak  Indians,  stand 
Inviting  from  our  golden  coast 

The  wand'ring  rovers  to  our  land  : 
But  she  who  trades  with  them  is  lost 

With  humble  vows  they  first  begin, 
Stealing  unseen  into  the  heart ; 

But  by  possession  settled  in. 
They  quickly  play  another  part. 

For  beads  and  baubles  we  resign. 
In  ignorance,  our  shining  store; 

Discover  nature's  richest  mine, 

And  yet  the  tyranu  will  have  more. 

Be  wise,  be  wise,  and  do  not  try 
How  he  can  court,  or  you  be  won ; 

For  love  is  but  discovery : 

When  that  is  made,  the  pleasure's  done 


THOMAS  WARTON. 

[Bom,  1687.    Died,  nib.} 


Thomas  Warton,  the  elder,  father  of  Joseph 
and  Thomas  Warton,  was  of  Magdalen  College, 


Oxford,  vicar  of  Basingstoke  and  Cobham,  anil 
twice  chosen  Poetry  Professor. 


RETIREMENT.    AN  ODE. 
On  beds  of  daisies  idly  laid, 
The  willow  waving  o'er  my  head, 
Now  morning,  on  the  bending  stem, 
Hangs  the  round  and  glittering  gem, 
LuU'd  by  the  lapse  of  yonder  spring, 
Of  nature's  various  charms  I  sing : 
Ambition,  pride,  and  pomp,  adieu, 
For  what  has  joy  to  do  with  you  1 
Joy,  rose-lipt  dryad,  loves  to  dwell 
In  sunny  field  or  mossy  cell ; 
Delights  on  echoing  hills  to  hear 
The  reaper's  song,  or  lowing  steer ; 
Or  view,  with  tenfold  plenty  spread, 
The  crowded  corn-field,  blooming  mead ; 
While  beauty,  health,  and  innocence. 
Transport  the  eye,  the  soul,  the  sense. 
Not  fresco'd  roofs,  not  beds  of  state. 
Not  guards  that  round  a  monarch  wait ; 
Not  crowds  of  flatterers  can  scare. 
From  loftiest  courts,  intruding  Care. 
'Midst  odours,  splendours,  banquets,  wine. 
While  minstrels  sound,  while  tapers  shine. 
In  sable  stole  sad  Care  will  come, 
And  darken  the  sad  drawing-room. 
\ymphs  of  the  groves,  in  green  array'd. 
Conduct  me  to  your  thickest  shade  ; 
Deep  in  the  bosom  of  the  vale. 
Where  haunts  the  lonesome  nightingale ;, 
Where  Contemplation,  maid  divine. 
Leans  against  some  aged  pine. 
Wrapt  in  solemn  thought  profound. 
Her  eyes  fix'd  steadfast  on  the  ground. 
Oh,  virtue's  nurse,  retired  queen. 
By  saints  alone  and  hermits  seen. 
Beyond  vain  mortal  wishes  wise, 
Teach  me  St.  James's  to  despise ; 


For  what  are  crowded  courts,'but  schools 
For  fops,  or  hospitals  for  fools; 
Where  slaves  and  madmen,  young  and  old. 
Meet  to  adore  some  calf  of  gold  1 


VERSES  WRITTEN  AFTER  SEEING  WINDSOR 
CASTLE. 
Feom  beauteous  Windsor's  high  and  storied  halls, 
Where  Edward's  chiefs  start  from  the  glowing 
To  my  low  cot,  from  ivory  beds  of  state,    [walls, 
Pleased  I  return,  unenvious  of  the  great : 
So  the  bee  ranges  o'er  the  varied  scenes 
Of  corn,  of  heaths,  of  fallows,  and  of  greens, 
Pervades  the  thicket,  soars  above  the  hill, 
Or  murmurs  to  the  meadow's  murmuring  rill ; 
Now  haunts  old  hollow'd  oaks,  deserted  cells. 
Now  seeks  the  Idw  vale-lily's  silver  bells; 
Sips  the  warm  fragrance  of  the  greenhouse  bowers, 
And  tastes  the  myrtle  and  the  citron  flowers; 
At  length  returning  to  the  wonted  comb. 
Prefers  to  all  his  little  straw-built  home.  . 


AN  AMERICAN  LOVE  ODE. 

FROM  THE   SECOXD  VOLUME  OF  MONTAIGNE'S  ESSAT8. 

Stay,  stay,  thou  lovely,  fearful  snake. 
Nor  hide  thee  in  yon  darksome  brake: 
But  let  me  oft  thy  charms  review. 
Thy  glittering  scales,  and  golden  hue ; 
From  thee  a  chaplet  shall  be  wove, 
To  grace  the  youth  I  dearest  love. 
Then  ages  hence,  when  thou  no  more 
Shalt  creep  along  the  sunny  shore. 
Thy  copied  beauties  shall  be  seen  ; 
Thy  red  and  azure  mix'd  with  green, 
In  mimic  folds  thou  shalt  display: — 
Stay,  lovely,  fearful  adder,  stay. 


ROBERT  BLAIR. 

CBorn,  1699.    Died,  1746.J 


Robert  Blair  was  minister  of  the  parish  of 
Athelstaneford,  in  East  Lothian.  His  son,  who 
died  not  many  years  ago,  was  a  very  high  legal 
character  in  Scotland.  The  eighteenth  century 
has  produced  few  specimens  of  blank  verse  of  so 
powerful  and  simple  a  character  as  that  of  The 
Grave.  It  is  a  popular  poem,  not  merely  because 
it  is  religious,  but  because  its  language  and 
imagery  are  free,  natural,  and  picturesque.  The 
latest  editor  of  the  poets  has,  with  singularly  bad 
taste,  noted  some  of  this  author's  most  nervous 
and  expressive  phrases  as  vulgarisms,  among 
which  he  reckons  that  of  friendship  "  the  solder 
446 


of  society."  Blair  may  be  a  homely  and  even  a 
gloomy  poet  in  the  eye  of  fastidious  criticisn. ; 
but  there  is  a  masculine  and  pronounced  cha- 
racter even  in  his  gloom  and  homeliness  that 
keeps  it  most  distinctly  apart  from  either  dullness 
or  vulgarity.  His  style  pleases  us  like  the  power- 
ful expression  of  a  countenance  without  regular 
beauty.* 


[*  Blair  was  a  great  favourite  witli  Bums,  wlio  quotes 
from  "Tlie  Grave."  very  frequently  in  his  letters. 

"  Blairs  Grave,"  says  Southey,  '•  is  the  only  poem  I  can 
call  to  mind  which  has  been  composed  in  imitation  of  the 
Night  Thoughts." — Life  of  Oowper,  vol.  ii.  p.  143.] 


ROBERT   BLAIR. 


447 


FROM  "THE  GRAVE." 
Whilst  some  affect  the  sun,  and  some  the  shade, 
Some  flee  the  city,  some  the  hermitage ; — 
Their  aims  as  various,  as  the  roads  they  take 
In  journeying  through  life ; — the  task  be  mine 
To  paint  the  gloomy  horrors  of  the  tomb ; 
Th'  appointed  place  of  rendezvous,  vyhere  all 

These  travellers  ipeet. Thy  succours  I  implore, 

Eternal  king!  whose  potent  arm  sustains 

The  keys  of  hell  and   death. The  Grave — 

dread  thing ! 
Men  shiver  when  thou'rt  named :  Nature,  appall'd, 

Shakes  off  her  wonted  firmness. Ah !  how 

dark 
Thy  long-extended  realms,  and  rueful  wastes ! 
Where  nought  but  silence  reigns,  and  night,  dark 

night, 
Dark  as  was  chaos,  ere  the  infant  sun 
Was  roll'd  together,  or  had  tried  his  beams 

Athwart   the    gloom    profound. The   sickly 

taper, 
By  glimm'ring  through   thy  low-brow'd    misty 

vaults 
(Furr'd   round  with   mouldy  damps,   and  ropy 

slime,) 
Lets  fall  a  supernumerary  horror. 
And  only  serves  to  make  thy  night  mora  irksome. 
Well  do  I  know  thee  by  thy  trusty  yew, 
Cheerless,  unsocial  plant!  that  loves  to  dwell 
'Midst  skulls  and  coffins,  epitaphs  and  worms : 
Where  light-heel'd  ghosts,  and  visionary  shades. 
Beneath  the  wan  cold  moon,  (as  fame  reports,) 
Embodied,  thick,  perform  their  mystic  rounds. 
No  other  merriment,  dull  tree,  is  thine. 

See  yonder  hallow'd  fane ; — the  pious  work 
Of  names  once  famed,  now  dubious  or  forgot, 
And  buried  'midst  the  wreck  of  things  which  were; 
There  lie  interr'd  the  more  illustrious  dead. 
The  wind  is  up:  hark!  how  it  howls!  Methinks 
Till  now  I  never  heard  a  sound  so  dreary : 
Doors  creak,  and  windows  clap,  and  night's  foul 

bird, 
Rook'd  in  the  spire,  screams  loud :  the  gloomy 

aisles 
Black  plaster'd,  and  hung  round  with  shreds  of 

'scutcheons 
And  talter'd  coats  of  arms,  send  back  the  sound 
Laden  with  heavier  airs,  from  the  low  vaulU, 

The  mansions  of  the  dead. Roused  firom  their 

slumbers. 
In  grim  array  the  grisly  spectres  rise, 
Grin  horrible,  and,  obstinately  sullen. 
Pass  and  repass,  hush'd  as  the  foot  of  Night 
Again  the  screech-owl  shrieks:  ungracioussound ! 
I'll  hear  no  more;  it  makes  one's  blood  run  chill. 

Quite  round  the  pile,  a  row  of  reverend  elms 
(Coeval  near  with  that)  all  ragged  show. 
Long  lash'd  by  the  rude  winds.  Some  rift  half  down 
Their  branchless  trunks ;  others  so  thin  a-top. 
That  scarce  two  crows  could  lodge  in  the  same 

tree. 
Strange  things,  the  neighbours  say,  have  happen'd 

here: 
Wild  shrieks  have  issued  from  the  hollow  tombs : 
Dead  men  have  come  again,  and  walk'd  about ; 


And  the  great  bell  has  toU'd,  unrung,  untouch'd 
(Such  tales  their  cheer  at  wake  or  gossipping. 
When  it  draws  near  to  witching  time  of  night.) 
Oil,  in  the  lone  church-yard,  at  night  I've  seen 
By   glimpse  of  moonshine  chequering  through 

the  trees. 
The  schoollwy,  with  his  satchel  in  his  hand. 
Whistling  aloud  to  bear  his  courage  up. 
And  lightly  tripping  o'er  the  long  flat  stones, 
(With  nettles  skirted,  and  with  moss  o'ergrown,) 
That  tell  in  homely  phrase  who  lie  below. 
Sudden  he  starts,  and  hears,  or  thinks  he  hears. 
The  sound  of  something  purring  at  his  heels ; 
Full  fast  he  flies,  and  dares  not  look  behind  him. 
Till  out  of  breath  he  overtakes  his  fellows : 
Who  gather  round,  and  wonder  at  the  tale 
Of  horrid  apparition,  tall  and  ghastly. 
That  walks  at  dead  of  night,  or  takes  his  stand 
O'er  some  new-open'd  grave;  and  (strange  to 

tell!) 
Evanishes  at  crowing  of  the  cock. 

*  «  «  • 

Invidious  grave ! — ^how  dost  thou  rend  in  sunder 
Whom  love  has  knit,  and  sympathy  made  one] 
A  tie  more  stubborn  far  than  nature's  band. 
Friendship  !  mysterious  cement  of  the  soul ; 
Sweetener  of  life,  and  solder  of  society, 
I  owe  thee  much.     Thou  hast  deserved  from  me 
Far,  far  beyond  what  I  can  ever  pay. 
Oft  have  I  proved  the  labours  of  thy  love. 
And  the  warm  efforts  of  the  gentle  heart. 
Anxious  to  please. — Oh !  when  my  friend  and  I 
In  some  thick  wood  have  wander'd  heedless  on. 
Hid  from  the  vulgar  eye,  and  sat  us  down 
Upon  the  sloping  cowslip-cover'd  bank. 
Where  the  pure  limpid  stream  has  slid  along 
In  grateful  errors  through  the  underwood. 
Sweet  murmuring;  methought  the  shrill-tongued 

thrush 
Mended  his  song  of  love  ;  the  sooty  blackbird 
Mellow'd  his  pipe,  and  soften'd  every  note  : 
The  eglantine  smell'd  sweeter,  and  the  rose 
Assumed  a  dye  more  deep ;  whilst  every  flower 
Vied  with  iU  fellow  plant  in  luxury 

Of  dress Oh!  then,  the  longest  summer's  day 

Seem'd  too,  too  much  in  haste :  still  the  full  heart 
Had  not  imparled  half:  'twas  happiness 
Too  exquisite  to  last.     Of  joys  departed, 
Not  to  return,  how  painful  the  remembrance  ! 
*  ♦  *»  ♦ 

Beauty — thou  pretty  plaything,  dear  deceit, 
That  steals  so  softly  o'er  the  stripling's  heart. 
And  gives  it  a  new  pulse,  unknown  before, 
The  grave  discredits  thee :  thy  charms  expunged. 
Thy  roses  faded,  and  thy  lilies  soil'd. 
What  hast  thou  more  to  boast  ofl     Will  thy 

lovers 
Flock  round  thee  now.  to   gaze    and    do    thee 

homage  1 
Methinks  I  see  thee  with  thy  head  low  laid, 
W  hilst  surfeited  upon  thy  damask  cheek. 
The  high-fed  worm,  in  lazy  volumes  roll'd. 

Riots  unscared. For  this,  was  all  thy  caution ! 

For  this,  thy  painful  labours  at  thy  glass  1 


448 


ROBERT   BLAIR. 


To  improve  those  charms,  and  keep  them  in  re- 
pair, 
For  which  the  spoiler  thanks  thee  not.  Foul  feeder, 
Coarse  fare  and  carrion  please  thee  full  as  well, 
And  leave  as  keen  a  relish  on  the  sense. 
Look  how  the  fair  one  weeps ! — the  conscious  tears 
Stand  thick  as  dew-drops  on  the  bells  of  flowers : 
Honest  effusion !  the  swollen  heart  in  vain 
Works  hard  to  put  a  gloss  on  its  distress. 

*  *  *  * 
Sure  'tis  a  serious  thing  to  die !     My  soul, 

What  a  strange  moment  must  it  be,  when  near 
Thy  journey's  end,  thou  hast  the  gulf  in  view  ! 
That  awful  gulf  no  mortal  e'er  repass'd 
To  tell  what's  doing  on  the  other  side. 
Nature  runs  back,  and  shudders  at  the  sight. 
And  every  life-string  bleeds  at  thoughts  of  part- 
ing; 
For  part  they  must:  body  and  soul  must  part; 
Fond  couple  !  link'd  more  close  than  wedded  pair. 
This  wings  its  way  to  its  almighty  source, 
The  witness  of  its  actions,  now  its  judge  ; 
That  drops  into  the  dark  and  noisome  grave, 
Like  a  disabled  pitcher  of  no  use. 

*  *  *  * 

Tell  us,  ye  dead,  will  none  of  you,  in  pity 
To  those  you  left  behind,  disclose  the  secret? 
Oh!  that  some  courteous  ghost  would  blab  it  out; 
What  'tis  you  are,  and  we  must  shortly  be. 
I've  heard,  that  souls  departed  have  sometimes 
Forewarn'd  men  of  their  death : — 'Twas  kindly 

done 
To  knock,  and  give  the  alarm — But  what  means 
This  stinted  charity  ? — 'Tis  but  lame  kindness 
That  does  its  work  by  halves. — Why  might  you 
Tell  us  what  'tis  to  die  ]  do  the  strict  laws   [not 
Of  your  society  forbid  your  speaking 
Upon  a  point  so  nice  1 — I'll  ask  no  more : 
Sullen,  like  lamps  in  sepulchres,  your  shine 
Enlightens  but  yourselves.    Well,  'tis  no  matter; 
A  very  little  time  will  clear  up  all, 
And  make  us  learn'd  as  you  are,  and  as  close. 
Death's  shafts  fly  thick : — Here  falls  the  vil- 
lage-swain. 
And   there  his  pamper'd  lord. — The  cup  goes 

round : 
And  who  so  artful  as  to  put  it  by ! 
'Tis  long  since  death  had  the  majority ; 
Yet  strange !  the  liying  lay  it  not  to  heart. 
See  yonder  maker  of  the  dead  man's  bed, 
The  sexton,  hoary-headed  chronicle. 
Of  hard  unmeaning  face,  down  which  ne'er  stole 
A  gentle  tear ;  with  mattock  in  his  hand 
Digs  through  whole  rows  of  kindred  and  acquaint- 
ance. 

By  far  his  juniors. Scarce  a  skull's  cast  up. 

But  well  he  knew  its  owner,  and  can  tell 

Some  passage  of  his  Hfe. Thus  hand  in  hand 

The  sot  has  walked  with  death  twice  twenty  years; 
And  yet  ne'er  yonker  on  the  green  laughs  louder, 
Or  clubs  a  smuttier  tale: — When  drunkards  meet. 
None  sings  a  merrier  catch,  or  lends  a  hand 
More  willing  to  his  cup. — Poor  wretch,  he  minds 
not 


That  soon  some  trusty  brotner  of  the  trade 
Shall  do  for  him  what  he  has  done  for  thousands. 

*  *  *  * 

Poor  man  ! — how  happy  once  in  thy  first  state ! 
When  yet  but  warm    from  thy  great  Maker's 

hand. 
He  stamp'd  thee  with  his  image,  and,  well  pleased, 
Smiled  on  his  last  fair  work. — Then  all  was  well. 
Sound  was  the  body,  and  the  soul  serene ; 
Like  two  sweet  instruments  ne'er  out  of  tune, 
That  play  their  several  parts. — Nor  head,  nor 

heart, 
Offer'd  to  ache :  nor  was  there  cause  they  should ; 
For  all  was  pure  within  :  no  fell  remorse. 
Nor  anxious  castings-up  of  what  might  be, 
Alarm'd  his  peaceful  bosom. — Summer  seas 
Show  not  more  smooth,  when  kiss'd  by  southern 
winds 

Just  ready  to  expire scarce  importuned, 

The  generous  soil,  with  a  luxurious  hand, 
Offer'd  the  various  produce  of  the  year. 
And  every  thing  most  perfect  in  its  kind,  [short ! 
Blessed  !    thrice   blessed   days  ! — But    ah !    how 
Bless'd  as  the  pleasing  dreams  of  holy  men; 
But  fugitive  like  those,  and  quickly  gone. 
Oh !  slippery  state  of  things. —  Whatsudden  turns ! 
What  strange  vicissitudes  in  the  first  leaf 

Of  man's  sad  history  ! To-day  most  happy, 

And  ere  to-morrow's  sun  has  set,  most  abject. 
How  scant  the  space  between  these  vast  ex- 
tremes !  [joy'<i 
Thus  fared  it  with  our  sire: — Not  long  h'  en- 
His  paradise. — Scarce  had  the  happy  tenant 
Of  the  fair  spot  due  time  to  prove  its  sweets. 
Or  sum  them  up,  when  straight  he  must  be  gone, 

Ne'er  to  return  again. And  must  he  go  ? 

Can  nought  compound  for  the  first  dire  offence 
Of  erring  man  1 — Like  one  that  is  condemn'd, 
Fain  would  he  trifle  time  with  idle  talk, 

And  parley  witli  his  fate. But  'tis  in  vain. 

Not  all  the  lavish  odours  of  the  place, 
Offer'd  in  incense,  can  procure  his  pardon, 
Or  mitigate  his  doom. — A  mighty  angel. 
With  flaming  sword,  forbids  his  longer  stay. 
And  drives  the  loiterer  forth  ;  nor  must  he  take 
One  last  and  farewell  round. 

*  *  *  * 

*  *  *  Sure  the  last  end 
Of  the  good  man  is  peace ! — How  calm  his  exit ! 
Night-dews  fall  not  more  gently  to  the  ground, 
Nor  weary  worn-out  winds  expire  so  soft. 
Behold  him  in  the  evening-tide  of  life, 

A  life  well-spent,  whose  early  care  it  was 
His  riper  years  should  not  upbraid  his  green , 
By  unperceived  degrees  he  wears  away ; 
Yet,  like  the  sun,  seems  larger  at  his  setting. 
(High  in  his  faith  and  hopes)  look  how  he  reaches 
After  the  prize  in  view  !  and,  like  a  bird 
That's  hamper'd,  struggles  hard  to  get  away : 
Whilst  the  glad  gates  of  sight  are  wide  expanded 
To  let  new  glories  in,  the  first  fair  fruits 
Of  the  fast-coming  harvest. — Then,  oh  then  ! 
Each  earth-born  joy  grows  vile,  or  disajtpears. 
Shrunk  to  a  thing  of  nought. — Oh !  how  he  longs 


JAMES  THOMSON. 


44& 


To  have  his  passport  sign'd,  and  be  dismiss'd  ! 
"I'is  done !  and  now  he's  happy ! — The  glad  soul 

Has  not  a  wish  uncrown'd Ev'n  the  lag  flesh 

Rests  too  in  hope  of  meeting  once  again 

Its  better  hal^  never  to  sunder  more.  Ton, 

IV  or  shall  it  hope  in  vain : The  time  draws 

When  not  a  single  spot  of  burial  earth, 
Whether  on  land  or  in  the  spacious  sea. 
But  must  give  back  its  long-committed  dust 
Inviolate — and  faithfully  shall  these 
Make  up  the  full  account ;  not  the  least  atom 
Embezzled,  or  mislaid,  of  the  whole  tale. 
Each  soul  shall  have  a  body  ready  furnish'd ; 
And  each  shall  have  his  own. — Hence,  ye  pro- 
fane ! 
Ask  not,  how  this  can  be? — Sure  the  same  pow'r 
That  rear'd  the  piece  at  first,  and  took  it  down, 
Can  re-assemble  the  loose  scatter'd  parts, 
And  put  them  as  they  were. — Almighty  God 
Has  done  much  more ;  nor  is  his  arm  impair'd 
Through  length  of  days  :   And  what  he  can,  he 
will: 


His  faithfulness  stands  bound  to  see  it  done. 
When  the  dread  trumpet  sounds,  the  slumb'ring 

dust 
rNot  unattentive  to  the  call)  shall  wake: 
And  ev'ry  joint  possess  iu  proper  place. 
With  a  new  elegance  of  form,  unknown 

To  its  first  state Nor  shall  the  conscious  soul 

Mistake  its  partner,  but  amidst  the  crowd 
Singling  its  other  half,  into  iu  arms 
Shall  rush  with  all  the  impatience  of  a  man 
That's  new  come  home,  and,  having  long  been 

absent. 
With  haste  runs  over  ev'ry  diflferent  room. 
In  pain  to  see  the  whole.   Thrice  happy  meeting ! 
Nor  time,  nor  death,  shall  ever  part  them  more. 
'Tis  but  a  night,  a  long  and  moonless  night , 
We  make  the  grave  our  bed,  and  then  are  gone. 

Thus,  at  the  shut  of  ev'n,  the  weary  bird 
Leaves  the  wide  air,  and  in  some  lonely  brake 
Cow'rs  down,  and  dozes  till  the  dawn  of  day. 
Then   claps  his  well-fledged  wings,  and  bears 

away. 


JAMES  THOMSON. 


[Born,  ITOO.    Died,  1748.] 


It  is  singular  that  a  subject  of  such  beautiful 
unity,  divisibility,  and  progressive  interest  as  the 
description  of  the  year,  should  not  have  been 
appropriated  by  any  poet  before  Thomson.* 
Mr.  Twining,  the  translator  of  Aristotle's  Poetics, 
attributes  the  absence  of  poetry  devoted  to  pure 
rural  and  picturesque  description  among  the 
ancients,  to  the  absence  or  imperfections  of  the 
art  of  landscape  painting.  The  Greeks,  he 
observes,  had  no  Thomsons  because  they  had  no 
Claudes.  Undoubtedly  they  were  not  blind  to 
the  beauties  of  natural  scenery;  but  their  de- 
scriptions of  rural  objects  are  almost  always  what 
may  be  called  sensual  descriptions,  exhibiting 
circumstances  of  corporeal  delight,  such  as 
breezes  to  fan  the  body,  springs  to  cool  the  feet, 
grass  to  repose  the  limbs,  or  fruits  to  regale  the 
taste  and  smell,  rather  than  objects  of  contem- 
plative pleasure  to  the  eye  and  imagination. 
From  the  time  of  Augustus,  when,  according  to 
Pliny,  landscape  painting  was  first  cultivated, 
picturesque  images  and  descriptions  of  prospects 
seem  to  have  become  more  common.  But  on 
the  whole  there  is  much  more  studied  and  detailed 
description  in  modern  than  in  ancient  poetry. 
There  is  besides  in  Thomson  a  pure  theism,  and 
a  spirit  of  philanthropy,  which,  though  not  un- 
known to  classic  antiquity,  was  not  familiar  to 


*  Even  Thomson's  exteniiion  of  his  su)  ject  to  the  whole 
year  svems  to  have  been  an  after-tliou^ht,  as  he  be^an 
with  the  last  of  the  i'ea.oons.  It  Is  said-f-  that  he  conceived 
the  first  design  of  his  Winter,  trvm  a  poem  on  the  same 
subject  by  a  Mr.  Kickleton.  Vide  the  Owmra  LiWrarin, 
vol.  iii.  where  there  is  an  amusing  extract  from  the  first 
and  second  edition  of  Thomson's  Winter.  1  have  seen  an 
£agiish  poem,  entitled  The  Seasons,  which  was  published 
67 


its  popular  breast.  The  religion  of  the  ancients 
was  beautiful  in  fiction,  but  not  in  sentiment  It 
had  revealed  the  most  voluptuous  and  terrific 
agencies  to  poetry,  but  had  not  taught  her  to 
contemplate  nature  as  one  great  image  of  Divine 
benignity,  or  her  creatures  as  the  objects  of  com- 
prehensive human  sympathy.  Before  popular 
poetry  could  assume  this  character,  Christianity, 
philosophy,  and  freedom,  must  have  civilized  the 
human  mind. 

Habits  of  early  admiration  teach  us  all  to  look 
back  upon  this  poet  as  the  favourite  companion 
of  our  solitary  walks,  and  as  the  author  who 
has  first  or  chiefly  reflected  back  to  our  minds  a 
heightened  and  refined  sensation  of  the  delight 
which  rural  scenery  aflbrds  us.  The  judgment 
of  cooler  years  may  somewhat  abate  our  estimation 
of  him,  though  it  will  still  leave  us  the  essential 
features  of  his  poetical  character  to  abide  the  test 
of  reflection.  The  unvaried  pomp  of  his  diction 
suggests  a  most  unfavourable  comparison  with  the 
manly  and  idiomatic  simplicity  of  Cowper ;  at  the 
same  time  the  pervading  spirit  and  feeling  of  his 
poetry  is  in  general  more  bland  and  delightful 
than  that  of  his  great  rival  in  rural  description. 
Thomson  seems  to  contemplate  the  creation  with 
an  eye  of  unqualified  pleasure  and  ecstasy,  and 
.  to  love  its  inhabitants  with  a  lofty  and  hallowed 


earlier  (I  think)  than  thom  of  Thomron :  bnt  it  ia  so  in- 
figniflcant  that  it  may  be  doubted  if  Thomson  evar  beud 
of  it.  

[t  ITe  tells  US  so  himself  In  one  of  his  early  letters.  See 
Memoir  of  Thom.«<:n  in  Aldine  I'oets.  p.  xrii.  The  recoTerj 
of  RIokleton's  poem  would  be  an  ad<lition  to  our  pottrf, 
for  Thomson  speaks  of  its  many  masterly  ttrokea.) 


450 


JAMES  THOMSON. 


feeling  of  religious  happiness;  Cowper  has  also 
his  philanthropy,  but  it  is  dashed  with  religious 
terrors,  and  with  themes  of  satire,  regret,  and 
reprehension.  Cowper's  image  of  nature  is  more 
curiously  distinct  and  familiar.  Thomson  carries 
our  associations  through  a  wider  circuit  of  specu- 
lation and  sympathy.  His  touches  cannot  be 
more  faithful  than  Cowper's,  but  they  are  more 
soft  and  select,  and  less  disturbed  by  the  intru- 
sion of  homely  objects.  Cowper  was  certainly 
much  indebted  to  him ;  and  though  he  elevates 
his  style  with  more  reserve  and  judgment  than 
his  predecessor,  yet  in  his  highest  moments  he 
seems  to  retain  an  imitative  remembrance  of 
him.*  It  is  almost  stale  to  remark  the  beauties 
of  a  poem  so  universally  felt;  the  truth  and 
genial  interest  with  which  he  carries  us  through 
the  life  of  the  year;  the  harmony  of  succession 
which  he  gives  to  the  casual  phenomena  of  na- 
ture ;  his  pleasing  transition  from  native  to  foreign 
scenery  ;  and  the  soul  of  exalted  and  unfeigned 
benevolence  which  accompanies  his  prospects  of 
the  creation.  It  is  but  equal  justice  to  say,  that 
amidst  the  feeling  and  fancy  of  the  Seasons,  we 
meet  with  interruptions  of  declamation,  heavy 
narrative,  and  unhappy  digression — with  a  par- 
helion eloquence  that  throws  a  counterfeit  glow 
of  expression  on  common-place  ideas — as  when 
he  treats  us  to  the  solemnly  ridiculous  bathing 
of  Musidora  ;  or  draws  from  the  classics  instead 
of  nature;  or,  after  invoking  Inspiration  from  her 
hermit-seat,  makes  his  dedicatory  bow  to  a  pa- 


tronizing Countess,  or  Speaker  of  the  House  of 
Comrnons.f  As  long  as  he  dwells  in  the  pure 
contemplation  of  nature,  and  appeals  to  the  uni- 
versal poetry  of  the  human  breast,  his  redundant 
style  comes  to  us  as  something  venial  and  adven- 
titious— it  is  the  flowing  vesture  of  the  druid ; 
and  perhaps  to  the  general  experience  is  rather 
imposing;  but  when  he  returns  to  the  familiar 
narrations  or  courtesies  of  life,  the  same  diction 
ceases  to  seem  the  mantle  of  inspiration,  and 
only  strikes  us  by  its  unwieldy  difference  from 
the  common  costume  of  expression.  Between 
the  period  of  his  composing  the  Seasons  and  the 
Castle  of  Indolence,  he  wrote  several  works, 
which  seem  hardly  to  accord  with  the  improve- 
ment and  maturity  of  his  taste  exhibited  in  the 
latter  production.  To  the  Castle  of  Indolence  he 
brought  not  only  the  full  nature,  but  the  perfect 
art,  of  a  poet.  The  materials  of  that  exquisite 
poem  are  derived  originally  from  Tasso;  but  he 
was  more  immediately  indebted  for  them  to  the 
Fairy  Queen :  and  in  meeting  with  the  paternal 
spirit  of  Spenser  he  seems  as  if  he  were  admitted 
more  intimately  to  the  home  of  inspiration.^ 
There  he  redeemed  the  jejune  ambition  of  hia 
style,  and  retained  all  its  wealth  and  luxury  with- 
out the  accompaniment  of  ostentation.  Every 
stanza  of  that  charming  allegory,  at  least  of  the 
whole  of  the  first  part  of  it,  gives  out  a  group  of 
images  from  which  the  mind  is  reluctant  to  part, 
and  a  flow  of  harmony  which  the  ear  wishes  to 
hear  repeated. 


THE  CASTLE  OF  INDOLENCE. 

Air  iXIfiaORIC&L  POEM,  WRITTEN  IM  DinATION  OP  SPENSER. 

CANTO  I. 

0  MOHTAL  man,  who  livest  here  by  toil, 

Do  not  complain  of  this  thy  hard  estate ; 

That  like  an  emmet  thou  must  ever  moil. 

Is  a  sad  sentence  of  an  ancient  date ; 

And,  certes,  there  is  for  it  reason  great ; 

For,  though  sometimes  it  makes  thee  weep  and 

wail, 
And  curse  thy  star,  and  early  drudge  and  late, 
Withouten  that  would  come  an  heavier  bale, 
Loose  life,  unruly  passions,  and  diseases  pale. 


[*  Thomson  was  admirable  in  description ;  but  it  al- 
ways eecmed  to  me  that  there  was  somewhat  of  affectar 
lion  in  his  style,  and  that  his  numbers  are  sometimes  not 
well  harmonized.  I  could  wish  too,  with  Dr.  Johnson, 
that  he  had  confined  himself  to  this  country ;  for  when 
he  describes  what  he  never  saw,  one  is  forced  to  read 
him  with  some  allowances  for  possible  misrepre.«enta- 
tion.  He  was,  however ,r  a  true  poet,  and  his  lasting 
fame  has  proved  it. — Cowper.  LetUr  to  Mrs.  King,  June 
19th,  1788. 

Thomson  wa«  an  honour  to  his  country  and  to  mankind, 
and  a  man  to  whose  writings  I  am  under  very  particular 
otiligations :  for  if  1  have  any  true  relish  for  the  beauties 
of  nature,  I  may  say  with  truth,  that  it  was  from  Virgil 
and  from  Thomson  that  I  caught  it. — Beattie  to  R. 
Arhuthnot. 

The  love  of  nature  seems  to  have  led  ThomBon  to  a 
cheerful  religion ;  and  a  gloomy  religion  to  have  led  Cow- 
pei  to  a  love  of  nature.    The  one  would  carry  his  fellow- 


In  lowly  dale,  fast  by  a  river's  side. 

With  woody  hill  o'er  hill  encompass'd  round, 

A  most  enchanting  wizard  did  abide, 

Than  whom  a  fiend  more  fell  is  nowhere  found 

It  was,  I  ween,  a  lovely  spot  of  ground : 

And  there  a  season  atween  June  and  May, 

Half  prankt  with  spring,  with  summer  half  im- 

brown'd, 
A  listless  climate  made,  where,  sooth  to  say. 
No  living  wight  could  work,  ne  cared  ev'n  for  play. 

Was  nought  around  but  images  of  rest : 
Sleep-sooihing  groves,  and  quiet  lawns  between; 
And  flowery  beds  that  slumberous  influence  kest. 
From  poppies  breathed,  and  beds  of  pleasant  green 


men  along  with  him  into  nature;  the  other  flies  to  nature 
from  his  fellow-men.  In  chastity  of  diction,  however,  and 
the  harmony  of  blank  ver.«e,  Cowper  leaves  Thomson  im- 
measurably below  him ;  yet  I  still  feel  the  latter  to  have 
been  the  born  poet. — Coleridge.] 

[t  This  is  t(X)  true ;  but  Thomson,  we  learn  from  Smol- 
lett, intended,  had  he  lived,  to  have  withdrawn  the  whole 
of  these  dedications — not  from  their  poetic  impropriety, 
however,  but  from  the  ingratitude  of  his  patrons.  To  the 
Castle  of  Indolence,  his  latest,  chastest,  but  not  his  best 
work,  there  is  no  dedication.] 

[X  He  had  slight  obligations  also  to  Alexander  Barclay's 
Castle  of  Labour,  and  to  a  poem  of  Mitchell's  on  Indo- 
lence, which,  with  his  own  lazy  way  of  life,  gave  occasion 
to  this  delightful  allegoric.il  poem,  in  which  the  manner 
he  professed  to  imitate  is  perhaps  the  most  perfect  without 
servility  ever  made  of  any  author.  There  is  no  imitation 
of  Spenser  to  approach  it  in  genius  and  in  manner.  Gil- 
bert West  has  Spenser's  style  and  his  style  only.] 


JAMES  THOMSON. 


451 


Where  never  yet  was  creeping  creature  seen. 
Meantime    unnumber'd    glittering    streamlets 

play'd, 
And  hurled  everywhere  their  waters  sheen ; 
That,    as   they    bicker'd    through    the    sunny 

glade, 
Though  restless  still  themselves,  a  lulling  murmur 

made. 

Join'd  to  the  prattle  of  the  purling  rills, 
Were  heard  the  lowing  herds  along  the  vale. 
And  flocks  loud-bleating  from  the  distant  hills. 
And  vacant  shepherds  piping  in  the  dale  : 
And  now  and  then  sweet  Philomel  would  wail. 
Or  stock-dovos  plain  amid  the  forest  deep, 
That  drowsy  rustled  to  the  sighing  gale ; 
And  still  a  coil  the  grasshopper  did  keep ; 
Yet  all  these  sounds  yblent  inclined  all  to  sleep. 

Full  in  the  passage  of  the  vale  above, 

A  sable,  silent,  solemn  forest  stood ; 

Where  nought  but  shadowy  forms  were  seen  to 

move 
As  Idless  fancied  in  her  dreaming  mood : 
And  up  the  hills,  on  either  side,  a  wood 
Of  blackening  pines,  aye  waving  to  and  fro, 
Sent  forth  a  sleepy  horror  through  the  blood ; 
And  where  this  valley  winded  out,  below. 
The  murmuring  main  was  heard,  and  scarcely 
heard,  to  flow. 

A  pleasing  land  of  drowsy-head  it  was. 
Of  dreams  that  wave  before  the  half-shut  eye ; 
And  of  gay  castles  in  the  clouds  that  pass. 
For  ever  flushing  round  a  summer-sky : 
There  eke  the  soft  delights,  that  witchingly 
Instil  a  wanton  sweetness  through  the  breast. 
And  the  calm  pleasures,  always  hover'd  nigh ; 
But  whate'er  smack'd  of  'noyance,  or  unrest, 
Was  far,  far  off  expell'd  from  this  delicious  nest 

The  landskip  such,  inspiring  perfect  ease. 
Where  Indolence  (for  so  the  wizard  hight) 
Close-hid  his  castle  mid  embowering  trees. 
That  half  shut  out  the  beams  of  Phoebus  bright, 
And  made  a  kind  of  checker'd  day  and  night; 
Meanwhile,  unceasing  at  the  massy  gate, 
Beneath  a  spacious  palm,  the  wicked  wight 
Was  placed  ;  and  to  his  lute,  of  cruel  fate. 
And  labour  harsh,  complain'd,  lamenting  man's 
estate. 

Thither  continual  pilgrims  crowded  still. 
From  all  the  roads  of  earth  that  pass  there  by: 
For,  as  they  chaunced  to  breathe  on  neighbour- 
ing hill. 
The  freshiisss  of  this  valley  smote  their  eye. 
And  drew  them  ever  and  anon  more  nigh; 
Till  clustering  round   th'  enchanter  false  they 

hung, 
Ymolten  with  his  83rren  melody ; 
While    o'er    th'   enfeebling   lute  his  hand   he 
flung. 
And   to    the    trembling   chords   these   tempting 
verses  sung : 


"  Behold  !  ye  pilgrims  of  this  earth,  behold ! 
See  all  but  man  with  unearn'd  pleasure  ga"  • 
See  her  bright  robes  the  butterfly  unfold. 
Broke  from  her  wintry  tomb  in  prime  of  May 
What  youthful  bride  can  equal  her  array  ! 
Who  can  with  her  for  easy  pleasure  vie  ! 
From  mead  to  mead  with  gentle  wing  to  stray, 
From  flower  to  flower  on  balmy  gales  to  fly, 
Is  all  she  has  to  do  beneath  the  radiant  sky. 

<<  Behold  the  merry  minstrels  of  the  mom, 
The  swarming  songsters  of  the  careless  grove, 
Ten  thousand  throats !  that  from  the  flowering 

thorn. 
Hymn  their  good  God,  and  carol  sweet  of  love. 
Such  grateful  kindly  raptures  them  emove : 
They  neither  plough,  nor  sow :  ne,  fit  for  flail. 
E'er  to   the    barn    the   nodding  sheaves    they 

drove — 
Yet  theirs  each  harvest  dancing  in  the  gale. 
Whatever  crowns  the  bill,  or  smiles  along  the 
vale. 

"  Outcast  of  nature,  man  !  the  wretched  thraU 
Of  bitter  dropping  sweat,  of  sweltry  pain. 
Of  cares  that  eat  away  thy  heart  with  gall, 
And  of  the  vices,  an  inhuman  train. 
That  all  proceed  from  savage  thirst  of  gain 
For  when  hard-hearted  Interest  first  betjan 
To  poison  earth,  Astnea  left  the  plain  ; 
Guile,  violence,  and  murder  seized  on  man. 
And,  for  soft  milky  streams,  with  blood  the  riveta 
ran. 

"  Come,  ye,  who  still  the  cumberous  load  of  life 
Push  hard  up  hill ;  but  as  the  furthest  steep 
You  trust  to  gain,  and  put  an  end  to  strife, 
Down  thunders   back  the  stone  with   mighty 

sweep. 
And  hurls  your  labours  to  the  valley  deep, 
For  ever  vain:  come,  and,  wilbouten  fee, 
I  in  oblivion  will  your  som>w8  steep. 
Your  cares,  your  toils,  will  sleep  you  in  a  sea 
Of  full  delight :  0  come,  ye  weary  wights,  to  me  ! 

"  With  me,  you  need  not  rise  at  early  dawn, 
To  pass  the  joyless  day  in  various  stounds : 
Or,  louting  low,  on  upstart  fortune  fawn. 
And  sell  fair  honour  for  some  paltry  pounds; 
Or  through  the  city  take  your  dirty  rounds. 
To  cheat,  and  dun,  and  lie,  and  visit  pay. 
Now  flattering  base,  now  giving  secret  wounds* 
Or  prowl  in  courts  of  law  for  human  prey, 
In  venal  senate  thieve,  or  rob  on  broad  highway. 

«  No  cocks,  with  me,  to  rustic  labour  call. 
From  village  on  to  village  sounding  clear: 
To  tardy  swain  no  shrill-voiced  matrons  squall ; 
No  dogs,  no  babes,  no  wives,  to  stun  your  ear; 
No   hammers    thump;    no  horrid    blacksmith 

sear, 
Ne  noisy  tradesmen  your  sweet  slumbers  start 
With  sounds  that  are  a  misery  to  hear: 
But  all  is  calm,  as  would  delight  the  heart 
Of  Sybarite  of  old,  all  nature,  and  all  art 


152 


JAMES  THOMSON. 


"Here  nought  but  candour  reigns,  indulgent 

ease, 
Good-natured  lounging,  sauntering  up  and  down : 
They  who  are  pleased  themselves  must  always 

please ; 
On  others'  ways  they  never  squint  a  frown, 
Nor  heed  what  haps  in  hamlet  or  in  town : 
Thus,  from  the  source  of  tender  indolence, 
M'^ith  rnilky  blood  the  heart  is  overflown. 
Is  soothed  and  sweetn'd  by  the  social  sense ; 
For  interest,  envy,  pride,  and  strife  are  banish'd 

hence. 

"  What,  what  is  virtue,  but  repose  of  mind, 
A  pure  ethereal  calm,  that  knows  no  storm ; 
Above  the  reach  of  wild  ambition's  wind. 
Above  those  passions  that  this  world  deform, 
And  torture  man,  a  proud  malignant  worm  1 
But  here,  instead,  soft  gales  of  passion  play, 
And  gently  stir  the  heart,  thereby  to  form 
A  quicker  sense  of  joy  ;  as  breezes  stray 
Across  th'  enliven'd  skies,  and  make  them  still 
more  gay. 

"  The  best  of  men  have  ever  loved  repose : 
They  hate  to  mingle  in  the  filthy  fi-ay ; 
Where   the   soul  sours,  and  gradual   rancour 

grows, 
Imbitter'd  more  from  peevish  day  to  day. 
Ev'n  those  whom  Fame  has  lent  her  fairest  ray. 
The  most  renown'd  of  worthy  wights  of  yore, 
From  a  base  world  at  last  have  stolen  away : 
So  Scipio,  to  the  soft  Cumsean  shore 
Retiring,  tasted  joy  he  never  knew  before. 

"  But  if  a  little  exercise  you  choose. 
Some  zest  for  ease,  'tis  not  forbidden  here. 
Amid  the  groves  you  may  indulge  the  Muse, 
Or  tend  the  blooms,  and  deck  the  vernal  year ; 
Or  softly  stealing,  with  your  watery  gear. 
Along  the  brooks,  the  crimson-spotted  fry 
You  may  delude ;  the  whilst,  amused,  you  hear 
Now  the  hoarse  stream,  and  now  the  zephyr's 
sigh. 
Attuned  to  the  birds,  and  woodland  melody. 

"  O  grievous  folly  !  to  heap  up  estate. 
Losing  the  days  you  see  beneath  the  sun  ; 
When,  sudden,  comes  blind  unrelenting  Fate, 
And  gives  th'  untasted  portion  you  have  won. 
With  ruthless  toil,  and  many  a  wretch  undone, 
To  those  who  mock  you  gone  to  Pluto's  reign. 
There  with  sad  ghosts  to  pine,  and  shadows  dun : 
But  sure  it  is  of  vanities  most  vain. 
To  toil  for  what  you  here  untoiling  may  obtain." 

He  ceased.  But  still  their  trembling  ears  retain'd 
The  deep  vibrations  of  his  witching  song  ; 
That,  by  a  kind  of  magic  power,  constrain'd 
To  enter  in,  pell-mell,  the  listening  throng. 
Heaps  pour'd  on  heaps,  and  yet  they  slipt  along, 
In  silent  ease,  as  when  beneath  the  beam 
Of  summer-moons,  the  distant  woods  among. 
Or  by  some  flood  all  silver'd  with  the  gleam. 
The  soft-embodied  fays  through  airy  portal  stream : 


By  the  smooth  demon  so  it  order'd  was. 
And  here  his  baneful  bounty  first  began : 
Though  some  there  were  who  would  not  further 

pass, 
And  his  alluring  baits  suspected  han. 
The  wise  distrust,  the  too  fair  spoken  man. 
Yet  through  the  gate  they  cast  a  wishful  eye  : 
Not  to  move  on,  perdie,  is  all  they  can ; 
For  do  their  very  best  they  cannot  fly. 
But  often  each  way  look,  and  often  sorely  sigh. 

When  this  the  watchful  wicked  wizard  saw. 
With   sudden    spring    he    leap'd    upon    them 

straight ; 
And  soon  as  touch'd  by  his  unhallow'd  paw. 
They  found  themselves  within  the  cursed  gate ; 
Full  hard  to  be  repass'd,  like  that  of  Fate. 
Not  stronger  were  of  old  the  giant  crew. 
Who  sought  to  pull  high  Jove  from  regal  state : 
Though,  feeble  wretch,  he  seem'd  of  sallow  hue  : 
Certes,  who  bides  his  grasp,  will  that  encounter  rue. 

For  whomsoe'er  the  villain  takes  in  hand, 
Their  joints  unknit,  their  sinews  melt  apace; 
As  lithe  they  grow  as  any  willow-wand. 
And  of  their  varnish'd  force  remains  no  trace : 
So  when  a  maiden  fair,  of  modest  grace. 
In  all  her  buxom  blooming  May  of  charms, 
Is  seized  in  some  losel's  hot  embrace. 
She  waxeth  very  weakly  as  she  warms,  [harms. 
Then  sighing  yields  her  up  to  love's  delicious 

Waked  by  the  crowd,  slow  fi-ora  his  bench  arose 
A  comely  full-spread  porter,  swoln  with  sleep ; 
His  calm,   broad,  thoughtless   aspect  breathed 

repose ; 
And  in  sweet  torpor  he  was  plunged  deep, 
Ne  could  himself  from  ceaseless  yawning  keep: 
While  o'er  his  eyes  the  drowsy  liquor  ran. 
Through    which    his    half-waked   soul   would 

faintly  peep. 
Then  taking  his  black  staff",  he  call'd  his  man. 
And  roused  himself  as  much  as  rouse  himself  he  can. 

The  lad  leap'd  lightly  at  his  master's  call. 
He  was,  to  weet,  a  little  roguish  page, 
Save  sleep  and  play  who  minded  nought  at  all, 
Like  most  the  untaught  striplings  of  his  age. 
This  boy  he  kept  each  band  to  disengage, 
Garters  and  buckles,  task  for  him  unfit, 
But  ill-becoming  his  grave  personage. 
And  which  his  portly  paunch  would  not  permit, 
So  this  same  limber  page  to  all  perfornjed  it. 

Meantime  the  master-porter  wide  display'd 
Great  store  of  caps,  of  slippers,  and  of  gowns ; 
Wherewith  he  those  that  enter'd  in,  array'd 
Loose,  as  the  breeze  that  plays  along  the  downs, 
And  waves  the  summer-woods  when  evening 

fi-owns. 
O  fair  undress,  best  dress !  it  checks  no  vein. 
But  every  flowing  limb  in  pleasure  drowns. 
And  heightens  ease  with  grace.     This  done, 

right  fain. 
Sir  Porter  sat  him  down,  and  tam'd  to  oleep  again. 


JAMES   THOMSON. 


45- 


Thus  easy  robed,  they  to  the  fountain  sped, 
That  in  the  middle  of  the  court  up-threw 
A  stream,  high  spouting  from  its  liquid  bed, 
And  falling  back  again  in  drizzly  dew :     [drew, 
There  each  deep  draughts,  as  deep  he  thirsted, 
It  wais  a  fountain  of  nepenthe  rare : 
Whence,  as  Dan  Homer  sings,  huge  pleasaunce 

grew, 
And  sweet  oblivion  of  vile  earthly  care ; 
Fair    gladsome   waking    thoughts,   and  joyous 

dreams  more  fair. 

This  rite  perform'd,  all  inly  pleased  and  still, 
Withouten  tromp  was  proclamation  made. 
«  Ye  sons  of  Indolence  do  what  you  will ; 
And  wander  where  you  list,  through  hall  or  glade ! 
Be  no  man's  pleasure  for  another's  stay'd; 
Let  each  as  likes  him  best  his  hours  employ. 
And  cursed  be  he  who  minds  his  neighbour's 

trade ! 
Here  dwells  kind  ease  and  unreproving  joy : 
He  little  merits  bliss  who  others  can  annoy." 

Straight  of  these  endless  numbers,  swarming 

round. 
As  thick  as  idle  motes  in  sunny  ray, 
Not  one  eftsoons  in  view  was  to  be  found, 
But  every  man  stroU'd  off  his  own  glad  way, 
Wide  o'er  this  ample  court's  blank  area. 
With  all  the  lodges  that  thereto  pertain'd. 
No  living  creature  could  be  seen  to  stray ; 
While  solitude  and  perfect  silence  reign'd: 
So  that  to  think  you  dreamt  you  almost  was  con- 
strain'd. 

As  when  a  shepherd  of  the  Hebrid-isles, 
Placed  far  amid  the  melancholy  main, 
(Whether  it  be  lone  fancy  him  beguiles; 
Or  that  aerial  beings  sometimes  deign 
To  stand  emlwdied,  to  our  senses  pl-.tin,) 
Sees  on  the  naked  hill,  or  valley  low. 
The  whilst  in  ocean  Phcebus  dips  his  wain, 
A  vast  assembly  moving  to  and  fro ;         [show. 
Then  all  at  once  in  air  dissolves  the  wondrous 

Ye  gods  of  quiet  and  of  sleep  profound ! 
Whose  soft  dominion  o'er  this  castle  sways. 
And  all  the  widely-silent  places  round, 
Forgive  me,  if  my  trembling  pen  displays 
What  never  yet  was  sung  in  mortal  lays. 
But  how  shall  I  attempt  such  arduous  string, 
I  who  have  spent  my  nights  and  nightly  days 
In  this  soul-deadening  place,  loose  loitering ! 
Ah !  how  shall  I  for  this  uprear  my  molted  wing  1 

Come  on,  my  Muse,  nor  stoop  to  low  despair. 
Thou  imp  of  Jove,  touch'd  by  celestial  fire ! 
Thou  yet  shall  sing  of  war,  and  actions  fair. 
Which  the  bold  sons  of  Britain  will  inspire; 
Of  ancient  bards  thou  yet  shall  sweep  the  lyre ; 
Thou  yet  shall  tread  in  tragic  pall  the  stage. 
Paint  love's  enchanting  woes,  the  hero's  ire, 
The  sage's  calm,  the  patriot's  noble  rage, 
Dashing  corruption  down  through  every  worth- 
less age. 


The  doors,  that  knew  no  shrill  alarming  bell, 
Ne  cursed  knocker  ply'd  by  villain's  hand, 
Self-open'd  into  halls,  where,  who  can  tell 
What  elegance  and  grandeur  wide  expand. 
The  pride  of  Turkey  and  of  Persia  land  1 
Soft  quilts  on  quilts,  on  carpets  carpet«  spread, 
And  couches  stretch'd  around  in  seemly  band ; 
And  endless  pillows  rise  to  prop  the  head ;  [bed. 
So  that  each  spacious  room  was  one  full-swelling 

And  everywhere  huge  cover'd  tables  stood. 
With   wines   high   flavour'd   and   rich  viand* 

crown'd ; 
Whatever  sprightly  juice  or  tasteful  food 
On  the  green  bosom  of  this  earth  are  found. 
And  all  old  ocean  genders  in  his  round : 
Some  hand  unseen  these  silently  display'd. 
Even  undemanded  by  a  sign  or  sound ; 
You  need  but  wish,  and,  instantly  obey'd. 
Fair  ranged  the  dishes  rose,  and  thick  the  glassM 

play'd. 

Here  freedom  reign'd,  without  the  least  alloy ; 
Nor  gossip's  tale,  nor  ancient  maiden's  gall. 
Nor  saintly  spleen  durst  murmur  at  our  joy. 
And  with  envenom'd  tongue  our  pleasures  pall. 
For  why  1  there  was  but  one  great  rule  for  all ; 
To  wit,  that  each  should  work  his  own  desire. 
And  eat,  drink,  study,  sleep,  as  it  may  fall. 
Or  melt  the  time  in  love,  or  wake  the  lyre. 
And  carol  what,  unbid,  the  Muses  might  inspire. 

The  rooms  with  costly  tapestry  were  hung. 
Where  was  inwoven  many  a  gentle  tale ; 
Such  as  of  old  the  rural  poets  sung, 
Or  of  Arcadian  or  Sicilian  vale : 
Reclining  lovers,  in  the  lonely  dale, 
Pour'd  forth  at  largethe  sweetly -tortured  heart; 
Or,  looking  tender  passion,  swell'd  the  gale, 
And  taught  charm'd  echo  to  resound  their  smart; 
While  flocks,  woods,  streams,  around,  repose  and 
peace  impart. 

Those  pleased  the  most,  where,  by  a  cunning 

hand, 
Depainted  was  the  patriarchal  age ; 
What  time  Dan  Abraham  left  the  Chaldee  land. 
And  pastured  on  from  verdant  stage  to  stage. 
Where  fields  and   fountains  fresh   could   best 

engage. 

Toil  was  not  then.    Of  nothing  took  they  hoed. 

But  with  wild  lieusts  the  sylvan  war  to  wage. 

And  o'er  vast  plains  their  herds  and  flocks  to  feed. 

Blest  sons  of  nature  they !  true  golden  age  indeed ! 

Sometimes  the  pencil,  in  cool  airy  halls. 
Bade  the  gay  bloom  of  vernal  landscapes  rise. 
Or  autumn's  varied  shades  imhrown  the  wallf  * 
Now  the  black  tempest  strikes  ih*  astonixh'd  eye*. 
Now  down  the  steep  the  flashing  torrent  flies ; 
The  trembling  sun  now  plays  o'er  ocean  olue, 
And  now  rude  mountains  frown  amid  the  skies; 
Whate'er  Lorraine  light-touch'd  with  softeniDS 
hue. 
Or  savage  Rosa  dash'd,  or  learned  Pouasin  drew 


454 


JAMES   THOMSON. 


Each  sound,  too,  here  to  languish mentindined, 
LuU'd  the  weak  bosom,  and  induced  ease, 
Aerial  music  in  the  warbling  wind, 
At  distance  rising  oft  by  small  degrees, 
Nearer  and  nearer  came,  till  o'er  the  trees 
It  hung,  and  breathed  such  soul-dissolving  airs, 
As  did,  alas  !  with  soft  perdition  please : 
Entangled  deep  in  its  enchanting  snares. 
The  Ustening  heart  forgot  all  duties  and  all  cares. 

A  certain  music,  never  known  before, 
Here  lull'd  the  pensive  melancholy  mind ; 
Full  easily  obtain'd.     Behooves  no  more, 
But,  sidelong,  to  the  gently-waving  wind, 
To  lay  the  well-tuned  instrument  reclined : 
From  which,  with  airy  flying  fingers  light, 
Beyond  each  mortal  touch  the  most  refined, 
The  god  of  winds  drew  sounds  of  deep  delight : 
Whence,  with  just  cause,  The  Harp  of  ^olus  it 
hight. 

Ah  me  !  what  hand  can  touch  the  strings,  so 

fine! 
Who  up  the  lofty  diapason  roll 
Such  sweet,  such  sad,  such  solemn  airs  divine, 
Then  let  them  down  again  into  the  soul  1 
Now  rising  love  they  fann'd  ;  now  pleasing  dole 
They  breathed  in  tender  musings  through  the 

heart ; 
And  now  a  graver  sacred  strain  they  stole, 
As  when  seraphic  hands  an  hymn  impart : 
Wild-warbling  nature  all,  above  the  reach  of  art ! 

Such  the  gay  splendour,  the  luxurious  state. 
Of  Caliphs  old,  who  on  the  Tigris'  shore. 
In  mighty  Bagdat,  populous  and  great. 
Held  their  bright  court,  where  was  of  ladies 

store : 
And  verse,  love,  music,  still  the  garland  wore: 
When  sleep  was  coy,  the  bard  in  waiting  there, 
Cheer'd  the  lone  midnight  with  the  Muse's  lore: 
Composing  music  bade  his  dreams  be  fair. 
And  music  lent  new  gladness  to  the  morning  air. 

Near  the  pavilions  where  we  slept  still  ran 
Soft-tinkling  streams,  and  dashing  waters  fell. 
And  sobbing  breezes  sigh'd,  and  oft  began 
(So  work'd  the  wizard)  wintry  storms  to  swell. 
As  heaven  and  earth  they  would  together  mell: 
At  doors  and  windows,  threatening  seem'd  to 

call 
The  demons  of  the  tempest,  growling  fell. 
Yet  the  least  entrance  found  they  none  at  all: 
Whence  sweeter  grew  our  sleep,  secure  in  massy 

hall. 

And  hither  Morpheus  sent  his  kindest  dreams. 
Raising  a  world  of  gayer  tinct  and  grace ; 
O'er  which  were  shadowy  cast  Elysian  gleams, 
That  play'd  in  waving  lights,  from  place  to  place. 
And  shed  a  roseate  smile  on  nature's  face. 
Not  Titian's  pencil  e'er  could  so  array. 
So  fleece  with  clouds  the  pure  etherial  space ; 
Ne  could  it  e'er  such  melting  forms  display. 
As  loose  on  flowery  beds  all  languishingly  lay. 


No,  fair  illusions !  artful  phantoms,  no ! 
My  Muse  will  not  attempt  your  fairy-land ; 
She  has  no  colours  that  like  you  can  glow: 
To  catch  your  vivid  scenes  too  gross  her  hand. 
But  sure  it  is,  was  ne'er  a  subtler  band 
Than   these  same  guileful  angel-seeming  sprites. 
Who  thus  in  dreams,  voluptuous,  soft,  and  bland, 
Pour'd  all  th'  Arabian  heaven  upon  her  nights. 
And  bless'd  them  oft  besides  with  more  refined 
delights. 

They  were  in  sooth  a  most  enchanting  train, 
Even  feigning  virtue;  skilful  to  unite 
With  evil  good,  and  strew  with  pleasure  pain. 
But  for  those  fiends,  whom  blood  and    broils 

delight ; 
Who  hurl  the  wretch,  as  if  to  hell  outright, 
Down,  down  black  gulfs,  where  sullen  waters 

sleep. 
Or  hold  him  clambering  all  the  fearful  night 
On  beetling  cliffs,  or  pent  in  ruins  deep ; 
They,  till  due  time  should  serve,  were  bid  far 
hence  to  keep. 

Ye  guardian  spirits,  to  whom  man  is  dear, 
From  these  foul  demons  shield  the   midnight 

gloom : 
Angels  of  fancy  and  of  love,  be  near, 
And  o'er  the  blank  of  sleep  diflTuse  a  bloom: 
Evoke  the  sacred  shades  of  Greece  and  Rome, 
And  let  them  virtue  with  a  look  impart: 
But  chief,  awhile,  O!  lend  us  from  the  tomb 
Those  long-lost  friends  for  whom  in  love  we  smart, 
And  fill  with  pious  awe  and  joy,  mixt  woe  the  heart. 

Or  are  you  sportive — ^bid  the  morn  of  youth 
Rise  to  new  light,  and  beam  afresh  the  days 
Of  innocence,  simplicity,  and  truth  ; 
To  cares  estranged,  and  manhood's  thorny  ways. 
What  transport  to  retrace  our  boyish  plays, 
Our  easy  bliss,  when  each  thing  joy  supplied  ; 
The  woods,  the  mountains,  and  the  warbling  maze 
Of  the  wild  brooks ! — But  fondly  wandering  wide, 
My  Muse,  resume  the  task  that  yet  doth  thee  abide. 

One  great  amusement  of  our  household  was. 
In  a  huge  crystal  magic  globe  to  spy, 
Still  as  you  turn'd  it,  all  things  that  do  pass 
Upon  this  ant-hill  earth ;  where  constantly 
Of  idly-busy  men  the  restless  fry 
Run  bustling  to  and  fi-o  with  foolish  haste, 
In  search  of  pleasures  vain  that  from  them  fly. 
Or  which  obtain'd,  the  caitiffs  dare  not  taste : 
When  nothing  is  enjoy 'd,  can  there  be  greater 
waste  1 

"  Of  vanity  the  mirror"  this  was  call'd. 
Here  you  a  muckworm  of  the  town  might  see. 
At  his  dull  desk,  amid  his  legers  stali'd. 
Eat  up  with  carking  care  and  penurie ; 
Most  like  to  carcase  parch'd  on  gallow-tree. 
"A  penny  saved  is  a  penny  got;" 
Firm  to  this  scoundrel  maxim  keepeth  he, 
Ne  of  its  rigour  will  he  bate  a  jot, 
Till  it  has  quench'd  bis  fire,  and  banished  hi^  pot. 


JAMES  THOMSON. 


455 


Straight  from  the  filth  of  this  low  grub,  behold ! 
Comes  fluttering  forth  a  gaudy  spendthrift  heir, 
All  glossy  gay,  enamell'd  all  with  gold, 
The  silly  tenant  of  the  summer-air. 
In  folly  lost,  of  nothing  takes  he  care. 
Pimps,  lawyers,  stewards,  harlots,  flatterers  vile. 
And  thieving  tradesmen  him  among  them  share: 
His  father's  ghost  from  limbo-lake  the  while. 
Sees  this,  which  more  damnation  doth  upon  him 
pile. 

This  globe  portray'd  the  race  of  learned  men, 
Still  at  their  books,  and  turning  o'er  the  page. 
Backward  and  forward:  oft  they  snatch  the  pen, 
As  if  inspired,  and  in  a  Thespian  rage ; 
Then  write  and  blot,  as  would  your  ruth  engage. 
Why,  authors,  all  this  scrawl  and  scribbling  sorel 
To  lose  the  present,  gain  the  future  age : 
Praised  to  be  when  you  can  hear  no  more. 
And  much   enrich'd   with   fame,  when   useless 
worldly  store. 

Then  would  a  splendid  city  rise  to  view. 
With  carts  and  cars,  and  coaches  roaring  all : 
Wide  pour'd  abroad  behold  the  giddy  crew; 
See  how  they  dash  along  from  wall  to  wall! 
At  every  door,  hark,  how  they  thundering  call! 
Good  Lord  !  what  can  this  giddy  rout  excite  1 
Why,  on  each  other  with  fell  tooth  to  fall ; 
A  neighbour's  fortune,  fame,  or  peace,  to  blight. 
And  make  new  tiresome  parties  for  the   coming 
night. 

The  puzzling  sons  of  party  next  appear'd. 
In  dark  cabals  and  nightly  juntos  met ;    [rear'd 
And  now  they  whisper'd  close,  now  shrugging 
Th'  important  shoulder ;  then,  as  if  to  get 
New  light,  their  twinklingeyes  were  inward  set. 
No  sooner  Lucifer  recalls  affairs. 
Than  forth  they  various  rush  in  mighty  fret; 
When,  lo!  push'd   up  to  power,  and  crown'd 
their  cares, 
In  comes  another  set,  and  kicketh  them  down 
stairs. 

But  what  most  show'd  the  vanity  of  life. 
Was  to  behold  the  nations  all  on  fire. 
In  cruel  broils  engaged,  and  deadly  strife: 
Most  Christian  kings,  inflamed  by  black  desire. 
With  honourable  ruffians  in  their  hire. 
Cause  war  to  rage,  and  blood  around  to  pour: 
Of  this  sad  work  when  each  begins  to  tire. 
They  sit  them  down  just  where  they  were  before. 
Till  for  new  scenes  of  woe  peace  shall  their  force 
restore. 

To  number  up  the  thousands  dwelling  here, 
An  useless  were,  and  eke  an  endless  task; 
From  kings,  and  those  who  at  the  helm  appear. 
To  gipsies  brown  in  summer-glades  who  bask. 
Yea,  many  a  man  perdie  I  could  unmask. 
Whose  desk  and  table  make  a  solemn  show. 
With  tape-tied  trash,  and  suiU  of  fools  that  ask 
For  place  or  pension  laid  in  decent  row ; 
But  these  I  passen  by,  with  nameless  numbers  moe. 


Of  all  the  gentle  tenants  of  the  place. 
There  was  a  man  of  special  grave  remark  :* 
A  certain  tender  gloom  o'erepread  his  face. 
Pensive,  not  sad,  in  thought  involved,  not  dark. 
As  soot  this  man  could  sing  as  morning-lark, 
And  teach  the  noblest  morals  of  the  heart: 
But  these  his  talents  were  yburied  stark  ; 
Of  the  fine  stores  he  nothing  would  impart. 
Which  or  boon  Nature  gave,  or  nature-painting 
Art. 

To  noontide  shades  incontinent  he  ran. 
Where    purls   the    brook    with    sleep-inviting 

sound; 
Or  when  Dan  Sol  to  slope  his  wheels  began. 
Amid  the  broom  he  bask'd  him  on  the  ground, 
Where  the  wild  thyme  and  camomile  are  found : 
There  would  he  linger,  till  the  latest  ray 
Of  light  sat  trembling  on  the  welkin's  bound; 
Then  homeward  through  the  twilight  shadows 
stray. 
Sauntering  and  slow.     So  had  he  passed  many 
a  day. 

Yet  not  in  thoughtless  slumber  were  they  paaa'd: 

For  oft  the  heavenly  fire,  that  lay  conceal'd 

Beneath  the  sleeping  embers,  mounted  fast. 

And  all  its  native  light  anew  reveal'd: 

Oft  as  he  traversed  the  cerulean  field. 

And  mark'd  the  clouds  that  drove  before  the 

wind, 
Ten  thousand  glorious  systems  would  he  build, 
Ten  thousand  great  ideas  fill'd  his  mind  ; 
But  with  the  clouds  they  fled,  and  left  no  trace 

behind. 

With  him  was  sometimes  join'd,  in  silent  walk 
(Profoundly  silent,  for  they  never  spoke,) 
One  shyer  still,  who  quite  detested  talk  : 
Oft,  stung  by  spleen,  at  once  away  he  broke. 
To  groves  of  pine,  and  broad  o'ershadowing  oak, 
There,  inly  thrill'd,  he  wander'd  all  alone ; 
And  on  himself  his  pensive  fury  wroke, 
Ne  ever  utter'd  word,  save  when  first  shone 
The  glittering  star  of  eve — "  Thank  heaven !  the 
day  is  done."f 

Here  lurk'd  a  wretch,  who  had  not  crept  abroad 
For  forty  years,  ne  face  of  mortal  seen ; 
In  chamber  brooding  like  a  loathly  toad : 
And  sure  his  linen  was  not  very  clean. 
Through  secret  loop-holes,  that  had  practiMd 

been 
Near  to  his  bed,  his  dinner  vile  he  took  ; 
Unkempt,  and  rough,  of  squalid  face  and  mien, 
Our  castle's  shame !  whence,  from  his  filthy  nook, 
We  drove  the  villain  out  for  fitter  lair  to  look. 

One  day  there  chaunced  into  these  halls  to  rove 
A  joyous  youth^  who  took  you  at  first  sight; 

[•  Patterson,  the  poct'i  frtond,  wid  the  satbor  of  Al 
miniux,  a  troteeily.] 

1+  Dr.  Armstronit.]  ^_. 

[J  Young  John  f  orbes  of  CuUoden,  the  only  son  of  I>tt» 
can  ForbM-J 


£')6 


JAMES   THOMSON. 


Him  the  wild  wave  of  pleasure  hither  drove, 
Before  the  sprightly  tempest  tossing  light: 
Certes,  he  was  a  most  engaging  wight. 
Of  social  glee,  and  wit  humane,  though  keen, 
Turning  the  night  to  day,  and  day  to  night : 
For  him  the  merry  bells  had  rung,  I  ween, 
If  in  this  nook  of  quiet,  bells  had  ever  been. 

But  not  even  pleasure  to  excess  is  good : 
What  most  elates  then  sinks  the  soul  as  low: 
When  spring-tide  joy  pours  in  with  copious 

flood, 
The  higher  still  th'  exulting  billows  flow. 
The  farther  back  again  they  flagging  go. 
And  leave  us  groveling  on  the  dreary  shore : 
Taught  by  this  son  of  joy  we  found  it  so ; 
Who,  whilst  he  staid,  kept  in  a  gay  uproar 
Our  madden'd  castle  all,  th'  abode  of  sleep  no  more. 

As  when  in  prime  of  June  a  burnish'd  fly, 
Sprung  firom  the  meads,  o'er  which  he  sweeps 

along, 
Cheer'd  by  the  breathing  bloom  and  vital  sky. 
Tunes  up  amid  these  airy  halls  his  song. 
Soothing  at  first  the  gay  reposing  throng : 
And  oft  he  sips  their  bowl ;  or,  nearly  drown'd. 
He,  thence  recovering,  drives  their  beds  among. 
And  scares  their  tender  sleep,  with  trump  pro- 
found ; 
Then  out  again  he  flies,  to  wing  his  mazy  round. 

Another  guest  there  was,*  of  sense  refined, 
Who  felt  each  worth,  for  every  worth  he  had ; 
Serene,  yet  warm ;  humane,  yet  firm  his  mind. 
As  little  touch'd  as  any  man's  with  bad ; 
Him  through  their  inmost  walks  the  Muses  lad, 
To  him  the  sacred  love  of  nature  lent. 
And  sometimes  would  he  make  our  valley  glad; 
When  as  we  found  he  would  not  here  be  pent. 
To  him  the  better  sort  this  friendly  message  sent. 

"  Come,  dwell  with  us,  true  son  of  virtue,  come ! 
But  if,  alas !  we  cannot  thee  persuade. 
To  lie  content  beneath  our  peaceful  dome, 
Ne  ever  more  to  quit  our  quiet  glade ; 
Yet  when  at  last  thy  toils  but  ill  apaid 
Shall  dead  thy  fire,  and  damp  its  heavenly  spark, 
Thou  wilt  be  glad  to  seek  the  rural  shade, 
There  to  indulge  the  Muse,  and  nature  mark: 
We  then  a  lodge  for  thee  will  rear  in  Hagley- 
Park." 

Here  whilom  ligg'd  th'  Esopus  of  the  age  ;t 
But  call'd  by  Fame,  in  soul  y pricked  deep, 
A  noble  pride  restored  him  to  the  stage. 
And  roused  him  like  a  giant  from  his  sleep. 
Even  from  his  slumbers  we  advantage  reap : 
With  double  force  th'  enliven'd  scene  he  wakes 
Yet  quits  not  natures  bounds.  He  knows  to  keep 
Each  due  decorum :  now  the  heart  he  shakes. 
And  now,  with  well-urged  sense,  th'  enlighten'd 
judgment  takes. 

[»  Lord  Lyttleton.] 

[t  Qain,  whom  a  quarrel  with  Qarrick  had  drlTen  tem- 
porarily o£F  the  stage.] 


A  bard  here  dwelt,  more  fat  than  bard  beseems  ;J 
Who,  void  of  envy,  guile,  and  lust  of  gain, 
On  virtue  still,  and  nature's  pleasing  themes, 
Pour'd  forth  his  unpremeditated  strain : 
The  world  forsaking  with  a  calm  disdain. 
Here  laugh'd  he  careless  in  his  easy  seat ; 
Here  quaff'd  encircled  with  the  joyous  train, 
Oft  moralizing  sage;  his  ditty  sweet 
He  loathed  much  to  write,  ne  cared  to  repeat 

Full  oft  by  holy  feet  our  ground  was  trod. 
Of  clerks  great  plenty  here  you  mote  espy. 
A  little,  round,  fat,  oily  man  of  God,§ 
Was  one  I  chiefly  mark'd  among  the  fry : 
He  had  a  roguish  twinkle  in  his  eye, 
And  shone  all  glittering  with  ungodly  dew, 
If  a  tight  damsel  chaunced  to  trippen  by ; 
Which  when  observed,  he  shrunk  into  his  mew, 
And  straight  would  recollect  his  piety  anew. 

Nor  be  forgot  a  tribe  who  minded  nought 
(Old  inmates  of  the  place)  but  state  affairs: 
They  look'd,  perdie,  as  if  they  deeply  thought; 
And  on  their  brow  sat  eve'ry  nation's  cares. 
The  world  by  them  is  parcell'd  out  in  shares. 
When  in  the  hall  of  smoke  they  congress  hold, 
And  the  sage  berry  sun-burnt  Mocha  bears 
Hasclear'd  their  inward  eye :  then,smoke-enroll'd, 
Their  oracles  break  forth  mysterious  as  of  old. 

Here  languid  beauty  kept  her  pale-faced  court : 
Bevies  of  dainty  dames,  of  high  degree, 
Fc^yn  every  quarter  hither  made  resort :     [free. 
Where,  from   gross  mortal  care  and  busmess 
They  lay,  pour'd  out  in  ease  and  luxury. 
Or  should  they  a  vain  show  of  work  assume, 
Alas !  and  well-a-day  !  what  can  it  be  1 
To  knot,  to  twist,  to  range  the  vernal  bloom ; 
But  far  is  cast  the  distaff,  spinning-wheel,  and  loom. 

Their  only  labour  was  to  kill  the  time ; 
And  labour  dire  it  is,  and  weary  woe. 
They  sit,  they  loll,  turn  o'er  some  idle  rhyme ; 
Then,  rising  sudden,  to  the  glass  they  go, 
Or  saunter  forth,  with  tottering  step  and  slow. 
This  soon  too  rude  an  exercise  they  find ; 
Straight  on  the  couch  their  limbs  again  they  throw. 
Where  hours  and  hours  they  sighing  lie  reclined. 
And  court  the  vapoury  god  soft-breathing  in  the 
wind.  • 

Now  must  I  mark  the  villainy  we  found. 
But  ah  !  too  late,  as  shall  eftsoons  be  shown. 
A  place  here  was,  deep,  dreary,  under  ground  ; 
Where  still  our  inmates,  when  unpleasing  grown. 
Diseased,  and  loathsome,  privily  were  thrown ; 
Far  from  the  light  of  heaven,  they  languish'd  there, 
Unpity'd,  uttering  many  a  bitter  groan ; 
For  of  these  wretches  taken  was  no  care:  [were. 
Fierce  fiends,  and  hags  of  hell,  their  only  nurses 


[t  Thomson  himself.  This  stanza  was  written  by  Lord 
Lyttleton.] 

[g  The  Rev.  Patrick  Murdoch,  the  poet's  friend  and 
biographer.  His  sleek,  rosy  visage,  and  roguish  ey«s  ar<> 
preserved  on  canvae  at  Colloden.] 


Ik. 


JAMES  THOMSON. 


45i 


Alas !  the  change !  from  scenes  of  joy  and  rest* 
To  this  dark  den,  where  sickness  toss'd  alway. 
Here  Lethargy,  with  deadly  sleep  oppress'd, 
Stretch'd  on  his  back,  a  mighty  iubbard,  lay, 
Heaving  his  sides,  and  snored  night  and  day ; 
To  stir  him  from  his  traunce  it  was  not  eath, 
And  his  half-open'd  eyne  he  shut  straightway ; 
He  led,  I  wot,  the  softest  way  to  death. 
And  taught  withouten  pain  and  strife  to  yield  the 
breath. 

Of  limk?  enormous,  but  withal  unsound. 
Soft,  swoln  and  pale,  here  lay  the  Hydropsy : 
Unwieldy  man  ;  with  belly  monstrous  round, 
For  ever  fed  with  watery  supply  ; 
For  stdl  he  drank,  and  yet  he  still  was  dry. 
And  moping  here  did  Hypochondria  sit,t 
Mother  of  spleen,  in  robes  of  various  dye, 
Who  vexed  was  full  oft  with  ugly  fit ; 
And  some  her  frantic  deem'd,  and  some  her  deem'd 
a  wit. 

A  lady  proud  she  was,  of  ancient  blood. 
Yet  oil  her  fear  her  pride  made  crouchen  low ; 
She  felt,  or  fancy'd  in  her  fluttering  mood, 
All  the  diseases  which  the  spittles  know. 
And  sought  all  physic  which  the  shops  bestow, 
And  still  new  leeches  and  new  drugs  would  try. 
Her  humour  ever  wavering  to  and  fro ;       [cry, 
For  sometimes  she  would  laugh,  and  sometimes 
l^hen  sudden  waxed  wroth,  and  all  she  knew  not 
why. 

Fast  by  her  side  a  listless  maiden  pined, 
With  aching  head,  and  squeamish  heart-burn- 
ings; 
Pale,  bloated,  cold,  she  seem'd  to  hate  mankind. 
Yet  loved  in  secret  all  forbidden  things. 
And  here  the  tertian  shakes  his  chilling  wings; 
The  sleepless  gout  here  counts  the  crowing  cocks, 
A  wolf  now  gnaws  him,  now  a  serpent  stings ; 
Whilst  apoplexy  cram m'd  intemperance  knocks 
Down  to  the  ground  at  once,  as  butcher  felleth  ox. 


TO  FORTUNE. 


For  ever,  Fortune,  wilt  thou  prove 
An  unrelenting  foe  to  love. 
And  when  we  meet  a  mutual  heart. 
Come  in  between,  and  bid  us  part. 


[*  The  four  last  verses  were  written  by  Armstrong  at 
Thomson's  desire.    Thomsou,  however,  made  a  few  verbal 
alterations.] 
[t  Ib  Armstrong  and  in  the  first  edition  of  the  poem: 
And  here  a  moping  mystery  did  sit.] 
68 


Bid  us  sigh  on  from  day  to  day, 
And  wish,  and  wish  the  soul  away ; 
Till  youth  and  genial  years  are  flown. 
And  all  the  life  of  love  ia  gone ! 

But  busy,  busy  still  art  thou, 
To  bind  the  loveless,  joyless  vow, 
The  heart  from  pleasure  to  delude. 
And  join  the  gentle  to  the  rude. 

For  pomp  and  noise,  and  senseless  show, 
To  make  us  Nature's  joys  forego, 
Beneath  a  gay  dominion  groan. 
And  put  the  golden  fetter  on ! 

For  once,  O  Fortune,  hear  my  prayer, 
And  I  absolve  thy  future  care ; 
All  other  blessings  I  resign. 
Make  but  the  dear  Amanda  mine. 


RULE,  BRITANNIA  I 

Whek  Britain  first,  at  Heaven's  command. 

Arose  from  out  the  azure  main. 
This  was  the  charter  of  her  land, 

And  guardian  angels  sung  this  strain : 
<<  Rule,  Britannia,  rule  the  waves, 
Britons  never  will  be  slaves !" 

The  nations,  not  so  bless'd  as  thee. 
Must,  in  their  turns,  to  tyrants  fall ; 

While  thou  shall  flourish  great  and  free. 
The  dread  and  envy  of  them  all. 

Still  more  majestic  shalt  thou  rise. 

More  dreadful  from  each  foreign  stroke: 

As  the  loud  blast  that  tears  the  skies. 
Serves  but  to  root  thy  native  oak. 

These  haughty  tyrants  ne'er  shall  tame : 
All  their  attempts  to  bend  thee  down 

Will  but  arouse  thy  generous  flame ; 
But  work  their  woe  and  thy  renown. 

To  thee  belongs  the  rural  reign  ; 

Thy  cities  shall  with  commerce  shine ; 
All  thine  shall  be  the  subject  main : 

And  every  shore  it  circles  thine. 

The  Muses,  still  with  freedom  found. 

Shall  to  thy  happy  coast  repair : 
Bless'd  isle  !  with  matchless  beauty  crown'd. 
And  manly  hearts  to  guard  the  fair : 
"  Rule,  Britannia,  rule  the  waves, 
Britons  never  will  be  slaves  1" 
»0 


AMBROSE   PHILIPS. 


[Born,  1671,    Died,  17490 


Ambrosb  Philips,  the  pastoral  rival  of  Pope, 
was  educated  at  Cambridge,  and  distinguished 
for  many  years  in  London  as  a  member  of  clubs 
witty  and  political,  and  as  a  writer  for  the 
Whigs.*  By  the  influence  of  that  party  he  was 
put  into  the  commission  of  the  peace  soon  after 
the  accession  of  George  I.,  and,  in  1717,  was 
appointed  one  of  the  commissioners  of  the  lot- 
tery. When  his  friend  Dr.  Boulter  was  ap- 
pointed primate  of  Ireland,  he  accompanied  the 


prelate,  received  considerable  preferments,  and 
was  elected  member  for  Armagh  in  the  Irish 
Commons.  He  returned  to  England  in  the 
year  1748,  and  died  in  the  following  year,  at 
his  lodgings  near  Vauxhall.  The  best  of  his 
dramatic  writings  is  the  Distrest  Mother,  a  trans- 
lation of  Racine's  Andromache.  His  two  other 
tragedies,  the  Briton,  and  Humphrey  Duke  of 
Gloucester,  are  not  much  better  than,  his  pasto- 
rals. 


TO  THE  KAKL  OF  DORSET.f 

Copenhagen,  March  9, 1709. 

From  frozen  climes,  and  endless  tracts  of  snow, 
From  streams  which  northern  winds  forbid  to  flow, 
What  present  shall  the  Muse  to  Dorset  bring, 
Or  how,  so  near  the  pole,  attempt  to  sing  ? 
The  hoary  winter  here  conceals  from  sight 
All  pleasing  objects  which  to  verse  invite. 
The  hills  and  dales,  and  the  delightful  woods. 
The  flowery  plains,  and  silver-streaming  floods. 
By  snow  disguised,  in  bright  confusion  lie. 
And  with  one  dazzling  waste  fatigue  the  eye. 

No  gentle  breathing  breeze  prepares  the  spring, 
No  birds  within  the  desert  region  sing. 
The  ships,  unmoved,  the  boisterous  winds  defy, 
While  rattling  chariots  o'er  the  ocean  fly. 
The  vast  leviathan  wants  room  to  play. 
And  spout  his  waters  in  the  face  of  day. 
The  starving  wolves  along  the  main  sea  prowl, 
And  to  the  moon  in  icy  valleys  howl. 
O'er  many  a  shining  league  the  level  main 
Here  spreads  itself  into  a  glassy  plain: 
There  solid  billows  of  enormous  size. 
Alps  of  green  ice,  in  wild  disorder  rise. 

And  yet  but  lately  have  I  seen,  even  here. 
The  winter  in  a  lovely  dress  appear. 
Ere  yet  the  clouds  let  fall  the  treasured  snow. 
Or  winds  begun  through  hazy  skies  to  blow. 
At  evening  a  keen  eastern  breeze  arose. 
And  the  descending  rain  unsullied  froze. 
Soon  as  the  silent  shades  of  night  withdrew, 
The  ruddy  morn  dicslosed  at  once  to  view 
The  face  of  nature  in  a  rich  disguise. 
And  brighten'd  every  object  to  my  eyes  : 
For  every  shrub,  and  every  blade  of  grass. 
And  every  pointed  thorn,  seemed  wrought  in  glass : 
In  pearls  and  rubies  rich  the  hawthorns  show. 
While  through  the  ice  the  crimson  berries  glow. 
The  thick-sprung  reeds,  which  watery  marshes 
Seem'd  polish'd  lances  in  a  hostile  field,    [yield. 


[*Tbe  Freethinker,  in  which  A.  Philips  wrote,  began 
its  career  on  Monday,  March  24,  17 IH,  was  published 
twice  a  week,  and  torminated  with  the  159ih  piiper,  Mon- 
day. September  2hth,  1719.  Dr.  Drake  tipeaks  in  praise  of 
it8  easy  and  p erspicuoua  diction,  and  thinks  a  very  inte- 
168 


The  stag,  in  limpid  currents,  with  surprise. 
Sees  crystal  branches  on  his  forehead  rise  : 
The  spreading  oak,  the  beech,  and  towering  pine, 
Glazed  over,  in  the  freezing  ether  shine. 
The  frighted  birds  the  rattling  branches  shun, 
Which  wave  and  glitter  in  the  distant  sun. 

When  if  a  sudden  gust  of  wind  arise. 
The  brittle  forest  into  atoms  flies. 
The  crackling  wood  beneath  the  tempest  bends 
And  in  a  spangled  shower  the  prospect  ends : 
Or,  if  a  southern  gale  the  region  warm. 
And  by  degrees  unbind  the  wintry  charm,         ^ 
The  traveller  a  miry  country  sees. 
And  journeys  sad  beneath  the  drooping  trees: 
Like  some  deluded  peasant.  Merlin  leads 
Through  fragrant  bowers,  and  through  delicious 

meads. 
While  here  enchanted  gardens  to  him  rise, 
And  airy  fabrics  there  attract  his  eyes. 
His  wandering  feet  the  magic  paths  pursue. 
And,  while  he  thinks  the  fair  illusion  true. 
The  trackless  scenes  disperse  in  fluid  air, 
And  woods,  and  wilds,  and  thorny  ways  appear, 
A  tedious  road  the  weary  wretch  returns. 
And,  as  he  goes,  the  transient  vision  mourns. 


A  HYMN  TO  VEXUS. 

FROM  THE  GREEK  OF  SAPPHO. 

O  Venus,  Beauty  of  the  skies. 

To  whom  a  thousand  temples  rise, 

Gaily  false  in  gentle  smiles, 

Full  of  love-perplexing  wiles, 

O  goddess  !  from  my  heart  remove 

The  wasting  cares  and  pains  of  love. 

If  ever  thou  hast  kindly  heard 
A  song  in  soft  distress  preferr'd. 
Propitious  to  my  tuneful  vow, 
O,  gentle  goddess,  hear  me  now. 

resting  selection  might  be  made  trom  it. — Essay  on  Pt- 
riodical  I^xpers.] 

[t  The  apening  of  this  poem  is  incomparably  fine.    The 
latter  part  is  tedious  and  trifling. — Uoli>smitu.] 


ISAAC   WATTS. 


459 


Descend,  thou  bright  immortal  guest, 
In  all  thy  radiant  charms  confess'd. 

Thou  once  didst  leave  almighty  Jove, 
And  all  the  golden  roofs  above : 
The  car  thy  wanton  sparrows  drew; 
Hovering  in  air  they  lightly  flew; 
As  to  my  bower  they  wing'd  their  way, 
I  saw  their  quivering  pinions  play. 

The  birds  dismiss'd  (while  you  remain) 
Bore  back  their  empty  car  again  : 
Then  you,  with  looks  divinely  mild. 
In  every  heavenly  feature  smiled. 
And  ask'd  what  new  complaints  I  made. 
And  why  I  called  you  to  my  aid  ] 

What  frenzy  in  my  bosom  raged. 
And  by  what  care  to  be  assuaged  1 
What  gentle  youth  I  would  allure, 
Whom  in  my  artful  toils  secure  1 
Who  does  thy  tender  heart  subdue. 
Tell  me,  my  Sappho,  tell  me  who  1 

Though  now  he  shuns  thy  longing  arms. 
He  soon  shall  court  thy  slighted  charms ; 
Though  now  thy  offerings  he  despise. 
He  soon  to  thee  shall  sacrifice ; 
Though  now  he  freeze,  he  soon  shall  bum. 
And  be  thy  victim  in  his  turn. 


Celestial  visitant,  once  more, 
Thy  needful  presence  I  implore! 
In  pity  come  and  ease  my  grief. 
Bring  my  distemper'd  soul  relief: 
Favour  thy  suppliant's  hidden  fire«. 
And  give  me  all  my  heart  desires. 


A  FRAOMKNT  Of  8APPH0. 

Blkss'd  as  the  immortal  gods  is  he, 
The  youth  who  fondly  sits  by  thee. 
And  hears  and  sees  thee  all  the  while 
Softly  speak  and  sweetly  smile. 

'Twas  this  deprived  my  soul  of  rest. 
And  raised  such  tumults  in  my  breast; 
For  while  I  gazed,  in  transport  toss'J, 
My  breath  was  gone,  my  Toice  was  lost 

My  bosom  glow'd :  the  subtle  flame 
Ran  quickly  through  my  vital  frame ; 
O'er  my  dim  eyes  a  darkness  hung. 
My  ears  with  hollow  murmurs  rung. 

In  dewy  damps  my  limbs  were  chill'd. 
My  blood  with  gentle  horrors  thrill'd ; 
My  feeble  pulse  forgot  to  play, 
I  fainted,  sunk,  and  died  away.* 


ISAAC  WATTS. 


[Born,  1674.    Did,  1748.] 


De.  Watts's  devotional  poetry  was  for  the 
most  part  intentionally  lowered  to  the  under- 
standing of  children.  If  this  was  a  sacrifice  of 
taste,  it  was  at  least  made  to  the  best  of  inten- 
tions. The  sense  and  sincerity  of  his  prose 
writin^^s,  the  excellent  method  in  which  he  at- 
tempted to  connect  the  study  of  ancient  logic 
with  common  sense,  and  the  conciliatory  manner 
in  which  he  allures  the  youthful  mind  to  habits 
of  study  and  reflection,  are  probably  remembered 
with  gratitude  by  nine  men  out  of  ten,  who  have 
had  proper  books  put  into  their  hands  at  an  early 
period  of  their  education.  Of  this  description 
was  not  poor  old  Percival  Stockdale,  who  in  one 


of  his  lucubrations  gives  our  author  the  appella- 
tion of  "  Mother  Watts."  The  nickname  would 
not  be  worth  mentioning  if  it  did  not  suggest  a 
compassionate  reflection  on  the  difference  between 
the  useful  life  and  labours  of  Dr.  Watts,  and  the 
utterly  useless  and  wasted  existence  of  Percival 
Stockdale.  It  might  have  been  happy  for  the 
frail  intellects  of  that  unfortunate  man.  if  they 
had  been  braced  and  rectified  in  his  youth  by 
such  works  as  Watts's  Logic  and  Improvement 
of  the  Mind.  The  study  of  them  might  pos- 
sibly have  saved  even  him  firom  a  life  of  vanity, 
vexation,  and  oblivion.'!' 


FEW  HAPPY  MATCHES. 
Sat,  mighty  love,  and  teach  my  song. 
To  whom  thy  sweetest  joys  belong. 

And  who  the  happy  pairs 
Whose  yielding  hearts  and  joining  hands, 
Find  blessings  twisted  with  their  bands, 

To  soften  all  their  cares. 

[*  Jo.«eph  VVarton  thinks  that  Addbon  lent  a  helping 
nnnd  to  I'hllips  in  theno  translalionH.  He  was  fomi  of 
rendering  such  a^ni'tance,  and  may  have  done  no:  t'Ut 
it  is  idle  to  indulge  in  conjectures  and  plausible  per- 
bupses.] 


Not  the  wild  herd  of  nymphs  and  swains 
That  thoughtless  fly  into  thy  chains. 

As  custom  leads  the  way ; 
If  there  be  bliss  without  design. 
Ivies  and  oaks  may  grow  and  twine, 

And  be  as  blest  as  they. 


[t  Of  Watts'*  poetry  one  can  pmi«  th««  design  but  not 
the  execution,  though  Cowper  pmfwiiKxi  to  And  exii-Ilent 
poetry  in  bin  veri*.  The  author  of  Uie  Mlney  Hymns, 
will,  h  are  alx>ut  the  le»el  of  WatU'i,  may  be  panlona4 
for  8uch  natural  bliiidDess.) 


460                                                    LEONARD 

WELSTED. 

Not  sordid  souls  of  earthly  mould 

As  well  may  heavenly  concerts  spnng 

Who  drawn  by  kindred  charms  of  gold 

From  two  old  lutes  with  ne'er  a  string. 

To  dull  embraces  move  ; 

Or  none  besides  the  bass. 

So  two  rich  mountains  of  Peru 

May  rush  to  wealthy  marriage  too, 

Nor  can  the  soft  enchantments  hold 

And  make  a  world  of  love. 

Two  jarring  souls  of  angry  mould. 

The  rugged  and  the  keen  : 

Not  the  mad  tribe  that  hell  inspires 

Samson's  young  foxes  might  as  well 

With  wanton  flames ;  those  raging  fires 

In  bonds  of  cheerful  wedlock  dwell. 

The  purer  bliss  destroy ; 

With  firebrands  tied  between. 

On  iEtna's  top  let  furies  wed, 

And  sheets  of  lightning  dress  the  bed 

Nor  let  the  cruel  fetters  bind 

T'  improve  the  burning  joy. 

A  gentle  to  a  savage  mind ; 

For  love  abhors  the  sight : 

Nor  the  dull  pairs  whose  marble  forms 

Loose  the  fierce  tiger  from  the  deer, 

None  of  the  melting  passions  warms, 

For  native  rage  and  native  fear 

Can  mingle  hearts  and  hands: 

Rise  and  forbid  delight 

Logs  of  green  wood  that  quench  the  coals 

Are  married  just  like  Stoic  souls. 

Two  kindest  souls  alone  must  meet. 

With  osiers  for  their  bands. 

'Tis  friendship  makes  the  bondage  sweet. 

And  feeds  their  mutual  loves : 

Not  minds  of  melancholy  strain, 

.  Bright  Venus  on  her  rolling  throne 

Still  silent,  or  that  still  complain, 

Is  drawn  by  gentlest  birds  alone, 

Can  the  dear  bondage  bless : 

And  Cupids  yoke  the  doves. 

LEONARD 

WELSTED. 

[Born,  1688. 

Died,  1716-7.] 

Lkonaed  Wblsted,  a  victim  of  Pope's  sat 

ire,  whose  verses  did  not  always  deserve  it. 

And  Rome  in  ashes  lay. — What  after  that? 
Waste  India's  realms. — -What  then?    Then  sit 

FROM  HIS  "SUMMUM  BOXUM." 

Smile,  my  Hephestion,  smile,  no  more  be  seen 

and  chat; 

This  dupe  to  anger,  and  this  slave  to  spleen  ; 

Then  quaff  the  grape,  and  mirthful  stories  tell. — ■ 

No  more  with  pain  ambition's  trappings  view; 

Sir,  you  may  do  so  now,  and  full  as  well. 

Nor  envy  the  false  greatness,  nor  the  true. 

Look  through  but  common  life,  look  o'er  man- 

Let dull  St.  Bevil  dream  o'er  felons'  fates, 

kind. 

Bright  Winnington  in  senates  lead  debates. 

A  thousand  humbler  madmen  there  you'll  find; 

Vain  Bulbo  let  the  sheriff's  robe  adorn, 

A  thousand  heroes  of  Epirus  view  ; 

And  Holies*  wake  to  bless  the  times  unborn. 

Then  scorn  to  beat  this  hackney  d  path  anew. 

*                 *                 *                 * 

In  search  of  fancied  good  forget  to  roam, 

The  palm  excels  that  trembles  o'er  the  brooks. 

Nor  wander  from  your  safer,  better  home. 

The  bastard  rose  not  half  so  gaudy  looks. 

*               •*                *               * 

The  myrrh  is  worth,  that  scents  Arabia's  sky, 

See  Heartgood,  how  he  tugs  for  empty  praise ; 

An  hundred  gourds,  yet  rises  not  so  high. 

He's  got  the  vine,  yet  scrambles  for  the  bays : 

This  not  disturbs  you,  nor  your  bliss  alloys, 

A  friendly  neighbour  born,  his  vain  desire 

I'hen  why  should  fortune's  sports  and  human 

PrompU  him  to  get  a  little  cubit  higher; 

toys? 

When  all  unvex'd,  untroubled,  he  might  Hve, 

What  is't  to  us  if  Clod  the  self-same  day 

And  all  that  nature  ask'd,  his  farm  would  give. 

Trolls  in  the  gilded  car  and  drives  the  dray  1 

Colville  and  Madge  one  field,  one  cow  possess'd, 

If  Richvil  for  a  Roman  patriot  pass, 

Had  dwelt  unanxious  many  years  and  blest; 

And  half  the  livery  vote  for  Isinglass? 

A  quiet  conscience,  and  their  neighbours'  praise 

With  grateful  mind  let's  use  the  given  hour. 

They  held — It  was  in  Friar  Bacon's  days. 

And  what's  our  own  enjoy  and  in  our  power. 

No  thief  alarm'd  the  lowly  cottage  roof. 

To  his  great  chiefs  the  conqueror  Pyrrhus  spoke. 

And  pride  and  base  contention  kept  aloof. 

Two  moons  shall  wane,  and  Greece  shall  own  our 

At  length  the  rumour  all  about  was  flown 

yoke. 

They  monk  had  found  the  philosophic  stone. 

*Tis  well,  replied  the  friend ;  admit  it  so, 

Quoth  Colville,  be 't — in  comfort,  peace  we  live, 

What  next  ?   Why  next  to  Italy  I'll  go. 

For  his  arcanum  not  a  hair  I'll  give; 

To  me  all  wealth  contentment  does  impart, 
I  have  this  chemic  secret  in  my  heart. 

[*  Welfted's  great  patron,  the  Duke  of  Newcastle.] 

AMHURST  SELDEN. 


461 


Let  Munich  bow  the  haughty  Othman  crest, 
Among  my  humble  teams  I'll  be  as  blest; 
liet  the  great  Schach  o'er  trembling  Ganges  ride, 
I'll  boast  more  conquests  by  my  chimney  side. 
What  post  you  stand  in,  trust  me,  my  Hephestion, 
The  part  you  bear  in  life  is  not  the  question  ; 
But  how  you  act  it,  how  your  station  grace. 
There  is  the  matter ;  that's  the  point  in  case. 
All  one  if  peer  or  pedlar  you  sustain, 
A  kiurel'd  victor  be  or  shepherd  swain ; 
For  social  weal  alike  each  state  was  made, 
'  And.  every  calling  meant  the  others'  aid ; 
Together  all  in  mystic  numbers  roll, 
All  in  their  order  act,  and  serve  the  whole. 
Who  guard  the  laws,  or  bid  the  orchat  bloom. 
Who  wield  the  sceptre,  and  who  guide  the  loom. 
*  *  *  * 

An  easy  and  contented  mind  is  all. 
On  whom  and  where  it  will  let  glory  fall ; 
Let  us  the  soul  in  even  balance  bear. 
Content  with  what  we  have  and  what  we  are. 
»  *  »  * 

On  rapt'rous  visions  long  had  Berkley  fed, 
The  lemon  groves  were  ever  in  his  head ; 


He  hangs  on  Waller,*  and  the  landscape  aids. 
Sees  in  Bermuda  blooming  Ida's  shades. 

'Tis  said — 'tis  done — the  project  quick  prevails ; 
He  gets  the  promised  freight — he  weils — he  sails. 
The  storms  loud  rattle,  but  on  storms  he  smiles. 
They  will  but  waft  me  to  Bermuda's  isles. 
At  length  the  port  he  gains,  when  all  his  dreams 
He  vanish'd  views,  and  owns  the  airy  schemes : 
The  orange  branch  had  lost  its  fragrant  load. 
The  cedar  waved  not,  nor  the  citron  blow'd ; 
In  Eden's  stead  he  sees  a  desert  stand, 
For  figs  and  vines  a  poor  unpeopled  land ; 
For  balmy  breezes,  and  for  cloudless  skies, 
He  hears  around  the  whistling  tem{>e8t  rise. 
And  is  this  all  1  said  the  good  Dean  of  Down, 
Is  this  the  end,  my  hope  and  labour's  crown  1 
Too   blest    the    swain    o'er  Ormond's    flowery 

dales 
Who  roves  at  ease,  or  sleeps  in  Derry's  vales. 
Henceforth  I'll  gratulate  my  native  shore. 
In  search  of  bright  delusions  range  no  more, 
Content  to  be,  to  cure  this  rambling  itch. 
An  humble  Bishop,  and  but  barely  rich. 


AMHURST  SELDEN. 


Of  the  history  of  this  author  I  am  sorry  that  I 
can  give  no  account.  His  poem  of  Love  and  Folly 
was  published  in  April,  1749.  It  seemed  to  me 
to  be  somewhat  better  than  that  which  is  generally 


condemned  to  oblivion.  If  the  extracts  should 
appear  to  be  tedious,  the  only  apology  I  can  otTer 
is,  the  difficulty  of  making  short  specimens  of  a 
story  at  all  intelligible. 


LOTE  AND  FOLLY. 

ARSAIOimENT  AND  TRIAl  OP  CUPID. 

The  gods,  in  senate  to  debate. 
And  settle  high  affairs  of  state. 
Where  vast  Olympus'  summits  rise, 
Descended  from  the  azure  skies: 
As  their  great  sire  and  lord  revered. 
Their  cloud-compelling  Jove,  appear'd  ; 
Calm  in  his  lap  the  thunders  lay. 
The  symbols  of  imperial  sway, 
While  Heaven's  high  power  sat  round  the  throne, 
And  deck'd  it  Uke  a  splendid  zone  : 
There  Juno  and  the  Paphian  Queen, 
The  Graces  in  their  train,  were  seen ; 
Amidst  her  father's  radiant  race. 
The  chaste  Diana  took  her  place ; 
Without  his  helmet,  sword,  or  car. 
There  frown'd  the  haughty  God  of  War; 
There  joyous  smiled  the  God  of  Wine, 
With  numbers  more  of  birth  divine; 
Metis,  who  prudent  counsels  guides, 
And  o'er  the  letter'd  world  presides; 
Themis,  who  Heaven's  dread  laws  attends, 
And  Truth's  deserted  cause  defends; 
Sage  Vesta  through  the  earth  renown'd, 
And  Cybele  with  turrets  crown'd ; 


Neptune,  the  Ocean's  awful  lord ; 
Pluto,  by  Hell's  dark  realms  adored ; 
Pan,  to  whose  altars  shepherds  bow ; 
Ceres,  inventress  of  the  plough; 
And  last  sat  down  old  gay  Silenus, 
With  Vulcan,  spouse  and  slave  to  Venus. 

Grand  was  the  pomp,  for  thither  all 
Attended  on  the  Thunderer's  call ; 
The  heavens  themselves  were  in  a  blaze ; 
Phoebus  was  there,  bedeck'd  with  rays. 
Yet  scarcely,  though  he  look'd  so  bright. 
Was  seen  'midst  such  a  flood  of  light. 
Where  each  with  beams  celestial  shone, 
Beyond  the  splendour  of  the  sun ; 
Together  by  great  Jove  convened. 
To  hear  the  God  of  Love  arraign'd. 
Solemn  the  session,  high  the  cause, 
For  Love  had  broke  through  ail  their  laws. 
And  made  the  deities  obey. 
As  vassals,  his  tyrannic  sway ; 
Enslaved,  they  dragg'd  his  galling  chain, 
And  mourn'd  his  power,  but  mourn 'd  in  vain. 
Kindling  his  flames  in  every  breast, 
He  never  gave  th'  immortals  rest. 


[•  Waller's  poem  on  the  Sammer  UUi)d«.1 
2o-i 


462 


AAIHURST  SELDEN. 


But,  fond  their  weakness  to  expose, 
Involved  them  in  a  thousand  woes. 
While  Jove's  despised  omnipotence 
Against  his  arts  found  no  defence. 

This  haughty  treatment  had  o'erthrown 
Their  empire,  though  it  raised  his  own ; 
For,  with  his  all-subduing  bow, 
He  sunk  their  power  and  fame  so  low, 
And,  ever  since  his  fatal  birth. 
Ruled  so  supreme  o'er  heaven  and  earth, 
That  mortals  now  to  Cupid  paid 
The  chief  oblations  which  they  made, 
And  slighting  every  name  above, 
Adored  no  other  god  but  Love. 

Besides,  to  men  of  worth  and  sense 
His  shameless  conduct  gave  offence : 
He  drank,  he  wench'd,  he  gamed,  he  swore. 
His  life  with  crimes  was  blotted  o'er; 
He  scorn 'd  good  Hymen's  sacred  ties. 
And  made  a  trade  of  vows  and  lies ; 
Fair  Virtue's  praise,  and  honour'd  fame, 
He  laugh'd  at  as  an  empty  name ; 
By  which  example  all  the  nations 
Lay  quite  exposed  to  great  temptations, 
And,  doating  on  their  lewd  amours. 
Had  turn'd  Religion  out  of  doors. 

*  *  * 
Silence  proclaim'd,  th'  assessors  wait. 
Anxious  for  Love's  impending  fate. 
When  Themis,  watching  Dian's  eyes, 
Straight  to  th'  etherial  court  applies, 
And,  like  intrepid  Yorke,*  demands 
Impartial  justice  at  their  hands; 
That  no  mean  bias  warp  their  hearts 
To  Cupid's  treacherous  charms  and  arts. 
While  they,  by  long  establish'd  laws, 
Decide  the  great  approathing  cause ; 
That  on  their  votes  depended  all 
Which  they  could  dear  or  sacred  call; 

In  heav'n  their  peace,  on  earth  their  fame, 
Their  endless  glory  or  their  shame ; 
That  e'en  their  temples,  priests,  and  power, 
Hung  on  this  one  decisive  hour. 

*  *  * 
Therefore,  in  right  and  truth's  support, 
She  humbly  moved  a  rule  of  court, 
That  Hermes  might  his  prisoner  bring 
Before  his  peers  and  Heaven's  high  King, 
To  hear,  by  their  decree,  his  crimes 

( 'Ondemn'd  to  late  succeeding  times. 
And  heaven  and  earth  at  once  set  free 
From  such  a  traitor's  tyranny. 

High  Jove,  who  on  th'  imperial  throne, 
Sceptred  and  throned,  was  placed  alone, 
Looks  awful  round  th'  assenting  gods, 
Shakes  his  ambro.-^ial  curls,  and  nods. 

Straight  Hermes,  at  his  sire's  command, 
His  wreath'd  caduceus  in  his  hand, 
From  his  close  ward  the  caitiff  brings. 
With  hands  unbound,  but  pinion'd  wings : 
While  at  his  back  his  bow,  unstrung, 
Tied  to  his  feather'd  quiver  hung. 

f*  The  Lord  Uigh  ChanceUor.] 


By  Dian's  order  Momus  bore 
The  mace,  and  solemn  stalk'd  before ; 
When  Hermes,  with  obeisance  low, 
Show'd  to  the  gods  their  daring  foe: 
But  such  a  foe,  so  wond'rous  fair. 
Each  grace  of  Venus  in  his  air. 

*  *  * 
So  bloom'd  his  ever  youthful  years. 
So  moving  were  his  silent  tears. 

That  half  heaven's  powers,  with  all  their  zealy 
Some  tender  pangs  began  to  feel. 
Lest  such  a  god,  indulging  all 
Their  pleasures,  should  unpitied  fall. 
And  turning  things  from  bad  to  worse, 
Make  iniortality  a  curse. 

Venus,  who  saw  them  much  amazed. 
While  piteous  on  his  form  they  gazed, 
Straight  pray'd  the  court  with  humble  pray'r, 
Her  son  might  be  allow'd  a  chair. 
Who  was  infirm,  and  scarce  had  slept 

One  hour  since  Jove She  paused  and  wept , 

The  God  seem'd  moved,  and  though  he  guess'd 

Her  foes  the  motion  would  contest, 

Glad  their  mean  malice  to  prevent, 

Nods  from  the  throne  his  kind  assent, 

As  jurors,  whom  the  world  believes 

Great  rogues,  oft  sit  on  petty  thieves. 

He  knew  some  led  amidst  the  sky. 

Worse  lives  than  him  they  were  to  try, 

And,  loth  poor  love  to  treat  too  ill. 

Grants  him  a  seat  against  their  will. 

Thus  loH'd  at  ease  the  little  thief. 
When  Dian  rose,  and  from  her  brief 
Show'd,  with  just  truth  and  cogent  reason. 
Why  she  impeach'd  him  there  of  treason. 

*  *  * 

Before  you  comes  arraign'd 
A  wretch  that  has  our  shrines  profaned, 
That  basely  labours  to  o'erthrow 
Our  bliss  above,  our  power  below. 

*  *  * 

Shall  Heav'n  alone 
Calm  see  this  wretch  its  Gods  disown. 
And  bear  the  scorn  with  which  he  treats 
The  rulers  of  these  sacred  seats  ? 
Apollo's  bow,  and  Neptune's  trident. 
He  tramples  on,  and  takes  a  pride  in't ; 
Ev'n  Mars,  who  leads  the  radiant  files 
Of  war,  is  vanquish'd  by  his  wiles; 
From  Bacchus  he  his  thyrsis  wrests. 
And  of  his  bolts  high  Jove  divests ; 
From  Hermes  charms  the  magic  rod. 
And  strips  of  all  his  wings  the  God ; 
Pluto  to  him,  and  Proserpine, 
Were  forced  their  empire  to  resign, 
And,  humbled,  found  infernal  fires 
Less  violent  than  Love's  desires: 
These  crimes  are  vouch'd  by  flagrant  facts. 
And  treason  by  an  hundred  acts. 
*  *  * 

These  are  his  deeds  above ;  on  earth 
What  mischiefs  owe  to  him  their  birth ! 
There,  while  his  frantic  slaves  he  tames, 
His  rage  the  suffering  world  inflames : 


He  shoots  around  his  fatal  darts, 
To  rack  and  torture  all  their  hearts ; 
The  base  deceiver  there  eludes 
The  vestal  vows,  the  prayers  of  prudes ; 
E'en  those  weak  souls  he  deigns  to  bless, 
He  strives  with  anguish  to  distress ; 
He  triumphs  o'er  the  racking  pain 
In  which  his  vassals  drag  his  chain ; 
^''ear,  joy,  grief,  hope,  desire,  despair, 
By  turns  their  wretched  bosoms  tear. 
*  »  » 

Frequent  divides  the  dearest  friends. 
And  breaks  all  laws  to  gain  his  ends ; 
Ra))es,  murders,  treasons,  he  commits, 
False,  true,  kind,  cruel,  all  by  fits : 
Various  and  changing  as  the  wind. 
He  parts  whom  Hymen's  rites  had  join'd ; 
And  whispers  in  the  husband's  ears 
A  thousand  cruel  doubts  and  fears, 
For  strife  and  mischief  are  his  joy. 
Such,  Venus,  is  your  lovely  boy  ! 
Who.  though  he  Jjpasts  that  Jove's  high  blood 
Rolls  in  his  veins  its  sacred  flood. 
Yet  has  his  mother's  milk  o'erflown 
The  tide,  and  made  the  mass  her  own. 
*  *  * 

Quick  let  the  wretch  his  sins  atone, 
And  Jove  at  last  resume  his  throne ! 
Doom,  doom  him  'midst  the  shades  below, 
To  shoot  his  darts  and  bend  his  bow ; 
There  let  him  labour  to  destroy 
The  little  peace  the  damn'd  enjoy. 

She  ceased :  while  half  the  powers  around 
Assented  first  with  sighs  profound. 
Then  with  her  generous  ardour  moved, 
A  loud  applause  her  zeal  approved. 
«  *  * 

Straight,  Cupid,  rising  from  his  place. 
Smiled  placid  with  enchanting  grace  ; 
Silent  he  paused,  and  to  the  skies. 
Though  blushing,  raised  his  beauteous  eyes. 
Then  sigh'd,  and  round  the  radiant  crowd. 
Saluting,  with  respect  he  bow'd: 
One  coward  tear  was  stealing  down. 
But  quick  he  check'd  it  with  a  frown ; 
And  while  with  matchless  charms  he  shone. 
Thus  to  the  court  his  plea  begun. 

'Tis  said  that  Love,  whene'er  he  pleads, 
With  easy  eloquence  succeeds: 
But  that,  ye  powers,  I'll  never  try. 
Nor  on  vain  rhetoric  rely  ; 
'Tis  by  the  force  of  truth  I  come 
To  strike  my  false  accusers  dumb. 

*  *  » 

To  dear  integrity  I  trust, 
As  I  am  guiltless,  you  are  just; 
While  that  I  make  my  sole  defence, 
I  laugh  at  envy's  impotence. 

*  *  * 

Let  those  (and  those,  I  hope,  are  few,) 
Let  those  who  ne'er  his  treasures  knew. 
Brand  with  all  crimes  unhappy  Love, 
He's  better  known  to  you  and  Jove. 
And  if  I've  made  the  Gods  employ. 
Some  days  in  that  transcendant  joy. 


I  trust  my  greatest  fault  will  be, 
Their  bliss  was  not  prolong'd  by  me. 
Whilst  absence,  fate,  or  time  control 
That  noblest  passion  of  the  soul, 
Let  each  Celestial  here  declare 
If  aught  like  Love  deserves  their  care. 
*  *  ♦ 

What  joys  can  match  fond  lovers'  pains. 
What  freedom 's  equal  to  their  chains ! 
What  transports  swell  their  hopes  and  fean^ 
What  softness,  sweetness,  in  their  tears! 
Such  tenderness,  when  fond  they  mourn, 
Such  ecstasy  when  hopes  return; 
Such  longing  for  th'  enchanting  bliss, 
Such  raptures  in  a  smile  or  kiss, 
Are  secrets  which  the  gods  conceal, 
And  none  but  lovers  know  or  feel. 

If  joys  like  these  you  treason  call, 
I  own  I  have  produced  them  all : 
Contrived  and  plann'd  by  me  alone, 
The  great  foundation  of  my  throne; 
And  hard,  great  Deities,  it  were. 
If  mortal  men  such  bliss  should  share. 
And  yet  th'  eternal  choir  above 
Be  quite  denied  the  sweets  of  Love. 
»  «  * 

In  heaven,  on  earth,  above,  below, 
Whate'er  is  pleasing  I  bestow. 

*  *  * 

Old  Time  and  all  the  laughing  hoara, 
Watch  o'er  my  gifts  and  nurse  my  powers ; 
Mirth,  Joy,  and  all  th'  inspired  throng 
Of  Muses,  tune  for  me  their  song ; 
And  if  they  fan  my  fires,  I  bring 
Sweetness  and  force  to  all  they  sing. 

*  »  * 

Men's  talents  raised  by  me  improve, 
For  wisdom  springs  and  grows  with  LoTe; 
By  me  adorn 'd,  the  human  mind 
Is  soilen'd,  polish'd,  and  refined. 

*  *  » 

I  melt  and  mould  mankind  with  ease, 
To  gentle  manners  form'd  to  please ; 
A  love  of  honour,  truth,  and  fame. 
Are  kindled  by  my  generous  flame ; 
Sublimed  by  me,  the  soul  pursues 
Exalted  thoughts  and  noble  views. 
Life  lies  as  in  a  lethargy. 
Till,  roused  and  raised,  it  turns  to  me ; 
Till  Love  eniiv'ning  thoughts  inspires, 
Has  neither  business  nor  desires, 
Or  such  as  only  torment  give. 
Men  when  they  love  begin  to  live. 

Life's  a  dull  blank,  and  useless  quite. 
As  dials  in  the  gloom  of  night. 
Till  Love's  gay  sun  its  splendour  poan. 
And  marks  and  gilds  the  brighten'd  houn. 

»  «  * 

These  gifts,  ye  powers,  from  you  I  hold. 
By  your  decree  assign'd  of  old : 
'Tis  your  behests  I  strive  to  do. 
Then  why  must  I  for  mercy  sue. 
At  this  high  court  impeach'd,  and  brought 
To  answer  for  each  lover's  fault  1 


464 


AMHURST  SELDEN. 


If  maids  to  men  inconstant  prove, 
And  scorn  ttie  sacred  laws  of  Love, 
Charge  not  their  broken  vowrs  to  me, 
But  their  own  horrid  perfidy. 

»  *  * 

Must  I  be  doom'd,  if  human  kind 
In  love  disclose  an  impious  mind  1 
With  oaths,  and  death,  and  falsehood  play, 
Whilst  perjured  vows  the  heart  betray. 
If  Heaven's  despised — if  all  their  aim 
Be  wealth  or  lust — am  I  to  blame  1 
No,  mighty  powers !  you  know  too  well. 
In  spite  of  heaven,  in  spite  of  hell, 
Of  slighted  love  and  reason  too, 
And  all  that  pitying  Love  can  do. 
Men,  to  indulge  their  passions  prone, 
Owe  to  themselves  their  crimes  alone. 

Yet,  cruel  gods,  if  you  decree 
To  spare  mankind  and  punish  me; 
If  I  must  be  their  victim  made, 
I  am  not  for  myself  afraid. 
But  for  the  woes  my  wretched  fate 
Will  soon  in  either  world  create: 
While  heaven  and  earth  my  fall  o'ertums, 
And  nature  my  destruction  mourns. 
For  what  can  stand,  if  Love  contemn'd 
To  shades  infernal  be  cond'^mn'd  1 
Yet  since  your  gloomy  frowns  declare 
My  only  refuge  is  despair. 
Not  thus  to  leave  you  all  in  woe. 
Take  this  last  boon  before  I  go ; 
Take  it,  and  feeling  Love's  sweet  pain, 
Ere  you  condemn  me  think  again." 
He  spoke,  and  secret  cast  his  darts, 
Snatch'd  from  his  quiver,  at  their  hearts. 

*  *  * 

Upsprung  the  gods,  with  wounds  distress'd ; 
Jove  had  a  dozen  in  his  breast. 

*  *  ♦ 

Mars  lost  an  eye,  and  Bacchus  two; 

Hermes,  the  god  of  Eloquence, 

Had  his  tongue  sliced,  and  ever  since 

An  oratory  has  declined 

To  noise,  phrase,  figures,  words,  and  wind. 

*  *  * 

Never  in  heaven  was  such  a  scene. 

*  *  * 

While  all  with  troubled  hearts  debate. 
How  the  dear  rebel  they  should  treat. 

*  *  * 

Their  rage  soft  pity  straight  controls, 

And  wav'ring  thoughts  distract  their  souls. 

This  Venus  guess'd,  and  soon  begun 

To  hope  she  might  retrieve  her  son. 

While  tears  roll'd  down  her  crimson'd  cheeks. 

And  her  sweil'd  heart  with  anguish  breaks. 

*  *  * 

"  Oh  hear,  and  spare  my  beauteous  son. 
Or  Venus — nay,  the  world's  undone. 
Alas !  I  would  not,  cannot  hide 
His  weakness,  rashness,  spleen,  or  pride. 
I  see  the  faults  I  can't  defend, 
Which  oft  I've  fondly  strove  to  mend; 
And  had  restored  his  fame  and  bliss 
Long  since,  but  that  he  keeps  a  Miss, 


On  whom,  poor  boy,  he  doats  to  rage. 
So  much  her  charms  his  soul  engage. 

*  *  * 
This  nymph,  on  whom  I  said  he  doats, 
He  loved  when  in  his  petticoats ; 
She's  called  Moria,  though  you  know 
Folly's  her  fav'rite  name  below : 

The  creature's  handsome,  and,  indeed, 

Has  beauties  which  all  praise  exceed  ; 

And  yet  this  nymph,  possess'd  of  charms 

To  tempt  a  Phoebus  to  her  arms. 

Is  still  so  giddy,  wild,  and  weak. 

Half  idiot,  half  coquet  and  rake; 

Is  such  a  rattle,  such  a  romp. 

So  fond  of  cards,  tea-tattle,  pomp. 

Of  feasts,  balls,  visits,  drums,  and  park, 

And  little  frolics  in  the  dark. 

That  as  with  willing  dotage  sway'd. 

Love's  ruled  by  this  deluding  maid ; 

'Tis  plain  by  her,  and  her  alone. 

The  glory  of  my  son's  o'erthrown. 

She  sets  him  on  a  world  of  freaks. 

She  makes  him  herd  with  cheats  and  rakes ; 

She  brings  him  into  brawls  and  scrapes. 

And  mischief  in  a  thousand  shapes; 

And  what's  the  most  perplexing  thought. 

Keeps  him  from  settling  as  he  ought. 

Till  he  was  led  by  her,  my  boy 

Gave  me  and  every  being  joy. 

*  *  * 
Nowr  fool'd  by  her,  he  acts  a  part 

That  shocks  all  heaven,  and  breaks  my  heart. 

*  *  * 

The  cause  thus  shown  of  his  ill  carriage. 
Next  comes  the  cure — in  short,  'tis  marriage. 
There  is  a  Goddess  sitting  there. 
That  might  reclaim  him  by  her  care ; 
And,  with  her  pardon,  I  must  name 
Sage  Metis,  that  transcendant  dame, 
Whose  aid  the  gods  sometimes  implore, 
And  men  by  Wisdom's  name  adore." 
Up  blush'd  good  Metis  to  the  eyes. 
But  show'd  more  pleasure  than  surprise : 
Joy,  mix'd  with  wonder,  secret  stole 
Warm'd  to  her  heart,  and  fill'd  her  soul; 
Some  virgin  fears  about  her  hung. 
While  modest  shame  tied  up  her  tongue; 
Yet  silent  all  her  thoughts  were  seen. 
And  glad  went  on  the  Paphian  Queen. 

*  *  * 
«  This  sweet  adviser,  thus  assign'd. 
Will  make  him  wise,  and  form  his  mind. 

*  *  * 
Send,  send  them  with  me  home ;  my  car 
Will  hold  us  all,  and  'tis  not  far : 

And  happy  may  their  nuptials  be 

To  gods  and  men,  to  them  and  me." 

She  ceased  *  * 

*  The  relenting  senate  vow'd 

Her  proffer'd  terms  should  be  allow'd, 

As  the  best  method  to  reform 

Her  son,  and  calm  the  present  storm  ; 

So  pitying  much  her  hapless  state, 

Pass'd  her  petition  on  debate, 


AMHURST  8ELDEN. 


46A 


While  Love  and  Wisdom  gave  their  hands, 
And  vow'd  to  join  in  Hymen's  bands. 


CANTO  n. 


Preparations  in  Cypnis  for  the  marriage  of  Cnpid  and 
Metis ;  his  frowaid  conduct,  and  reiapse  into  the  domi- 
nion of  Folly. 

*  *  * 

This  Cypras  found :  where  all  the  swains 
Rejoiced  around  her  fertile  plains, 
Metis  and  Love  to  meet,  who  came 
To  join  true  wisdom  with  his  flame: 
Young  girls,  old  maidens,  widows,  wives, 
Were  ne'er  more  jocund  in  their  lives. 
Finding  the  god  no  more  distress'd, 
And  with  so  sage  a  tut'ress  bless'd. 
Would  lead  a  married  life  unblamed. 

*  *  * 
Making  the  subject  world  perceive, 
What  blessings  Love  and  prudence  give. 

Large  were  the  preparations  made. 
For  Venus  understood  her  trade, 
To  make  her  palace  wond'rous  fine, 
And  crown  their  nuptials  and  design ; 
Sage  Metis,  like  a  girl  of  sense, 
Would  fain  have  saved  the  vast  expense  : 
But  Venus,  who  aflTected  show, 
Scorn'd  management  as  vile  and  low. 

*  *  * 
«  And  as  for  money,  I  can  seize, 
From  my  rich  temples,  what  I  please ; 
There,  ray  gold  statues  I'll  purloin, 
And  turn  them  all  to  ready  coin." 
So  said,  so  done :  from  Cnidos  four 
She  took,  from  Cyprus  many  more ; 
Expending  such  a  mint  of  gold 

As  scarce  all  Lombard-street  could  hold  : 

And  as  for  each  new-fashion'd  thing 

Her  mind  was  ever  on  the  wing, 

Her  wit  and  money  she  employs, 

Like  highbred  dames,  to  purchase  toys ; 

For  pomp  her  passion  to  display. 

Fond  she  postponed  the  wedding-day ; 

Crowds  of  artificers  were  brought. 

And  night  and  day  incessant  wrought; 

Mahogany  laid  all  her  floors. 

Gold  locks  and  hinges  deck'd  her  doors ; 

With  Indian  screens  and  China  jars, 

Her  house  was  graced,  like  heaven  with  stars. 

*  »  * 
Although  she  never  read  or  pray'd, 
She  form'd  a  study  for  parade; 
And  a  fine  chapel,  near  her  stairs, 
Was  placed  for  nothing  else  but  airs. 
Round  the  vast  dome  a  corridore 

By  the  best  hands  was  painted  o'er ; 
Through  all  th'  apartments  Parian  stone 
In  columns  and  in  friezes  shone ; 
In  splendid  utensils  profuse, 
Chased  vessels  served  for  common  use ; 
As  taste  and  luxury  never  plann'd 
Saloons  so  fine,  or  rooms  so  grand, 
58 


So  all,  firom  top  to  bottom  seen, 

Look'd  great,  and  like  the  Paphian  Queen. 

But         ♦  ♦  » 

*         *     'midst  this  state  hid  sorrows,  sprung 
From  Cupid's  pranks,  o'er  Metis  hung; 
For.  though  she  saw  all  things  agreed. 
The  house  set  out,  and  lawyer's  fee'd 
For  drawing  up  the  deeds  of  dower, 
For  hastening  Hymen's  happy  hour, 
She  knew  not  what  to  think  on't  still. 
The  God  behaved  himself  so  ill. 

*  »  ♦ 

Besides,  as  through  the  smallest  hole 
Men  spy  the  day-light,  so  the  soul. 
In  every  little  habitude, 
With  penetrating  eye  she  view'd. 
And  saw  appearances  at  least. 
Which  all  her  anxious  doubts  increased. 
Oft  when  the  lover's  part  he  play'd. 
His  looks  a  soul  unmoved  betray'd : 
For,  when  he  courted  her,  the  wretch 

Would  yawn,  and  sigh,  and  gape,  and  stretch ; 

And  what  the  Goddess  scarce  could  bear. 

Would  call  her  wise,  but  never  fair. 

In  temper  giddy  as  a  child. 

He  fawn'd  and  quarrel'd,  frown'd  and  smiled; 

This  day  all  ice,  the  next  he  burns. 

Like  agues,  hot  and  cold  by  turns. 

Now  dress'd  like  country  squires  and  plain, 

He'd  ride  about  in  dirt  and  rain  ; 

And  as  a  proof  of  unfeign'd  loving, 

Put  on  the  husband  and  the  sloven : 

Then,  all  those  boorish  whims  abhorr'd. 

He'd  go  as  fine  as  any  lord : 

Grown  fond  of  Metis  to  excess. 

Would  prove  his  passion  by  his  dress; 

And  proud  to  show  his  love  and  clothes. 

Swear  over  all  his  vows  and  oaths ; 

Then  tired  of  that,  he'd  quite  forsake 

The  Goddess,  and  affect  the  rake ; 

And  fond  of  girls,  and  wine,  and  play, 

Would  scarce  speak  to  her  twice  a  day : 

So  fickle,  that  no  weather-glass 

Could  through  more  variations  pass. 
»  *  » 

In  short,  his  conduct  was  so  bad, 

That  grave  good  people  thought  him  mad. 

And  mad  he  was  as  any  hare 

In  March,  while  grieved  he  sought  his  fair ; 

For  whom  the  wretch  was  all  this  while 

Scouring  by  night  the  Cyprian  isle. 

Where,  of  the  Goddesses  afraid. 

He  heard  they  hid  his  charming  maid.* 

Venus,  poor  soul,  now  storm 'd,  now  wept. 

To  get  him  in  some  order  kept. 

And  took  the  truant  oft  aside, 

And  urged  how  much  he  shock'd  his  bride. 
*  »  » 

Then  she  would  mingle  bitter  taunU 
About  his  uncles  and  his  aunts. 
And  beg  he  would  not  thus  disgrace 
Himself  and  his  celestial  race, 


[•Horl*.] 


■ 

466                                                        AMHURST  SELDEN. 

But  lead  a  life  like  one  that  knew 

The  heavenly  pair,  while  clarions  sound. 

What  was  to  them  and  Metis  due. 

With  blessings  hail'd,  with  glory  crown'd, 

Thus  things  went  on :  poor  Venus  raii'd, 

-»                   *                   * 

He  promised  to  grow  good — and  fail'd. 

In  state  approach  the  temple's  gates, 

And  when  she  told  him  of  his  Miss, 

Where  half  the  Cyprian  nation  waits. 

He  laugh'd  and  stopt  her  with  a  kiss : 

Till  the  high-priest  their  hands  should  tie 

He  own'd  he  liked  the  nymph,  but  swore 

In  bands  which  time  and  death  defy. 

He  liked  as  well  a  thousand  more ; 

The  gates  unfold,  they  enter  in. 

Yet  hoped  when  married  he  should  fix. 

And  soon  the  hallow'd  rites  begin ; 

And  lay  aside  his  raml>ling  tricks. 

With  hallow'd  fires  the  altars  blaze. 

Thus  with  false  prattle  he  amused 

The  priest  the  bellowing  victim  slays ; 

The  Goddess,  and  her  faith  abused. 

The  hymn  to  Juno  while  he  spoke. 

*                   *                   * 

The  nuptial  cake  in  form  was  broke: 

For  Love,  like  many  a  senseless  elf, 

But  oh,  amazing  !  as  their  hands 

Thought  his  best  counsellor  himself. 

Were  joining  in  the  nuptial  bands, 

But  all  this  while  a  secret  fear 

As  Love  prepared  to  give  the  ring, 

Was  buzzing  Metis  in  the  ear, 

And  the  high-priest  began  to  sing, 

What  ways  or  measures  she  should  take : 

Forth  sprung  Moria  from  the  crowd, 

She  loved  the  God,  but  loathed  the  rake. 

And,  bold,  forbade  the  banns  aloud: 

For  though  his  person  pleased  the  eye, 

"  The  God  is  mine,  is  mine,"  she  cries. 

His  actions  gave  his  looks  the  lie  : 

"Both  by  divine  and  human  ties. 

When  like  a  friend  she  blamed  his  pranks, 

*                   *                   »                 ■ 

She  found  she  got  but  little  thanks ; 

By  solemn  oaths  our  hearts  are  knit, 

For  spite  of  all  her  wise  discourse. 

Two  hearts  that  best  each  other  fit. 

The  little  wretch  show'd  no  remorse ; 

Speak,  Cupid,  art  thou  mine  alone  1 

Would  vow  her  ignorance  and  zeal 

Speak,  and  thy  fond  Moria  own : 

Struck  lire,  when  join'd,  like  flint  and  steel. 

This  infant  which  I  go  with  claims. 

*                    *                   -it- 

You'll  vow  it  sprung  from  heavenly  flames." 

Frequent  he'd  answer  all  she  said 

Instant,  enchanted  with  her  face, 

With,  "  Pray,  no  chiding  till  we're  wed ; 

Rush'd  Cupid  to  her  loved  embrace ; 

Or,  prythee  do  not  think  me  rude. 

Ravish'd  to  meet  her,  and  amazed. 

To  tell  you  plainly  you're  a  prude  : 

Upon  her  witching  charms  he  gazed. 

Directing  me  looks  something  odd — 

And  cried,  "Bright  nymph,  I'm  wholly  thiae, 

If  you're  a  Goddess,  I'm  a  God." 

And  you,  and  only  you,  are  mine." 

The  truth  is,  Metis,  though  so  wise. 

The  pontiff  stared,  and  dropped  his  book. 

Was  much  addicted  to  advise ; 

*                   *                   * 

No  pedant  more  inclined  to  teach. 

Dismay'd  stood  Venus — to  the  skies 

No  deacon  better  pleased  to  preach. 

She  held  her  hands  and  raised  her  eyes ; 

*                   *                   * 

Sunk  Wisdom  to  the  earth  forlorn. 

This  talk  of  Metis  and  his  mother 

Her  soul  with  struggling  passions  torn ; 

Went  in  at  one  ear,  out  at  t'other. 

And  pierced  with  grief,  and  stung  with  pride. 

*                   -*                   * 

The  false  perfidious  God  she  eyed ; 

Yet  though  his  heart,  where'er  he  went, 

Then  fainting  with  disdain  away, 

Was  on  his  bright  Moria  bent. 

Closed  her  grieved  eyes  and  loathed  the  day. 

He  seldom  fail'd  his  court  to  pay 

Meanwhile,  neglectful  of  their  woes, 

To  prudent  Metis,  day  by  day. 

Love  with  triumphant  Folly  goes. 

*                   *                   * 

Drawn  by  his  mother's  cooing  doves. 

At  length  the  happy  mom  appears 

To  sunny  Caria's  citron  groves. 

To  crown  the  long  revolving  yearg, 

*                   *                    * 

Assign'd  to  join  their  plighted  handg 

Ravish'd  that  Metis  could  not  curb 

For  ever  in  the  nuptial  bands ; 

Their  dotage,  or  their  peace  disturb. 

And  sums  immense  were  thrown  away 

*                   *                   * 

To  grace  the  triumph  of  the  day. 

Meantime  poor  Metis  kept  her  bed, 

*                   *                   * 

Much  troubled  with  an  aching  head  ; 

Their  silk,  their  lace,  their  modes  of  dress. 

And  as  she  never  was  a  toast. 

We  leave  for  courtly  dames  to  guess; 

Look'd  pale  and  meagre  as  a  ghost : 

In  robes  how  Venus  gorgeous  shone, 

Though  strong,  too  weak  to  ward  the  blow ; 

And  all  bedizen'd  out  her  son ; 

Though  sage,  too  fond  to  slight  the  wo: 

How  his  grave  bride  with  gems  look'd  bright, 

Love  proud,  like  death,  to  level  all, 

As  stars  adorn  a  frosty  night. 

The  wise  like  fools  before  him  fall. 

The  song  omits — for  it  would  tire 

*                   *                   * 

Bright  Cowley's  wit,  great  Shakspeare's  fire. 

Venus,  who  still  sat  near  her,  press'd 

*                   *                   * 

Her  head  upon  her  snowy  breast; 

Giaced  with  bright  rays  which  shone  afar, 

She  kiss'd  away  the  tears  she  shed. 

. 

Seated  with  Venus  in  her  car. 

With  her  own  hands  she  dress'd  her  bed; 

AMHDRST  SELDEN. 


She  brought  her  cordials,  made  her  tea 
Of  the  best  hyson  or  bohea ; 
To  drive  away  each  fretful  thought, 
She  told  what  news  the  papers  brought; 
Whate'er  in  heaven  or  earth  was  done, 
She  told,  but  never  named  her  son. 
Ambrosia  was  her  daily  fare, 
With  nectar'd  drams  to  doze  despair; 
She  managed  her  with  great  address. 
Made  her  play  cards,  backgammon,  chess. 
She  got  her  out,  and  every  morn 
Around  the  skies  would  take  a  turn, 
To  try,  while  in  their  car  they  flew. 
What  air  and  exercise  might  do. 
Whene'er  her  pain  relax'd,  she  vow'd 
No  cure  was  Uke  a  brilliant  crowd : 
So,  in  the  eve  of  each  good  day, 
Coax'd  her  abroad  to  see  the  play. 
Thus,  like  fine  belles,  she  idly  sought, 
By  vain  delights  to  banish  thought. 

*  *  * 

Her  head  she  dress'd,  her  hair  she  curl'd, 
And  made  her  visit  half  the  world. 

*  *  * 

In  short,  she  was  in  perfect  pain 
The  fair  to  comfort — but  in  vain. 


467 


Tenoa  deopatohes  a  messenger  to  remonstrate  with  Cupid, 
and  to  briag  him  back  to  Wisdom. 

Swift  through  the  air  Irene  pass'd. 

And  finds  deluded  love  at  last. 

Gazing  on  Folly's  beauteous  face. 

Feasting  his  eyes  on  every  grace, 

And  thunders  in  his  ears  a  peal 

Of  bold  plain  truths,  with  honest  zeal : 

Tells  him  the  dreadful  news  she  brings, 

And  the  plain  consequence  of  things ; 

Show'd  all  his  mother's  letters  to  him, 

And  vow'd  Moria  would  undo  him  ; 

Said  twice  as  much  as  Venus  bid  her. 

And  begg'd  of  Cupid  to  consider, 

How  his  vile  pranks  and  broken  vows 

Would  Jove's  insulted  vengeance  rouse; 

Then  adding  threats,  vow'd  o'er  and  o'er. 

The  Gods  would  be  deceived  no  more : 

In  short,  she  made  his  conduct  look 

So  black,  like  aspen  leaves  he  shook. 


FROM  CANTO  IV. 
Folly,  after  the  departure  of  Irene,  holds  a  long  dialogue 
with  Love,  in  which  she  artrucg  her  own  cuperiority 
over  Wi.-di.m.  and  the  beneflciiil  influenre  which  she 
exercises  in  the  world,  pretty  much  in  the  manner  of 
Erasmus's  I'raise  of  Folly.  .She  [lerwives,  however, 
that  Cupid  Is  so  sadly  terrified  by  the  threats  lately 
held  out  to  him,  that  her  empire  over  him  is  itJU  in 
danger. 

Intr.\nced  in  sleep  while  Cupid  lies, 
And  downy  slumbers  seal  his  eyes, 
*  *  * 

Distracting  cares  Moria's  breast 
Disturb'd,  and  banish'd  balmy  rest; 
She  saw  her  charmer's  fluttering  heart 
Was  almost  on  the  wing  to  part. 
«  *  » 


She  doubted  fear  might  banish  love. 
As  frights  will  ague-fiu  remove. 

*  *  ♦ 
Rack'd  with  despair,  she  rose  and  walk'd, 
And  wildly  to  herself  she  talk'd. 

*  ♦  ♦ 
Till  roused  at  last  her  deluged  eyes, 
Charm'd  with  a  great  design  she  tries : 
Flush'd  with  the  thought,  she  wings  her  fligl« 
To  the  dun  goddess  of  the  Night : 

She  found  her  on  a  mountain's  side, 
Where  rocks  her  palace  portals  hide ; 
Walls  of  thick  mist  its  precincU  close. 
No  groves,  lo<lge,  cawing  rooks,  or  crowi. 
But  solemn  Silence,  still  as  Death, 
Lay  slumbering  on  th'  extended  heath: 
Old  Nature  built  it  under  ground. 
Shut  from  the  day,  remote  from  sound; 
Its  outstretch'd  columns  arch'd  inclose 
Vast  voids  devoted  to  repose, 
Form'd  of  huge  caverns  so  obscure, 
As  'twere  of  light  the  sepulture. 

*  *  » 
Stretch'd  on  her  couch  the  Queen  she  found, 
Her  head  with  wreaths  of  poppy  crown'd, 
Each  sense  dissolved  in  soft  repose. 

*  ♦  ♦ 
While  storms  of  grief  her  bosom  swell. 
Prostrate  the  nymph  before  her  fell, 
And  thus  the  slothful  power  address'd : 

«  Wake,  Night's  great  Goddess,  give  me  rett, 

Assist  your  child — my  birth  I  owe 

To  you  and  Erebus  below  ;* 

With  millions  made  to  me  a  prey, 

I've  throng'd  the  gloomy  realms  you  sway; 

Yet  Love,  who  gods  and  men  deceives, 

Moria  soon  perfidious  leaves ; 

Unless  your  skill  divine  can  find 

Some  means  to  keep  him  true  and  kind." 

*  ♦  * 

*     *  Slow  the  yawning  Goddess  sighs. 
And,  half  asleep,  with  pain  replies  * 
"  As  I  saw  Love  was  false  as  fair. 
Know,  child,  I  made  your  peace  my  cars: 
While  fond  to  fix  his  fickle  heart, 
I've  form'd  this  maf<terpiece  of  art: 
Here,  take  this  phial,  which  I've  fill'd 
With  oils  from  female  tears  distili'd. 

*  «  * 

Warm'd  with  your  sighs,  bedew  it  round 
His  eye-lids,  seal'd  in  trance  profound, 
And  by  loved  Erebus  I  swear. 
The  God  your  chains  shall  raptured  wear: 
Haste,  use  it — leave  me  to  my  rest." 
She  sunk,  with  dozing  fumes  oppreas'd. 

*  «  * 

So  quick  as  airy  Fancy  flies. 
Or  beamy  light  shoots  round  the  skies, 
To  Cupid's  couch  she  wings  her  way, 
Where,  sunk  in  sleep,  the  dreamer  lay ; 


[*  Erebus,  tbs  l'<K>msl  drlty,  wna  marriad  to  Noz,  ths 
godde-R.  a^  all  my.hologisis  stcrea:  snd  ewn  Ctcero  tciu 
us  this  is  hL'<  3d  iKx.k  t>r  thu  .Nntun.  of  (b*  Ood*.  This 
marriage  pro<luc<'d  a  crowd  of  h  rrid  ctilldr<Mi.  .'urh  •/ 
Deceit,  Fcsr,  Ijabour,  Knvr,  and  many  others,  among  wboia 
Volly  is  set  down  as  one.] 


468                                                       AMHURST 

SELBEN. 

Warm'd  with  her  sighs,  the  oil,  in  rills, 

He  begg'd  her,  yelling  with  despair, 

Soft  round  his  eye-lids  she  distils, 

The  fruitless  torture  to  forbear. 

Then  unperceived  to  bed  she  stole. 

*                    -x-                   * 

While  joys  enraptured  swell'd  her  soul. 

Withal  the  little  subtle  dart 

Wake,  wretched  Cupid,  haste,  arise, 

Quick  through  his  eye  so  pierced  his  heart. 

Or  never  shall  thy  radiant  eyes 

Enkindling  there  such  raging  fires ; 

Nature's  fair  face  again  survey, 

*                    *                    * 

Or  the  bright  sun's  delightful  ray ; 

They  made  the  God  his  nymph  adore. 

For  by  the  magic  arts  of  Night 

And,  fond  to  dotage,  love  her  more. 

Folly  will  rob  thee  of  thy  sight. 

His  pain  abates,  but  this  fresh  flame 

And  by  mad  fondness,  undesign'd. 

So  shoots  into  his  vital  frame, 

Will  make  thee  senseless,  dark,  and  blind. 

*                    *                   * 

And  now  the  virgin  Light  had  rear'd 

He,  drunk  with  love  and  joy,  forgets 

Her  head,  and  o'er  the  mountains  peer'd, 

His  blindness  and  his  mother's  threats. 

When  Folly,  glad  her  grand  design 

"My  life  !"  says  he,  "  I  here  discard 

Was  near  the  springing,  like  a  mine, 

For  this  distress  the  least  regard: 

Impatient  for  the  great  event 

Methinks  I  feel  my  flames  renew ; 

Of  her  dread  mother's  liniment, 

My  hfe's  not  only  yours — but  you ; 

Drew  the  bed-curtains,  wild  with  joy, 

While,  like  a  graft  fed  by  the  tree. 

To  rouse  the  soul-subduing  boy, 

I  live  absorb'd  and  sunk  in  thee. 

And  cried,  "  Awake,  my  dear,  the  sun 

*                   *                   * 

Already  has  its  course  begun  ; 

Lend  me  your  hand ;  a  God  shall  bear, 

Whole  nature  smiles,  while  thus  we  use 

Unmoved  those  woes  which  mortals  share. 

The  morn,  fresh  bathed  in  limpid  dews." 

Yes!  since  the  evil  I  endure 

Pleased  he  awakes;  his  ears  rejoice 

Is  past  thy  art  and  mine  to  cure. 

To  hear  her  sweet  bewitching  voice, 

Thou  now  o'er  me  and  men  shalt  reign. 

And,  fond,  to  see  her  turn'd  his  eyes, 

*                    *                    * 

But,  starting,  found,  with  deep  surprise. 

Unchanged  as  fate,  the  world  shall  find. 

Though  in  their  own  warm  melting  rain 

While  Folly's  faithful,  I'll  be  kind; 

He  bathed  and  rubb'd  them  long  in  vam : 

And  ages  yet  unborn  shall  see 

1            Their  powers  of  vision  die  away, 

How  firm  my  soul  is  link'd  to  thee." 

While  dimm'd,  nor  conscious  of  the  day , 

*                   *                   * 

Fruitless  they  roll  their  shining  orbs, 

Thus  the  gay  hours  delightful  fly, 

Which  the  dark  gloom  of  night  absorbs. 

Till  Folly's  own  good  hour  draws  nigh, 

"  0  Heaven  !"  he  cries,  « the  Gods,  I  find, 

When,  twinged  and  pain'd,  her  labour  came. 

The  cruel  Gods,  have  struck  me  blind; 

She  sends  for  many  a  Carian  dame; 

Or  rather  Metis,  in  despite. 

By  great  Lucina's  help  and  theirs. 

Has  by  some  art  destroy 'd  my  sight. 

To  ease  the  burthen  which  she  bears. 

*                   *                    * 

Great  was  her  danger ;  for  the  fright 

Fair  charmer,  I  no  more  shall  see 

She  took  when  Cupid  lost  his  sight, 

The  sun,  nor,  what's  more  cruel,  thee." 

And  the  dread  horror  of  her  crime. 

*                   *                    * 

Had  made  her  come  before  her  time: 

Stood  fond  Moria  quite  distress'd. 

Yet  blest  with  what  she  thought  a  treasure, 

She  clapt  her  hands,  she  smote  her  breast ; 

A  girl  at  last  was  born,  call'd  Pleasure, 

She  sighs,         *                 * 

Of  a  weak,  sickly,  tender  make. 

*         *  sinks  down,  and,  cold  as  clay, 

Tall,  thin,  and  slender  as  a  rake; 

Kisses  his  feet,  and  faints  away. 

So  slight,  it  scarce  would  handling  bear, 

*                    *                    * 

Fainting  in  spite  of  Folly's  care : 

At  length  her  pulse  begun  to  beat. 

For,  as  the  sensitive  plant,  it  seem'd 

And  life  renews  its  genial  heat ; 

To  shrink  at  every  touch,  and  scream'd 

Her  heaving  lungs  expanded  play. 

Like  mandrakes,  when  their  tender  shoots 

Again  her  eyes  behold  the  day. 

Are  torn  upward  by  the  roots. 

"Bright  charmer!"  cries  the  God,  "your grief 

*                    *                    * 

Distracts,  dui  gives  me  no  relief; 

Withal  it  had  the  loveliest  face, 

Try  to  assist  me :  quick  arise. 

With  such  enchanting  mien  and  grace, 

And  couch  this  film  which  veils  my  eyes: 

No  infant  destined  for  a  toast 

Here,  take  this  dart,  raze  off,  with  care, 

Could  such  a  set  of  features  boast. 

This  speck,  and  lay  the  pupil  bare." 

*                    *                    * 

*                    *                    * 

Could  Venus  see  it,  they  believed 

While  grief  and  shame  her  face  o'erspread, 

Her  favour  might  be  yet  retrieved.                                  l 

Upon  her  knee  she  lean'd  his  head ; 

*                    *                    * 

Then  points  the  dart,  and  with  her  hands 

Full  of  these  views,  their  harness'd  doves 

The  crystal  rooted  film  expands; 

Bear  them  from  Caria's  fragrant  groves, 

But  oh  !  the  rack  was  so  intense. 

And  though  o'ertaken  by  the  night. 

8o  twinged  the  nerve,  and  shock'd  the  sense, 

Safely  near  Paphos  they  alight;                                     1 

AMHURST  SELDEN. 


469 


There,  in  a  villa  housed,  they  sent 
To  Venus  with  a  compliment. 
On  a  gilt  card,  iil-spelt,  and  writ 
With  modern  cant  and  awkward  wit. 
To  tell  her  they  were  come  to  pay 
Their  duty,  and  they  hoped  to  stay. 


Veniui,  with  much  entreaty,  permits  her  Son  to  introduoe 
hii  Mistress  and  Child  to  her.  The  sight  of  the  beautiful 
infant  Pleasure  completes  her  reconciiement.  As  the 
apprehension  of  the  Lovers,  however,  is  not  j-et  quieted 
respecting  the  anger  of  the  Celestials,  Venus  appea-ses 
the  lamentations  of  Folly,  and  prepares  to  set  out  for 
Olympus,  whither  Metis  bad  gone  before  to  prefer  her 
suit  against  her  betrayer  and  her  rivaJL 

*  »  * 

Venus  distracted  with  their  cries, 

*  *  * 

"  Come,  dry  your  tears,"  says  she,  "  I'll  try 
My  interest  yet  in  yonder  sky : 
Make  ready  straight  my  car  and  doves ; 
Get  on  your  riding-coats  and  gloves : 
Although  my  power  may  prove  but  faint. 
When  weigh'd  with  Metis's  complaint, 
And  all  my  eloquence  too  weak, 
When  injured  Wisdom  comes  to  speak. 
Yet  these  poor  charms  perhaps  may  plead 
With  Jove,  unless  your  doom's  decreed." 

*  *  * 

They  reach'd,  each  storm  and  danger  past. 
The  mansions  of  the  Gods  at  last. 

*  *  * 

Love's  cause  already  was  come  on, 
And  Metis  had  in  form  begun 
A  huge  philippic  on  her  son. 
Alann'd  with  this,  in  haste  they  dress'd. 
And  Venus  on  her  snowy  breast 
The  magic  cestus  secret  placed. 
And  walk'd,  with  heavenly  glory  graced. 
Love  foUow'd  with  his  brilliant  girl, 
Trick'd  out  with  jewels,  lace,  and  pearl ; 
Within  her  fost'ring  arms  convey'd, 
Pleasure  her  infant  charms  display'd ; 
When,  all  perfumed  with  civet,  came 
Where  Jove  in  judgment  sat  supreme; 
There  they  heard  Metis  just  concluding 
A  long  harangue  of  Love's  eluding 
The  powers  above,  and  all  the  vows 
He  swore,  of  making  her  his  spouse. 


Venus,  In  reply  to  Metis,  addresses  Jore  In  her  Son's  behalf 
and  pleads  for  permitting  Moria  to  be  his  bride. 

*  *  * 
She*  ceased — the  cestus  did  the  rest. 
And  roused  soft  pity  in  hisf  breast : 
He  sigh'd,  and,  with  a  pensive  air, 
Saw  Metis  wise,  and  Folly  fair  ; 
And,  secret,  in  his  breast  divine, 
Conceived  a  glorious  great  design. 

*  * 

He  paused  :  and  thus  each  Hour  that  waiU 
To  guard  high  Heaven's  resplendent  gates. 


Bespoke,  and,  with  a  gracious  mien. 
Shook  his  ambrosial  curls  serene. 

<'  Proclaim  a  solemn  banquet — call 
The  Gods  to  our  etherial  hall. 
Where  I'll  promulgate  a  decree 
To  bind  both  heaven,  and  earth,  and  me  ; 
Where  Love  and  Metis  both  shall  own. 
Justice  and  mercy  found  my  throne." 
»  *  * 

At  once  the  swift-wing'd  couriers  rise. 
And  sound  a  banquet  through  the  skies ; 
The  Gods  the  thunderer's  call  attend. 
And,  pleased,  the  etherial  hall  ascend : 
As  Jove,  they  heard,  would  now  decide. 
Which  lady  should  be  Cupid's  bride  ; 
If  Love  would  suit  with  Wisdom  best. 
Or  happier  live  in  Folly  blest. 

*  *  « 

Each,  fond  to  hear  the  sentence  past. 
To  settle  heaven  and  earth  at  last. 
Put  on  their  gayest  robe  and  face, 
The  banquet  and  the  God  to  grace. 

»  *  * 

The  grand  repasts  of  pompous  kings. 
Compared  to  this,  are  sordid  things. 

*  *  « 

Sat  all  the  Deities  elate, 

They  ate  and  drank  in  golden  plate. 

*  ♦  * 

Wine  cheers  their  hearts,  yet,  calm  and  cool, 
Each  mused  how  Jove  the  cause  would  rule ; 
And,  when  they  took  the  cloth  away, 
Watch'd  the  great  business  of  the  day. 
Straight  Jove,  all  Heaven  in  silence  hush'd. 
His  will  pronouncing,  laugh 'd  and  blush'd; 
And  placing  Folly  at  his  side, 
Decrees  her  Cupid's  fittest  bride ; 
He  shows  his  reasons,  (hut  too  long 
They  would  protract  the  faithful  song,) 
Then  toasts  her  health ;  the  nertar'd  bowl 
He  gives  her  to  enlarge  her  soul  : 
She  drank  so  deep,  an  air  divine 
O'er  all  her  features  seem'd  to  shine. 

«« That  draught,"^  says  Jove,  (and,  pleased,  h% 
smiled, 
Midst  all  his  thunders,  sweet  and  mild,) 
*•  Has  raised  thee,  fair  Moria,  high 
As  the  bright  daughters  of  the  sky ; 
Thou'rt  now  immortal  grown,  and  fit 
Great  Love's  embraces  to  admit: 
Together  calm  the  frantic  earth. 
Allay  men's  woes,  augment  their  mirth; 
Sweeten  their  cares  and  let  them  see. 
If  they're  unbless'd,  'tis  not  from  me." 
He  joins  their  hands  for  endless  ages. 
And  bids  them  scorn  censorious  sages. 
"  Let  none,"  says  Jove,  "  while  thus  they're  tied. 
Sweet  Folly  and  fond  Love  divide. 

♦  *  ♦ 

Accursed  be  his  atrocious  crime. 
Who  parts  you  through  the  rounds  of  time; 


t  In  Jupiter's. 


1  Apulclus  repro«ent»  Jupiter  (in  his  nth  book)  m»kln» 
Psyche  ImniorUl  In  this  manner,  by  makintf  her  drink  oat 
of  the  bowl  whiih  he  ns'chod  to  her. 


470 


WILLIAM  CRAWFURD. 


And  let  fair  Pleasure  always  be 
Beloved  by  men,  by  gods,  and  me. 
Yet,  prudent  Metis,  don't  despair, 
For  vhou  art  mine,  by  Styx  I  swear,* 


My  chosen  wife,  whose  counsels  still 
Shall  rule  my  heart  and  guide  my  will. 
And  with  eternal  charms  control 
The  fond  affections  of  my  soul." 


WILLIAM  CRAWFURD.f 


[Born,nOO?    Died,  1750?] 


TWEEDSIDE. 
What  beauties  does  Flora  disclose ! 

How  sweet  are  her  smiles  upon  Tweed ! 
Yet  Mary's,  still  sweeter  than  those, 

Both  nature  and  fancy  exceed. 
Nor  daisy,  nor  sweet-blushing  rose, 

Not  all  the  gay  flowers  of  the  field. 
Not  Tweed  gliding  gently  through  those, 

Such  beauty  and  pleasure  does  yield. 

The  warblers  are  heard  in  the  grove, 

The  linnet,  the  lark,  and  the  thrush, 
The  black-bird,  and  sweet-cooing  dove, 

With  music  enchant  every  bush. 
Come,  let  us  go  forth  to  the  mead. 

Let  us  see  how  the  primroses  spring ; 
We'll  lodge  in  some  village  on  Tweed, 

And  love  while  the  feather'd  folks  sing. 

How  does  my  love  pass  the  long  day  1    • 

Does  Mary  not  tend  a  few  sheep  1 
Do  they  never  carelessly  stray. 

While  happily  she  lies  asleep? 
Tweed's  murmurs  should  lull  her  to  rest ; 

Kind  nature  indulging  my  bliss, 
To  relieve  the  soft  pains  of  my  breast, 

I'd  steal  an  ambrosial  kiss, 

'Tis  she  does  the  virgins  excel. 

No  beauty  with  her  may  compare: 
Love's  graces  around  her  do  dwell; 

She's  fairest  where  thousands  are  fair. 
Say,  charmer,  where  do  thy  flocks  stray. 

Oh  !  tell  me  at  noon  where  they  feed  ; 
Shall  I  seek  them  on  smooth-winding  Tay 

Or  the  pleasanter  banks  of  the  Tweed. 


THE  BUSH  ABOON  TRAQUAIR. 

Heab  me,  ye  nymphs,  and  every  swain, 

I'll  tell  how  Peggy  grieves  me: 
Though,  thus  I  languish,  thus  complain, 

Alas  !  she  ne'er  believes  me. 
My  vows  and  sighs,  like  silent  air, 

Unheeded  never  move  her; 
At  the  bonny  bush  aboon  Traquair, 

*Twas  there  I  first  did  love  her. 


*  The  godJess  Metis,  or  ■Wisdom,  in  Hcsiod's  Theogonia, 
18  se*  down  a«  one  of  the  wives  wliom  Jupiter  married. — 
Vide  Nat.  Com.  1, 2,  p.  yo,  i  ap.  2. 

[-1  A  nierthant  in  Olas  ow,  one  of  the  sweetest  of  our 
•yrical  writers,  and  one  of  the  ingenious  young  gentlemen 
(bat  assisted  Allan  Kamsay  in  his  Tea  Table  Miscellany. 


That  day  she  smiled,  and  made  me  glad, 

No  maid  seem'd  ever  kinder ; 
I  thought  myself  the  luckiest  lad, 

So  sweetly  there  to  find  her. 
I  tried  to  soothe  my  amorous  flame 

In  words  that  I  thought  tender ; 
If  more  there  pass'd,  I'm  not  to  blame, 

I  meant  not  to  offend  her. 

Yet  now  she  scornful  flees  the  plain. 

The  fields  we  then  frequented; 
If  e'er  we  meet,  she  shows  disdain, 

She  looks  as  ne'er  acquainted. 
The  bonny  bush  bloora'd  fair  in  May, 

Its  sweets  I'll  aye  remember ; 
But  now  her  frowns  make  it  decay. 

It  fades  as  in  December. 

Ye  rural  powers,  who  hear  my  strains, 

Why  thus  should  Peggy  grieve  me  1 
Oh !  make  her  partner  in  my  pains, 

Then  let  her  smiles  relieve  me. 
If  not,  my  love  will  turn  despair. 

My  passion  no  more  tender, 
I'll  leave  the  bush  aboon  Traquair, 

To  lonely  wilds  I'll  wander. 


ON  MRS.  A.  H.,  AT  A  CONCERT. 

Look  where  my  dear  Hamilla  smiles, 

Hamilla !  heavenly  charmer; 
See  how  with  all  their  arts  and  wiles 

The  Loves  and  Graces  arm  her. 
A  blush  dwells  glowing  on  her  cheeks. 

Fair  seats  of  youthful  pleasures ; 
There  love  in  smiling  language  speaks. 

There  spreads  his  rosy  treasures. 

O  fairest  maid,  I  own  thy  power, 

I  gaze,  I  sigh,  and  languish, 
Yet  ever,  ever  will  adore. 

And  triumph  in  my  anguish. 
But  ease,  O  charmer,  ease  my  care. 

And  let  my  torments  move  thee ; 
As  thou  art  fairest  of  the  fair, 

So  I  the  dearest  love  thee. 


He  wa'?  alive  in  1748,  and  certainly  dead  in  lT58,  bavir.g 
Buffered  for  many  vears  "the  most  torturing  pains  of  body 
wi;h  an  una  t<T«b!e  cheerfulness  of  temper."  Jt  i."  stud 
that  he  was  drowned  <•^os^ing  over  from  Frano-v  to  Bcot 
land,  but  this  is  very  questionable.! 


AARON  HILL. 


CBora,  laes.    Died,  17U.] 


Was  born  fai  1685,  and  died  in  the  very  minute 
Bf  the  earthquake  of  1750,  of  the  shock  of  which, 
though  speechless,  he  appeared  to  be  sensible. 
His  life  was  active,  benevolent,  and  useful:  he 
was  the  general  friend  of  unfortunate  genius,  and 
his  schemes  for  public  utility  were  frustrated  only 


by  the  narrowness  of  his  circumstances.  Though 
his  manner6  were  unassuming,  his  personal  dig* 
nity  was  such,  that  he  made  Pope  fairly  ashamed 
of  the  attempt  to  insult  him,  and  obliged  the 
satirist  to  apologize  to  him  with  a  mean  equivo- 
cation. 


VEESES  WRTTTEN  WHEN  ALONB  IN  AN  INN  AT 

SOUTHAMPTON. 

TwBNTTlost  years  have  Stolen  their  hours  away, 
Since  in  this  inn,  even  in  this  room,  I  lay : 
How    changed !    what   then   was   rapture,   fire, 

and  air, 
Seems  now  sad  silence  all  and  blank  despair ! 
Is  it  that  youth  paints  every  view  too  bright. 
And,  life  advancing,  fancy  fades  her  light  1 
Ah,  no ! — nor  yet  is  day  so  far  declined, 
Nor  can  time's  creeping  coldness  reach  the  mind. 

'Tis  that  I  iniss  the  inspirer  of  that  youth ; 
Her,  whose  soft  smile  was  love,  whose  soul  was 

truth. 
Her,  fi-om  whose  pain  I  never  wish'd  relief, 
And  for  whose  pleasure  I  could  smile  at  grie£ 
Prospects  that,  view'd  with  her,  inspired  before, 
Now  seen  without  her  can  delight  no  more. 
Death  snatch'd  my  joys,  by  cutting  off  her  share, 
But  left  her  griefs  to  multiply  my  care. 

Pensive  and  cold  this  room  in  each  changed 
part 
I  view,  and  shock'd,  from  ev'ry  object  start : 
There  hung  the  watch,  that  beating  hours  Scorn 

day. 
Told  its  sweet  owner's  lessening  life  away. 
There  her  dear  diamond   taught  the  sash  my 

name; 
'Tis  gone !  frail  image  of  love,  life,  and  fame. 
That  glass  she  dress'd  at,  keeps   her   form   no 

more ; 
Not  one  dear  footstep  tunes  th'  unconscious  floor. 
1  here  sat  she — yet  those  chairs  no  sense  retain, 
And  busy  recollection  smarts  in  vain. 
Sullen  and  dim,  what  faded  scenes  are  here ! 
I  wonder,  and  retract  a  starting  tear. 
Gaze  in  attentive  doubt — with  anguish  swell. 
And  o'er  and  o'er  on  each  weigh'd  object  dwell. 
Then  to  the  window  rush,  gay  views  invite. 
And  tempt  idea  to  permit  delight 
But  unimpressive,  all  in  sorrow  drown'd. 
One  void  forgetful  desert  glooms  around. 

O  life ! — deceitful  lure  of  lost  desires ! 
How  short  thy  period,  yet  how  fierce  thy  fires ! 
Scarce  can  a  passion  start  (we  change  so  fast) 
Ere  new  lights  strike  us,  and  the  old  are  past. 
Schemes  following  schemes,  so  long  life's  taste 

explore. 
That  ere  we  learn  to  live,  we  live  no  more. 


Who  then  can  think — yet  sigh,  to  part  with 

breath. 
Or  shun  the  healing  hand  of  friendly  death  ? 
Guilt,   penitence,    and   wrongs,   and   pain,   and 

strife. 
Form  the  whole  heap'd  amount,  thou  flatterer, 

life! 
Is  it  for  this,  that  toss'd  'twixt  hope  and  fear. 
Peace,  by  new  shipwrecks,  numbers  each  new 

yearl 
Oh  take  me,  death  !  indulge  desired  repose, 
And  draw  thy  silent  curtain  round  my  woes. 

Yet  hold — one  tender  pang  revokes  that  pray'r. 
Still  there  remains  one  claim  to  tax  my  care. 
Gone  though  she  is,  she  left  her  soul  behind. 
In  four  dear  transcripts  of  her  copied  mind. 
They  chain  me  down  to  life,  new  task  supply, 
And  leave  me  not  at  leisure  yet  to  die ! 
Busied  for  them  I  yet  forego  release. 
And  teach  my  wearied  heart  to  wait  for  peace. 
But  when   their   day  breaks  broad,  I  welcome 

night. 
Smile   at  discharge   firom  care,  and  shut  out 

light. 


ALEXIS,  OR  POPS. 

FROK  A  CAVEAT* 

TuNEFUt  Alexis,  on  the  Thames'  fair  side. 
The  ladies'  plaything,  and  the  Muses'  pride ; 
With  merit  popular,  with  wit  polite. 
Easy  though  vain;  and  elegant  though  light: 
Desiring  and  deserving  others'  praise. 
Poorly  accepts  a  fame  he  ne'er  repays ; 
Unborn  to  cherish,  sneakingly  approves. 
And  wants  the  soul  to  spread  the  worth  he  loves. 
This,  to  the  juniors  of  his  tribe,  gave  pain. 
For  mean  minds  praise  but  to  be  praised  again. 
Henceforth,  renouncing  an  ungracious  Baal, 
His  altars  smoke  not,  and  their  offerings  fail : 
The  heat  his  scorn  had  raised,  his  pride  inflamed. 
Till  what  they  worshipp'd  first  they  next  defamed. 


[•  Them  linei  tan  in  Hill's  best  mitnner,  and  excellent 
of  tliemsc'lTes.  He  make.s  Iii«  iiidiviilual  case,  which  is 
true  enough,  gi-nerally  true,  which  it  Ix  not;  I'ope  how- 
ever felt  their  stinj;,  and  has  left  a  writhe  in  writing.  Hill 
could  hardly  expect  to  receive  what  Prior  and  TbooiKOB 
failiHl  in  finding — a  return  in  kind  for  their  poetic  "oia- 
mendations.] 


m 


WILLIAM  HAMILTON. 


[Born,  1701.    Died,17M.] 


"William  Hamilton,  of  Bangour,  was  of  an 
ancient  family  in  Ayrshire.  He  was  liberally 
educated,  and  his  genius  and  delicate  constitu- 
tion seemed  to  mark  him  out  for  pacific  pursuits 
alone ;  but  he  thought  fit  to  join  the  standard  of 
rebellion  in  1745,  celebrated  the  momentary 
blaze  of  its  success  in  an  ode  on  the  battle  of 
Gladsmuir,  and  finally  escaped  to  France,  after 
much  wandering  and  many  hardships  in  the 
Highlands.  He  made  his  peace  however  with 
the  government,  and  came  home  to  take  posses- 
sion of  his  paternal  estate ;  but  the  state  of  his 
health  requiring  a  warmer  climate,  he  returned 
to  the  Continent,  where  he  continued  to  reside 


till  a  slow  consumption  carried  him  ofi*  at  Lyon% 
in  his  50th  year. 

The  praise  of  elegance  is  all  that  can  be  given 
to  his  verses.  In  case  any  reader  should  be  im- 
moderately touched  with  sympathy  for  his  love 
sufferings,  it  is  proper  to  inform  him,  that 
Hamilton  was  thought  by  the  fair  ones  of  his 
day  to  be  a  very  inconstant  swain.  A  Scotch 
lady,  whom  he  teased  with  his  addresses,  applied 
to  Home,  the  author  of  Douglas,  for  advice  how 
to  get  rid  of  them.  Home  advised  her  to  affect 
to  favour  his  assiduities.  She  did  so,  and  they 
were  immediately  withdrawn.* 


?ROM  "CONTEMPLATION;  OR,  THE  TRIUMPH  OV 
LOVE.'' 

O  VOICE  divine  whose  heavenly  strain 
No  mortal  measure  may  attain, 
O  powerful  to  appease  the  smart. 
That  festers  in  a  wounded  heart, 
Whose  mystic  numbers  can  assuage 
The  bosom  of  tumult'ous  rage. 
Can  strike  the  dagger  from  despair, 
And  shut  the  watchful  eye  of  care. 
Oft  lured  by  thee,  when  wretches  call, 
Hope  comes,  that  cheers  or  softens  all ; 
Expell'd  by  thee,  and  dispossest, 
Envy  forsakes  the  human  breast. 
Full  oft  with  thee  the  bard  retires, 
And  lost  to  earth,  to  heaven  aspires, 
How  nobly  lost !  with  thee  to  rove  , 

Through  the  long  deep'ning  solemn  grove. 
Or  underneath  the  moonlight  pale. 
To  silence  trust  some  plaintive  tale. 
Of  nature's  ills,  and  mankind's  woes, 
While  kings  and  all  the  proud  repose ; 
Or  where  some  holy  aged  oak, 
A  stranger  to  the  woodman's  stroke, 
From  the  high  rock's  aerial  crown 
In  twisting  arches  bending  down. 
Bathes  in  the  smooth  pellucid  stream, 
Full  oft  he  waits  the  mystic  dream 
Of  mankind's  joys  right  understood, 
And  of  the  all-prevailing  good. 
Go  forth  invoked,  0  voice  divine  ! 
And  issue  from  thy  sacred  shrine. 

*  *  * 

*  *     Ascending  heaven's  height, 
Contemplation,  take  thy  flight: 

Behold  the  sun,  through  heaven's  wide  space, 
Strong  as  a  giant,  run  his  race : 
Behold  the  moon  exert  her  light, 
As  blushing  bride  on  her  love-night* 
Behold  the  sister  starry  train, 
Her  bridemaids,  mount  the  azure  plain. 
472 


See  where  the  snows  their  treasures  keep ; 
The  chambers  where  the  loud  winds  sleep 
Where  the  collected  rains  abide- 
Till  heaven  set  all  its  windows  wide. 
Precipitate  from  high  to  pour 
And  drown  in  violence  of  show'r : 
Or  gently  strain'd  they  wash  the  earth. 
And  give  the  tender  fruits  a  birth. 
See  where  thunder  springs  his  mine ; 
Where  the  paths  of  lightning  shine. 
Or  tired  those  heights  still  to  pursue, 
From  heaven  descending  with  the  dew. 
That  soft  impregns  the  youthful  mead, 
Where  thousand  flowers  exalt  the  head, 
Mark  how  nature's  hand  bestows 
Abundant  grace  on  all  that  grows, 
Tinges,  with  pencil  slow  unswen. 
The  grass  that  clothes  the  valley  green; 
Or  spreads  the  tulip's  parted  streaks, 
Or  sanguine  dyes  the  rose's  cheeks, 
Or  points  with  light  Monimia's  eyes, 
And  forms  her  bosom's  beauteous  rise. 
Ah !  haunting  spirit,  art  thou  there ! 
Forbidden  in  these  walks  t'  appear. 
I  thought,  O  Love !  thou  wouldst  disdain 
To  mix  with  wisdom's  black  staid  train; 
But  when  my  curious  searching  look 
A  nice  survey  of  nature  took. 
Well  pleased  the  matron  set  to  show 
Her  mistress-work,  on  earth  below. 
Then  fruitless  knowledge  turn  aside. 
What  other  art  remains  untried 
This  load  of  anguish  to  remove, 
And  heal  the  cruel  wounds  of  love  1 
To  friendship's  sacred  force  apply. 
That  source  of  tenderness  and  joy ; 
A  joy  no  anxious  fears  profane, 
A  tenderness  that  feels  no  pain: 


[*  It  has  not  hitherto  been  noticed  that  the  first  transl* 
tion  from  Homer  in  blank  verse  was  made  by  Hamilton.] 


«                                                               WILLIAM  HAMILTON                                                       473 

Friendship  shall  all  these  ills  appease, 

Mistaken  man,  thou  seek'st  to  know. 

And  give  the  tortured  mourner  ease. 

What  known  will  but  afflict  with  wo ; 

Th'  indissoluble  tie,  that  binds 

There  thy  Monimia  shall  abide, 

In  equal  chains  two  sister  minds: 

With  the  pale  bridegroom  rest  a  bride, 

Not  such  as  servile  int'rests  choose, 

The  wan  assistants  there  shall  lay, 

From  partial  ends  and  sordid  views; 

In  weeds  of  death,  her  beauteous  clay. 

Nor  when  the  midnight  banquet  fires. 

Oh  words  of  woe!  what  do  I  hear? 

^  The  choice  of  wine-infiamed  desires; 

What  sounds  invade  a  lover's  ear? 

When  the  short  fellowships  proceed, 

Must  then  thy  charms,  my  anxious  care. 

From  casual  mirth  and  wicked  deed; 

The  fate  of  vulgar  beauty  share  1 

Till  the  next  morn  estranges  quite 

Good  heaven  retard  (for  thine  the  power) 

The  partners  of  one  guilty  night ; 

The  wheels  of  time,  that  roll  the  hour. 

But  such  as  judgment  long  has  weigh'd, 

Yet  ah !  why  swells  my  breast  with  fears  1 

And  years  of  faithfulness  have  tried  ; 

Why  start  the  interdicted  tears  1 

Whose  tender  mind  is  framed  to  share 

Love,  dost  thou  tempt  again  1  depart, 

The  equal  portion  of  my  care; 

Thou  devil,  cast  out  from  my  heart. 

Whose  thoughts  my  happiness  employs 

Sad  I  forsook  the  feast,  the  ball. 

Sincere,  who  triumphs  in  my  joys ; 

The  sunny  bower,  and  lofty  hall, 

With  whom  in  raptures  I  may  stray 

And  sought  the  dungeon  of  despair; 

7'hrough  study's  long  and  pathless  way, 

Yet  thou  overtak'st  me  there. 

Obscurely  blest,  in  joys,  alone, 

How  little  dream'd  I  thee  to  find 

To  the  excluded  world  unknown. 

In  this  lone  state  of  human  kind  1 

Forsook  the  weak  fantastic  train 

Nor  melancholy  can  prevail. 

Of  flatt'ry,  mirth,  all  false  and  vain; 

The  direful  deed,  nor  dismal  tale : 

On  whose  soft  and  gentle  breast 

Hoped  I  for  these  thou  wouldst  remove  1 

My  weary  soul  may  take  her  rest. 

How  near  akin  is  grief  to  lovel 

While  the  still  tender  look  and  kind 

Then  no  more  I  strive  to  shun 

Fair  sprmging  from  the  spotless  mind, 

Love's  chains :  0  heaven  !  thy  will  be  done. 

My  perfected  delights  insure 

The  best  physician  here  I  find. 

To  last  immortal,  free  and  pure. 

To  cure  a  sore  diseased  mind. 

Grant,  heaven,  if  heaven  means  bliss  for  me, 

For  soon  this  venerable  gloom 

Monimia  such,  and  long  may  be. 

Will  yield  a  weary  sufferer  room; 

*                    *                    * 

No  more  a  slave  to  love  decreed. 

Contemplation,  baffled  maid. 

At  ease  and  free  among  the  dead. 

Remains  there  yet  no  other  aid  7 

Come  then,  ye  tears,  ne'er  cease  to  flow. 

Helpless  and  weary  must  thou  yield 

In  full  satiety  of  wo : 

To  love  supreme  in  ev'ry  field  1 

Though  now  the  maid  my  heart  alarms, 

Let  Melancholy  last  engage. 

Severe  and  mighty  in  her  charms, 

Rev' rend,  hoary-mantled  sage. 

Doom'd  to  obey,  in  bondage  prest, 

Sure,  at  his  sable  flag's  display 

The  tyrant's  love  commands  unblest; 

Love's  idle  troop  will  flit  away : 

Pass  but  some  fleeting  moments  o'er, 

And  bring  with  him  his  due  compeer, 

This  rebel  heart  shall  beat  no  more ; 

Silence,  sad,  forlorn,  and  drear. 

Then  from  my  dark  and  closing  eye. 

Haste  thee,  Silence,  haste  and  go, 

The  form  beloved  shall  ever  fly. 

To  search  the  gloomy  world  below. 

The  tyranny  of  love  shall  cease, 

My  trembling  steps,  0  Sibyl,  lead, 

Both  laid  down  to  sleep  in  peace ; 

Through  the  dominions  of  the  dead : 

To  share  alike  our  mortal  lot. 

Where  Care,  enjoying  soft  repose, 

Her  beauties  and  my  cares  forgot 

Lays  down  the  burden  of  his  woes ; 

Where  meritorious  Want  no  more 
Shiv'ring  begs  at  Grandeur's  door ; 

Unconscious  Grandeur,  seai'd  his  eyes. 

SONG. 

On  the  mould'ring  purple  lies. 

In  the  dim  and  dreary  round, 

Ah  the  poor  shepherd's  mournful  fate, 

Speech  in  eternal  chains  lies  bound. 

When  doom'd  to  love,  and  doom'd  to  languish, 

And  see  a  tomb,  iu  gates  display'd, 

To  bear  the  scornful  fair  one's  hate, 

Expands  an  everlasting  shade. 

Nor  dare  disclose  his  anguish. 

0  ye  inhabitants!  that  dwell 

Yet  eager  looks  and  dying  sighs. 

Each  forgotten  in  your  cell. 

My  secret  soul  discover ; 

Oh  say  !  for  whom  of  human  race 

While  rapture  trembling  through  mine  eyes. 

Has  fate  decreed  this  hiding-place  1 

Reveals  how  much  I  love  her. 

And  hark!  methinks  a  spirit  calls. 

The  tender  glance,  the  reddening  cheek. 

Low  winds  the  whisper  round  the  walls, 

O'erspread  with  rising  blushes. 

A  voice,  the  sluggish  air  that  breaks, 

A  thousand  various  ways  they  speak 

Solemn  amid  the  silence  speaks. 

6U 

A  thousand  various  wishes. 
2r» 

474 


GILBERT  WEST. 


For  oh  !  that  form  so  heavenly  fair, 
Those  languid  eyes  so  sweetly  smiling, 

That  artless  blush  and  modest  air, 
So  fatally  beguiling ! 

The  every  look  and  every  grace, 
So  charm  whene'er  I  view  thee; 


Till  death  o'ertake  me  in  the  chase. 
Still  will  my  hopes  pursue  thee : 

Then  when  my  tedious  hours  are  past, 
Be  this  last  blessing  given, 

Low  at  thy  feet  to  breathe  my  last. 
And  die  in  sight  of  heaven. 


GILBERT   WEST. 


[Bora,  1708.    Died,  1755.] 


The  translator  of  Pindar  was  the  son  of  the 
Rev,  Dr.  West,  who  published  an  edition  of  the 
same  classic  at  Oxford.  His  mother  was  sister 
to  Sir  Richard  Temple,  afterward  Lord  Cobham. 
Though  bred  at  Oxford  with  a  view  to  the  church, 
he  embraced  the  military  life  for  some  time,  but 
left  it  for  the  employment  of  Lord  Townshend, 
then  Secretary  of  State,  with  whom  he  accom- 
panied the  king  to  Hanover.  Through  this  in- 
terest he  was  appointed  clerk  extraordinary  to 
the  privy  council,  a  situation  which  however  was 


not  immediately  profitable.  He  married  soon 
after,  and  retired  to  Wickham,  in  Kent,  where 
his  residence  was  often  visited  by  Pitt  and  Lord 
Lyttleton.  There  he  wrote  his  Observations  on 
the  Resurrection,  for  which  the  University  of  Ox- 
ford made  him  a  doctor  of  laws.  He  succeeded 
at  last  to  a  lucrative  clerkship  of  the  privy  coun- 
cil, and  Mr.  Pitt  made  him  deputy-treasurer  of 
Chelsea  Hospital ;  but  this  accession  to  his  for- 
tune came  but  a  short  time  previous  to  his  death, 
which  was  occasioned  by  a  stroke  of  the  palsy.* 


ALLEGORICAL  DESCRIPTION  OF  VERltf. 

FROM  "THE  ABUSE  OF  TRAVELLXNG." 

So  on  he  passed,  till  he  comen  hath 
To  a  small  river,  that  full  slow  did  glide, 
As  it  uneath  mote  find  its  watry  path 
For  stones  and  rubbish,  that  did  choak  its  tide, 
So  lay  the  mouldering  piles  on  every  side, 
Seem'd  there  a  goodly  city  once  had  been, 
Albeit  now  fallen  were  her  royal  pride. 
Yet  mote  her  ancient  greatness  still  be  seen, 
Still  from  her  ruins  proved  the  world's  imperial 
queen. 

For  the  rich  spoil  of  all  the  continents, 
The  boast  of  art  and  nature  there  was  brought, 
Corinthian  brass,  Egyptian  monuments. 
With  hieroglyphic  sculptures  all  inwrought, 
And  Parian  marbles,  by  Greek  artists  taught 
To  counterfeit  the  forms  of  heroes  old, 
And  set  before  the  eye  of  sober  thought 
Lycurgus,  Homer,  and  Alcides  bold. 
All  these  and  many  more  that  may  not  here  be 
told. 

There  in  the  middest  of  a  ruin'd  pile. 
That  seem'd  a  theatre  of  circuit  vast. 
Where  thousands  might  be  seated,  he  erewhile 
Discover'd  hath  an  uncouth  trophy  placed ; 
Seem'd  a  huge  heap  of  stone  together  cast 
In  nice  disorder  and  wild  symmetry. 
Urns,  broken  friezes,  statues  half  defaced. 
And  pedestals  with  antique  imagery 
Emboss'd,  and  pillars  huge  of  costly  porphyry. 


Aloft  on  this  strange  basis  was  ypight 
With  girlonds  gay  adorn'd  a  golden  chair. 
In  which  aye  smiling  with  self-bred  delight. 
In  careless  pride  reclined  a  lady  fair. 
And  to  soft  music  lent  her  idle  ear; 
The  which  with  pleasure  so  did  her  enthral, 
That  for  aught  else  she  had  but  little  care. 
For  wealth,  or  fame,  or  honour  feminal. 
Or  gentle  love,  sole  king  of  pleasures  natural. 

A  Is  by  her  side  in  richest  robes  array 'd. 
An  eunuch  sate,  of  visage  pale  and  dead. 
Unseemly  paramour  for  royal  maid  ! 
Yet  him  she  courted  oft  and  honoured. 
And  oft  would  by  her  place  in  princely  sted. 
Though  from  the  dregs  of  earth  he  springen  were, 
And  oft  with  regal  crowns  she  deck'd  his  head. 
And  oft,  to  soothe  her  vain  and  foolish  ear, 
She  bade  him  the  great  names  of  mighty  Kesars 
bear. 

Thereto  herself  a  pompous  title  bore. 
For  she  was  vain  of  her  great  ancestry. 
But  vainer  still  of  that  prodigious  store 
Of  arts  and  learning,  which  she  vaunts  to  lie 
In  the  rich  archives  of  her  treasury. 
These  she  to  strangers  oftentimes  would  show. 
With  grave  demean  and  solemn  vanity. 
Then  proudly  claim  as  to  her  merit  due, 
The  venerable  praise  and  title  of  Vertd. 

[*  That  West  had  a  yearly  pension  of  two  hundred  and 
fifty  pounds,  is  a  fact  uew  to  our  literary  hii^tory.  Soutney 
hiui  spoken  of  him  as  the  founder  or  orij^inator  of  the 
school  of  Alienside,  Mason,  Gray,  and  the  Wartons :  '•  His 
poems,"  says  Coleridge,  wiih  far  more  justice,  ••  hav*  the 
merit  of  ch:iste  and  manly  diction :  but  they  are  cold,  and, 
if  I  may  bo  express  it,  only  dead-coloured.] 


WILLIAM  COLLINS. 


476 


Vertti  she  was  yclept,  and  held  her  court 
With  outward  shows  of  pomp  and  majesty, 
To  which  natheless  few  others  did  resort, 
But  men  of  base  and  vulgar  industry. 
Or  such  perdy  as  of  them  cozen'd  be, 
Mimes,  fiddlers,  pipers,  eunuchs  squeaking  fine. 
Painters  and  builders,  sons  of  masonry. 
Who  well  could  measure  with  the  rule  and  line, 
And  all  the  orders  five  right  craftily  define. 

But  other  skill  of  cunning  architect. 
How  to  contrive  the  house  for  dwelling  best, 
With  self-sufficient  scorn  they  wont  neglect. 
As  corresponding  with  their  purpose  least ; 
And  herein  be  they  copied  of  the  rest. 


Who  aye  pretending  love  of  science  fair. 
And  generous  purpose  to  adorn  the  breast 
With  liberal  arts,  to  Vertii's  court  repair. 
Yet  nought  but  tunes  and  names  and  coins  away 
do  bear. 

For  long,  to  visit  her  once-honour'd  seat 
The  studious  sons  of  learning  have  forbore  • 
Who  whilom  thither  ran  with  pilgrim  feet. 
Her  venerable  reliques  to  adore. 
And  load  their  bosom  with  the  sacred  store. 
Whereof  the  world  large  treasure  yet  enjoys. 
But  sithence  she  declined  from  wisdom's  lore, 
They  left  her  to  display  her  pompous  toys 
To  virtuosi  vain  and  wonder-gaping  boys. 


WILLIAM  COLLINS. 


[Born,  1720.    Died,  1759.] 


Collins  published  his  Oriental  Eclogues  while 

at  college,  and  his  lyrical  poetry  at  the  age  of 

twenty-six.     Those  works  will  abide  comparison 

with  whatever  Milton  wrote   under  the  age  of 

thirty.      If    they    have    rather    less    exuberant 

wealth  of  genius,  they  exhibit  more  exquisite 

touches  of  pathos.     Like  Milton,  he   leads   us 

into  the  haunted  ground  of  imagination ;  like 

him,  he   has   the   rich   economy  of  expression 

haloed  with  thought,  which  by  single  or  few  words 

often  hints  entire  pictures  to  the  imagination.    In 

what  short  and  simple  terms,  for  instance,  does 

he  open  a  wide  and  majestic  landscape  to  the 

mind,  such  as  we  might  view  from  Benlomond 

or  Snowden,  when  he  speaks  of  the  hut 

"That  from  the  mountain's  side 
Views  wilds  and  swelling  floods." 

And  in  the  line  "  Where  faint  and  sickly  winds 
for  ever  howl  around,"  he  does  not  merely  seem 
to  describe  the  sultry  desert,  but  brings  it  home 
to  the  senses. 

A  cloud  of  obscurity  sometimes  rests  on  his 
highest  conceptions,  arising  from  the  fineness  of 
his  associations,  and  the  daring  sweep  of  his 
allusions ;  but  the  shadow  is  transitory,  and  in- 
terferes very  little  with  the  light  of  his  imagery, 
or  the  warmth  of  his  feelings.  The  absence  of 
even  this  speck  of  mysticism  from  his  Ode  on  the 
Passions  is  perhaps  the  happy  circumstance  that 
secured  its  unbounded  popularity.     Nothing  is 


commonplace  in  Collins.  The  pastoral  eclogue, 
which  is  insipid  in  all  other  English  hands, 
assumes  in  his  a  touching  interest,  and  a'pictu- 
resque  air  of  novelty.  It  seems  that  he  himself 
ultimately  undervalued  those  eclogues,  as  defi- 
cient in  characteristic  manners ;  but  surely  no 
just  reader  of  them  cares  any  more  about  this 
circumstance  than  about  the  authenticity  of  the 
tele  of  Troy.* 

In  his  Ode  to  Fear  he  hints  at  his  dramatic 
ambition,  and  he  planned  several  tragedies.  Had 
he  lived  to  enjoy  and  adorn  existence,  it  is  not 
easy  to  conceive  his  sensitive  spirit  and  har- 
monious ear  descending  to  mediocrity  in  any 
path  of  poetry ;  yet  it  may  be  doubted  if  his  mind 
had  not  a  passion  for  the  visionary  and  remote 
forms  of  imagination  too  strung  and  exclusive 
for  the  general  purposes  of  the  drama.  His  genius 
loved  to  breathe  rather  in  the  preternatural  and 
ideal  element  of  poetry,  than  in  the  atmosphere 
of  imitation,  which  lies  closest  to  real  life ;  and 
his  notions  of  poetical  excellence,  whatever  vows 
he  might  address  to  the  manners,  were  still  tend- 
ing to  the  vast,  the  undefinable,  and  the  abstract. 
Certainly,  however,  he  carried  sensibility  and 
tenderness  into  the  highest  regions  of  abstracted 
thought:  his  enthusiasm  spreads  a  glow  even 
among  '<  the  shadowy  tribes  of  mind,"  and  his 
allegory  is  as  sensible  to  the  heart  as  it  is  visible 
to  the  fancy. 


ODE  TO  EVENING. 
If  aught  of  oaten  stop  or  pastoral  song 
May  hope,  chaste  Eve,  to  soothe  the  modest  ear, 

Like  thy  own  brawling  springs. 

Thy  springs,  and  dying  gales ; 

[♦  "  These  eclogues  by  Mr.  Collins,"  says  Goldsmith, 
"are  very  prettv :  the  images,  it  must  be  owned,  are  not 
very  local ;  for  the  |>iuitoral  subject  could  not  well  admit 
of  it.  Thp  description  of  Asintic  matrnificence  and  man- 
ners is  a  subject  as  yet  unattempled  among  us,  and,  I 


O  nymph  reserved,  while  now  the  bright-haired 

sun 
Sits  in  yon  western  tent,  whose  cloudy  skirts. 

With  brede  etherial  wove, 

O'erhang  his  wavy  bed : 


believe,  capable  of  furnishing  a  great  yariety  of  po<!tical 
imngery."  Of  eastern  imagery  our  poetry  is  now  nearly 
stulfcd  fUll— tiianks  to  Collins,  Sir  AVilliam  Jones,  Mi 
Southey,  and  Mr.  Moore.] 


476 


WILLIAM  COLLINS. 


Now  air  is  hush'd,  save  where  the  weak-eyed  bat, 
With  short  shrill  shriek  flits  by  on  leathern  wing, 

Or  where  the  beetle  winds 

His  small  but  sullen  horn, 

As  oft  he  rises  midst  the  twilight  path, 
Against  the  pilgrim  borne  in  heedless  hum ; 
Now  teach  me,  maid  composed. 
To  breathe  some  soften'd  strain, 

Whose  numbers  stealing  through  thy  darkening 
May  not  unseemly  with  its  stillness  suit,      [vale 

As,  musing  slow,  I  hail 

Thy  genial,  loved  return ! 

For  when  thy  folding-star  arising  shows 
His  paly  circlet,  at  his  warning  lamp 

The  fragrant  Hours,  and  Elves 

Who  slept  in  buds  the  day. 
And  many  a  Nymph  who  wreathes  her  brows 

with  sedge. 
And  sheds  the  freshening  dew,  and,  lovelier  still. 

The  pensive  Pleasures  sweet 

Prepare  thy  shadowy  car. 

Then  let  me  rove  some  wild  and  heathy  scene 
Or  find  some  ruin  midst  its  dreary  dells, 

Whose  walls  more  awfril  nod 

By  thy  religious  gleams. 
Or  if  chill  blustering  winds,  or  driving  rain, 
Prevent  my  willing  feet,  be  mine  the  hut, 

That  from  the  mountain's  side, 

Views  wilds,  and  swelling  floods. 
And  hamlets  brown,  and  dim-discover'd  spires. 
And  hears  their  simple  bell,  and  marks  o'er  all 

Thy  dewy  fingers  draw 

The  gradual  dusky  vaiL 
While  Spring  shall  pour  his  showers,  as  oft  he  wont, 
And  bathe  thy  breathing  tresses,  meekest  Eve ! 

While  summer  loves  to  sport 

Beneath  thy  lingering  light : 
While  sallow  Autumn  fills  thy  lap  with  leaves. 
Or  Winter  yelling  through  the  troublous  air. 

Affrights  thy  shrinking  train. 

And  rudely  rends  thy  robes : 
So  long,  regardful  of  thy  quiet  rule, 
Shall  Fancy,  Friendship,  Science,  smiling  Peace, 

Thy  gentlest  influence  own. 

And  love  thy  favourite  name!* 


ODE  ON  THE  POPULAR  SUPERSTITIONS  OF  THE 
HIGHLANDS  OF  SCOTLAND; 

CONSIDERED   AS  THE  SUBJECT   OF   POETRY. 

Inscribed  to  Mr.  John  Some. 
1749. 
Home,  thou  return'st  from  Thames,  whose  Naiads 
long 
Have  seen  thee  lingering,  with  a  fond  delay. 
Mid  those    soft   friends,  whose   hearts   some 
future  day 
Shall  melt,  perhaps,  to  hear  thy  tragic  song.f 

[*  It  has  not  been  observed  that  to  I  be  three  last  verses  of 
this  beautiful  Ode.  Burns  was  indebtt-d  f  )r  the  idea  of  hLs 
\ddres8  to  the  Shiide  of  Thomson.  He  had  been  reading 
Collins  at  the  time.] 


Go,  not  unmindful  of  that  cordial  youthj 

Whom,  long  endear'd,  thou  leavest  by  Ltivant'a 
Together  let  us  wish  him  lasting  truth,        [side, 

And  joy  untainted  with  his  destined  bride. 
Go !  nor  regardless,  while  these  numbers  boast 

My  short-lived  bliss,  forget  my  social  name ; 
But  think,  far  off,  how,  on  the  southern  coast, 

I  met  thy  friendship  with  an  equal  flame ! 
Fresh  to  that  soil  thou  turn'st,  where  every  vale 

Shall  prompt  the  poet,  and  his  song  demand  : 
To  thee  thy  copious  subjects  ne'er  shall  fail ; 

Thou  need'st  but  take  thy  pencil  to  thy  hand. 
And  paint  what  all  believe,  who  own  thy  genial 
land. 

There,  must  thou  wake  perforce  thy  Doric  quill ; 

'Tis  fancy's  land  to  which  thou  sett'st  thy  feet; 

Where  still,  'tis  said,  the  fairy  people  meet. 
Beneath  each  birken  shade,  on  mead  or  hill. 
There,  each  trim  lass,  that  skims  the  milky  store. 

To  the  swart  tribes  their  creamy  bowls  allots ; 
By  night  they  sip  it  round  the  cottage  door. 

While  airy  minstrels  warble  jocund  notes. 
There,  every  herd,  by  sad  experience,  knows 

How,  wing'd  with  fate,  their  elf-shot  arrows  fly. 
When  the  sick  ewe  her  summer  food  foregoes, 

Or,  stretch'd  on  earth,  the  heart-smit  heifers  lie. 
Such  airy  beings  awe  th'  untutor'd  swain  : 

Nor  thou,  though  learn'd,his  homelier  thoughts 
neglect ; 
Let  thy  sweet  Muse  the  rural  faith  sustain  ; 

These  are  the  themes  of  simple  sure  effect. 
That  add  new  conquests  to  her  boundless  reign, 

And  fill,  with  double  force,    her   heart-com- 
manding strain. 

Even  yet  preserved,  how  often  may'st  thou  hear, 
Where  to  the  pole  the  Boreal  mountains  run, 
Taught  by  the  father  to  his  listening  son. 
Strange  lays,  whose  power  had  charm'd  a  Spenser's 

ear. 
At  every  pause,  before  thy  mind  possest. 

Old  Runic  bards  shall  seem  to  rise  around. 
With  uncouth  lyres,  in  many-colour'd  vest. 
Their    matted    hair    with    boughs     fantastic 
crown'd : 
Whether  thou  bid'st  the  well-taught  hind  repeat 
The  choral  dirge,  that  mourns  some  chieftain 
brave. 
When  every  shrieking  maid  her  bosom  beat. 
And  strew'd  with  choicest  herbs  his   scented 
grave ; 
Or  whether,  sitting  in  the  shepherd's  shiel.§ 
Thou    hear'st   some   sounding  tale   of  war's 
alarms; 
When  at  the  bugle's  call,  with  fire  and  steel, 
The  sturdy  clans  pour'd  forth  their  brawny 
swarms. 
And  hostile  brothers  met  to  prove  each  other's 
arms. 

[t  How  truly  did  Collins  predict  Home's  tragic  powers!] 
4;  A  gentleman  of  the  name  of  Barrow,  who  introduced 
Home  to  Collins.    [Barrow  had  been  out  in  Uu' fimy-five 
with  Hcmi!.] 

g  A  s-ummer  hut,  built  in  the  high  part  of  the  moun- 
tains, to  tend  their  flocks  in  the  warm  season,  wheu  the 
pasture  is  fine. 


WILLIAM  COLLINS. 


477 


'Tis  thine  to  sing  how,  framing  hideous  spells, 

In  Sky's  lone  isle,  the  gifted  wizard-seer, 

Lodged  in  the  wintery  cave  with  Fate's  fell  spear, 
Or  in  the  depth  of  Uist's  dark  forest  dwells: 

How  ihey,  whose  sight  such  dreary  dreams 
engross, 
With  their  own  visions  oft  astonish'd  droop, 

When,  o'er  the  wat'ry  strath,  or  quaggy  moss, 
They  see  the  gliding  ghosts  unbodied  troop, 

Or,  if  in  sports,  or  on  the  festive  green. 
Their  destined  glance  some  fated  youth  descry, 

Who  now,  perhaps,  in  lusty  vigour  seen. 
And  rosy  health,  shall  soon  lamented  die. 

For  them  the  viewless  forms  of  air  obey; 
Their  bidding  heed,  and  at  their  beck  repair. 

They  know  what  spirit  brews  the  stormful  day. 
And  heartless,  oft  like  moody  madness,  stare 
To   see    the   phantom   train    their   secret  work 
prepare. 

To  monarchs  dear,*  some  hundred  miles  astray. 

Oft  have  they  seen  Fate  give  the  fatal  blow  ! 

The  seer,  in  Sky,  shriek'd  as  the  blood  did  flow, 
When  headless  Charles  warm  on  the  scaffold  lay! 
As  Boreas  threw  his  young  Aurora  forth,"!" 

In  the  first  year  of  the  first  George's  reign, 
And  battles  raged  in  welkin  of  the  North, 

They  moum'd  in  air,  fell,  fell  Rebellion  slain ! 
And  as,  of  late,  they  joy'd  in  Preston's  fight, 

Saw  at  sad  Falkirk  all  their  hopes  near  crown'd  ! 
They  raved  !  divining  through  their  second  8ight,J 

Pale,  red  Culloden,  where  these   hopes  were 
drown'd ! 
Illustrious  William  !§  Britain's  guardian  name ! 

One  William  saved  us  from  a  tyrant's  stroke ; 
He,  for  a  sceptre,  gain'd  heroic  fame. 

But  thou,  more  glorious.  Slavery's  chain  hast 
broke. 
To  reign  a  private  man,  and  bow  to  Freedom's 
yoke! 

These,  too,  thou'lt  sing  !  for  well  thy  magic  muse 
Can  to  the  topmost  heaven  of  grandeur  soar ; 
Or  stoop  to  wail  the  swain  that  is  no  more ! 

Ah,  homely  swains !  your  homeward  steps  ne'er 
lose: 
Let  not  dank  Will||  mislead  you  to  the  heath; 

Dancing  in  mirky  night,  o'er  fen  and  lake, 

*  BCPPLEMENTAl  UNE8  BT  MB.  MACKENZUC 

"Or  on  some  bellyinK  rook  that  shades  the  deep, 

Tliey  view  the  lurid  si^ns  tliat  cross  the  sky, 

Where  in  the  west,  the  brocdiiig  tempests  lie; 
And  lie  ir  the  first  faint  rustling  pennons  sweep. 
Or  in  the  arched  oive,  where,  deep  and  dark. 

The  broiid  unbroken  billows  heuve  and  swell. 
In  hnriid  musings  rapt,  they  .sit  to  mark 

The  Inb'rinjj;  moon ;  or  li>t  the  nightly  yell 
Of  that  dread  spirit,  whoye  gijjantic  form 

The  seer's  entranced  eye  can  well  survey. 
Through  the  dim  air  who  Kuides  the  driving  storm, 

And  points  the  wretched  bark,  its  destined  prey. 
Or  him  who  hovers  on  his  tlagging  wing. 

O'er  iho  dire  whirlpool,  that,  in  ocean's  wa«t«, 
Draws  instant  down  whate'er  devoted  thing 

The  falling  breeze  within  its  reach  hath  placed — 
The  distant  seaman  hears,  and  tlies  with  trembling  ha«te. 

Or,  if  on  land  the  fiend  exerts  his  sway. 
?ilent  he  broods  o'er  quicksand,  bog.  or  fen, 

Far  from  the  sheltering  roof  and  haunts  of  men. 


He  glows,  todraw  you  downward  to  youi  death. 
In  his  bewitch'd  low,  marshy,  willow  brake ! 
What  though  far  off,  from  some  dark  dell  espied, 

His  glimmering  mazes  cheer  the  excursive  sight, 
Yet  turn,  ye  wanderers,  turn  your  steps  aside. 

Nor  trust  the  guidance  of  that  faithless  light; 
For  watchful,  lurking  mid  th'  unrustling  reed. 

At  those  mirk  hours  the  wily  monster  lies. 
And  listens  oft  to  hear  the  passing  steed. 

And  frequent  round  him  rolls  his  sullen  eyes. 
If  chance  his   savage  wrath   may   some   weak 
wretch  surprise. 

Ah,  luckless  swain,  o'er  all  unblest,  indeed ! 

Whom  late  bewilder'd  in  the  dank,  dark  fen. 

Far  from  his  flocks,  and  smoking  hamlet,  then! 
To  that  sad  spot  where  hums  the  sedgy  weed: 

On  him,  enraged,  the  fiend,  in  angry  mood. 
Shall  never  look  with  pity's  kind  concern, 

But  instant,  furious,  raise  the  whelming  flood 
O'er  its  drown'd  banks,  forbidding  all  return ! 

Or,  if  he  meditate  his  wish'd  escape, 
To  some  dim  hill  that  seems  uprising  near, 

To  his  faint  eye,  the  grim  and  grisly  shape, 
In  all  its  terrors  clad,  shall  wild  appear. 

Meantime  the  watery  surge  shall   round  him 
rise, 
Pour'd  sudden  forth  from  every  swelling  source ! 

What  now  remains  but   tears   and   hopeless 
sighs  1 
His  fierce-shook  limbs  have  lost  their  youthly 

force. 
And  down  the  waves  he  floats  a  pale  and  breath* 
less  corse ! 

For  him  in  vain  his  anxious  wife  shall  wait, 

Or  wander  forth  to  meet  him  on  his  way; 
For  him  in  vain  at  to-fall  of  the  day 

His  babes  shall  linger  at  th'  unclosing  gate ! 
Ah.  ne'er  shall  he  return  !  Alone,  if  night. 

Her  travell'd  limbs  in  broken  slumbers  steep ! 
With  drooping  willows  dress'd,  his  mournful  sprite 

Shall  visit  sad,  perchance,  her  silent  sleep : 
Then  he,  perhaps,  with  moist  and  watery  hand, 

Shall   fondly   seem  to   press   her  shuddering 
cheek, 
And  with  his  blue-swoln  face  before  her  stand. 

And  shivering  cold,  these  piteous  accents  speak: 


When  witched  darkness  shuts  the  eye  of  day, 

And  shrouds  each  star  that  wont  to  cheer  the  night; 

Or,  if  the  drifted  snow  perplex  the  way, 
With  treacherous  g'.cam  he  lures  the  faied  wight, 

And  leads  him  floundering  on  and  quite  astray." 

[Other  verses  were  written  by  the  late  Lord  Kinnedder, 
which  Sir  Waller  Scott,  In  all  the  partiality  of  fHendship, 
thought  equal  to  the  original.  To  add  to  an  unfinished 
po«im  one  must  write  with  the  same  genius  which  the  au- 
thor wrote  :  and  Collins,  as  Pope  said  of  Akenside,  was  no 
every  day-writer.] 

[t  The  Northern  Lights.] 

J  Second  sisiht  is  the  term  that  Is  used  for  the  divination 
of  the  Highlanden. 

I  llie  Duke  of  Cumberland,  who  defeated  the  Pr«tender 
at  the  battle  of  Culloden. 

II  A  flery  meteor,  called  by  various  names,  such  as  WIU 
with  the  Wisp,  Jack  with  the  Lanthom,  Ac.  It  hovers  ip 
the  air  over  marshy  and  fenny  places. 


478 


WILLIAM  COLLINS. 


•'Pursue,  dear  wife,  thy  daily  toils  pursue, 
At  dawn  or  dusk,  industrious  as  before ; 

Nor  e'er  of  me  one  helpless  thought  renew. 
While  I  lie  weltering  on  the  osier'd  shore, 

Prown'd  by  the  Kelpie's*  wrath,  nor  e'er  shall 
aid  thee  more  !" 

Unbounded  is  thy  range ;  with  varied  skill 
Thy  Muse  may,  like  those  feathery  tribes  which 

spring 
From  their  rude  rocks,  extend  her  skirting  wing 
Round  the  moist  marge  of  each  cold  Hebrid  isle, 
To  that  hoar  pilef  which  still  its  ruins  shows: 
In  whose  small  vaults  a  pigmy-folk  is  found, 
Whose  bones  the  delver  with  his  spade  up- 
throws. 
And   culls  them,  wond'ring,  from  the  hallow'd 

ground  ! 
Or  thither,J  where  beneath  the  show'ry  west 

The  mighty  kings  of  three  fair  realms  are  laid: 
Once  foes,  perhaps,  together  now  they  rest. 

No  slaves  revere  them,  and  no  wars  invade : 
Yet  frequent  now,  at  midnight  solemn  hour. 

The  rifted  mounds  their  yawning  cells  unfold. 

And  forth  the   monarchs   stalk  with   sovereign 

power. 

In  pageant  robes,  and  wreath'd  with  sheeny 

gold. 

And  on  their  twilight  tombs  aerial  council  hold. 

But,  oh,  o'er  all,  forget  not  Kilda's  race, 

On  whose  bleak  rocks,  which  brave  the  wasting 
tides. 

Fair  Nature's  daughter,  Virtue,  yet  abides. 
Go !  just,  as  they,  their  blameless  manners  tracer! 

Then  to  my  ear  transmit  some  gentle  song, 
Of  those  whose  lives  are  yet  sincere  and  plain, 

Their  bounded  walks  the  rugged  clifl's  along. 
And  all  their  prospect  but  the  wintery  main. 

With  sparing  temperance  at  the  needful  time 
They  drain  the  scented  spring  ;  or,  hunger-prest, 

Along  th'  Atlantic  rock  undreading  climb, 
And  of  its  eggs  despoil  the  solan  8§  nest. 

Thus  blest  in  primal  innocence  they  live, 
Suffice<l,  and  happy  with  that  frugal  fare 

Which  tasteful  toil  and  hourly  danger  give. 
Hard  is  their  shallow  soil,  and  bleak  and  bare ; 
Nor    ever  vernal    bee   was    heard    to    murmur 
there ! 

Nor  need'st  thou  blush  that  such  false  themes 
engage 
Thy  gentle  mind,  of  fairer  stores  possest; 
For  not  alone  they  touch  the  village  breast, 
But  fill'd,  in  elder  time,  th'  historic  page. 

There,  Shakspeare's  self,  with  every  garland 
crown'd. 
Flew  to  those  fairy  climes  his  fancy  sheen, 

*  Th«  water  fiend. 

t  One  of  the  Hebrides  Is  called  the  Tsle  of  Pigmies ; 
where  it  is  reported,  that  several  mininture  tones  of  the 
human  species  have  been  duj;  up  in  the  ruins  of  a  chapel 
ther«. 

J  Icolmkill.  one  of  the  Hebrides,  where  near  cixtyof  the 
ancient  fioottish,  Irish,  and  Norwegian  kings  are  interred. 

I  An  aquatic  bird  like  a  goote,  on  the  eggs  of  which  the 


In  musing  hour ;  his  wayward  sisters  found, 
And  with  their  terrors  drest  the  magic  scene. 

From  them  he  sung,  when,  mid  his  bold  design, 
Before  the  Scot,  afflicted  and  aghast, 

The  shadowy  kings  of  Banquo's  fated  line. 
Through  the  dark  cave  in  gleamy  pageant  past. 

Proceed !  nor  quit  the  tales  which,  simply  told, 
Could  once  so  well  my  answering  bosom  pierce; 

Proceed,  in  forceful  sounds,  and  colours  bold, 
The  native  legends  of  thy  land  rehearse ; 
To  such  adapt  thy  lyre,  and  suit  thy  powerful 
verse. 

In  scenes  like  these,  which,  daring  to  depart 

From  sober  truth,  are  still  to  nature  true. 
And  call  forth  fresh  delight  to  Fancy's  view, 
Th'  heroic  Muse  employ'd  her  Tasso's  art! 

How   have  I  trembled,   when,   at  Tancred's 
stroke, 
Its  gushing  blood  the  gaping  cypress  pour'd  ! 

When   each  live  plant  with   mortal  accents 
spoke. 
And  the  wild  blast  upheaved  the  vanish 'd  sword ! 

How  have  I  sat,  when  piped  the  pensive  wind, 
To  hear  his  harp  by  British  Fairfax  strung ! 

Prevailing  poet !  whose  undoubting  mind 
Believed  the  magic  wonders  which  he  sung  ! 

Hence,  at  each  sound,  imagination  glows ! 
Hence,  at  each  picture,  vivid  life  starts  here ! 

Hence  his  warm  lay  with  softest  sweetness  flows! 
Melting  it  flows,  pure,  murmuring,  strong  and 

clear. 
And  fills  th'  impassiond  heart,  and  wins  th'  har- 
monious ear! 

All  hail,  ye  scenes  that  o'er  my  soul  prevail ! 
Ye  splendid  friths  and  lakes,  which,  far  away, 
Are  by  smooth  Annan||  filld,  orpast'ral  Tay,|l 
Or  Don'sl  romantic  springs,  at  distance  hail! 
The  time  shall  come,  when  I,  perhaps,  may  tread 
Your  lowly  glens,!!  o'erhung  with  spreading 
broom ; 
Or  o'er  your  stretching  heaths,  by  Fancy  led ; 

Or  o'er  your  mountains  creep,  in  awful  gloom ' 
Then  will  I  dress  once  more  the  faded  bower. 
Where  Jonson**  sat  in  Drummond's  classic 
shade  ; 
Or  crop,  from  Tiviotdale,  each  lyric  flower. 
And  mourn  on  Yarrow's  banks,  where  Willy's 
laid! 
Meantime,  ye  powers  that  on  the  plains  which  bore 
The  cordial  youth,  on  Lothian's  plains,tt  at- 
tend !■— 
Where'er  Home  dwells,  on  hill,  or  lowly,  moor, 

To  him  I  lose,  your  kind  protection  lend. 
And,  touch'd  with  love  like  mine,,  preserve  my 
absent  friend ! 


inhabitants  of  St.  KUda,  another  of  the  Hebrides,  chiefly 
subsist.  • 

11  Three  rivers  in  Scotland.  f  Valleys. 

**  Hen  .Tonson  paid  a  vi^^it  on  foot,  in  1619,  to  the  Scotch 
poet  Drummcmd.  at  his  seat  of  Hawthornden,  within  foui 
miles  of  /-diriburgh. 

tt  Barrow,  it  seems,  was  at  .the  Edinburgh  university, 
which  is  in  the  county  of  Lothian. 


COLLEY  GIBBER. 


CBorn,  16n,    Died,  1T6T.] 


BONO.    THB  BLIND  BOY. 

0  SAT !  what  is  that  thing  call'd  light, 
Which  I  must  ne'er  enjoy  1 

What  are  the  blessings  of  the  sightl 
O  tell  your  poor  blind  l)oy  ! 

You  talk  of  wondrous  things  you  see. 
You  say  the  sun  shines  bright ; 

1  feel  him  warm,  but  how  can  he 
Or  make  it  day  or  night  1 

My  day  or  night  myself  I  make, 
Whene'er  I  sleep  or  play  ; 


And  could  I  ever  keep  awake. 
With  me  'twere  always  day. 

With  heavy  sighs  I  often  hear 
You  mourn  my  hapless  woe ; 

But  sure  with  patience  I  can  bear 
A  loss  I  ne'er  can  know. 

Then  let  not  what  I  cannot  have 
My  cheer  of  mind  destroy  ; 

Whilst  thus  I  sing,  I  am  a  king, 
Although  a  poor  blind  boy. 


EDWARD  MOORE. 


tBorn,  171S.    Died,  1767.] 


Edward  Moobb  was  the  son  of  a  dissenting 
clergyman  at  Abingdon,  in  Berkshire,  and  was 
bred  to  the  business  of  a  linen-draper,  which  he 
pursued,  however,  both  in  London  and  Ireland, 
with  so  little  success,  that  he  embraced  the  lite- 
rary life  (according  to  his  own  account)  more 
from  necessity  than  inchnation.  His  Fables  (in 
1744)  first  brought  him  into  notice.  The  Right 
Honourable  Mr.  Pelham  was  one  of  his  earliest 
friends;  and  his  Trial  of  Selim  gained  him  the 
friendship  of  Lord  Lyttelton.  Of  three  works 
which  he  produced  for  the  stage,  his  two  come- 
dies, the  "Foundling"  and  "Gil  Bias,"  were 
unsuccessful ;  but  he  was  fully  indemnified  by 
the  profits  and  reputation  of  the  "  Gamester." 
Moore  himself  acknowledges  that  he  owed  to 
Garrick  many  popular  passages  of  his  drama ; 
and  Davies,  the  biographer  of  Garrick,  ascribes 


to  the  great  actor  the  whole  scene  between  Lew. 
son  and  Stukely,  in  the  fourth  act ;  but  Davies's 
authority  is  not  oracular.  About  the  year  1751, 
Lord  Lyttelton,  in  concert  with  Dodsley,  pro- 
jected the  paper  of  the  "  World,"  of  which  it 
was  agreed  that  Moore  should  enjoy  the  profits, 
whether  the  numbers  were  written  by  himself  or 
by  volunteer  contributors.  Lyttelton's  interest 
soon  enlisted  many  accomplished  coadjutors,  such 
as  Cambridge,  Jenyns,  Lord  Chesterfield,  and  H. 
Walpole.  Moore  himself  wrote  sixty-one  of  the 
papers.  In  the  last  number  of  the  "  World" 
the  conclusion  is  made  to  depend  on  a  fictitious 
incident  which  had  occasioned  the  death  of  the 
author.  When  the  papers  were  collected  into 
volumes,  Moore,  who  superintended  the  publica- 
tion, realized  this  jocular  fiction  by  his  own  death, 
whilst  the  last  number  was  in  the  press.* 


THE  DISCOVERT.    AN  ODE. 
Vir  bonus  est  quisf — Hor. 

Take  wing,  my  muse !  from  shore  to  shore 
Fly,  and  that  happy  place  explore 

Where  Virtue  deigns  to  dwell; 
If  yet  she  treads  on  British  ground. 
Where  can  the  fugitive  be  found. 

In  city,  court,  or  cell  ? 

Not  there,  where  wine  and  frantic  mirth 
Unite  the  sensual  sons  of  Earth 

In  Pleasure's  thoughtless  train : 
Nor  yet  where  sanctity's  a  show. 
Where  souls  nor  joy  nor  pity  know 

For  human  bliss  or  pain. 


[•  Mr.  Moore  was  a  poet  who  never  had  justice  done  him 
while  living.  There  are  few  of  the  moderns  who  have  a 
Bore  correct  taste,  or  a  more  pleasing  manner  of  express- 


Her  social  heart  alike  disowns 

The  race,  who,  shunning  crowds  and  thrones. 

In  shades  sequester'd  doze ; 
Whose  sloth  no  generous  care  can  wake. 
Who  rot,  like  weeds  on  Lethe's  lake. 

In  senseless,  vile  repose. 

With  these  she  shuns  the  factious  tribe. 
Who  spurn  the  yet  unoffer'd  bribe. 

And  at  corruption  lour; 
Waiting  till  Discord  Havoc  cries. 
In  hopes,  Hke  Catiline,  to  rise 

On  anarchy  to  power  I 

Ye  wits,  who  boast  from  ancient  times 
A  right  divine  to  scourge  our  crimes, 


ing  their  thoughts.  It  was  npon  his  Fables  he  chiefly 
founded  his  reputation;  yet  they  are  by  no  means  his  }»et 
production. — QoLDCUUtH.] 

479 


480 


EDWARD   MOORE. 


Is  it  with  you  she  rests  1 
No.    Int'rest,  slander  are  your  views, 
And  Virtue  now,  with  every  Muse, 

Flies  your  unhallow'd  breasts. 

There  was  a  time,  I  heard  her  say. 
Ere  females  were  seduced  by  play. 

When  beauty  was  her  throne  ; 
But  now,  where  dwelt  the  soft  Desires, 
The  furies  light  forbidden  fires. 

To  Love  and  her  unknown. 

From  these  th'  indignant  goddess  flies, 
And  where  the  spires  of  Science  rise, 

A  while  suspends  her  wing; 
13 ut  pedant  Pride  and  Rage  are  there, 
And  Faction  tainting  all  the  air. 

And  pois'ning  every  spring. 

Long  through  the  sky's  wide  pathless  way 
The  Muse  observed  the  wand'rer  stray. 

And  mark'd  her  last  retreat ; 
O'er  Surrey's  barren  heaths  she  flew. 
Descending  like  the  silent  dew 

On  Esher's  peaceful  seat. 

There  she  beholds  the  gentle  Mole 
His  pensive  waters  calmly  roll, 

Amidst  Elysian  ground : 
There  through  the  winding  of  the  grove 
She  leads  her  family  of  Love, 

And  strews  her  sweets  around. 

I  hear  her  bid  the  daughters  fair 
Oft  to  yon  gloomy  grot  repair, 

Her  secret  steps  to  meet : 
"  Nor  thou,"  she  cries,  "  these  shades  forsake, 
But  come,  loved  consort,  come  and  make 

The  husband's  bliss  complete." 

Yet  not  too  much  the  soothing  ease 
Of  rural  indolence  shall  please 

My  Pelham's  ardent  breast ; 
The  man  whom  Virtue  calls  her  own 
Must  stand  the  pillar  of  a  throne, 

And  make  a  nation  bless'd. 

Pelham  !  'tis  thine  with  temp'rate  zeal 
To  guard  Britannia's  pubhc  weal, 

Attack'd  on  every  part : 
Her  fatal  discords  to  compose. 
Unite  her  friends,  disarm  her  foes. 

Demands  thy  head  and  heart. 

When  bold  Rebellion  shook  the  land, 
Ere  yet  from  William's  dauntless  hand 

Her  barbarous  army  fled  ; 
When  Valour  droop'd,  and  Wisdom  fear'd. 


Thy  voice  expiring  Credit  heard, 
And  raised  her  languid  head. 

Now  by  thy  strong  assisting  hand, 
Fix'd  on  a  rock  I  see  her  stand. 

Against  whose  solid  feet. 
In  vain,  through  every  future  age. 
The  loudest  most  tempestuous  rage 

Of  angry  war  shall  beat. 

And  grieve  not  if  the  sons  of  Strife 
Attempt  to  cloud  thy  spotless  life. 

And  shade  its  brightest  scenes  ; 
Wretches  by  kindness  unsubdued, 
Who  see,  who  share  the  common  good, 

Yet  cavil  at  the  means. 

Like  these,  the  metaphysic  crew, 
Proud  to  be  singular  and  new, 

Think  all  they  see  deceit; 
Are  warm'd  and  cherish'd  by  the  day. 
Feel  and  enjoy  the  heavenly  ray, 

Yet  doubt  of  light  and  heat. 


THB  HAPPY  MARRIAGE. 

How  blest  has  my  time  been !  what  joys  have  I 

known. 
Since  wedlock's  soft  bondage  made  Jessy  my  own ! 
So  joyful  my  heart  is,  so  easy  my  chain. 
That  freedom  is  tasteless  and  roving  a  pain. 

Through  walks  grown  with  woodbines,  as  often 

we  stray, 
Around  us  our  boys  and  girls  frolic  and  play : 
How  pleeising  their  sport  is  !  the  wanton  ones  see, 
And  borrow  their  looks  from  my  Jessy  and  me. 

To  try  her  sweet  temper,  ofttimes  am  I  seen. 
In  revels  all  day  with  the  nymphs  on  the  green : 
Though  painful  my  absence,  my  doubts  she  be- 
guiles. 
And  meets  me  at  night  with  complacence  and 
smiles. 

What  though  on  her  cheeks  the  rose  loses  its  hue, 
Her  wit  and  good  humour  bloom  all  the  year 

through ; 
Time  still,  as  he  flies,  adds  increase  to  her  truth. 
And  gives  to  her  mind  what  he  steals  from  her 

youth. 

Ye  shepherds  so  gay,  who  make  love  to  ensnare, 
And  cheat,  with  false  vows, the  too  credulous  fair; 
In  search  of  true  pleasure,  how  vainly  you  roam ! 
To  hold  it  for  life,  you  must  find  it  at  home. 


JOHN   DYER. 


CBoni,1700.    Died,  1758.1 


Dter  was  the  son  of  a  solicitor  at  Aberglasney, 
ill  Caermarthenshire.  Hewaseducated  at  West- 
minster school,  and  returned  from  thence  to  be 
instructed  in  his  father's  profession,  but  left  it  for 
poetry  and  painting;  and,  having  studied  the 
arts  of  design  under  a  master,  was  for  some  time, 
as  he  says,  an  itinerant  painter  in  Wales.  Di- 
viding his  affections,  however,  between  the  sister 
Muses  he  indited  (1726)  his  Grongar  Hill  amidst 
those  excursions.  It  was  published  about  his 
twenty-seventh  year.*  He  afterward  made  the 
tour  of  Italy  in  the  spirit  both  of  an   artist  and 


poet,  and,  besides  studying  pictures  and  prospects, 
composed  a  poem  on  the  Ruins  of  Rome.  On 
his  return  to  England  he  married  a  lady  of  the 
name  of  Bnsor,  a  descendant  of  Shakspeare,  re- 
tired into  the  country,  and  entered  into  orders. 
His  last  preferment  was  to  the  living  of  Kirkely 
on  Bane.  The  witticism  on  his  "  Fleece,"  related 
by  Dr.  Johnson,  that  its  author,  if  he  was  an  old 
man,  would  be  buried  in  woollen,  has,  perhaps, 
been  oflener  repeated  than  any  passage  in  the 
poem  itself. 


GRONGAR  HILL. 

Silent  nymph,  with  curious  eye  ! 
Who,  the  purple  evening,  lie 
On  the  mountain's  lonely  van, 
Beyond  the  noise  of  busy  man ; 
Painting  fair  the  form  of  things, 
While  the  yellow  linnet  sings; 
Or  the  tuneful  nightingale 
Charms  the  forest  with  her  tale ; 
Come,  with  all  thy  various  hues, 
Come,  and  aid  thy  sister  Muse ; 
Now,  while  Phoebus  riding  high 
Gives  lu:>tre  to  the  land  and  sky  ! 
Grongar  Hill  invites  my  song, 
Draw  the  landscape  bright  and  strong ; 
Grongar,  in  whose  mossy  cells, 
Sweetly  musin?,  Quiet  dwells; 
Grongar,  in  whose  silent  shade, 
For  the  modest  Muses  made. 
So  oft  I  have,  the  evening  still, 
At  the  fountain  of  a  rill, 
Sat  upon  a  flow'ry  bed. 
With  my  hand  beneath  my  head; 
While  stray'd  my  eyes  o'er  Towy's  flood, 
Over  mead,  and  over  wood, 
From  house  to  house,  from  hill  to  hill, 
Till  contemplation  had  her  fill. 

About  his  chequer'd  sides  I  wind. 
And  leave  his  brooks  and  meads  behind, 
And  groves,  and  grottos  where  I  lay. 
And  vistas  shooting  beams  of  day  : 
Wide  and  wider  spreads  the  vale ; 
As  circles  on  a  smooth  canal: 
The  mountains  round,  unhappy  fate. 
Sooner  or  later,  of  all  height. 
Withdraw  their  summits  from  the  skies. 
And  lessen  as  the  others  rise : 
Still  the  prospect  wider  spreads. 
Adds  a  thousand  woods  and  meads ; 
Still  it  widens,  widens  still. 
And  sinks  the  newly-risen  hill. 

[•  In  Lewis'  Miscellaniei,  1726.] 

ei 


Now  I  gain  the  mountain's  brow. 
What  a  landscape  lies  below ! 
No  clouds,  no  vapours  intervene 
But  the  gay,  the  open  scene. 
Does  the  face  of  nature  show, 
In  all  the  hues  of  heaven's  bow; 
And,  swelling  to  embrace  the  light. 
Spreads  around,  beneath  the  sight. 

Old  castles  on  the  cliffs  arise. 
Proudly  towering  in  the  skies ! 
Rushing  from  the  woods,  the  spires 
Seem  from  hence  ascending  fires ! 
Half  his  beams  Apollo  sheds 
On  the  yellow  mountain-heads ! 
Gilds  the  fleeces  of  the  flocks. 
And  glitters  on  the  broken  rocks ! 

Below  me  trees  unnumber'd  rise. 
Beautiful  in  various  dyes : 
The  gloomy  pine,  the  poplar  blue, 
The  yellow  beech,  the  sable  yew, 
The  slender  fir,  that  taper  grows. 
The  sturdy  oak  with  broad-spread  boughs 
And  beyond  the  purple  grove. 
Haunt  of  Phyllis,  queen  of  love! 
Gaudy  as  the  opening  dawn, 
Lies  a  long  and  level  lawn. 
On  which  a  dark  hill,  steep  and  high. 
Holds  and  charms  the  wandering  eye ! 
Deep  are  his  feet  in  Towy's  flood. 
His  sides  are  clothed  with  waving  wood. 
And  ancient  towers  crown  his  brow. 
That  cast  an  awful  look  below ; 
Whose  ragged  walls  the  ivy  creeps, 
And  with  her  arms  from  falling  keeps: 
So  both  a  safety  from  the  wind 
On  mutal  dependence  find. 
'Tis  now  the  raven's  bleak  abode; 
'Tis  now  th'  apartment  of  the  toad ; 
And  there  the  fox  securely  feeds; 
And  there  the  poisonous  adder  breeds, 
Conceal'd  in  ruins,  moss,  and  weeds; 
While,  ever  and  anon,  there  falls 
Huge  heaps  of  boarv  moulder'd  walh. 
SQ  481 


482 


ALLAN   RAMSAY. 


Yet  time  has  seen,  that  lifts  the  low, 
And  level  lays  the  lofty  brow, 
Has  seen  this  broken  pile  complete, 
Big  with  the  vanity  of  state ; 
But  transient  is  the  smile  of  fate ! 
A  little  rule,  a  little  sway, 
A  sunbeam  in  a  winter's  day. 
Is  all  the  proud  and  mighty  have 
Between  the  cradle  and  the  grave. 

And  see  the  rivers  how  they  run. 
Through  woods  and  meads,  in  shade  and  sun, 
Sometimes  swift,  sometimes  slow, 
Wave  succeeding  wave,  they  go 
A  various  journey  to  the  deep. 
Like  human  life,  to  endless  sleep ! 
Thus  is  nature's  vesture  wrought. 
To  instruct  our  wandering  thought ; 
Thus  she  dresses  green  and  gay. 
To  disperse  our  cares  away.* 

Ever  charming,  ever  new. 
When  will  the  landscape  tire  the  view ! 
The  fountain's  fall,  the  river's  flow. 
The  woody  valleys,  warm  and  low ; 
The  windy  summit,  wild  and  high, 
Roughly  rushing  on  the  sky  ! 
The  pleasant  seat,  the  ruin'd  tower, 
The  naked  rock,  the  shady  bower  ; 
The  town  and  village,  dome  and  farm. 
Each  give  each  a  double  charpi,   . 
As  pearls  upon  an  ^thiop's  arm. 

See  on  the  mountain's  southern  side. 
Where  the  prospect  opens  wide, 
Where  the  evening  gilds  the  tide ; 
How  close  and  small  the  hedges  lie  ! 
What  streaks  of  meadows  cross  the  eye  ! 
A  step  methinks  may  pass  the  stream. 
So  little  distant  dangers  seem ; 


So  we  mistake  the  future's  face. 
Eyed  through  hope's  deluding  glass ; 
As  yon  summits  soft  and  fair. 
Clad  in  colours  of  the  air. 
Which,  to  those  who  journey  near. 
Barren,  brown,  and  rough  appear ; 
Still  we  tread  the  same  coarse  way. 
The  present's  still  a  cloudy  day."f 

O  may  I  with  myself  agree, 
And  never  covet  what  I  see  : 
Content  me  with  an  humble  shade, 
My  passions  tamed,  my  wishes  laid  ; 
For,  while  our  wishes  wildly  roll. 
We  banish  quiet  from  the  soul : 
'Tis  thus  the  busy  beat  the  air. 
And  misers  gather  wealth  and  care. 

Now,  ev'n  now,  my  joys  run  high. 
As  on  the  mountain-turf  I  lie ; 
While  the  wanton  zephyr  sings. 
And  in  the  vale  perfumes  his  wings : 
While  the  waters  murmur  deep ; 
W^hile  the  shepherd  charms  his  sheep ; 
While  the  birds  unbounded  fly. 
And  with  music  fill  the  sky, 
Now,  even  now,  my  joys  run  high. 

Be  full,  ye  courts ;  be  great  who  will ; 
Search  for  peace  with  all  your  skill ; 
Open  wide  the  lofty  door, 
Seek  her  on  the  marble  floor ; 
In  vain  you  search,  she  is  not  there ; 
In  vain  ye  search  the  domes  of  care  ! 
Grass  and  flowers  Quiet  treads, 
On  the  meads  and  mountain-heads, 
Along  with  Pleasure,  close  allied, 
Ever  by  each  other's  side : 
And  often,  by  the  murmuring  rill. 
Hears  the  thrush,  while  all  is  still, 
Within  the  groves  of  Grongar  Hill. 


ALLAN  RAMSAY. 


[Born,  1686.    Died,  175T.) 


The  personal  history  of  Allan  Ramsay  is 
marked  hy  few  circumstances  of  striking  inte- 
rest; yet,  independently  of  his  poetry,  he  can- 
not be  reckoned  an  insignificant  individual  who 
gave  Scotland  her  first  circulating  library,  and 
who  established  her  first  regular  theatre.  He 
was  born  in  the  parish  of  Crawford  Moor,  in 
Lanarkshire,  where  his  father  had  the  charge  of 
Lord  Hopeton's  lead-mines.  His  mother,  Alice 
Bower,  was  the  daughter  of  an  Englishman  who 
had  emigrated  to  that  place  from  Derbyshire. 
By  his  paternal  descent  the  poet  boasts  of  having 

S*  See  Byron's  remark  on  this  passage.  Life,  and  Works, 
.  vl.  p.  366.] 

[t  Loni  Byron  asks,  (vol.  vi.  p.  366,)  "Is  not  this  the 
original  of  Mr.  Campbell's  far-fumed, 

"Tis  distance  lends  enchantment  to  the  view. 
And  robes  the  mountain  in  its  azure  hue?" 
We  answer  for  Mr.  Campbell,  decidedly  not  I] 

X  Apropos  to  this  delicate  distinction  of  the  Scottish 
biographer  may  be  mentioned  the  advertisement  of  a 


sprung  from  "a  Douglas  loin ;"  but,  owing  to  the 
early  death  of  his  father,  his  education  was  con- 
fined to  a  parish-school,  and  at  the  age  of  fifteen 
he  was  bound  apprentice  to  the  humble  business 
of  a  wig-maker.  On  this  subject  one  of  his 
Scottish  biographers  refutes,  with  some  indigna- 
tion, a  report  which  had  gone  abroad,  that  our 
poet  was  bred  a  barber,  and  carefully  instructs 
the  reader,  that  in  those  good  times,  when  a 
fashionable  wig  cost  twenty  guineas,  the  employ- 
ment of  manufacturing  them  was  both  lucrative 
and  creditable.J  Ramsay,  however,  seems  to  have 

French  perruquier  in  the  Palais  Koyal,  who  ranks  big 
business  among  the  "imitative  arts."  A  London  artist 
in  the  same  profession  had  a  similnr  jealousy  with  the 
historian  of  liamsay's  life,  at  the  idea  of  mere  "  trimmers 
of  the  human  face"  being  confounded  with  "genuine 
perruquiers."  In  advertising  his  crop-wigs  he  alluded  to 
some  wig-weaving  competitors,  whom  he  denominated 
"mere  hair-dressers  and  barbers;"  and  "shall  a  biirber 
(he  exclaims)  affect  to  rival  these  crops  ?"  "  Barharus  has 
i  aegetes." — ViKOiu 


ALLAN  RAMSAY. 


483 


felt  no  ambition  either  for  the  honours  or  profits 
of  the  vocation,  as  he  left  it  on  finishing  his 
apprenticeship.  In  his  twenty-fourth  year  he 
married  the  daughter  of  a  writer,  or  attorney,  in 
Edinburgh.  His  eldest  son*  rose  to  well-known 
eminence  as  a  painter.  Our  poet's  first  means  of 
subsistence  after  his  marriage,  were  to  publish 
small  poetical  productions  in  a  cheap  form,  which 
became  so  popular,  that  even  in  this  bumble  sale 
he  was  obliged  to  call  upon  the  magistrates  to 
protect  his  literary  property  from,  the  piracy  of 
the  hawkers.  He  afterward  set  up  as  a  book- 
seller, and  published,  at  his  own  shop,  a  new 
edition  jf  "  Christ's  Kirk  on  the  Green,"  with 
two  cantos  of  his  own  subjoined  to  the  ancient 
original,  which  is  ascribed  to  James  L  of  Scot-' 
land.  A  passage  in  one  of  those  modern  cantos 
of  Ramsay's  describing  a  husband  fascinated 
homewards  from  a  scene  of  drunkenness  by  the 
gentle  persuasions  of  his  wife,  has  been  tastefully 
selected  by  Wilkie,  and  been  made  the  subject  of 
his  admirable  pencil. 

In  1724  he  published  a  collection  of  popular 
Scottish  songs,  called  the  Tea-Table  Miscellany, 
which  speedily  ran  through  twelve  impressions. 
Ruddiman  assisted  him  in  the  glossary,  and  Hamil- 
ton of  Bangoor,Crawfurd,and  Malletwere  among 
the  contributors  to  his  modern  songs.  In  the 
same  year  appeared  his  Evergreen,  a  collection 
of  pieces  from  the  Bannatyne  MSS.  written  be- 
fore the  year  1600.  Here  the  vanity  of  adorning 
what  it  was  his  duty  to  have  faithfully  transcribed 
led  him  to  take  many  liberties  with  the  originals  ; 
and  it  is  pretty  clear  that  one  poem,  viz.  the 
Vision,  which  he  pretended  to  have  found  in 
ancient  manuscript,  was  the  fruit  of  his  own 
brain.  But  the  Vision,  considered  as  his  own, 
adds  a  plume  to  his  poetical  character  which  may 
overshade  his  defects  as  an  editor. 

In  1726  he  published  his  Gentle  Shepherd. 
The  first  rudiments  of  that  pleasing  drama  had 
been  given  to  the  public  in  two  pastoral  dialogues, 
which  were  so  much  liked  that  his  friends  ex- 
horted him  to  extend  them  into  a  regular  play. 
The  reception  of  this  piece  soon  extended  his  re- 
putation beyond  Scotland.  His  works  were  re- 
printed at  Dublin,  and  became  popular  in  the 
colonies.  Pope  was  known  to  admire  The  Gentle 
Shepherd;  and  Gay,  when  he  was  in  Scotland, 

*  This  son  of  the  poet  was  a  man  of  llterMture  us  well 
88  jienius.  Ihe  following  whimsical  sp.'<iimjn  of  his 
poetry  is  suljoincd  a.s  ii  curii^sity.  The  humorouK  sul'dti- 
tiition  of  the  kirk  triMBury  mm  for  Uoiaies  wolf,  in  the 
third  ptanza.  will  only  be  re<>  gniscd  by  ihosc  who  uuder- 
siaiul  the  iinportrtnce  of  that  ecclt-siaftiail  officer  In  ^^()t• 
land,  and  th<-  p  >wora  with  which  hu  is  inves  e<l  for  num- 
moiling  dciinqaents  before  the  clergy  and  elders,  in  eui«.-< 
of  illegitimate  love. 

HORACE'S  "INTEGER  TIT^E,'' Ac. 

BT   ALLAN   RAMSAY,  JU\. 

A  man  of  no  base  (John)  life  or  oonversntion. 
Needs  not  to  tru<t  in,  coat  of  mail  nor  bulTHkin, 
Nor  need  he  vapour,  with  the  sword  and  npier, 
Pistol,  or  great  gun. 

WTiether  he  ranges,  eastward  to  the  Oangea, 
Or  if  he  bend.-'  his  course  to  the  Wc.^t  Indies, 
Or  .sail  the  Sea  Kod,  which  so  many  strange  odd 
i^tories  are  told  ot 


sought  for  explanations  of  its  phrases,  that  he 
might  communicate  them  to  his  friend  at 
Twickenham.  Ramsay's  shop  was  a  great  resort 
of  the  congenial  fabulist  while  he  remained  in 
Edinburgh ;  and  from  its  windows,  which  over- 
looked the  Exchange,  the  Scottish  poet  used  to 
point  out  to  Gay  the  most  remarkable  characters 
of  the  place. 

A  second  volume  of  his  poems  appeared  in 
1728;  and  in  1730  he  published  a  collection  of 
fables.  His  epistles  in  the  former  volume  are 
generally  indiiferent ;  but  there  is  one  addressed 
to  the  poet  Somervile,  which  contains  some  easy 
lines.  Professing  to  write  from  nature  more 
than  art,  he  compares,  with  some  beauty,  the  rude 
style  which  he  loved  and  practised,  to  a  neglected 
orchard. 

I  love  the  garden  wild  and  wide. 

Where  oaks  have  plum-trees  by  their  side. 

Where  woodbines  and  the  lwL«ting  vine 

Clip  round  the  pear-tree  and  the  pine; 

Where  mixt  jonquils  and  guwansf  grow, 

And  roses  midst  rank  clover  blow, 

Upon  a  bank  of  a  dear  strand, 

Its  wimplings  led  by  nature's  hand; 

Though  dorks  and  brambles  here  and  there, 

May  sometimes  cheat  the  gard'ner's  care, 

Yet  this  t<>  me's  a  Paradise, 

Compared  to  prime  cut  plots  and  nice, 

Where  nature  hiL-*  to  art  resign'd, 

And  all  looks  stiff,  mean,  and  confined. 

Of  original  poets  he  says,  in  one  expressive 
couplet : 

The  native  bards  first  plunged  the  deep. 
Before  the  artful  dared  to  leap. 

About  the  age  of  forty-five  he  cetised  to  write 
for  the  public  The  most  remarkable  circum- 
stance of  his  life  was  an  attempt  which  he  made 
to  establish  a  theatre  in  Edinburgh.  Our  poet 
had  been  always  fond  of  the  drama,  and  had 
occasionally  supplied  prologues  to  the  players 
who  visited  the  northern  capital.  But  though  the 
age  of  fanaticism  was  wearing  away,  it  had  not 
yet  sufl'ered  the  dratna  to  have  a  settled  place  of 
exhibition  in  Scotland ;  and  when  Ramsay  had, 
with  great  expense,  in  the  year  1736,  fitted  up  a 
theatre  in  Carubber's  Close,  the  act  for  licensing 
the  stage,  which  was  passed  in  the  following  year, 
gave  the  magistrates  of  Edinburgh  a  power  of 
shutting  it  up,  which  they  exerted  with  gloomy 
severity.  Such  was  the  popular  hatred  of  play- 
houses in  Scotland  at  this  period,  that,  some  time 

For  but  last  Mohday,  walking  at  noou-day, 

<  onniui:  u  diity.  to  divert  my  lieity. 

liy  me  that  sou's  Turk  ^I  not  frighted)  our  Kirk- 

Treasurer's  man  paM'd, 

And  sure  more  horrid  monster  in  the  torrid- 
Zone  ne'er  was  fouud,  Mr,  though  I'-r  snakes  renown'd,  Sit, 
Nor  can  great  Peter's  empiie  b  >H-t  ^u<'h  creatures. 

Th'of  bears  the  wet  nurse 

Should  I  buy  hi:p  land  on  the  coa^t  of  Lapland, 
Where  there  no  nr  i>.  muih  fss  pears  and  >  henries, 
Where  stormy  woutber's  Wid  by  hags,  whose  leaiher- 
t'acos  would  fright  one. 

Place  me  where  tea  grows,  or  where  sootj"  nej-TTes, 
Sheep'sguts  niund  tie  ihem,  lest  il\e  sun  sho  ild  tty  them, 
Still  whUe  my  lietiy  smiles  and  talks  so  pivtty, 
I  will  adore  her. 
t  Daisies. 


afterward,  ihe  mob  of  Glasgow  demolished  the 
first  playhouse  that  was  erected  in  their  city ; 
and  though  the  work  of  destruction  was  accom- 
plished in  daylight  by  many  hundreds,  it  was 
reckoned  so  godly,  that  no  reward  could  bribe 
any  witness  to  appear  or  inform  against  the 
rioters.  Ten  years  from  the  date  of  this  disap- 
pointment, Ramsay  had  the  satisfaction  of  seeing 
dramatic  entertainments  freely  enjoyed  by  his 
fellow-citizens;  but  in  the  mean  time  he  was  not 
only  left  without  legal  relief  for  his  own  loss  in 
the  speculation  (having  suffered  what  the  Scotch 
law  denominated  a  '■'■donmum  sine  injuria")  but 
he  was  assailed  with  libels  on  his  moral  character, 
for  having  endeavoured  to  introduce  the  "  hell- 
bred  playhouse  comedians." 

He  spent  some  of  the  last  years  of  his  life  in  a 
house  of  whimsical  construction,  on  the  north 
side  of  the  Castle-hill  of  Edinburgh,  where  the 
place  of  his  residence  is  still  distinguished  by  the 
name  of  Ramsay  garden. 

A  scurvy  in  his  gums  put  a  period  to  his 
life  in  his  seventy -second  year.  He  died  at 
Edinburgh,  and  was  interred  in  Grey  Friars 
church-yard.  Ramsay  was  small  in  stature,  with 
dark  but  expressive  and  pleasant  features.  He 
seems  to  have  possessed  the  constitutional  philo- 
sophy of  good-humour.  His  genius  gave  him 
access  to  the  society  of  those  who  were  most  dis- 
tinguished for  rank  and  talents  in  his  native 
country ;  but  his  intercourse  with  them  was 
marked  by  no  servility,  and  never  seduced  him 
from  the  quiet  attention  to  trade  by  which  he 
ultimately  secured  a  moderate  independence. 
His  vanity  in  speaking  of  himself  is  often  exces- 
sive, but  it  is  always  gay  and  good-natured.  On 
one  "occasion  he  modestly  takes  precedence  of 
Peter  the  Great,  in  estimating  their  comparative 
importance  with  the  public. — "But  ha'd,*  proud 
Czar  (he  says)  I  wad  no  nifferf  fame."  Much 
of  his  poetry  breathes  the  subdued  aspirations  of 
Jacobitism.  He  was  one  of  those  Scotsmen  who 
for  a  long  time  would  not  extend  their  patriotism 
to  the  empire  in  which  their  country  was  merged, 
and  who  hated  the  cause  of  the  Whigs  in  Scot- 
land, from  remembering  its  ancient  connection 
with  the  leaven  of  fanaticism.  The  Tory  cause 
had  also  found  its  way  to  their  enthusiasm  by 
being  associated  with  the  pathos  and  romance  of 
the  lost  independence  of  their  country.  The 
business  of  Darien  was  still  "  alta  mente  repos- 
tum."  Fletcher's  eloquence  on  the  subject  of 
the  Union  was  not  forgotten,  nor  that  of  Belhaven, 
who  had  apostrophised  the  Genius  of  Caledonia 
in  the  last  meeting  of  her  senate,  and  who  died  of 
grief  at  the  supposed  degradation  of  his  country. 
Visionary  as  the  idea  of  Scotland's  independence 
a<»  a  kingdom  might  be,  we  must  most  of  all  ex- 
cuse it  in  a  poet  whose  fancy  was  expressed,  and 
whose  reputation  was  bound  up,  in  a  dialect 
from  which  the  Union  took  away  the  last  chance 
of  perpetuity. 

*  Hold.  t  Bxchange. 


I  Our  poets  miscellaneous  pieces,  though  some 
''  of  them  are  very  ingenious.^  are  upon  the  whole 
\  of  a  much  coarser  grain  than  his  pastoral  drama. 
The  admirers  of  the  Gentle  Shepherd  must  per- 
haps be  contented  to  share  some  suspicion  of  na- 
tional partiality,  while  they  do  justice  to  their 
own  feeling  of  its  merit.  Yet  as  this  drama  is  a 
picture  of  rustic  Scotland,  it  would  perhaps  be 
saying  little  for  its  fidelity,  if  it  yielded  no  more 
agreeableness  to  the  breast  of  a  native  than  he 
could  expound  to  a  stranger  by  the  strict  letter 
of  criticism.  We  should  think  the  painter  had 
finished  the  likeness  of  a  mother  very  indiffer- 
ently, if  it  did  not  bring  home  to  her  children 
traits  of  indefinable  expression  which  had  escaped 
every  eye  but  that  of  familiar  affection.  Ramsay 
had  not  the  force  of  Burns;  but  neither,  in  just 
proportion  to  his  merits,  is  he  likely  to  be  felt  by 
an  English  reader.  The  fire  of  Burns'  wit  and 
passion  glows  through  an  obscure  dialect  by  its 
confinement  to  short  and  concentrated  bursts. 
The  interest  which  Ramsay  excites  is  spread  over 
a  long  poem,  delineating  manners  more  than  pas- 
sions; and  the  mind  must  be  at  home  both  in  the 
language  and  manners,  to  appreciate  the  skill 
and  comic  archness  with  which  he  has  heightened 
the  display  of  rustic  character  without  giving  it 
vulgarity,  and  refined  the  view  of  peasant  life  by 
situations  of  sweetness  and  tenderness,  without 
departing  in  the  least  degree  from  its  simplicity. 
The  Gentle  Shepherd  stands  quite  apart  from  the 
general  pastoral  poetry  of  modern  Europe.  It 
has  no  satyrs,  nor  featureless  simpletons,  nor 
drowsy  and  still  landscapes  of  nature,  but  distinct 
characters  and  amusing  incidents.  The  principal 
shepherd  never  speaks  out  of  consistency  with 
the  habits  of  a  peasant;  but  he  moves  in  that 
sphere  with  such  a  manly  spirit,  with  so  much 
cheerful  sensibility  to  its  humble  joys,  with  maxims 
of  life  so  rational  and  independent,  and  with  an 
ascendancy  over  his  fellow  swains  so  well  main- 
tained by  his  force  of  character,  that  if  we  could 
suppose  the  pacific  scenes  of  the  drama  to  be  sud- 
denly changed  into  situations  of  trouble  and 
danger,  we  should,  in  exact  consistency  with  our 
former  idea  of  him,  expect  him  to  become  the 
leader  of  the  peasants,  and  the  Tell  of  his  native 
hamlet.  Nor  is  the  character  of  his  mistress  less 
beautifully  conceived.  She  is  represented,  like 
himself,  as  elevated,  by  a  fortunate  discovery, 
from  obscure  to  opulent  life,  yet  as  equally  capable 
of  being  the  ornament  of  either.  A  Richardson 
or  a  D'Arl>lay,  had  they  continued  her  history, 
might  have  heightened  the  portrait,  but  they 
would  not  have  altered  its  outline.  Like  the 
poetry  of  Tasso  and  Ariosto,  that  of  the  Gentle 
Shepherd  is  engraven  on  the  memory  of  its  na- 
tive country.  Its  verses  have  passed  into  pro- 
verbs; and  it  continues  to  be  the  delight  and 
solace  of  the  peasantry  whom  it  describes. 

%  ParticulKrly  the  tale  of  the  Monk  and  the  Miller's 
Wife.  This  story  is,  unhappily,  unfit  for  a  popular  col- 
lection like  the  present,  but  it  is  well  told.  It  is  borrowed 
&um  an  old  poem  attributed  to  Dunbar. 


ALLAN  RAMSAY. 


485 


FROM  "THE  GENTLE  SHEPHERD." 

ACT  I.  8CE>iE  n. 
PBOUMUZ. 

A  flowrie  howm''  between  twa  verdant  braes, 
Where  lapses  use  to  wash  and  spreiul  their  claltbs,* 
A  trotting  burnio  wimpljn<t  throw  tlie  ground, 
It«  channel  peebles  shining  smooth  and  round: 
Here  Tiew  twa  bari'fuot  beautie-;  clean  and  clear; 
First  please  your  eye.  then  gratify  your  ear ; 
While  Jennv  what  she  wishes  discommends, 
And  M^  with  better  sense  true  love  defeudB. 

Peogt  and  Jenxt. 
Jenny.  Come,  Meg,  let 's  fa'  to  work  upon  this 
green. 
This  shining  day  will  bleach  our  linen  clean; 
The  water  's  clear,  the  lift'  unclouded  blue, 
Will  make  them  like  a  lily  wet  with  dew. 

Peggy.  Gaefarreruptheburn  to  Habbie's  How, 
Where  a'that's  sweet  in  spring  and  simmer  grow: 
Between  twa  birks  out  o'er  a  little  linn,' 
The  water  fa's,  and  makes  a  singin'  din: 
A  pool  breast-deep,  beneath  as  clear  as  glass, 
Kisses  with  easy  whirls  the  bord'ring  grass. 
We'll  end  our  washing  while  the  morning's  cool, 
And  when  the  day  grows  het  we'll  to  the  pool, 
There  wash  oursells ;  'tis  healthfu'  now  in  May, 
And  sweetly  caller  on  sae  warm  a  day. 

Jenny.  Daft  lassie,  when  we're  naked,  what'U 
we. say, 
Giff  our  twa  herds  come  brattling  down  the  brae, 
And  see  us  sae? — that  jeering  fellow,  Pate, 
Wad    taunting    say, "  Haith,   lasses,   ye're    no 
blate."* 
Peggy.   We're  far  frae  ony  road,  and  out  of 
sight ; 
The  lads  they're  feeding  far  beyont  the  hight; 
But  tell  me  now.  dear  Jenny,  we're  our  lane, 
What  gars  ye  plague  your  wooer  with  disdain  1 
The  neighbours  a'  tent  this  as  well  as  I; 
That  Roger  lo'es  ye,  yet  ye  care  na  by. 
What  ails  ye  at  him?   Troth,  between  us  twa, 
He's  wordy  you  the  best  day  e'er  ye  saw. 

Jenny.  I  dinna  like  him, Peggy,  there's  an  end; 
A  herd  mair  sheepish  yet  I  never  ken'd. 
He  kames  his  hair,  indeed,  and  gaes  right  snug. 
With  ribbon-knots  at  his  blue  bonnet  lug; 
Whilk  pensylie'  he  wears  a  thought  a-jee.'' 
And  spreads  his  garters  diced  beneath  his  knee. 
He  falds  his  owrelay*  down  his  breast  with  care, 
And  few  gangs  trigger  to  the  kirk  or  fair; 
For  a'  that,  he  can  neither  sing  nor  say, 
Except,  "How  d'ye]" — or,  "There's  a  bonny 
day." 
Peggy.  Ye  dash  the  lad  with  constant  slighting 
pride. 
Hatred  for  love  is  unco  sair  to  hide: 
But  ye'll  repent  ye.  if  his  love  grow  cauld, 
Wha  likes  a  ilorty'  maiden  when  she's  auldl 
Like  diiwted  wean*  that  rarrows  at  its  meat," 
That   for   some    feckless'   whim  will    orp*"  and 
greet: 


"ITlie  level  lew  ground  on  tbe  bnnkn  of  n  stre-m. — 
•  Clothes.— /?!ky. — f  A  pool  beneath  a  waterftil'. — *  ^Iode»t. — 
r  Sprucely.— i  To  one  sidi'.-it'raviit.— '  rettish.-m  Spoilt 
tliild.— n  Pettishly  refuses  iu  food.— o  :?illy.— •  l!>et. 


The  lave  laugh  at  it  till  the  dinner's  past. 
And  syne  the  fool  thing  is  obliged  to  fast. 
Or  scart  anither's  leavings  at  the  last. 
Fy,  Jenny  !  think,  and  dinna  sit  your  time. 

Jenny.  I  never  thought  a  single  life  a  crime. 

Peggy.  Nor  I:  but  love  in  whispers  lets  us  ken 
That  men  were  made  for  us,  and  we  for  men. 

Jenny.  If  Roger  is  my  jo,  he  kens  himsell, 
For  sic  a  tale  I  never  heard  him  tell. 
He  glowrs*  and  sighs,  and  I  can  guess  the  cause: 
But  wha's  obliged  to  spell  his  hums  and  hawsl 
Whene'er  he  likes  to  tell  his  mind  mair  plain, 
I'se  tell  him  frankly  ne'er  to  do't  again. 
They're  fools  that  slav'ry  like,  and  may  be  free ; 
The  chiels  may  a'  knit  up  themselves  for  me. 

Peggy.  Be  doing  your  ways :  for  me,  I  have  a 
mind 
To  be  as  yielding  as  my  Patie's  kind. 

Jenny.  Heb !  lass,  how  can  ye  lo'e  thai  rattle- 
skull  ? 
A  very  deil,  that  ay  maun  have  his  will ! 
We  soon  will  hear  what  a  poor  feightan  life 
You  twa  will  lead,  sae  soon's  ye're  man  and  wife. 

Peggy.  I'll  rin  the  risk  ;  nor  have  I  ony  fear, 
But  rather  think  ilk  langsome  day  a  year, 
'Till  I  with  pleasure  mount  my  bridal-bed. 
Where  on  my  Patie's  breast  I'll  lay  my  head. 
There  he  may  kiss  as  lang  as  kissing  's  good, 
And  what  we  do  there's  none  dare  call  it  rude. 
He's  get  his  will;  why  no]  'tis  good  my  part 
To  give  him  that,  and  he'll  give  me  his  heart. 

Jenny.  He  may  indeed  for  ten  or  fifteen  days 
Mak  meikle  o'  ye,  with  an  unco  fraise. 
And  daut  ye  baith  afore  fowk  and  your  lane : 
But  soon  as  your  newfangleness  is  gane. 
He'll  look  upon  you  as  his  tether-stake. 
And  think  he's  tint  his  freedom  for  your  sake, 
Instead  then  of  lang  days  of  sweet  delyte, 
Ae  day  be  dumb,  and  a'  the  neist  he'll  flyte: 
And  may  be  in  his  barchoods,'  ne'er  stick 
To  lend  his  loving  wife  a  loundering  lick. 

Peggy.  Sic  coarse-spun  thoughts  as  that  want 
pith  to  move 
My  settled  mind  ;  I'm  o'er  far  gane  in  love. 
Patie  to  me  is  dearer  than  my  breath. 
But  want  of  him  I  dread  nae  other  skaith.* 
There's  nane  af  a'  the  herds  that  tread  the  green 
Has  sic  a  smile,  or  sic  twa  glancing  een. 
.And  then  he  speaks  with  sic  a  taking  art, 
His  words  they  thirle  like  music  through  my  heart 
How  biythly  can  he  sport,  and  gentle  rave. 
And  jest  at  little  fears  that  fright  the  lave. 
Ilk  day  that  he's  aiane  upon  the  hill. 
He  reads  feil'  books  that  teach  him  meikle  skin. 
He  is — but  what  need  I  say  that  or  this, 
I'd  spend  a  month  to  tell  you  what  he  is ! 
In  a'  he  siiys  or  does  there's  sic  a  gate, 
The  rest  seem  coos  compared  with  my  dear  Pate 
His  Ix't'er  sense  will  lang  his  love  secure: 
Ill-nature  hefts  in  sauis  are  weak  and  poor. 

Jen.  y.  Hey.  "bonny  lass  of  Branksome  !"  oi 
't  be  lang. 
Your  witty  Pate  will  put  you  in  a  Bang. 


«  stares.— 'CroBS-mot  J  ■.- 


>  Harm. — » Many. 


486 


ALLAN  RAMSAY. 


O  'tis  a  pleasant  thing  to  be  a  bride ! 

Syne  whinging  gets  about  your  ingle-side, 

Yelping  for  this  or  that  with  fasheous"  din : 

To  make  them  brats  then  ye  maun  toil  and  spin. 

Ae  wean  fa's  sick,  and  scads  itself  wi'  brue," 

Ane  breaks  his  shin,  anither  ties  his  shoe: 

The  "Deil  gaes   o'er  John   Wabster:""  hame 

grows  hell, 
When  Pate  misca's  ye  waur  than  tongue  can  tell. 
Peggy.  Yes,  it's  a  heartsome  thing  to  be  a  wife, 
When  round  the  ingle-edge  young  sprouts  are 

rife. 
Gif  I'm  sae  happy,  I  shall  have  .delight 
To  hear  their  little  plaints,  and  keep  them  right. 
Wow,  Jenny  !  can  there  greater  pleasure  be, 
Than  see  sic  wee  tots  toolying  at  your  knee ; 
When  a'  they  ettle  at,  their  greatest  wish, 
Is  to  be  made  of,  and  obtain  a  kiss  1 
Can  there  be  toil  in  tenting  day  and  night 
The  like  of  them,  when  love  makes  care  delightl 
Jenny.  But  poortith,  Peggy,  is  the  warst  of  a', 
Gif  o'er  your  heads  ill  chance  should  begg'ry 

draw: 
There  little  love  or  canty  cheer  can  come 
Frae  duddy  doublets,  and  a  pantry  toom.* 
Your  nowt  may  die;  the  speat"  may  bear  away 
Frae  aff  the  howms  your  dainty  rocks  of  hay  ; 
The   thick-blawn   wreaths    of  snaw,  or   blashy 

thows. 
May  smoor  your  wethers,  and  may  rot  your  ewes; 
A  dyvour'  buys  your  butter,  woo',  and  cheese, 
But  or  the  day  of  payment  breaks  and  flees ; 
With  gloomin'  brow  the  laird  seeks  in  his  rent, 
'Tis  no  to  gie,  your  merchant's  to  the  bent; 
His  honour  maunna  want,  he  poinds  your  gear: 
Syne  driven  frae  house  and  hald,  where  will  ye 

steer  1 — 
Dear  Meg,  be  wise,  and  lead  a  single  life; 
Troth,  it's  nae  mows"  to  be  a  married  wife. 

Peggy.  May  sic  ill  luck  befa'  that  silly  she, 
Wha  has  sic  fears,  for  that  was  never  me. 
Let  fowk  bode  weel,  and  strive  to  do  their  best ; 
Nae  mair's  required — let  heaven  make  out  the 

rest. 
I've  heard  my  honest  uncle  aften  say. 
That  lads  should   a'  for  wives  that's  vertuous 

pray ; 
For  the  maist  thrifty  man  could  never  get 
A  well-stored  room,  unless  his  wife  wad  let: 
Wherefore  nocht  shall  be  wanting  on  my  part 
To  gather  wealth  to  raise  my  shepherd's  heart. 
Whate'er  he  wins  I'll  guide  with  canny  care. 
And  win  the  vogue  at  market,  tron,  or  fair. 
For  healsome,  clean,  cheap,  and  sufficient  ware. 
A  flock  of  lambs,  cheese,  butter,  and  some  woo', 
Shall  first  be  said  to  pay  the  laird  his  due ; 
Syne  a'  behind  's  our  ain. — Thus  without  fear, 
With  love  and  rowth*  we  thro'  the  warld  will 

steer ; 
And  when  my  Pate  in  bairns  and  gear  grows  rife, 
He'll  bless  the  day  he  gat  me  for  his  wife. 


^Trouh'esome—»  Scalds  itself  with  bmth— «>  A  Scotch 
proverb  wlien  all  L'Oes  wrontc. — «  l^nipty. — y  Liind-flood. — 
»  bankruiit. — "It  in  no  slight  calamity. — '  Plenty. 


Jenny.  But  what  if  some  young  giglet  on  the 
green, 
With  dimpled  cheeks,  and  two  bewitching  een. 
Should  gar  your  Patie  think  his  half-worn  Meg, 
And  her  ken'd  kisses,  hardly  worth  a  feg  1 

Peggy.  Nae  mair  of  that: — dear  Jenny,  to  be 
free. 
There's  some  men  constanter  in  love  than  we : 
Nor  is  the  ferly  great,  when  nature  kind 
Has  blest  them  with  solidity  of  mind  ; 
They'll  reason  caulmly,  and  with  kindness  smile, 
When  our  short  passions  wad  our  peace  beguile: 
Sae,  whensoe'er  they  slight  their  maiks°  at  hame, 
'Tis  ten  to  ane  their  wives  are  maist  to  blame. 
Then  I'll  employ  with  pleasure  a'  my  art 
To  keep  him  cheerfu',  and  secure  his  lieart. 
At  ev'n,  when  he  comes  weary  frae  the  hill, 
I'll  have  a'  things  made  ready  to  his  will : 
In  winter,  when  he  toils  thro'  wind  and  rain, 
A  bleezing  ingle,  and  a  clean  hearth-stane : 
And  soon  as  he  flings  by  his  plaid  and  staff, 
The  seething'-pot  's  be  ready  to  take  aff"; 
Clean  hag-abag''  I'll  spread  upon  his  board. 
And  serve  him  with  the  best  we  can  afford: 
Good-humour,  and  white  begonets'  shall  be 
Guards  to  my  face,  to  keep  his  love  for  me. 

Jenny.  A  dish  of  married  love  right  soon  grows 
cauld. 
And  dozins^  down  to  nane,  as  fowk  grow  auld. 

Peggy.  But  we'll  grow  auld  together,  and  ne'er 
find 
The  loss  of  youth,  when  love  grows  on  the  mind, 
Bairns  and  their  bairns  make  sure  a  firmer  tie, 
Than  aught  in  love  the  like  of  us  can  spy. 
See  yon  twa  elms  that  grow  up  side  by  side. 
Suppose  them  some  ears  syne  bridegroom  and 

bride ; 
Nearer  and  nearer  ilka  year  they've  prest. 
Till  wide  their  spreading  branches  are  increased. 
And  in  their  mixture  now  are  fully  blest: 
This  shields  the  other  frae  the  eastlin  blast ; 
That  in  return  defends  it  frae  the  wast. 
Sic  as  stand  single,  (a  state  sae  liked  by  you,) 
Beneath  ilk  storm  frae  every  airt"  maun  bow. 

Jenny.  I've  done, — I  yield,  dear  lassie  ;  I  maun 
yield. 
Your  better  sense  has  fairly  won  the  field. 
With  the  assistance  of  a  little  fae 
Lies  dern'd  within  my  breast  this  mony  a  day. 

Peggy.  Alake,  poor  pris'ner ! — Jenny,  that's  no 
fair. 
That  ye'll  no  let  the  wee  thing  take  the  air: 
Haste,  let  him  out;  we'll  tent  as  well's  we  can, 
Gif  he  be  Bauldy's  or  poor  Roger's  man. 

Jenny.  Anither  time's  as  good  ;  for  see  the  sun 
Is  right  far  up,  and  we're  not  yet  begun 
To  freath  the  graith  ;  if  canker'd  Madge,  our  aunt, 
Come  up  the  burn,  she'll  gie  us  a  wicked  rant; 
But  when  we've  done,  I'll  tell  you  a"  my  mind ; 
For  this  seems  true — nae  lass  can  be  unkind. 

[Exeunt. 


c  Mates. — <l  Hunchback. — •  Linen  caps  or  coifs.— /Dwin- 
dles.— g  Quarter. 


SIR  CHARLES  HANBURY  WILLIAMS 


487 


SONG. 
Faeewell  to  Lochaber,  farewell  to  my  Jean, 
Where  heartsoine  with  thee  I  have  luony  a  day 

been : 
To  Lochalier  no  more,  to  Lochaber  no  more, 
We'll  maybe  return  to  Lochaber  no  more. 
These  tears  that  I  shed  they  are  a'  for  my  dear, 
And  not  for  the  dangers  attending  on  weir ; 
Though  borne  on  rough  seas  to  a  far  bloody  shore, 
Maybe  to  return  to  Lochaber  no  more ! 

Though  hurricanes  rise,  and  rise  every  wind. 
No  tempest  can  equal  the  storm  in  my  mind : 
Though  loudest  of  thunders  on  louder  waves  roar, 
That's  naething  like  leaving  my  love  on  the  shore. 


To  leave  thee  behind  me  my  heart  is  sair  pain'd, 
But  by  ease  that's   inglorious  no  fame  can  bfl 

gain'd: 
And  beauty  and  love's  the  reward  of  the  bravt- 
And  I  maun  deserve  it  before  I  can  crave. 

Then  glory,  my  Jeany,  maun  plead  my  excuse. 
Since  honour  commands  me,  how  can  I  refuse  t 
Without  it  I  ne'er  can  have  merit  for  thee ; 
And  losing  thy  favour  I'd  better  not  be. 
I  gae  then,  my  lass,  to  win  honour  and  fame, 
And,  if  I  should  chance  to  come  glorious  hame, 
I'll   bring   a   heart  to   thee  with  love  ninnirg 

o'er. 
And  then  I'll  leave  thee  and  Lochaber  no  more 


SIR  CHARLES  HANBURY  WILLIAMS. 


CBorn,  1708.    Died,  1759.] 


SiE  Chaelks  Hanbcet  Wiluams  was  the  son 
of  John  Hanbury,  Esq.,  a  South  Sea  Director. 
He  sat  in  several  parliaments,  was,  in  1744,  in- 


stalled a  knight  of  the  Bath,  and  was  afterward 
minister  at  the  courts  of  Berlin  and  Peters* 
burgh.* 


ODS. 

TO   IL  OKEAT   KUHBEE  OF   GREAT   MEN,  NEWLT   MASE. 

See,  a  new  progeny  descends 

From  Heaven,  of  Britain's  truest  friends : 

O  Muse !  attend  my  call ! 
To  one  of  these  direct  thy  flight. 
Or,  to  be  sure  that  we  are  right. 

Direct  it  to  them  all. 

0  Clio !  these  are  golden  times ! 

1  shall  get  money  for  my  rhymes; 

And  thou  no  more  go  tatter'd : 
Make  haste  then,  lead  the  way,  begin, 
For  here  are  people  just  come  in. 

Who  never  yet  were  flatter'd. 

But  first  to  Carteret  fain  you'd  sing; 
Indeed  he's  nearest  to  the  King, 

Yet  careless  how  you  use  him ; 
Give  him,  I  beg,  no  labour'd  lays  ; 
He  will  but  promise  if  you  praise, 

And  laugh  if  you  abuse  him. 

Then  (but  there's  a  vast  space  betwixt) 
The  new.made  Earl  of  Bath  comes  next, 

Stiff  in  his  popular  pride: 
His  step,  his  gait,  describes  the  man ; 
They  paint  him  better  than  I  can. 

Waddling  from  side  to  side. 

Each  hour  a  different  face  he  wears, 
Now  in  a  fury,  now  in  tears, 

[•  since  this  was  written,  an  etiltlon  of  Sir  Charles  H. 
UllUiims's  works,  lii  3  volg.  8to,  has  been  printed,  of  which 
a  properlY  bitter  critique  appeamd  in  the  6;')th  number  of 
the  Uuarterlj  Review, — it  is  said  from  the  pen  of  Mr. 
Croker.] 


Now  laughing,  now  in  sorrow ; 
Now  he'll  command,  and  now  obey, 
Bellows  for  liberty  to-day. 

And  roars  for  power  to-morrow. 

At  noon  the  Tories  had  him  tight. 

With  staunchest  Whigs  he  supp'd  at  night. 

Each  party  tried  to  'ave  won  him ; 
But  he  himself  did  so  divide, 
ShufHed  and  cut  from  side  to  side. 

That  now  both  parties  shun  him. 

See  yon  old,  dull,  important  Lord, 
Who  at  the  long'd-for  money-board 

Sits  first,  but  does  not  lead: 
His  younger  brethren  all  things  make; 
So  that  the  Treasury's  like  a  snake, 

And  the  tail  moves  the  head. 

Why  did  you  cross  God's  good  intent  t 
He  made  you  for  a  President ; 

Back  to  that  station  go ; 
Nor  longer  act  this  farce  of  power. 
We  know  you  niiss'd  the  thing  before. 

And  have  not  got  it  now. 

See  valiant  Cobham,  valorous  Stair, 
Britain's  two  thunderbolts  of  war, 

Now  strike  my  ravish'd  eye: 
But  oh !  their  strength  and  spirits  flown. 
They,  like  their  conquering  swords,  are  grown 

Rusty  with  lying  by. 

Dear  Bat,  I'm  glad  you've  got  a  place. 

And  since  things  thus  have  changed  their  face. 

You'll  give  opposing  o'er: 
'Tis  comfortable  to  lie  in, 
And  think  what  a  damn'd  while  you've  been. 

Like  Peter,  at  the  door. 


488 


ISAAC  HAWKINS  BROWNE. 


See  who  comes  next — I  kiss  thy  hands, 
But  not  in  flattery,  Samuel  Sandys ; 

For  since  you  are  in  power, 
That  gives  you  knowledge,  judgment,  parts, 
The  courtier's  wiles,  the  statesman's  arts. 

Of  which  you'd  none  before. 

When  great  impending  dangers  shook 
Its  state,  old  Rome  dictators  took 

Judiciously  from  plough : 
So  we,  (but  at  a  pinch  thou  knowest) 
To  make  the  highest  of  the  lowest, 

Th'  Exchequer  gave  to  you. 

When  in  your  hands  the  seals  you  found. 
Did  they  not  make  your  brains  go  round  1 

Did  they  not  turn  your  head  ? 
I  fancy  (but  you  hate  a  joke) 
You  felt  as  Nell  did  when  she  woke 

In  Lady  Loverule's  bed. 

See  Harry  Vane  in  pomp  appear. 
And,  since  he's  made  Vice  Treasurer, 
Grows  taller  by  some  inches ; 


See  Tweedale  follow  Carteret's  call; 
See  Hanoverian  Gower,  and  all 
The  black  funereal  Finches. 

And  see  with  that  important  face 
Berenger's  clerk,  to  take  his  place. 

Into  the  Treasury  come: 
With  pride  and  meanness  act  thy  part. 
Thou  look'st  the  very  thing  thou  art, 

Thou  Bourgeois  Gentilhomme. 

Oh,  my  poor  Country,  is  this  all 
You've  gain'd  by  the  long  labour'd  fall 

Of  Walpole  and  his  tools  ] 
He  was  a  knave  indeed — what  then  1 
He'd  parts — but  this  new  set  of  men 

A'nt  only  knaves,  but  fools. 

More  changes,  better  times  this  isle 
Demands :  Oh  !   Chesterfield,  Argyll, 

To  bleeding  Britain  bring  'em : 
Unite  all  hearts,  appease  each  storm ; 
*Tis  yours  such  actions  to  perform. 

My  pride  shall  be  to  sing  'em.* 


ISAAC  HAWKINS  BROWNE. 


[Born,  1705.    Died,  1760.] 


Isaac  Hawkins  Browne  was  born  at  Burton- 
upon-Trent,  educated  at  Westminster  and  Cam- 
bridge, and  studied  the  law  at  Lincoln's  Inn; 


but  his  fortune  enabled  him  to  decline  the  pur- 
suit of  business  long  before  his  death.  He  sat  in 
two  parliaments  for  Wenlocke,  in  Shropshire.')' 


A  PIPE  OF  TOBACCO. 

JS  DOTATION  OF  SIX  SEVERAL  ACTHOBfi^ 

IMITATION  I.— COLLET  CIBBER. 

A  NEW  TKAK'S  ode. 


Laudes  egregii  CKsaris- 
Culpa  deterere  ingeai. 


HOR. 


EECITATIVO. 

Old  Battle-array,  big  with  horror,  is  fled, 
And  olive-robed  Peace  again  lifts  up  her  head. 

Bing,  ye  Muses,  Tobacco,  the  blessing  of  peace ; 

Was  ever  a  nation  so  blessed  as  this  I 

AIR. 

When  summer  suns  grow  red  with  heat. 

Tobacco  tempers  Phoebus'  ire ; 
When  wintry  storms  around  us  beat. 
Tobacco  cheers  with  gentle  fire. 
Yellow  autumn,  youthful  spring ; 
In  thy  praises  jointly  sing. 

[*  This  is  sorry  stuff,  but  Williams  did  not  always  write 
this  way.    Witness  his  famous  quatrain  on  Pulteney : 
When  you  touch  on  his  Lordship,  Ac. 
Leave  a  blank  here  and  there  in  each  page, 

To  enrol  the  fair  deeds  of  his  youth! 
When  you  mention  the  acts  of  his  ajie — 
Leave  a  blank  for  tiis  honour  and  truth !] 
t  Browne  was  an  entertaining  companion  when  he  had 
drunk  his  bottle,  but  not  before :  this  proved  a  snare  to 
turn,  and  he  would  sometimes  drink  too  much;  but  I  know 


Like  Neptune,  C»sar  guards  Virginian  fleets. 
Fraught  with  Tobacco's  balmy  sweets ; 
Old  Ocean  trembles  at  Britannia's  power. 
And  Boreas  is  afiraid  to  roar. 


Happy  mortal !  he  who  knows 
Pleasures  which  a  Pipe  bestows ; 
Curling  eddies  climb  the  room. 
Wailing  round  a  mild  perfume. 

RECITATIVO. 

Let  foreign  climes  the  wine  and  orange  boast. 
While  wastes  of  war  deform  the  teeming  co>w»t; 
Britannia,  distant  from  each  hostile  sound. 
Enjoys  a  Pipe,  with  ease  and  freedom  crown'd : 
E'en  restless  faction  finds  itself  most  iiree, 
Or  if  a  slave,  a  slave  to  liberty. 

not  that  he  was  chargeable  with  any  other  irregularities. 
Ue  had  those  among  his  intimates,  who  would  not  have 
been  such  had  he  been  otherwise  viciously  inclined; — the 
Buncombes,  in  particular,  father  and  son,  who  were  of  un- 
blemished morals, — Cowper,  Letter  Vi  Roie,  20  May,  1789.] 
[t  Mr.  Huwkins  Browne,  the  author  of  these,  had  no 
good  oriirinal  manner  of  his  own,  yet  we  nee  how  well  he 
succeeds  when  he  turns  an  imitator;  for  the  followinj 
are  rather  imitations,  than  ridiculouH  parodies.- -GoLa 

BIOTH.l 


ISAAC  HAWKINS  BROWNE. 


489 


Smiling  years  that  gaily  run 
Round  the  zodiac  with  the  sun 
Tell  if  ever  you  have  seen 
Realms  so  quiet  and  serene. 
British  sons  no  longer  now 
Hurl  the  bar  or  twang  the  bow, 
Nor  of  crimson  combat  think, 
But  securely  smoke  and  drink. 

CHORCS. 

Smiling  years,  that  gaily  run 
Round  the  zodiac  with  the  sun, 
Tell  if  ever  you  have  seen 
Realms  so  quiet  and  serene. 


IMITATION  II.— AMB.  PHILIPS. 
Tenues  fugit  ceu  fumus  in  auras. — ViKa. 
Little  tube  of  mighty  power, 
Charmer  of  an  idle  hour, 
Object  of  my  warm  desire. 
Lip  of  wax  and  eye  of  fire ; 
And  thy  sno^y  taper  waist, 
With  my  finger  gently  braced ; 
And  thy  pretty  swelling  crest, 
With  my  little  stopper  prest, 
And  the  sweetest  bliss  of  blisses. 
Breathing  from  thy  balmy  kisses. 
Happy  thrice,  and  thrice  agen. 
Happiest  he  of  happy  men ; 
Who  when  again  the  night  returns, 
When  again  the  taper  burns, 
When  again  the  cricket's  gay, 
(Little  cricket  full  of  play,) 
Can  afford  his  tube  to  feed 
With  the  fragrant  Indian  weed : 
Pleasure  for  a  nose  divine, 
Incense  of  the  god  of  wine. 
Happy  thrice,  and  thrice  again, 
Happiest  be  of  happy  men. 


IMITATION  HI.*— JAMES  THOMSON. 

Prorumpjt  ad  asthera  nuiem 

Turbine,  fumantem  piceo.  Vma. 

0  THOU,  matured  by  glad  Hesperian  suns, 
Tobacco,  fountain  pure  of  limpid  truth, 
That  looks  the  very  soul  /  whence  pouring  thought 
Suarms  all  the  mind ;  absorpt  is  yellow  care, 

[*  "  Browne,"  said  I'ope  to  Spence,"  is  an  excellent  copy- 
\£t,  and  thohe  who  tiike  it  ill  of  him  arc  very  much  in  the 
wrong."  Tills  appeurs  to  liave  been  said  with  an  eye  to 
Thom-'on,  who,  coon  after  the  "  Pipe"  nppeiiri'd,  published 
in  the  papers  of  the  day  what  Armstrong  has  called  ''a 
warm  (x)py  of  verses"'  by  way  of  reply  !  ihese  we  have 
the  gfxxl  lufk  to  recover:  they  are  altogether  unnoticed 
and  unknown,  and  as  such,  not  from  their  merit,  may  find 
a  place  here. 

THE  SMOKER  SMOEED.f 

Still  from  thy  pipe,  as  from  dull  Topliet,  say, 
Asccuds  the  smoke,  for  ever  and  for  aye? 
Ko  end  of  nasty  impoetic  breiith? 
Foh !  dost  thou  mean  to  stink  the  town  to  death? 
W  lit  thou  confound  the  poets,  in  thine  ire, 
Thou  m:in  of  mighty  smuku  but  little  fire! 
Apollo  bids  thee  from  I'arua'-sus  lly, 
\^  here  not  one  cloud  e'er  stain'd  his  purest  sky 
Uen<  e !  and  o'er  fat  BdOtia  roll  thy  streams ; 
Nor  spit  and  spawl  about  the  Muses'  streams. 
These  niiiid-s  celestial,  like  our  earthly  fair, 
Could  never  yet  a  filthy  sm  ker  bear. 
6.i 


^nd  at  each  puff  imagination  burns : 

Flash  on  thy  bard,  and  with  exalting  fires 

Touch  the  mysterious  lip  that  chaunts  thy  praise 

In  strains  to  mortal  sons  of  earth  unknown. 

Behold  an  engine,  wrought  from  tawny  mines 

Of  ductile  clay,  with  plastic  virtue  form'd, 

And  glazed  magnific  o'er,  I  grasp,  I  fill. 

From  Psetotheke  with  pungent  powers  perfumeJ, 

Itself  one  tortoise  all,  where  sldnes  imbibed 

Each  parent  ray ;  then  rudely  ramm'd  illume, 

With  the  red  touch  of  zeal-enkindiing  sheet. 

Marked  with  Gibsonian  lore;  forth  issue  clouds. 

Thought-thrilling,  thirst-inciting  clouds  around. 

And  many-mining  fires ;  I  all  the  while, 

Lolling  at  ease,  inhale  the  breezy  balm. 

But  chief,  when  Bacchus  wont  with  thee  to  jam. 

In  genial  strife  and  orthodoxal  ale. 

Stream  life  and  joy  into  the  Muse's  bowl. 

Oh  be  thou  still  my  great  inspirer,  thou 

My  Muse ;  oh  fan  me  with  thy  zephyrs  boon, 

While  I,  in  clouded  tabernacle  shrined. 

Burst  forth  all  oracle  and  mystic  song 


IMITATION  IV.— DR.  YOUNG. 

Bullatis  mihi  nngis 

Pagina  turgescat — dare  pondos  idonea  fumo. — PXBS. 

Critics  avaunt !  Tobacco  is  my  theme ; 
Tremble  like  hornets  at  the  blasting  steam. 
And  you,  court-insects,  flutter  not  too  near 
Its  light,  nor  buzz  within  the  scorching  sphere. 
Pollio,  with  flame  like  thine  my  verse  inspire. 
So  shall  the  Muse  from  smoke  elicit  fire. 
Coxcombs  prefer  the  tickling  sting  of  snuiT; 

Yet  all  their  claim  to  wisdom  is a  puff: 

Lord  Foplin  smokes  not — for  his  teeth  afraid 
Sir  Tawdry  smokes  not — for  he  wears  brocade. 
Ladies,  when  pipes  are  brought,  afiect  to  swoon ; 
They  love  no  smoke,  except  the  smoke  of  town ; 
But  courtiers  hate  the  puffing  tribe, — no  matter. 
Strange  if  they  love  the  breath  that  cannot  flatter! 
Its  foes  but  show  their  ignorance ;  can  he 
Who  scorns  the  leaf  of  knowledge,  love  the  tree  1 
The  tainted  Templar  (more  prodigious  yet) 

Rails  at  Tobacco,  though  it  makes  him spit. 

Citronia  vows  it  has  an  odious  stink ; 

She  will  not  smoke  (ye  gods !) — but  she  will  drink : 

Were  to  the  dusky  tribe  I'arnassus  free, 

What  clamb'i1n){  up,  what  crowding  should  we  gee? 

Against  the  tuneful  gi>d  what  mort<il  sin? 

Good  lord !  what  parsons  would  come  bustling  in? 

What  f'>g.ry  politicians,  templars,  cits! 

What-colTee-house.  what  ale-house  muddy  wits  ? 

Take  this  plain  Ift^son.  imitating  Zany ! 
First  l<!arn  to  write,  l>e.f  ire  you  write  like  any. 
Be  cautious,  mortal!  whom  you  imitate. 
And  wise,  remember  vain  t'alnioncus'  fat«; 
Through  Grecian  cities  he,  throujih  Klis,  drove; 
And.  tlashin^  torches,  dcem'd  himself  a  Jove: 
Madman !  to  think  for  thunder  thus  to  pass 
His  ch'iriot  rattliu;;  o'er  a  bridije  of  bras.s. 
Wrathful  at  this  'rom  deep  surroundlnR  gloom, 
Th'  almighty  fithor  seized  the  forky  doom; 
(No  firebrand  that  emitting  smoky  liifht. 
But  with  impatient  venjieauce  fiercely  bright;) 
He  seised,  and  hurl'd  it  on  the  thundering  elf. 
Who  straight  vile  ashes  fell,  his  thunders  and  hhoueU!) 


tt  Gent's  Mag.  fbr  1736»  p.  742.] 


490 


JOHN  BYROM. 


And  chaste  Prudella  (blame  her  if  you  can) 
Says,  pipes  are  used  by  that  vile  creature  Man : 
Sfet  crowds  remain,  who  still  its  worth  proclaim, 
While  some  for  pleasure  smoke,  and  some  for 

fame: 
Fame,  of  our  actions  universal  spring. 
For  which  we  drink,  eat,  sleep,  smoke — every- 
thing. 


IMITATION  v.— MR  POPE. 

Soils  ad  ortus 

Taneseit  fumus.  LccAjr. 

Blest  leaf!  whose  aromatic  gales  dispense 
To  Templars  modesty,  to  parsons  sense ; 
So  raptured  priests,  at  famed  Dodona's  shrine, 
Drank  inspiration  from  the  steam  divine. 
Poison  that  cures,  a  vapour  that  affords 
Content,  more  solid  than  the  smile  of  lords: 
Rest  to  the  weary,  to  the  hungry  food, 
The  last  kind  refuge  of  the  wise  and  good. 
Inspired  by  thee,  dull  cits  adjust  the  scale 
Of  Europe's  peace,  when  other  statesmen  faU. 
By  thee  protected,  and  thy  sister  beer. 
Poets  rejoice,  nor  think  the  bailiff  near. 
Nor  less  the  critic  own  thy  genial  aid, 
While  supperless  he  plies  the  piddling  trade. 
What  though  to  love  and  soft  delights  a  foe, 
By  ladies  hated,  hated  by  the  beau, 
Yet  social  freedom,  long  to  courts  unknown. 
Fair  health,  fair  truth,  and  virtue  are  thy  own. 
Come  to  thy  poet,  come  with  healing  wings, 
And  let  me  taste  thee  unexcised  by  kings. 


IMITATION  VI.— DEAN  SWIFT. 
Ex  fumo  dare  lucem. — HoR. 

Boy  !  bring  an  ounce  of  Freeman's  best. 

And  bid  the  vicar  be  my  guest: 

Let  all  be  placed  in  manner  due, 

A  pot  wherein  to  spit  or  spew, 

And  London  Journal,  and  Free-Briton 

Of  use  to  light  a  pipe  or       *  * 


This  village,  unmolested  yet 
By  troopers,  shall  be  my  retreat : 
Who  cannot  flatter,  bribe,  betray  ; 
Who  cannot  write  or  vote  for  *  *  * 
Far  from  the  vermin  of  the  town. 
Here  let  me  rather  live  my  own. 
Doze  o'er  a  pipe,  whose  vapour  blatid 
In  sweet  oblivion  lulls  the  land ; 
Of  all  which  at  Vienna  passes, 
As  ignorant  as  *  *  Brass  is : 
And  scorning  rascals  to  caress. 
Extol  the  days  of  good  Queen  Bess, 
When  first  Tobacco  blest  our  isle. 
Then  think  of  other  queens — and  smile. 

Come,  jovial  pipe,  and  bring  along 
Midnight  revelry  and  song ; 
The  merry  catch,  the  madrigal. 
That  echoes  sweet  in  City  Hall ; 
The  parson's  pun,  the  smutty  tale 
Of  country  justice  o'er  his  ale. 
I  ask  not  what  the  French  are  doing. 
Or  Spain,  to  compass  Britain's  ruin : 
Britons,  if  undone,  can  go 
Where  Tobacco  loves  to  grow. 


JOHN  BYROM. 


[Born,  1S9I.     Died,  1763.] 


John  Byeom  was  the  son  of  a  linen-draper  at 
Manchester.  He  was  born  at  Kersal.  and  was 
educated  at  Merchant  Tailors'  School,  and  at 
Cambridge.  Dr.  Bentley,the  father  of  the  Phoebe 
of  his  pastoral  poem,  procured  him  a  fellowship 
at  the  University,  which  he  was  obliged,  however, 


to  vacate,  as  he  declined  to  go  into  the  church. 
He  afterwards  supported  himself  by  teaching 
short-hand  writing  in  London,  till  by  the  death 
of  an  elder  brother,  he  inherited  the  family 
estate,  and  spent  the  close  of  his  life  in  ea«y 
circumstances.* 


A  PASTORAL. 
My  time,  0  ye  Muses,  was  happily  spent. 
When  Phoebe  went  with  me  wherever  I  went; 
Ten  thousand  sweet  pleasures  I  felt  in  my  breast : 
Sure  never  fond  shepherd  like  Colin  was  blest ! 
But  now  she  is  gone,  and  has  left  me  behind. 
What  a  marvellous  change  on  a  sudden  I  find  ! 
When  things  were  as  fine  as  could  possibly  be, 
I  thought  'twas  the  Spring ;  but  alas !  it  was  she. 

With  such  a  companion  to  tend  a  few  sheep, 
To  rise  up  and  play,  or  to  lie  down  and  sleep ; 
I  was  so  good-humour'd,  so  cheerful  and  gay, 
My  heart  was  as  light  as  a  feather  all  day, 


But  now  I  so  cross  and  so  peevish  am  grown, 

So  strangely  uneasy,  as  never  was  known. 

My  fair  one  is  gone,  and  my  joys  are  all  drown'd. 

And  my  heart 1  am  sure  it  weighs  more  thau 

a  pound. 

The  fountain,  that  wont  to  run  sweetly  along, 
And  dance  to  soft  murmurs  the  pebbles  among ; 
Thou  know'st,  little  Cupid,  if  Phoebe  was  there, 
'Twas  pleasure  to  look  at,  'twas  music  to  hear: 

[*  The  poems  of  this  ingenious  and  singular  good  man 
are  properly  included  in  Chalmers's  General  Collection; 
property,  because  they  have  the  great  and  rare  merit  of 
originaUty. — Souihet.   Oowper,  vol.  vii.  p.  304.] 


WILLIAM  SHENSTONE. 


491 


But  now  she  is  absent,  I  walk  by  its  side, 
And  stillf  as  it  murmurs,  do  nothing  but  chide ; 
Must  you  be  so  cheerful,  while  I  go  in  pain  1 
Peace  there  with  your  bubbhng,  and  hear  me 
complain. 

\fy  lambkins  around  me  would  oftentimes  play, 
And  Phoebe  and  I  were  as  joyful  as  they  ; 
How  pleasant  their  sporting,  how  happy  their  time, 
When  Spring,  Love,  and  Beauty,  were  all  in  their 

prime ; 
But  now,  in  their  frolics  when  by  me  they  pass, 
I  fling  at  their  fleeces  an  handful  of  grass ; 
Be  still  then,  I  cry,  for  it  makes  me  quite  mad, 
To  see  you  so  merry  while  I  am  so  sad. 

My  dog  I  was  ever  well  pleased  to  see 
Come  wagging  his  tail  to  my  fair  one  and  me ; 
And  Phoebe  was  pleased  too,  and  to  my  dog  said, 
"  Come  hither,  poor  fellow;"  and  patted  his  head. 
But  now,  when  he's  fawning,  I  with  a  sour  look 
Cry  "  Sirrah ;"  and  give  him   a  blow  with  my 

crook : 
And  I'll  give  him  another;  for  why  should  not 

Tray 
Be  as  dull  as  his  master,  when  Phoebe's  away  ? 

When  walking  with  Phoebe,  what  sights  have  I 

seen. 
How  fair  was  the  flower,  how  fresh  was  the  green ! 
What  a  lovely  appearance  the  trees  and  the  shade, 
The  corn  fields  and  hedges,  and  ev'ry  thing  made ! 
But  now  she  has  left  me,  though  all  are  still  there, 
They  none  of  them  now  so  delightful  appear : 
'Twas  nought  but  the  magic,  I  find,  of  her  eyes, 
Made  so  many  beautiful  prospects  arise. 

Sweet  music  went  with  us  both  all  the  wood 

through. 
The  lark,  linnet,  throstle,  and  nightingale  too : 


Winds  over  us  whisper'd,  flocks  by  us  did  bleat. 
And  chirp  went  the  grasshopper  under  our  feet. 
But  now  she  is  absent,  though  still  tbfly  sing  on, 
The  woods  are  but  lonely,  the  melody's  gone  : 
Her  voice  in  the  concert,  as  now  I  have  found, 
Gave  ev'ry  thing  else  its  agreeable  sound. 

Rose,  what  is  become  of  thy  delicate  hue  ? 
And  where  is  the  violet's  bieautiful  blue  ? 
Does  ought  of  its  sweetness  the  blossom  beguile  1 
That   meadow,  those  daisies,  why  do  they  not 

smile  ? 
Ah  !  rivals,  I  see  what  it  was  that  you  drest. 
And  made  yourselves  fine  for — a  place  in  her 

breast : 
You  put  on  your  colours  to  pleasure  her  eye. 
To  be  pluck'd  by  her  hand,  on  her  bosom  to  die. 

How  slowly  Time    creeps   till    my  Phoebe    re- 
turn! 
While  amidst  the  soft  zephyr's  cool  breezes  I  bum : 
Methinks,  if  I  knew  whereabouts  he  would  tread, 
I  could  breathe  on  his  wings,  and  'twould  melt 

down  the  lead. 
Fly  swifter,  ye  minutes,  bring  hither  my  dear. 
And  rest  so  much  longer  for  't  when  she  is  here. 
Ah  Colin !  old  Time  is  full  of  delay. 
Nor  will  budge  one  foot  faster  for  all  thou  canst 
say. 

Will  no  pitying  pow'r,  that  hears  m«  complain. 
Or  cure  my  disquiet  or  soften  my  pain  ? 
To  be  cured,  thou  must,  Colin,  thy  passion  re- 
move; 
But  what  swain  is  so  silly  to  live  without  love  ^ 
No,  deity,  bid  the  dear  nymph  to  return. 
For  ne'er  was  poor  shepherd  so  sadly  forlorn. 
Ah  !  what  shall  I  do  1  I  shall  die  with  despair ; 
Take  heed,  all  ye  swains,  how  ye  part  with  your 
fair.* 


WILLIAM  SHENSTONE. 


[Born,  1714.    Died,  1763.] 


William  Shbnstone  was  born  at  the  Leasowes, 
in  Hales  Owen.  He  was  bred  at  Pembroke  Col- 
lege, Oxford,  where  he  applied  himself  to  poetry, 
and  published  a  small  miscellany  in  1737,  with- 
out his  name.  He  had  entertained  thoughts,  at 
one  period,  of  studying  medicine ;  but  on  coming 
of  age  he  retired  to  a  property  at  Harborough, 
left  him  by  his  mother,  where,  in  an  old  romantic 
habitation,  haunted  by  rooks,  and  shaded  by  oaks 
and  elms,  he  gave  himself  up  to  indolence  and 
the  Muses.  He  came  to  London  for  the  first 
time  in  1740,  and  published  his  "Judgment  of 
Hercules."  A  year  after  appeared  his  "  Si-hool- 
mistress."  For  several  years  he  led  a  wander- 
ing life  of  amusement,  and  was  occasionally  at 
Bath,  London,  and  Cheltenham ;  at  the  last  of 
which  places  he  met  with  the  Phyllis  of  his  pas- 
toral ballad.     The  fir^t  sketch  of  that  ballad  had 


been  written  under  a  former  attachment  to  a  lady 
of  the  name  of  Graves ;  but  it  was  resumed  and 
finished  in  compliment  to  his  new  flame.  Dr. 
Johnson  informs  us  that  he  might  have  obtained 
Phyllis,  whoever  the  lady  was,  if  he  had  chosen 
to  ask  her. 

In  the  year  1745  the  death  of  his  indulgent 
uncle,  Mr.  Dolman,  who  had  hitherto  managed 
his  affairs,  threw  the  care  of  them  upon  himself 
and  he  fixed  his  residence  at  the  Leasowes,  which 
he  brought,  by  improvements,  to  its  far-fumed 
beauty.  In  these  improvements  his  aflectionate 
apologist,  Mr.  Greaves,  acknowledges  that  he 
spent  the  whole  of  his  income,  but  denies  the 
alleged  poverty  of  his  latter  days,  as  well  as  the 
rumour   that  his  landscapes  were   haunted   by 

[•  This  Goldsmith  Justly  prefened  to  any  of  Siienstonv't 
pastorals.] 


492 


WILLIAM  SHENSTONE. 


dutih  and  bailiffs.  He  states,  on  the  contrary, 
that  he  left  considerable  legacies  to  his  servants. 
The  Frenchman  who  dedicated  a  stone  in  his 
garden  to  the  memory  of  Shenstone,*  was  not 
wholly  wrong  in  ascribing  to  him  a  ^' taste  natu- 
ral," for  there  is  a  freshness  and  distinctness  in 
his  rural  images,  like  those  of  a  man  who  had 
enjoyed  the  country  with  his  own  senses,  and 
very  unlike  the  descriptions  of 

"  A  pastoral  poet  from  Leadenliall  street," 
who  may  have  never  heard  a  lamb  bleat  but  on 
its  way  to  the  slaughter-house.  At  the  same 
time  there  is  a  certain  air  of  masquerade  in  his 
pastoral  character  as  applied  to  the  man  himself; 
and  he  is  most  natural  in  those  pieces  where  he 
is  least  Arcadian.  It  may  seem  invidious,  per- 
haps, to  object  to  Shenstone  making  his  appear- 
ance in  poetry  with  his  pipe  and  his  crook,  while 
custom  has  so  much  inured  us  to  the  idea  of 
Spenser  feigning  himself  to  be  Colin  Clout,  and 
to  his  styling  Sir  Walter  Raleigh  the  "  Shepherd 
of  the  Ocean" — an  expression,  by  the  way,  which 
is  not  remarkably  intelligible,  and  which,  perhaps, 
might  not  unfairly  be  placed  under  Miss  Edge- 
worth's  description  of  English  bulls.  Gabriel 
Harvey  used  also  to  designate  himself  Hobbinol 
in  his  poetry;  and  Browne,  Lodge,  Drayton, 
Milton,  and  many  others,  describe  themselves  as 
surrounded  by  their  flocks,  though  none  of  them 
probably  ever  possessed  a  live  sheep  in  the  course 
of  their  lives.  But  with  respect  to  the  poets  of 
Elizabeth's  reign,  their  distance  from  us  appears 
to  soften  the  romantic  license  of  the  fiction,  and 
we  regard  them  as  beings  in  some  degree  cha- 
racterized by  their  vicinity  to  the  ages  of  romance. 
Milton,  though  coming  later,  invests  his  pastoral 
disguise  (in  Lycidas)  with  such  enchanting  pic- 
luresquesness  as  wholly  to  divert  our  attention 
from  the  unreal  shepherd  to  the  real  poet.  But 
from  the  end  of  the  seventeenth  century  pastoral 
poetry  became  gradually  more  and  more  unpro- 
fitable in  South  Britain,  and  the  figure  of  the 
genuine  shepherd  swain  began  to  be  chiefly  con- 
fined to  pictures  on  china,  and  to  opera  ballets. 
Shenstone  was  one  of  the  last  of  our  respectable 
poets  who  aiiiected  this  Arcadianism,  but  he  was 


too  modern  to  sustain  it  in  perfect  keeping.  His 
entire  poetry,  therefore,  presents  us  with,  a  double 
image  of  his  character ;  one  impression  which  it 
leaves  is  that  of  an  agreeable,  indolent  gentle- 
man, of  cultivated  taste  and  refined  sentiments; 
the  other  that  of  Corydon,  a  purely  amatory  and 
ideal  swain.  It  would  have  been  so  far  well,  if 
those  characters  had  been  kept  distinct,  like  two 
impressions  on  the  opposite  sides  of  a  medal. 
But  he  has  another  pastoral  name,  that  of  Damon, 
in  which  the  swain  and  the  gentleman  are  rather 
incongruously  blended  together.  Damon  has 
also  his  festive  garlands  and  dances  at  wakes  and 
may -poles,  but  he  is  moreover  a  disciple  of  vertu . 

"  his  bosom  bums 
With  statues^  paintings,  coins,  and  urus." 

'<  He  sighs  to  call  one  Titian  stroke  his  own;" 
expends  his  fortune  on  building  domes  and  obe- 
lisks, is  occasionally  delighted  to  share  his  vintage 
with  an  old  college  acquaintance,  and  dreams  of 
inviting  Delia  to  a  mansion  with  Venitian  win- 
dows. 

Apart  from  those  ambiguities,  Shenstone  is  a 
pleasing  writer,  both  in  his  lighter  and  graver 
vein.  His  genius  is  not  forcible,  but  it  settles  in 
mediocrity  without  meanness.  His  pieces  of 
levity  correspond  not  disagreeably  with  their  title. 
His  "  Ode  to  Memory"  is  worthy  of  protection 
from  the  power  which  it  invokes.  Some  of  the 
stanzas  of  his  «  Ode  to  Rural  Elegance"  seem  to 
recall  to  us  the  country-loving  spirit  of  Cowley, 
subdued  in  wit,  but  harmonized  in  expression. 
From  the  commencement  of  the  stanza  in  that 
ode,  "  0  sweet  disposer  of  the  rural  hour,"  he 
sustains  an  agreeable  and  peculiarly  refined  strain 
of  poetical  feeling.  The  ballad  of  "Jemmy 
Dawson,"  and  the  elegy  on  "  Jessy,"  are  written 
with  genuine  feeling.  With  all  the  beauties  of 
the  Leasowes  in  our  minds,  it  may  be  still  re- 
gretted, that  instead  of  devoting  his  whole  soul 
to  clumping  beeches,  and  projecting  mottos  for 
summer-houses,  he  had  not  gone  more  into  living 
nature  for  subjects,  and  described  her  interesting 
realities  with  the  same  fond  and  naive  touches 
which  give  so  much  delightfulness  to  his  portrait 
of  the  »  School-mistress." 


THB  SCHOOL-MISTRESS.t 

IN  IMITATION  OP  SPENSEB. 

Ah  me !  full  sorely  is  my  heart  forlorn. 
To  think  how  modest  worth  neglected  lies : 
While  partial  fame  doth  with  her  blasts  adorn 
Such  deeds  alone  as  pride  and  pomp  disguise ; 

*  Mons.  Girardln  at  his  eftate  of  Ermenonville,  formed 
g  pivrdon  in  some  dei^rce  on  the  i'lnglish  model,  with  in- 
scriptions after  the  manner  of  Shenstone,  one  of  wliich, 
dedicated  to  Shenstone  himself,  ran  thus: 

This  plain  stone 

To  William  Shenstone. 

In  his  writings  he  display'd 

A  mind  natural ; 

At  Leasowes  he  laid 

Arcadian  greens  ruraL 


Deeds  of  ill  sort,  and  mischievous  emprize  : 
Lend  me  thy  clarion,  goddess !  let  me  try 
To  sound  the  praise  of  merit  ere  it  dies ; 
Such  as  I  oft  have  chaunced  to  espy; 
Lost  in  the  dreary  shades  of  dull  obscurity. 
In  every  village  mark'd  with  little  spire, 
Embower'd  in  trees,  and  hardly  known  to  fame, 

[t  This  poem  is  one  of  those  happinesses  in  which  a  poet 
exoels  himself,  as  there  is  nothing  in  all  Shenstone  wiiich 
any  way  approaches  it  in  merit;  and  though  I  dislike  the 
imitations  of  our  Englis-h  poets  in  general,  yet.  on  this 
minute  subject,  the  antiquity  of  the  style  produces  a  very 
ludicrous  absurdity. — Goldsmith. 

The  Schoolmistress  is  excellent  of  its  kind  and  masterly 
— Gkay  to  Waljaole.'] 


WILLIAM  SHENSTONE. 


403 


There  dwells,  in  lowly  shed,  and  mean  attire, 
A  matron  old,  whom  we  school-mistress  name ; 
Who  boasts  unruly  brats  with  birch  to  tame ; 
They  en'ieven  sore,  in  piteous  durance  pent, 
Awed  by  the  pow'r  of  this  relentless  dame  : 
And  oft-times,  on  vagaries  idly  bent, 
F'or  unkempt  hair,  or  task  unconn'd,  are  sorely 
shent. 

And  all  in  sight  doth  rise  a  birchen  tree. 
Which  learning  near  her  little  dome  did  stowe; 
Whilom  a  twig  of  small  regard  to  see. 
Though  now  so  wide  its  waving  branches  flow; 
And  work  the  simple  vassals  mickle  woe; 
For  not  a  wind  might  curl  the  leaves  that  blew. 
But  their  limbs  shuJder'd,  and  their  pulse  beat 

low ; 
And  as  they  look'd  they  found  their  horror  grew, 
And  shaped  it  into  rods,  and  tingled  at  the  view. 

So  have  I  seen  (who  has  not,  may  conceive,) 
A  lifeless  phantom  near  a  garden  placed ; 
So  doth  it  wanton  birds  of  peace  bereave. 
Of  sport,  of  song,  of  pleasure,  of  repast; 
They  start,  they  stare,  they  wheel,  they  look 

aghast; 
Sad  servitude  !  such  comfortless  annoy 
May  no  bold  Briton's  riper  age  e'er  taste  ! 
Ne  superstition  clog  his  dance  of  joy, 
Ne  vision  empty,  vain,  his  native  bliss  destroy. 

Near  to  this  dome  is  found  a  patch  so  green, 
On  which  the  tribe  their  gambols  do  display ; 
And  at  the  door  imprisoning  board  is  seen. 
Lest   weakly    wights   of    smaller    size    should 

stray ; 
Eager,  perdie,  to  bask  in  sunny  day ! 
The  noises  intermix'd,  which  thence  resound, 
Do  learning's  little  tenement  betray; 
Where  sits  the  dame,  disguised  in  look  profound, 
And  eyes  her  fairy  throng,  and  turns  her  wheel 
around. 

Her  cap,  far  whiter  than  the  driven  snow. 
Emblem  right  meet  of  decency  does  yield: 
Her  apron  dyed  in  grain,  as  blue,  I  trowe, 
As  is  the  hare-bell  that  adorns  the  field : 
And  in  her  hand,  for  sceptre,  she  does  wield 
Tway  birchen  sprays;    with  anxious  fear  en- 
twined. 
With  dark  distrust,  and  sad  repentance  fill'd ; 
And  steadfast  hate,  and  sharp  affliction  join'd. 
And  fury  uncontroH'd,  and  chastisement  unkind. 

Few  but  have  ken'd,  in  semblance  meet  pour- 

tray'd, 
The  childish  faces  of  old  Eol's  train ; 
Libs,  Notus,  Auster:  these  in  frowns  array'd. 
How  then  would  fare  or  earth,  or  sky,  or  main. 
Were  the  stern  god  to  give  his  slaves  the  reini 
And  were  not  she  rebellious  breasts  to  quell, 
And  were  not  she  her  statutes  to  maintain. 
The  cot  no  more,  I  ween,  were  deem'd  the  cell. 
Where  comely  peace  of  mind,  and  decent  order 

dwell. 


A  russet  stole  was  o'er  her  shoulders  thrown  • 
A  russet  kirtle  fenced  the  nipping  air; 
'Twas  simple  russet,  but  it  was  her  own; 
'Twas  her  own  country  bred  the  flock  so  fair ! 
'Twas  her  own  labour  did  the  fleece  prepare ; 
And,  sooth  to  say,  her  pupils,  ranged  around. 
Through  pious  awe,  did  term  it  passing  rare; 
For  they  in  gaping  wonderment  abound. 
And  think,  ne  doubt,  she  been  the  greatest  wight 
on  ground. 

Albeit  ne  flattery  did  corrupt  her  truth, 
Ne  pompous  title  did  debauch  her  ear ; 
Goody,  good-woman,  gossip,  n'aunt,  forsooth, 
Or  dame,  the  sole  additions  she  did  hear; 
Yet  these  she  challenged,  these  she  held  right 

dear: 
Ne  would  esteem  him  act  as  mought  behove. 
Who  should  not  honour'd  eld  with  these  revere: 
For  never  title  yet  so  mean  could  prove. 
But  there  was  eke  a  mind  which  did  that  title 

love. 

One  ancient  hen  she  took  delight  to  feeu. 
The  plodding  pattern  of  the  busy  dame  ; 
Which,  ever  and  anon,  impell'd  by  need. 
Into  her  school,  begirt  with  chickens,  came ; 
Such  favour  did  her  past  deportment  claim ; 
And,  if  neglect  had  lavish'd  on  the  ground 
Fragment  of  bread,  she  would  collect  the  same; 
For  well  she  knew,  and  quaintly  could  expound. 
What  sin  it  were  to  waste  the  smallest  crumb 
she  found. 

Herbs  too  she  knew,  and  well  of  each   could 

speak. 
That  in  her  garden  sipp'd  the  silvery  dew; 
Where  no  vain  flower  disclosed  a  gaudy  streak ; 
But  herbs  for  use,  and  physic,  not  a  few 
Of  gray  renown,  within  those  borders  grew: 
The  tufted  basil,  pun-provoking  thyme. 
Fresh  baum,  and  marygold  of  cheerful  hue : 
The  lowly  gill,  that  never  dares  to  climb; 
And  more  I  fain  would  sing,  disdaining  here  to 
rhyme. 

Yet  euphrasy  may  not  be  left  unsung. 
That  gives  dim  eyes  to  wander  leagues  around  ; 
And  pungent  radish,  biting  infant's  tongue; 
And    plantain    ribb'd,  that   heals   the   reaper'* 

wound; 
And  maij'ram  sweet,  in  shepherd's  posie  found ; 
And  lavender,  whose  spikes  of  azure  bloom 
Shall  be,  erewhile,  in  arid  bundles  hound. 
To  lurk  amidst  the  labours  of  her  loom. 
And  crown  her  kerchiefs  clean,  with  mickle  rare 
perfume. 

And  her  trim  rosemarine,  that  whilom  crown'd 
The  daintiest  garden  of  the  proudest  peer ; 
Ere,  driven  from  its  envied  site,  it  found 
A  sacred  shelter  for  its  branches  here ; 
Where,  edged  with  gold,  its  glittering   skirt* 

appear. 
Oh  wassel  days !  0  customs  meet  and  well ! 
2K 


494 


WILLIAM  SHENSTONE. 


Ere  this  was  banish'd  from  its  lofty  sphere 
feimplicity  then  sought  this  humble  cell, 
Nor  ever  would  she  more  with  thane  and  lord- 
ling  dwell. 

Here  oft  the  dame,  on  Sabbath's  decent  eve, 
Hymned  such  psalms  as  Sternhold  forth  did 

mete ; 
If  winter  'twere,  she  to  her  hearth  did  cleave, 
But  in  her  garden  found  a  summer-seat: 
Sweet  melody!  to  hear  her  then  repeat 
How  Israel's  sons,  beneath  a  foreign  king, 
While  taunting  foe-men  did  a  song  entreat, 
All,  for  the  nonoe,  untuning  every  string, 
Uphung  their  useless  lyres — small  heart  had  they 
to  sing. 

For  she  was  just,  and  friend  to  virtuous  lore. 
And  pass'd  much  time  in  truly  virtuous  deed; 
And,  in  those  elfins'  ears  would  oft  deplore 
The   times,  when    truth   by    popish   rage    did 

bleed ; 
And  tortuous  death  was  true  devotion's  meed ; 
And  simple  faith  in  iron  chains  did  mourn, 
That  nould  on  wooden  image  place  her  creed  ; 
And   lawny  saints  in   smouldering  flames  did 

burn  : 
Ah !  dearest  Lord,  forfend  thilk  days  should  e'er 

return. 

In  elbow-chair,  like  that  of  Scottish  stem. 
By  the  sharp  tooth  of  cankering  eld  defaced. 
In  which,  when  he  receives  his  diadem. 
Our  sovereign  prince  and  liefest  liege  is  placed. 
The  matron  sate;  and  some  with  rank  she  graced, 
(The  source    of    children's    and    of  courtiers' 

pride!) 
Redress'd  affronts,  for  vile  affronts  there  pass'd ; 
And  warn  d  them  not  the  fretful  to  deride, 
But  love  each  other  dear,  whatever  them  betide. 

Right  well  she  knew  each  temper  to  descry ; 
To  thwart  the  proud,  and  the  submiss  to  raise; 
Some  with  vile  copper-prize  exalt  on  high, 
And  some  entice  with  pittance  small  of  praise ; 
And  other  some  with  baleful  sprig  she  'frays: 
Ev'n  absent,  she  the  reins  of  power  doth  hold. 
While  with  quaint  arts   the  giddy   crowd  she 

sways ; 
Forewarn  d,  if  little  bird  their  pranks  behold. 
Twill  whisper  in  her  ear,  and  all  the  scene  unfold. 

Lo  now  with  state  she  utters  the  command ! 
Eftsoons  the  urchins  to  their  tasks  repair ; 
Their  books  of  stature  small  they  take  in  hand, 
Which  with  pellucid  horn  secured  are  ; 
To  save  from  finger  wet  the  letters  fair: 
The  work  so  gay,  that  on  their  back  is  seen, 
St.  George's  high  achievements  does  declare ; 
On  which  thilk  wight  that  has  y-gazing  been, 
Kens  the  torthcoming  rod,   unpleasing  sight,  I 
ween ! 

Ah  luckless  he,  and  bom  beneath  the  beam 
Of  evil  star !  it  irks  me  whilst  I  write  ' 


As  erst  the  bard  by  Mulla's  silver  stream, 
Oft,  as  he  told  of  deadly  dolorous  plight, 
Sigh'd  as  he  sung,  and  did  in  tears  indite. 
For  brandishing  the  rod.  she  doth  begin 
To  loose  the  brogues,  the  stripling's  late  delight! 
And  down  they  drop;  appears  his  dainty  skin, 
Fair  as  the  furry-coat  of  whitest  ermilin. 

O  ruthful  scene  !  when  from  a  nook  obscure. 
His  little  sister  doth  his  peril  see : 
All  playful  as  she  sate,  she  grows  demure ; 
She  finds  full  soon  her  wonted  spirits  flee; 
She  meditates  a  prayer  to  set  him  free : 
Nor  gentle  pardon  could  this  dame  deny, 
(If  gentle  pardon  could  with  dames  agree,) 
To  her  sad  grief  that  swells  in  either  eye, 
And  wrings  her  so  that  all  for  pity  she  could  die. 

No  longer  can  she  now  her  shrieks  command ; 
And  hardly  she  forbears,  through  awful  fear, 
To  rushen  forth,  and,  with  presumptuous  hand, 
To  stay  harsh  justice  in  its  mid  career. 
On  thee  she  calls,  on  thee  her  parent  dear ! 
(Ah !  too  remote  to  ward  the  shameful  blow  !) 
She  sees  no  kind  domestic  visage  near. 
And  soon  a  flood  of  tears  begins  to  flow ; 
And  gives  a  loose  at  last  to  unavailing  woe. 

But  ah  !  what  pen  his  piteous  plight  may  trace  ? 
Or  what  device  his  loud  laments  explain  1 
The  form  uncouth  of  his  disguised  face  1 
The  pallid  hue  that  dyes  his  looks  amain  1 
The  plenteous  shower  that  does  his  cheek  distaini 
When  he,  in  abject  wise,  implores  the  dame, 
Ne  hopeth  aught  of  sweet  reprieve  to  gain ; 
Or  when  from  high  she  levels  well  her  aim. 
And,  through  the  thatch,  his  cries  each  falling 
stroke  proclaim. 

The  other  tribe,  aghast,  with  sore  dismay. 
Attend,  and  conn  their  tasks  with  mickle  care : 
By  turns,  astony'd,  every  twig  survey. 
And,  from  their fellow'-s hateful  wo-nds beware; 
Knowing,  I  wist,  how  each  the  same  may  share; 
Till  fear  has  taught  them  a  performance  meet, 
And  to  the  well-known  chest  the  dame  repair; 
Whence  oft  with  sugar'd  cates  she  doth  them 

greet. 
And   gingerbread  y-rare;    now,   certes,    doubly 

sweet. 

See  to  theu:  seats  they  hye  with  merry  glee 
And  in  beseemly  order  sitten  there; 
All  but  the  wight  of  bum  y-galled,  he 
Abhorreth    bench    and   stool,    and  fourm,  and 

chair: 
(This  hand  in  mouth  y-fix'd,  that  rends  his  hair ;) 
And  eke  with  snubs  profound,  and  heaving  breast, 
Convulsions  intermitting,  does  declare 
His  grievous  wrong;  his  dame's  unjust  behest; 
And   scorns  her  ofl'er'd  love,  and  shuns  to   be 

carcss'd 

His  eyes  besprent  with  liquid  crystal  shines, 
H'    'looming  face  that  seems  a  purple  flower. 


WILLIAM  SHENSTONE. 


495 


Which  low  to  earth  its  drooping  head  declines, 
All  smear'd  and  suUy'd  by  a  vernal  shower. 
O  the  hard  bosoms  of  despotic  power!  , 

All,  all,  but  she,  the  author  of  his  shame, 
Ail,  all,  but  she, regret  this  mournful  hour: 
Yet  hence   the  youth,  and   hence  the   flower, 
shall  claim, 
If  so  I  deem  aright,  transcending  worth  and  fame. 

Behind  some  door,  in  melancholy  thought. 
Mindless  of  food,  he,  dreary  caitiff!  pines; 
Ne  for  his  fellows'  joyaunce  careth  aught. 
But  to  the  wind  all  merriment  resigns; 
And  deems  it  shame  if  he  to  peace  inclines; 
And  many  a  sullen  look  askance  is  sent, 
Which  for  his  dame's  annoyance  he  designs; 
And  still  the  more  to  pleasure  him  she's  bent, 
The   more  doth  he,  perverse,  her  'haviour  past 
resent. 

Ah  me !  how  much  I  fear  lest  pride  it  be! 
But  if  that  pride  it  be  which  thus  inspires, 
Beware,  ye  dames,  with  nice  discernment  see. 
Ye  quench  not  too  the  sparks  of  nobler  fires: 
Ah !  better  far  than  all  the  Muses'  lyres. 
All  coward  arts,  is  valour's  generous  heat; 
The  firm  fixt  breast  which  fit  and  right  requires. 
Like  Vernon's  patriot  soul:  more  justly  great 
Than  craft  that  pimps  for  ill,  or  flowery  false 
deceit : 

Yet,  nursed  with  skill,  what  dazzling  firuita  ap- 
pear! 
Even  now  sagacious  foresight  points  to  show 
A  little  bench  of  heedless  bishops  here, 
And  there  a  chancellor  in  embryo. 
Or  bard  sublime,  if  bard  may  e'er  be  so, 
As  Milton,  Shakspeare,  names  that  ne'er  shall 

die! 
Though  now  he  crawl  along  the  ground  so  low. 
Nor  weeting  how  the  Muse  should  soar  on  high, 
Wisheth,    poor   starveling   elf!  his    paper    kite 
may  fly. 

And  this  perhaps,  who,  censuring  the  design. 
Low  lays  the  house  which  that  of  cards  doth  build, 
Shall  Dennis  be  !  if  rigid  fate  incline. 
And  many  an  epic  to  his  rage  shall  yield; 
And  many  a  poet  quit  the  Aonian  field: 
And,  sour'd  by  age,  profound  he  shall  appear, 
As  he  who  now  with  'sdainful  fury  thrill'd, 
Surveys  mine  work :  and  levels  many  a  sneer. 
And  furls  his  wrinkly  front,  and   cries,  "  What 
stuff  is  here  1" 

But  now  Dan  Phoebus  gains  the  middle  skie, 
And  liberty  unbars  her  prison-door : 
And  like  a  rushing  torrent  out  they  fly, 
And  now  the  grassy  cirque  han  cover'd  o'er 
With  boisterous  revel-rout  and  wild  uproar ; 
A  thousand  ways  in  wanton  rings  they  run, 
Heaven  shield  their  short-lived  pastimes,  I  im- 
plore ! 
For  well  may  freedom  erst  so  dearly  won. 
Appear  to  British  elf  more  gladsome  than  the  sun. 


Enjoy,  poor  imps !  enjoy  your  sportive  trade. 
And  chase  gay  flies,  and  cull  the  fairest  flowers; 
For  when  my  bones  in  grass-g^een  sods  are  laid ; 
For  never  may  ye  taste  more  careless  hours 
In  knightly  castles  or  in  ladies'  bowers. 
O  vain  to  seek  delight  in  earthly  thing  ! 
But  most  in  courts  where  proud  ambition  towers; 
Deluded    wight!    who  weens   fair    peace    can 
spring 
Beneath  the  pompous  dome  of  kesar  or  of  king. 

See  in  each  sprite  some  various  bent  appear ! 
These  rudely  carol  most  incondite  lay  ; 
Those  sauntering  on  the  green,  with  jocund  leer 
Salute  the  stranger  passing  on  his  way  ; 
Some  builden  fragile  tenements  of  clay  ; 
Some  to  the  standing  lake  their  courses  bend. 
With  pebbles  smooth  at  duck-and-drake  to  play ; 
Thilk  to  the  huckster's  savory  cottage  tend. 
In  pastry  kings  and  queens  th'  allotted  mite  to 
spend. 

Here,  as  each  season  yields  a  different  store, 
Each  season's  stores  in  order  ranged  been  ; 
Apples  with  cabbage-net  y-cover'd  o'er, 
Galling  full  sore  th'  unmoney'd  wight,  are  seen  ; 
And  goose-'brie  clad  in  livery  red  or  green ; 
And  here  of  lovely  dye,  the  Catharine  pear, 
Fine  pear !  as  lovely  for  thy  juice,  I  ween : 
O  may  no  wight  e'er  pennyless  come  there. 
Lest  smit  with  ardent  love  he  pine  with  hopeless 
care! 

See  !  cherries  here,  ere  cherries  yet  abound, 
With  thread  so  white  in  tempting  posies  ty'd, 
Scattering,    like    blooming  maid,  their  glances 

round. 
With  painper'd  look  draw  little  eyes  aside ; 
And  must  be  bought,  though  penury  betide. 
The  plum  all  azure  and  the  nut  all  brown. 
And  here  each  season  do  those  cakes  abide. 
Whose  honour'd  names  th'  inventive  city  own. 
Rendering  through  Britain's  isle  Salopia's  praisek 

known. 

Admired  Salopia!  that  with  venial  pride 

Eyes  her  bright  form  in  Severn's  ambient  wave. 

Famed  for  her  loyal  cares  in  perils  try'd, 

Her  daughters  lovely,  and  her  striplings  brave : 

Ah  !    'midst  the  rest,  may  flowers    adorn  his 

grave, 
Whose  art  did  first  these  dulcet  cates  display ! 
A  motive  fair  to  learning's  imps  he  gave. 
Who  cheerless  o'er  her  darkling  region  stray  ; 
Till  reason's  morn  arise,  and  light  them  on  their 

way.* 


[•  "When  I  bought  Spenser  flrst,"  nays  Shenotone,  "  1 
read  ft  pa)te  or  two  of  '  The  Falrie  Qut-ene,'  and  can-d  not 
to  proceed.  .\f(cT  that  I'ope'n  '  Alley,'  maile  me  oonsHer 
him  ludicrously;  and  In  that  llsht,  1  thlnli  one  may  read 
him  with  pleaKure."  We  owe  the  School  mist  rciw  to  thit 
ill-ta«te  and  thin  complete  misconception  of  .«i>en»«T. 

Mr.  Disraeli  ha.«  an  entcrtainlni;  paper  on  Shcnslone.  bu« 
haw  omitted  to  mention  that  the  first  sketch  of  the  Schoo: 
mistress,  in  twelve  stanias,  is  In  Sbenstone's  flrat  pubU 
cation.] 


496 


WILLIAM   SHENSTONE. 


ELEGY, 

DESCBreWO   THB  SORROW  OF  AS  INOEJftJOCS  MINB  ON  THB 
MELANCHOLY  EVEST   OP   A   LICENTIOUS  AMOUR. 

Why  mourns  my  friend  1  why  weeps  his  down- 
cast eye  1  [shine  1 

That  eye  where  mirth,  where  fancy  used  to 
Thy  cheerful  meads  reprove  that  swelling  sigh  ; 

Spring  ne'er  enamell'd  fairer  meads  than  thine. 

Art  thou  not  lodged  in  fortune's  warm  embrace  ? 

Wert  thou  not  form'd  by  nature's  partial  carel 
Blest  in  thy  song,  and  blest  in  every  grace 

That  wins  the  friend,  or  that  enchants  thefairl 

Damon,  said  he,  thy  partial  praise  restrain ; 

Not  Damon's  friendship  can  my  peace  restore ; 
Alas  !  his  very  praise  awakes  my  pain. 

And  my  poor  wounded  bosom  bleeds  the  more. 

For  oh  that  nature  on  my  birth  had  frown'd, 
Or  fortune  fix'd  me  to  some  lowly  cell ! 

Then  had  my  bosom  'scaped  this  fatal  wound, 
Nor  had  I  bid  these  vernal  sweets  farewell. 

But  led  by  Fortune's  hand,  her  darling  child, 
My  youth  her  vain  licentious  bliss  admired; 

In  Fortune's  train  the  syren  Flattery  smiled, 
And  rashly  hallow'd  all  her  queen  inspired. 

Of  folly  studious,  even  of  vices  vain. 
Ah  vices  !  gilded  by  the  rich  and  gay  ! 

I  chased  the  guileless  daughters  of  the  plain. 
Nor  dropp'd  the  chase  till  Jessy  was  my  prey. 

Poor  artless  maid  !  to  stain  thy  spotless  name, 
Expense,  and  art,  and  toil,  united  strove; 

To  lure  a  breagt  that  felt  the  purest  flame, 
Sustain'd  by  virtue,  but  betray'd  by  love. 

School'd  in  the  science  of  love's  mazy  wiles, 
I  clothed  each  feature  with  affected  scorn ; 

I  i'poke  of  jealous  doubts,  and  fickle  smiles, 
And,  feigning,  left  her  anxious  and  forlorn. 

Then,  while  the  fancied  rage  alarm'd  her  care. 
Warm  to  deny,  and  zealous  to  disprove ; 

I  bade  my  words  the  wonted  soilness  wear, 
And  seized  the  minute  of  returning  love. 

To  thee,  my  Damon,  dare  I  paint  the  restl 
Will  yet  thy  love  a  candid  ear  incline ! 

Assured  that  virtue,  by  misfortune  prest, 

Feels  not  the  sharpness  of  a  pang  like  mine. 

Nine  envious  moons  matured  her  growing  shame: 
Erewhile  to  flaunt  it  in  the  face  of  day  ; 

When,  scorn'd  of  virtue,  stigmatized  by  fame, 
Low  at  my  feet  desponding  Jessy  lay. 

•  Henry,"  she  said,  "  by  thy  dear  form  subdued, 
See  the  sad  relics  of  a  nymph  undone  ! 

I  find,  I  find,  this  rising  sob  renew'd  : 
I  sigh  in  shades,  and  sicken  at  the  sun. 

Amid  the  dreary  gloom  of  night  I  cry,        [turn  1 
When  will  the  morn's  once  pleasing  scenes  re- 
Yet  what  can  morn's  returning  ray  supply. 
But  foes  that  triumph,  or  but  friends  that  mourn ! 


Alas  !  no  more  that  joyous  morn  appears 
That  led  the  tranquil  hours  of  spotless  fame ; 

For  I  have  steep'd  a  father's  couch  in  tears. 
And   tinged  a  mother's  glowing  cheek  with 
shame. 

The  vocal  birds  that  raise  their  matin  strain. 
The  sportive  lambs,  increase  my  pensive  moan , 

All  seem  to  chase  me  from  the  cheerful  plain, 
And  talk  of  truth  and  innocence  alone. 

If  through  the  garden's  flowery  tribes  I  stray. 
Where  bloom  the  jasmines  that  could  once  allure, 

Hope  not  to  find  delight  in  us,  they  say, 
For  we  are  spotless,  Jessy,  we  are  pure. 

Ye  flowers  that  well  reproach  a  nymph  so  frail ; 

Say,  could  ye  with  my  virgin  fame  compare  1 
The  brightest  bud  that  scents  the  vernal  gale 

Was  not  so  fragrant,  and  was  not  so  fair. 

Now  the  grave  old  alarm  the  gentler  young ; 

And  all  my  fame's  abhorr'd  contagion  flee  : 
Trembles  each  lip,  and  falters  every  tongue, 

That  bids  the  morn  propitious  smile  on  me. 

Thus  for  your  sake  I  shun  each  human  eye ; 

I  bid  the  sweets  of  blooming  youth  adieu : 
To  die  I  languish,  but  I  dread  to  die. 

Lest  my  sad  fate  should  nourish  pangs  for  you. 

Raise  me  from  earth ;  the  pains  of  want  remove, 
And  let  me  silent  seek  some  friendly  shore ; 

There  only,  banish'd  from  the  form  I  love, 
My  weeping  virtue  shall  relapse  no  more. 

Be  but  my  friend ;  I  ask  no  dearer  name ; 

Be  such  the  meed  of  some  more  artful  fair; 
Nor  could  it  heal  my  peace,  or  chase  my  shame, 

That  pity  gave  what  love  refused  to  share. 

Fore*  not  my  tongue  to  ask  its  scanty  bread ; 

Nor  hurl  thy  Jessy  to  the  vulgar  crew; 
Not  such  the  parent's  board  at  which  I  fed ! 

Not  such  the  precepts  from  his  lips  I  drew ! 

Haply,  when  age  has  silver'd  o'er  my  hair, 
Malice  may  learn  to  scorn  so  mean  a  spoil; 

Envy  may  slight  a  face  no  longer  fair ; 
And  pity  welcome  to  my  native  soil." 

She  spoke — nor  was  I  born  of  savage  race ; 

Nor  could  these  hands  a  niggard  l)oon  assign , 
Grateful  she  clasp'd  me  in  a  last  embrace. 

And  vow'd  to  waste  her  life  in  prayers  for  mine. 

I  saw  her  foot  the  lofty  bark  ascend ; 

I  saw  her  breast  with  everj-  passion  heave : 
I  left  her — torn  from  every  earthly  friend ; 

Oh  !  my  hard  bosom,  which  could  bear  to  leave! 

Brief  let  me  be;  the  fatal  storm  arose; 

The  billows  raged,  the  pilot's  art  was  vain; 
O'er  the  tall  mast  the  circling  surges  close ; 

My  Jessy — floats  upon  the  watery  plain  ! 

And  see  my  youth's  impetuous  fires  decay ; 

Seek  not  to  sto|)  reflection's  bitter  tear; 
But  warn  the  frolic,  and  instruct  the  gay, 

From  Jessy  floating  on  her  watery  bier ! 


I 


WILLIAM  SHENSTONE. 


497 


FROM  "RURAL  ELEGANCE." 

A?f   ODK   TO   THE   niTHESS   OF  SOMKRSET.* 

While  orient  skies  restore  the  day, 
And  dew-drops  catch  the  lucid  ray ; 

Amid  the  sprightly  scenes  of  morn, 
Will  aught  the  muse  inspire ! 

Oh  !  peace  to  yonder  clamorous  horn 
That  drowns  the  sacred  lyre ! 

Ye  rural  thanes,  that  o'er  the  lyossy  down 

Some  panting,  timorous  hare  pursue  ; 
Does  nature  mean  your  joys  alone  to  crown  1 

Say,  does  she  smooth  her  lawns  for  you  1 
For  you  does  Echo  bid  the  rocks  reply. 
And,  urged  by  rude  constraint,  resound  the  jovial 
cry! 
See  from  the  neighbouring  hill,  forlorn. 

The  wretched  swain  your  sport  survey : 
He  finds  his  faithful  fences  torn, 

He  finds  his  labour'd  crops  a  prey  ; 
He  sees  his  flock — no  more  in  circles  feed ; 
Haply  beneath  your  ravage  bleed, 
And  with  no  random  curses  loads  the  deed. 

Nor  yet,  ye  swains,  conclude 

That  nature  smiles  for  you  alone ; 
Your  bounded  souls,  and  your  conceptions  crude, 
The  proud,  the  selfish  boast  disown ; 
Yours  be  the  produce  of  the  soil : 
O  may  it  still  reward  your  toil ! 
Nor  ever  the  defenceless  train 
Of  clinging  infants  ask  support  in  vain  ! 

But  though  the  various  harvest  gild  your  plains, 

Does  the  mere  landscape  feast  your  eye  1 
Or  the  warm  hope  of  distant  gains 
Far  other  cause  of  glee  supply  ? 
Is  not  the  red-streak's  future  juice 

The  source  of  your  delight  profound. 
Where  Ariconium  pours  her  gems  profuse. 

Purpling  a  whole  horizon  round  ? 
Athirst  ye  praise  the  limpid  stream,  'tis  true: 

But  though,  the  pebbled  shores  among, 

It  mimic  no  unpleasing  song, 
The  limpid  fountain  murmurs  not  for  you. 

Unpleased  ye  see  the  thickets  bloom, 
Unpleased  the  spring  her  flowery  robe  resume : 
Unmoved  the  mountain's  airy  pile, 
The  dappled  mead  without  a  smile. 
O  let  a  rural  conscious  Muse, 
For  well  she  knows,  your  froward  sense  accuse; 
Forth  to  the  solemn  oak  you  bring  the  square. 
And  span  the  massy  trunk,  before  you  cry,  'tis 
fair. 

Nor  yet,  ye  learn'd,  nor  yet,  ye  courtly  train, 
If  haply  from  your  haunts  ye  stray 
To  waste  with  us  a  summer's  day, 
Exclude  the  taste  of  every  swain. 
Nor  our  untutor'd  sense  disdain  : 

'Tis  Nature  only  gives  exclusive  right 
To  relish  her  supreme  delight ; 
She,  where  she  pleases  kind  or  coy. 
Who  furnishes  the  scene  and  forms  us  to  enjoy. 


[•  The  Lady  Hertford  of  Tbomaon's  Spring.] 
63 


Then  hither  bring  the  fair  ingenuous  mind, 
By  her  auspicious  aid  refined ; 

liO  !  not  a  hedge-row  hawthorn  blowa. 
Or  humble  hare-bell  paints  the  plain, 
Or  valley  winds,  or  fountain  flows, 

Or  purpled  heath  is  tinged,  in  vain  : 
For  such  the  rivers  dash  the  foaming  tides, 
The  mountain  swells,  the  dale  subsides ; 
Even  thriftless  furze  detains  their  wandering 
siijht, 
And  the  rough  barren  rock  grows  pregnant  with 
delight. 


Why  brand  these  pleasures  with  the  name 
Of  soft,  unsocial  toils,  of  indolence  and  shame? 
Search  but  the  garden,  or  the  wood. 
Let  yon  admired  carnation  own, 
Not  all  was  meant  for  raiment  or  for  food, 

Not  all  for  needful  use  alone  ; 
There  while  the  seeds  of  future  blossoms  dwell, 
'Tie  colour'd  for  the  sight,  perfumed  to  please  the 
^mell. 

Why  knows  the  nightingale  to  sing  ? 

Why  flows  the  pine's  nectareous  juice? 
Why  shines  with  paint  the  linnet's  wing? 

For  sustenance  alone  ?  For  use  ? 
For  preservation  ?   Every  sphere 
Shall  bid  fair  pleasure's  rightful  claim  appear. 
And  sure  there  seem,  of  humankind, 

Some  born  to  shun  the  solemn  strife. 
Some  for  amusive  tasks  design'd. 

To  soothe  the  certain  ills  of  life ; 
Grace  its  lone  vales  with  many  a  budding  rose, 

New  founts  of  bliss  disclose. 
Call  forth  refreshing  shades,  and  decorate  repose. 


ODE  TO  MEMORY. 

0  MEMORY  !  celestial  maid  ! 

Who  glean'st  the  flowerets  crept  by  Tune, 
And  suiTenng  not  a  leaf  to  fade, 

Preservest  the  blossoms  of  our  prime ; 
Bring,  bring  those  moments  to  my  mind 
When  life  was  new,  and  Lesbia  kind. 

And  bring  that  garland  to  my  sight, 

With  which  my  favour'd  crook  she  bound , 

And  bring  that  wreath  of  roses  bright 

Which  then  my  festive  temples  crown'd  , 

And  to  my  raptured  ear  convey 

The  gentle  things  she  deign'd  to  say. 

And  sketch  with  care  the  Muse's  bower, 

Where  Isis  rolls  her  silver  tide ; 
Nor  yet  omit  one  reed  or  flower 

That  shines  on  Cherwell's  verdant  side ; 
If  so  thou  may'st  those  hours  prolong. 
When  polish'd  Lycon  join'd  my  song. 

The  song  it  'vails  not  to  recite — ■ 

But  sure,  to  soothe  our  youthful  dreams. 

Those  banks  and  streams  appear'd  more  bright 
Than  other  banks,  than  other  streams: 
2k2 


498 


HENRY  CAREY. 


Or,  by  thy  softening  pencil  shown, 
Assume  thy  beauties  not  their  own  ! 

And  paint  that  sweetly  vacant  scene, 

When,  all  beneath  the  poplar  bough, 
My  spirits  light,  my  soul  serene, 

I  breathed  in  verse  one  cordial  vow ; 
That  nothing  should  my  soul  inspire, 
But  friendship  warm,  and  love  entire. 
Dull  to  the  sense  of  new  delight, 

On  thee  the  drooping  Muse  attends ; 
As  some  fond  lover,  robb'd  of  sight, 

On  thy  expressive  power  depends; 
Nor  would  exchange  thy  glowing  lines, 
To  live  the  lord  of  all  that  shines. 

But  let  me  chase  those  vows  away 
Which  at  ambition's  shrine  I  made ; 


Nor  ever  let  thy  skill  display 

Those  anxious  moments,  ill  repaid  : 
Oh  !  from  my  breast  that  season  raze, 
And  bring  my  childhood  in  its  place. 

Bring  me  the  bells,  the  rattle  bring. 
And  bring  the  hobby  I  bestrode ; 

When,  pleased,  in  many  a  sportive  ring, 
Around  the  room  I  jovial  rode  : 

Ev'n  let  me  bid  my  lyre  adieu, 

And  bring  the  whistle  that  I  blew. 

Then  will  I  muse,  and  pensive  say. 
Why  did  not  these  enjoyments  last; 

How  sweetly  wasted  I  the  day. 

While  innocence  allow'd  to  waste  ! 

Ambition's  toils  alike  are  vain. 

But,  ah  !  for  pleasure  yield  us  pain. 


HENRY  CAREY. 


[Died,  Oot.  1743.] 


Henry  Caret  was  a  musician  by  profession, 
and  author  both  of  the  words  and  melody  of  the 


pleasing  song  of  "  Sally  in  our  Alley."   He  came 
to  an  untimely  death  by  his  own  hands. 


SALLY  IN  OUR  ALLEY.* 
Of  all  the  girls  that  are  so  smart. 

There's  none  like  pretty  Sally ; 
She  is  the  darling  of  my  heart, 

And  she  lives  in  our  alley. 
There  is  no  lady  in  the  land. 

Is  half  so  sweet  as  Sally : 
She  is  the  darling  of  my  heart, 

And  she  lives  in  our  alley. 

Her  father  he  makes  cabbage-nets. 

And  through  the  streets  does  cry  'em ; 
Her  mother  she  sells  laces  long. 

To  such  as  please  to  buy  'em : 
But  sure  such  folks  could  ne"er  beget 

So  sweet  a  girl  as  Sally ! 
She  is  the  darling  of  my  heart. 

And  she  lives  in  our  alley. 

When  she  is  by,  I  leave  my  work, 

(I  love  her  so  sincerely,) 
My  master  comes  like  any  Turk, 

And  bangs  me  most  severely : 


r*  Carey  in  the  third  Edition  of  his  Poems,  published  in 
1729,  before  "  the  Ballad  of  Sally  In  our  Alley,"  has  placed 
this  note : — 

THE  ABGITMENT. 

"A  vulgar  error  having  long  prevailed  among  many 
persons.,  who  imagine  Sally  Salisbury  the  subject  of  this 
ballad,  the  Author  begs  leave  to  undeceive  and  assure 
them  it  ban  not  the  least  allusion  to  her,  he  being  a 
stranger  to  her  very  name  at  the  time  Uiis  Song  was  com- 
posed. For  as  innocence  and  virtue  were  ever  the  bound- 
aries to  his  Muse,  so  in  this  little  poem  he  had  no  other 
view  than  to  -^t  forth  the  beauty  of  a  chaste  and  disin- 
terested paxsion,  even  in  the  lowest  class  of  human  life. 
The  real  occasion  was  this :  a  Shoemaker's  'Prentice  making 
holiday  with  his  Sweetheart,  treated  her  with  a  sight  of 
Heillam,  the  puppet-shows,  the  flying-chairs,  and  all  the 


But,  let  him  bang  his  belly  full, 

I'll  bear  it  all  for  Sally  ; 
She  is  the  darling  of  my  heart. 

And  she  lives  in  our  alley. 

Of  all  the  days  that's  in  the  week, 

I  dearly  love  but  one  day  ; 
And  that's  the  day  that  comes  betwixt 

A  Saturday  and  Monday  ; 
For  then  I'm  dress'd  all  in  my  best, 

To  walk  abroad  with  Sally ; 
She  is  the  darling  of  my  heart, 

And  she  lives  in  our  alley. 

My  master  carries  me  to  church, 

And  often  am  I  blamed. 
Because  I  leave  him  in  the  lurch. 

As  soon  as  text  is  named : 
I  leave  the  church  in  sermon  time 

And  slink  away  to  Sally; 
She  is  the  darling  of  my  heart. 

And  she  lives  in  our  alley. 


elegancies  of  Moorfields :  from  whence  proceeding  to  the 
Farthing-pie-house,  he  gave  her  a  collation  of  buns,  cheese- 
cakes, gammon  of  bacon,  stufiTd  beef,  and  bottled  ale; 
through  all  which  scenes  the  Author  dodged  them,  (charmed 
with  the  simplicity  of  their  courtship.)  from  whence  he 
drew  this  little  sketch  of  nature ;  but  being  then  young 
and  obscure,  he  wa.s  very  much  ridiculed  by  some  of  his 
acquaintance  for  this  performance;  which  nevertheless 
made  its  way  into  the  polite  world,  and  amply  recom- 
pensed him  by  the  applause  of  the  divine  Addison,  who 
was  pleaded  (more  than  once)  to  mention  it  with  approba- 
tion," p.  127.  Ihere  was  some  attempt  to  rob  Carey  of  his 
right  to  his  ballad,  as  there  was  to  rob  Denham,  Garth, 
and  Akenside,  but  it  did  not  succeed  then,  though  it  occa- 
sioned uneasiness  to  the  author,  nor  will  it  now,  when  it 
can  affect  him  no  more.] 


CHARLES  CHURCHILL. 


499 


When  Christmas  comes  about  again, 

Oh  then  I  shall  have  money ; 
I'll  hoard  it  up,  and  box  it  all, 

I'll  give  it  to  my  honey: 
I  would  it  were  ten  thousand  pounds, 

I'd  give  it  all  to  Sally ; 
She  is  the  darling  of  my  heart, 

And  she  lives  in  our  alley. 


My  master,  and  the  neighbours  all. 

Make  game  of  me  and  Sally  ; 
And  (but  for  her)  I'd  better  be 

A  slave,  and  row  a  palJo" 
But  when  my  seven  long  years  are  out, 

O  then  I'll  marry  Sally, 
0  then  we'll  wed,  and  then  we'll  bod. 

But  not  in  our  alley. 


CHARLES  CHURCHILL. 


[Boni,  1731.     Died,  1764.] 


He  was  the  son  of  a  respectable  clergyman, 
who  was  curate  and  lecturer  of  St.  John's,  West- 
minster. He  was  educated  at  Westminster 
school,  and  entered  of  Trinity  College,  Cambridge, 
but  not  being  disposed 

"Cer  crabbed  authors  life's  gay  prime  to  wnste, 
Or  cramp  wild  genius  ia  the  chains  of  ta>te," 

he  left  the  university  abruptly,  and  coming  to 
London  made  a  clandestine  marriage  in  the 
Fleet.*  His  father,  though  much  displeased  at 
the  proceeding,  became  reconciled  to  what  could 
not  be  remedied,  and  received  the  imprudent 
couple  for  about  a  year  under  his  roof.  After 
this  young  Churchill  went  for  some  time  to  study 
theology  at  Sunderland,  in  the  north  of  England, 
and  having  taken  orders,  officiated  at  Cadbury, 
in  Somersetshire,  and  at  Rainham,  a  living  of  his 
father's  in  Essex,  till  upon  the  death  of  his  father, 
he  succeeded  in  1758  to  the  curacy  and  lecture- 
ship of  St.  John's,  Westminster.  Here  he  con- 
ducted himself  for  some  time  with  a  decorum 
suitable  to  his  profession,  and  increased  his  narrow 
income  by  undertaking  private  tuition.  He  got 
into  debt,  it  is  true ;  and  Dr.  Lloyd,  of  Westmin- 
ster, the  father  of  his  friend  the  poet,  was  obliged 
to  mediate  with  his  creditors  for  their  acceptance 
of  a  composition;  but  when  fortune  put  it  into 
his  power,  Churchill  honourably  discharged  all 
his  obligations.  His  Rosciad  appeared  at  first 
anonymously,  in  1761,  and  was  ascribed  to  one 
or  other  of  half  the  wits  in  town ;  but  his  ac- 
knowledgment of  it,  and  his  poetical  "Apology," 
in  which  he  retaliated  upon  the  critical  reviewers 
of  his  poem,  (not  fearing  to  affront  even  Fielding 
and  Smollett,)  made  him  at  once  famous  and 
formidable.  The  players,  at  least,  felt  him  to  be 
so.  Garrick  himself,  who  though  extolled  in  the 
Rosciad  was  sarcastically  alluded  to  in  the  Apo- 

[»  Mr.  Southey  believes  that  his  marriage  took  place 
previous  to  his  entering  the  university  of  Cambridge. 
— Life  of  Oiwprr.  vol.  i.  p.  70.] 

t  .Nichols,  in  his  Literary  Anecdotes  of  the  Kighfeenth 
Century,  vol.  vi.  p.  4^,  gives  thU  information  of  Tom 
Oavies's  being  driven  off  the  stage  by  Churchill's  satire 


logy,  courted  him  like  a  suppliant;  and  his  satire 
had  the  effect  of  driving  poor  Tom  Davies,  the 
biographer  of  Garrick,  though  he  was  a  tolerable 
performer,  from  the  stage.f  A  letter  from  another 
actor,  of  the  name  of  Davis,  who  seems  rather 
to  have  dreaded  than  experienced  his  severity,  is 
preserved  in  Nichols's  Literary  Anecdotes  of  the 
Eighteenth  Century,  in  which  the  poor  comedian 
deprecates  the  poet's  censure  in  an  expected  pub- 
lication, as  likely  to  deprive  him  of  bread.  What 
was  mean  in  Garrick  might  have  been  an  object 
of  compassion  in  this  humble  man  ;  but  Churchill 
answered  him  with  surly  contempt,  and  holding 
to  the  plea  of  justice,  treated  his  fears  with  the 
apparent  satisfaction  of  a  hangman.  His  moral 
character,  in  the  mean  time,  did  not  keep  pace 
with  his  literary  reputation.  As  he  got  above 
neglect  he  seems  to  have  thought  him.self  above 
censure.  His  superior,  the  Dean  of  Westmin- 
ster, having  had  occasion  to  rebuke  him  for  some 
irregularities,  he  threw  aside  at  once  the  clerical 
habit  and  profession,  and  arrayed  his  ungainly 
form  ill  the  splendour  of  fashion.  Amidst  the 
remarks  of  his  enemies,  and  what  he  pronounces 
the  still  more  insulting  advice  of  his  prudent 
friends  upon  his  irregular  life,  he  published  his 
epistle  to  Lloyd,  entitled  Night,  a  sort  of  mani- 
festo of  the  impulses,  for  they  could  not  be  called 
principles,  by  which  he  professed  his  conduct  to 
be  influenced.  The  leading  maxims  of  this 
epistle  are,  that  prudence  and  hypocrisy  in  these 
times  are  the  same  thing !  that  good  hours  are 
but  fine  words;  and  that  it  is  better  to  avow 
faults  than  to  conceal  them.  Speaking  of  his 
convivial  enjoyments  he  says 

"Niu'ht's  iMU^hini:  hours  unheeded  slip  away. 
Nor  one  dull  thought  foreli'Us  appioarli  of  day." 

In  the  same  description  he  somewhat  awkwardly 

introduces 


on  the  authority  of  Dr.  Johnson.  This  Davies  wns  the 
editor  of  Dramatic  Mi.>^c<Mlanie8.and  of  the  Life  and  Worlcs 
of  Liilo.  The  iijimi'  of  the  other  pi>f>r  player  who  im- 
pinreil  Chunhill's  merry  was  T.  Davis.  tii.<<  name  being 
diffurently  fpelt  from  that  of  tSarrick'!"  bio^rapluT.  Chur 
chill's  answer  to  him  is  also  preserved  by  Mcbols. 


500 


CHARLES  CHURCHILL. 


"Wine's  g"y  God.  with  Temperancb  by  his  side, 
Whilst  Health  attends." 


How  would  Churchill  have  belaboured  any  fool 
or  hypocrite  who  had  pretended  to  boast  of  health 
and  temperance  in  the  midst  of  orgies  that  turned 
night  into  day. 

By  his  connexion  with  Wilkes  he  added  poli- 
tical to  personal  causes  of  animosity,  and  did  not 
diminish  the  number  of  unfavourable  eyes  that 
were  turned  upon  his  private  character.  He  had 
certainly,  with  all  his  faults,  some  strong  and 
good  qualities  of  the  heart;  but  the  particular 
proofs  of  these  were  not  likely  to  be  sedulously 
collected  as  materials  of  his  biography,  for  he 
had  now  placed  himself  in  that  light  of  reputa- 
tion when  a  man's  likeness  is  taken  by  its  shadow 
and  darkness.  Accordingly,  the  most  prominent 
circumstances  that  we  afterward  learn  respecting 
him  are,  that  he  separated  from  his  wife,  and  se- 
duced the  daughter  of  a  tradesman  in  Westmin- 
ster. At  the  end  of  a  fortnight,  either  from  his 
satiety  or  repentance,  he  advised  this  unfortunate 
woman  to  return  to  her  friends ;  but  took  her 
biick  attain  upon  her  finding  her  home  made  in- 
tolerable by  the  reproaches  of  a  sister.*  His 
reputation  for  inebriety  also  received  some  public 
acknowledgments.  Hogarth  gave  as  much  ce- 
lebrity as  he  could  to  his  love  of  porter,  by  repre- 
senting him  in  the  act  of  drinking  a  mug  of  that 
liquor  in  the  shape  of  a  bear;t  but  the  painter 
had  no  great  reason  to  congratulate  himself  ulti- 
mately on  the  effects  of  his  caricature.  Our  poet 
was  included  in  the  general  warrant  that  was  is- 
sued for  apprehending  Wilkes.  He  hid  himself, 
however,  and  avoided  imprisonment.  In  the  au- 
tumn of  1764  he  paid  a  visit  to  Mr.  Wilkes  at 
Boulogne,  where  he  caught  a  miliary  fever,  and 
expired  in  his  thirty-third  year.;]; 

Churchill  may  be  ranked  as  a  satirist  immedi- 
ately after  Pope  and  Dryden,  with  perhaps  a 
greater  share  of  humour  than  either.  He  has 
the  bitterness  of  Pope,  with  less  wit  to  atone  for 
it ;  but  no  mean  share  of  the  free  manner  and 
energetic  plainness  of  Dryden.§  After  the  Ros- 
ciad  and  Apology  he  began  his  poem  of  the  Ghost, 


[*  The  only  laudable  part  of  Churchill's  condu'-t  during 
his  short  career  of  popularity  was,  that  he  carefully  laid 
hj  a  provision  for  those  who  were  dependent  on  him.  This 
w  s  his  meritorious  motive  for  that  greedincFS  of  gain 
with  which  he  was  reproached:  as  if  it  were  any  reproach 
to  a  succe.e.-fiil  author,  that  he  doled  out  his  writings  in 
the  way  mn>t  a'lvantageous  for  himself,  and  fixed  upon 
them  i;s  high  a  pri^e  as  his  admirers  were  willing  to  pay  I 
Hfi  thus  eniible<i  himself  to  bequeath  an  annuity  of  sixty 
pfiunds  to  his  widow,  and  of  fifty  to  the  more  unhappy 
woman,  who,  af;er  they  hnd  both  repented  of  their  guilty 
intt  rc(  u~e.  had  tied  to  him  again  for  the  protertion.  whi'-h 
shij  knew  not  where  else  to  seek.  And  when  these  duties 
had  been  provided  for,  there  remnided  some  surplus  for 
his  two  Suns.  Well  would  it  be  if  he  might  be  as  fairly 
vindicated  on  other  points. — SotrroET,  Qrwptr,  vol.  ii.  p. 

IfJO.J 

[t  Mr.  Campbell  has  missed  the  point  of  the  picture. 
Chunhill  is  represented  as  a  bear  in  clerical  bands  that 
are  torn,  and  ruflled  pi.ws.] 
I  j: "  Only  a  day  before  that  event  took  place,"  says  .Southey, 
"he  made  his  will,  wherein  it  is  mournful  to  observe  there 
\f  not  the  slightest  expression  of  religious  faith  or  hope." 


(founded  on  the  well-known  story  of  Cocklane,) 
many  parts  of  which  tradition  reports  him  to 
have  composed  when  scarce  recovered  from  his 
fits  of  drunkenness.  It  is  certainly  a  rambling 
and  scandalous  production,  with  a  few  such 
original  gleams  as  might  have  crossed  the  brain 
of  genius  amidst  the  bile  and  lassitude  of  dissi- 
pation. The  novelty  of  political  warfare  seems 
to  have  g^ven  a  new  impulse  to  his  powers  in  the 
Prophecy  of  Famine,  a  satire  on  Scotland,  which 
even  to  Scotchmen  must  seem  to  sheath  its  sting 
in  its  laughable  extravagance.  His  poetical 
Epistle  to  Hogarth  is  remarkable,  amidst  its 
savage  ferocity,  for  one  of  the  best  panegyrics 
that  was  ever  bestowed  on  that  painter's  works. 
He  scalps  indeed  even  barbarously  the  infirmities 
of  the  man,  but,  on  the  whole,  spares  the  laurels 
of  the  artist.  The  following  is  his  description  of 
Hogarth's  powers. 


"  In  walks  of  humour,  in  that  cast  of  style, 
Whii  h.  probing  to  the  quick,  yet  makes  us  smile; 
In  comedy,  his  natral  road  to  fame, 
Kor  let  me  call  it  by  a  meaner  name, 
Where  a  beginning,  middle,  and  an  end 
Are  aptly  joind;  where  parts  on  parts  depend, 
Each  made  for  each,  as  bodies  for  their  soul. 
So  as  to  form  one  true  and  perfect  whole, 
Where  a  plain  story  to  the  eye  is  told, 
Which  we  conceive  the  moment  we  behold, 
Ilogarth  unrivaird  stamls,  and  shall  engage 
Unrivall'd  praise  to  the  most  distant  av;e." 

There  are  two  peculiarly  interesting  passages 
in  his  Conference.  One  of  them,  expressive  of 
remorse  for  his  crime  of  seduction,  has  been  often 
quoted.  The  other  is  a  touching  description  of 
a  man  of  iudependent  spirit  reduced  by  despair 
and  poverty  to  accept  of  the  means  of  sustaining 
life  on  humiliating  terms. 

"  What  proof  might  do,  what  hunger  might  effect. 
What  famish'd  nature,  looking  with  i;eglect 
On  all  she  once  held  dear,  what  fear,  at  strife 
With  fainting  virtue  for  the  means  of  life. 
Might  make  this  coward  flch,  in  love  with  bireath, 
Shudd'ring  at  pain,  and  shrinking  back  from  death, 
In  treason  to  my  soul,  descend  to  bear. 
Trusting  to  fate,  I  neither  know  nor  care. 

Once, — at  this  hour  those  wounds  afresh  I  feel, 
Which  nor  prosperity  nor  time  can  heal. 
****** 
Those  wounds,  which  humbled  all  that  pride  of  man, 
Which  brings  such  mighty  aid  to  virtue's  plan: 


His  body  was  brought  from  Boulogne  to  Dover,  and  inr 
terred  in  the  church  of  St.  Martin,  where  his  grave  is  dis- 
tinguished by  what  Mr.  Southey  calls  an  epicurean  line 
from  one  of  his  own  poems : 

Life  to  the  last  enjoy'd,  here  Churchill  lies. 

See  also  Byron's  poem  entitled  "  Churchill's  Grave  .•" 

I  stood  before  the  grave  of  him  who  blazed 
The  comet  of  a  season. 

(Warlt,  vol.  X.  p.  287)  and  Scott's  note.] 

[J  Is  he  not  rather  an  excellent  Oldham  ?  His  poetical 
character,  however,  ha-s  been  given  by  Cowper,  in  a  few 
sententious  lines,— fee  his  Table.  Titlk.  Churchill,  with  his 
many  excellencies,  never  rises  to  the  poetical  heights  of 
Pope"  and  Dryden.  He  is  coarse,  vigorous,  surly,  and 
slovenly : 

full  of  gall 
Wormwood  and  sulphur,  sharp  and  toothed  withal. 

Ben  Johmon. 

And  has  o  noing  of  versification  pccnliariy  his  own.] 


CHARLES  CHURCHILL. 


601 


Once,  awed  by  fortune's  most  oppresfive  frown, 
By  l^al  mpine  to  the  earth  bow'd  down, 
Jly  ci-edit  at  la.'^t  gasp,  my  stiite  undone. 
Trembling  to  meet  the  shock  I  could  not  shun. 
Virtue  gave  ground,  and  black  despair  prevail'd: 
Sinkini;  beniiath  the  storm,  my  spirits  fail'd. 
Like  Peter's  faith." 

But   without   enumerating   similar   passages, 

which  may  form  an  exception  to  the  remark,  the 

general  tenor  of  bis  later  works  fell  beneath  bis 


first  reputation.  His  DucHiit  is  positively  dull 
and  his  Gotham,  the  imaginary  realm  of  which 
he  feigns  himself  the  sovereign,  is  calculated  to 
remind  us  of  the  proverbial  wisdom  of  its  sages.* 
It  was  justly  complained  that  he  became  too 
much  an  echo  of  himself,  and  that  before  his 
short  literary  career  was  closed,  his  originality 
appeared  to  be  exhausted. 


INTRODUCTION  TO  "THE  ROSCIAD." 

RosciiTS  deceased,  each  high  aspiring  player 
Push'd  all  his  interest  for  the  vacant  chair. 
The  buskin'd  heroes  of  the  mimic  stage 
No  longer  whine  in  love,  and  rant  in  rage ! 
The  monarch  quits  his  throne,  and  condescends 
Humble  to  court  the  favour  of  his  friends ; 
For  pity's  sake  tells  undeserved  mishaps. 
And  their  applause  to  gain,  recounts  his  claps. 
Thus  the  victorious  chiefs  of  ancient  Rome, 
To  win  the  mob,  a  suppliant's  form  assume, 
In  pompous  strain  fight  o'er  th' extinguish'dwar, 
And  show  where  honour  bled  in  every  scar. 

But  though  hare  merit  might  in  Rome  appear 
The  strongest  plea  for  favour,  'tis  not  here; 
We  form  our  judgment  in  another  way; 
And  they  will  best  succeed  who  best  can  pay : 
Those,  who  would  gain  the  votes  of  British  tribes, 
Must  add  to  force  of  merit  force  of  bribes. 

What  can  an  actor  give  1   In  every  age 
Cash  hath  been  rudely  banish'd  from  the  stage; 
Monarchs  themselves,  to  grief  of  every  player, 
Appear  as  often  as  their  image  there: 
They  can't,  like  candidate  for  other  seat. 
Pour  seas  of  wine,  and  mountains  raise  of  meat. 
Wine!  they  could  bribe  you  with  the  world  as 

soon. 
And  of  roast  beef  they  only  know  the  tune: 
But  what  they  have  they  give:  could  Olive  do 

more. 
Though  for  each  million  he  had  brought  home 
four? 

Shuter  keeps  open  house  at  Southwark  fair. 
And  hopes  the  friends  of  humour  will  be  there ; 
In  Smithfield,  Yates  prepares  the  rival  treat 
For  those  who  laughter  love  instead  of  meat; 
Foote,  at  Old  House,  for  even  Foote  will  be 
In  self-conceit  an  actor,  bribes  with  tea; 
Which  Wilkinson  at  second  hand  receives, 
An<l  at  the  New,  pours  water  on  the  leaves. 

The  town  divided,  each  runs  several  ways, 
As  passion,  humour,  interest,  party  sways. 
Things  of  no  moment,  colour  of  the  hair, 
Shape  of  a  leg.  complexion  brown  or  fair, 
A  dress  well-chosen,  or  a  patch  misplaced. 
Conciliate  favour,  or  create  distaste. 

From  galleries  loud  peals  of  laughter  roll. 
And  thunder  Shuter's  praises — he's  so  droll. 


[*  Cowfcr  w.vi  of  another  opinion.  '•  Gothiim."  he  mivs, 
" is  a  ndhle  and  heautil'ul  poem:  makinc  allowanre  ^and 
Dry  loa  perhaps,  in  his  Absalom  aud  Achitophel,  stands  in 


Embox'd,  the  ladies  must  have  something  smartt 
Palmer!  Oh!   Palmer  tops  the  janty  part. 
Seated  in  pit,  the  dwarf,  with  aching  eyes. 
Looks  up,  and  vows  that  Barry's  out  of  size ; 
Whilst  to  six  feet  the  vig'rous  stripling  grown, 
Declares  that  Garrick  is  another  Coan. 

When  place  of  judgment  is  by  whim  supplied, 
And  our  opinions  have  their  rise  in  pride ; 
When,  in  discoursing  on  each  mimic  elf. 
We  praise  and  censure  with  an  eye  to  self; 
All  must  meet  friends,  and  Ackman  bids  as  fair 
In  such  a  court  as  Garrick  for  the  chair. 

At  length  agreed,  all  squabbles  to  decide,  ■ 
By  some  one  judge  the  cause  was  to  be  tried ; 
But  this  their  squabbles  did  afresh  renew, 
Who  should  be  judge  in  such  a  trial: — Who  1 

For  Johnson  some,  but  Johnson,  it  was  fear'd. 
Would  be  too  grave:  and  Sterne  too  gay  appear'd: 
Others  for  Francklin  voted ;  but  'twas  known, 
He  sicken'd  at  all  triumphs  but  his  own : 
For  Colman  many,  but  the  peevish  tongue 
Of  prudent  age  found  out  that  be  was  young: 
For  Murphy  some  few  pilfering  wits  declared, 
Whilst  Folly  clapp'd  her  hands,  and   Wisdom 
stared, 


CHARACTER  OF  A  CRITICAL  FRIBBLE. 

FROM  THE  SAXB. 

With  that  low  cunning,  which  in  fools  supplies. 
And  amply  too.  the  place  of  being  wise. 
Which  Nature,  kind,  indulgent  parent,  gave 
To  qualify  the  blockhead  for  a  knave; 
With  that  smooth  falsehood,  whose  appearance 

charms. 
And  reason  of  each  wholesome  doubt  disarms. 
Which  to  the  lowest  depths  of  guile  descends. 
By  vilest  means  pursues  the  vilest  ends. 
Wears  friendship's  mask  for  purposes  of  spite. 
Fawns  in  the  day,  and  butchers  in  the  night; 
With  that  malignant  envy,  which  turns  pale. 
And  sickens,  even  if  a  friend  prevail. 
Which  merit  and  success  pursues  with  hate, 
And  damns  the  worth  it  cannot  imitate ; 
With  the  cold  caution  of  a  coward's  spleen. 
Which  fears  not  guilt,  but  always  seeks  a  screen. 
Which  keeps  this  maxim  ever  in  her  view — 
What's  basely  done,  should  lie  done  safely  too ; 


neeil  of  the  same  indulgi-ncel  f  >r  an  unwarrantable  use  of 
Scripture,  it  api^-ars  to  me  to  l>e  a  masterly  perlbrmanee.* 
— fiowHEy's  Qnoper,  vol.  i.  p.  ai.] 


o02 


CHARLES  CHURCHILL. 


With  that  dull,  rooted,  callous  impudence, 
Which,  dead  to  shame,  and  every  nicer  sense, 
Ne'er  blush'd,  unless,  in  spreading  vice's  snares, 
She  blunder'd  on  some  virtue  unawares: 
With  all  these  blessings,  which  we  seldom  find 
Lavish'd  by  nature  on  one  happy  mind, 
A  motley  figure,  of  the  fribble  tribe. 
Which  heart  can  scarce  conceive,  or  pen  describe, 
Came  simp'ring  on:  to  ascertain  whose  sex' 
Twelve  sage  impannel'd  matrons  would  perplex. 
Nor  male,  nor  female,  neither  and  yet  both ; 
Of  neuter  gender,  though  of  Irish  growth; 
A  six-foot  suckling,  mincing  in  its  gait; 
Afiected,  peevish,  prim,  and  delicate ; 
Fearful  it  seem'd,  though  of  athletic  make, 
Lest  brutal  breezes  should  too  roughly  shake 
Its  tender  form,  and  savage  motion  spread 
O'er  its  pale  cheeks  the  horrid  manly  red. 

Much  did  it  talk,  in  its  own  pretty  phrase, 
Of  genius  and  of  taste,  of  play'rs  and  plays; 
Much  too  of  writings,  which  itself  had  wrote. 
Of  special  merit,  though  of  little  note ; 
For  fate,  in  a  strange  humour,  had  decreed 
That  what  it  wrote,  none  but  itself  should  read ; 
Much  too  it  chatter'd  of  dramatic  laws. 
Misjudging  critics,  and  misplaced  applause, 
Then  with  a  self-complacent  jutting  air. 
It  smiled,  it  smirk'd,  it  wriggled  to  the  chair; 
And,  with  an  awkward  briskness  not  its  own, 
Looking  around,  and  perking  on  the  throne. 
Triumphant  seem'd,  when  that  strange  savage 

dame. 
Known  but  to  few,  or  only  known  by  name, 
Plain  Common  Sense,  appear'd,  by  nature  there 
Appointed,  with  plain  truth,  to  guard  the  chair. 
The  pageant  saw,  and  blasted  with  her  frown, 
To  its  first  state  of  iwthing  melted -down. 

Nor  shall  the  Muse  (for  even  there  the  pride 
Of  this  vain  nothing  shall  be  mortified) 
Nor   shall   the    Muse    (should    fate   ordain  her 

rhymes. 
Fond,  pleasing  thought !  to  live  in  after  times) 
With  such  a  trifler's  name  her  pages  blot ; 
Known  be  the  character,  the  thing  forgot; 
Let  it,  to  disappoint  each  future  aim. 
Live  without  sex,  and  die  without  a  name ! 


CHARACTERS  OF  QOTN,  TOM  SHERIDAN,  AND 
GARRICK. 


FROM   THE  SAMB. 


QuiN,  from  afar,  lured  by  the  scent  of  fame, 
A  stage  leviathan,  put  in  his  claim. 
Pupil  of  Betterton  and  Booth.     Alone, 
Sullen  he  wnlk'd.  and  deem'd  the  chair  his  own. 
For  how  should  moderns,  mushrooms  of  the  day, 
Who  ne'er  those  masters  knew,  know   how  to 

play  ? 
Grey-bearded  vet'rans,  who,  with  partial  tongue. 
Extol  the  times  when  they  themselves  were  young; 
Who  having  lost  all  relish  for  the  stage, 
See  not  their  own  defects,  but  lash  the  age, 
lleceived  with  joyful  murmurs  of  applause 
Their  darling  chief,  and  lined  his  favourite  cause. 


Far  be  it  from  the  candid  Muse  to  tread 
Insulting  o'er  the  ashes  of  the  dead. 
But,  just  to  living  merit,  she  maintains, 
And  dares  the  test,  whilst  Garrick's  genius  reigns; 
Ancients  in  vain  endeavour  to  excel. 
Happily  praised,  if  they  could  act  as  well. 
But  though  prescription's  force  we  disallow. 
Nor  to  antiquity  submissive  bow ; 
Though  we  deny  imaginary  grace, 
Founded  on  accident  of  time  and  place ; 
Yet  real  worth  of  every  growth  shall  bear 
Due  praise,  nor  must  we,  Quin,  forget  thee  there. 

His  words  bore  sterling  weight,  nervous  and 
In  manly  tides  of  sense  they  roU'd  along,  [strong 
Happy  in  art,  he  chiefly  had  pretence 
To  keep  up  numbers,  yet  not  forfeit  sense. 
No  actor  ever  greater  heights  could  reach 
In  all  the  labour'd  artifice  of  speech. 

Speech!  Is  that  all? — And  shall  an  actor  found 
A  universal  fame  on  partial  ground  ] 
Parrots  themselves  speak  properly  by  rote. 
And,  in  six  months,  my  dog  shall  howl  by  note. 
I  laugh  at  those,  who  when  the  stage  they  tread 
Neglect  the  heart  to  compliment  the  head ; 
With  strict  propriety  their  care's  confined 
To  weigh  out  words,  while  passion  halts  behind. 
To  syllable-dissectors  they  appeal. 
Allow  them  accent,  cadence, — 'fools  may  feel ; 
But,  spite  of  all  the  criticising  elves. 
Those  who  would  make  us  feel,  must  feel  them- 
selves. 

His  eyes,  in  gloomy  socket  taught  to  roll, 
Proclainfd  the  sullen  habit  of  his  soul. 
Heavy  and  phlegmatic  he  trod  the  stage. 
Too  proud  for  tenderness,  too  dull  for  rage. 
When  Hector's  lovely  widow  shines  in  tears, 
Or  Rowe's  gay  rake  dependent  virtue  jeers, 
With  the  same  cast  of  features  he  is  seen 
To  chide  the  libertine,  and  court  tlie  queen. 
From   the   tame  scene,   which  without  passion 

flows, 
With  just  desert  his  reputation  rose ; 
Nor  less  he  pleased,  when,  on  some  surly  plan, 
He  was,  at  once,  the  actor  and  the  man. 

In  Brute  he  shone  unequall'd :  all  agree 
Garrick's  not  half  so  great  a  brute  as  he. 
When  Cato's  labour'd  scenes  are  brought  to  view, 
With  equal  praise  the  actor  labour'd  too; 
For  still  you'll  find,  trace  passions  to  their  root, 
Small  difference  'twixt  the  stoic  and  the  brute. 
In  fancied  scenes,  as  in  life's  real  plan. 
He  could  not,  for  a  moment,  sink  the  man. 
In  whate'er  cast  his  character  was  laid. 
Self  still,  like  oil,  upon  the  surface  play'd. 
Nature,  in  spite  of  all  his  skill,  crept  in : 
Horatio,  Dorax,  Falstaff". — still  'twas  Quin. 
Next  follows  Sheridan — a  doubtful  name. 
As  yet  unsettled  in  the  rank  of  fame. 
This,  fondly  lavish  in  his  praises  grown. 
Gives  him  all  merit;  that  allows  him  none. 
Between  them  both  we'll  steer  the  middle  course, 
Nor,  loving  praise,  rob  judgment  of  her  force. 

Just  his  conceptions,  natural  and  great: 
His   feelings   strong,   his  words   enforced    with 
weight. 


CHARLES  CHURCHILL. 


608 


Was   speech-famed  Quin  himself  to  hear  him 

speak, 
Envy  would  drive  the  colour  from  his  cheek : 
But  step-dame  nature,  niggard  of  her  grace, 
Denied  the  social  powers  of  voice  and  face. 
Fix'd  in  one  frame  of  features,  glare  of  eye. 
Passions,  like  chaos,  in  confusion  lie; 
In  vain  the  wonders  of  his  skill  are  tried 
To  form  distinctions  nature  hath  denied. 
His  voice  no  touch  of  harmony  admits, 
Irregularly  deep  and  shrill  by  fits : 
The  two  extremes  appear  like  man  and  wife, 
Coupled  together  for  the  sake  of  strife. 

His  action's  always  strong,  but  sometimes  such. 
That  candour  must  declare  he  acts  too  much. 
Why  must  impatience  fall  three  paces  back  1 
Why  paces  three  return  to  the  attack  t 
Why  is  the  right-leg  too  forbid  to  stir, 
Unless  in  motion  semicircular  1 
Why  must  the  hero  with  the  nailor  vie, 
And  hurl  the  close-clench'd  fist  at  nose  or  eyel 
In  royal  John,  with  Philip  angry  grown, 
I  thought  he  would  have  knock'd  poor  Davies 

down. 
Inhuman  tyrant!  was  it  not  a  shame. 
To  fright  a  king  so  harmless  and  so  tame  1 
But  spite  of  all  defects,  his  glories  rise; 
And  art,  by  judgment  form'd,  with  nature  vies : 
Behold  him  sound  the  depth  of  Hubert's  soul. 
Whilst  in  his  own  contending  passions  roll: 
View  the  whole  scene,  with  critic  judgment  scan, 
And  then  deny  him  merit  if  you  can. 
Where  he  falls  short,  'tis  nature's  fault  alone ; 
Where  he  succeeds,  the  merit  's  all  his  own. 

Last  Garrick  came. — Behind  him  throng  a  train 
Of  snarling  critics,  ignorant  as  vain. 

One  finds  out — "He's   of  stature  somewhat 
low — 
Your  hero  always  should  be  tall,  you  know. — 
True  nat'ral  greatness  all  consists  in  height." 
Produce  your  voucher,  critic — "Sergeant  Kite." 

Another  can't  forgive  the  paltry  arts 
By  which  he  makes  his  way  to  shallow  hearts; 
Mere  pieces  of  finesse,  traps  for  applause — 
«<Avaunt,  unnat'ral  start,  affected  pause" 

For  me,  by  nature  form'd  to  judge  with  phlegm, 
I  can't  acquit  by. wholesale,  nor  condemn. 
The  best  things  carried  to  excess  are  wrong : 
The  start  may  be  too  frequent,  pause  too  long; 
But,  only  used  in  proper  time  and  place, 
Severest  judgment  must  allow  them  grace. 

If  bunglers,  form'd  on  imitation's  plan. 
Just  in  the  way  that  monkeys  mimic  man, 
Their  copied  scene  with  mangled  arts  disgrace. 
And  pause  and  start  with  the  same  vacant  face. 
We  join  the  critic  laugh  ;  those  tricks  we  scorn. 
Which  spoil  the  scenes  they  mean  them  to  adorn. 
But  when,  from  nature's  pure  and  genuine  source, 
These  strokes  of  acting  flow  with  gen'rous  force. 
When  in  the  features  all  the  soul 's  portray'd. 
And  passions,  such  as  Garrick's,  are  display 'd, 
To  me  they  seem  from  quickest  feelings  caught ; 
Each  start  is  nature ;  and  each  pause  is  thought 

When  reason  yields  to  passion's  wild  alarms. 
And  the  whole  state  of  man  ia  up  in  arms; 


What  but  a  critic  could  condemn  the  play'r. 
For  pausing  here,  when  cool  sense  pauses  there  ? 
Whilst,  working  from  the  heart,  the  fire  I  trace. 
And  mark  it  strongly  flaming  to  the  face ; 
Whilst,  in  each  sound,  I  hear  the  very  man ; 
I  can't  catch  words,  and  pity  those  who  can. 

Let  wits,  like  spiders,  from  the  tortured  brain 
Fine-draw  the  critic-web  with  curious  pain ; 
The  gods, — a  kindness  I  with  thanks  must  pay, — 
Have  form'd  me  of  a  coarser  kind  of  clay ; 
Nor  stung  with  envy,  nor  with  spleen  diseased, 
A  poor  dull  creature,  still  with  nature  pleased ; 
Hence  to  thy  praises,  Garrick,  I  agree. 
And,  pleased  with  nature,  must  be  pleased  with 
thee. 

Now  might  I  tell,  how  silence  reign'd  throughout, 
And  deep  attention  hush'd  the  rabble  rout! 
How  ev'ry  claimant,  tortured  with  desire. 
Was  pale  as  ashes,  or  as  red  as  fire : 
But,  loose  to  fame,  the  Muse  more  simply  acts, 
Rejects  all  flourish,  and  relates  mere  facts. 

The  judges,  as  the  several  parties  came. 
With  temper  heard,  with  judgment  weigh'd  each 

claim. 
And,  in  their  sentence  happily  agreed. 
In  name  of  both,  great  Shakspeare  thus  decreed. 

"If  manly  sense;  if  nature  link'd  with  art; 
If  thorough  knowledge  of  the  human  heart ; 
If  pow'rs  of  acting  vast  and  unconfined ; 
If  fewest  faults  with  greatest  beauties  join'd; 
If  strong  expression,  and  strange  pow'rs  which  lie 
Within  the  magic  circle  of  the  eye; 
If  feelings  which  few  hearts,  like  his,  can  know. 
And  which  no  face  so  well  as  his  can  show ; 
Deserve  theprePrence; — Garrick,  take  the  chair; 
Nor  quit  it — till  thou  place  an  equal  there." 


FROM  THB  PROPHECY  OF  FAMINE.* 

A  SCOTS  PASTORAL. 

Two  boys,  whose  birth  beyond  all  question  springs 
From  great  and  glorious,  though  forgotten,  kings, 
Shepherds  of  Scottish  lineage,  born  and  bred 
On  the  same  bleak  and  barren  mountain's  head. 
By  niggard  nature  doom'd  on  the  same  rocks 
To  spin  out  life,  and  starve  themselves  and  flocks. 
Fresh  as  the  morning,  which,  enrobed  in  mist. 
The  mountain's  top  with  usual  dulness  kiss'd. 
Jockey  and  Sawney  to  their  labours  rose ; 
Soon  clad,  I  ween,  where  nature  needs  no  clothes. 
Where,  from  their  youth,  inured  to  winter  skies. 
Dress  and  her  vain  refinements  they  despise. 

Jockey,  whose  manly  high-boned  cheeks  to  crowr 
With  freckles  spotted  flamed  the  golden  down. 
With  mickle  art  could  on  the  bagpipes  play, 
E'en  from  the  rising  to  the  setting  day ; 
Sawney  as  long  without  remorse  could  bawl 
Home's  madrigals,  and  ditties  from  Fingal. 


[*  Heartily  as  Churchill  hated  the  Scotch,  ho  was  hlni 
self  of  the  half-bkiocl.  TbiN  appears  from  a  pa^<age  in 
The  Prophecy  of  Ftimiue.  remarkable  alxo  for  containing 
an  equivo<'al  intiiuatiun  tliat  he  hud  renounced  not  onl/ 
his  orders,  but  hl»  belief,  v.  217-231.— SoireHJST's  L{/e  y 
Ootopcr,  vol.  ii.  p.  368.] 


504 


CHARLES  CHURCHILL. 


Oft  at  his  strains,  all  natural  though  rude, 
The  Highland  lass  forgot  her  want  of  food, 
And,  whilst  she  scratch'd  her  lover  into  rest, 
Sunk  pleased,  though  hungry,  on  her  Sawney's 
breast. 

Far  as  the  eye  could  reach,  no  tree  was  seen, 
Earth,  clad  in  russet,  scorn'd  the  lively  green. 
The  plague  of  locusts  they  secure  defy, 
For  in  three  hours  a  grasshopper  must  die. 
No  living  thing,  whate'er  its  food,  feasts  there, 
But  the  cameleon,  who  can  feast  on  air. 
No  birds,  except  as  birds  of  passage,  flew, 
No  bee  was  known  to  hum,  no  dove  to  coo. 
No  streams  as  amber  smooth,  as  amber  clear. 
Were  seen  to  glide,  or  heard  to  warble  here.* 
Rebellion's  spring,  which  through  the  country  ran, 
Furnish'd,  with  bitter  draughts,  the  steady  clan. 
No  flow'rs  embalm'd  the  air  but  one  white  rose, 
M'hich  on  the  tenth  of  June  by  instinct  blows, 
By  instinct  blows  at  morn,  and  when  the  shades 
Of  drizzly  eve  prevail,  by  instinct  fades. 

One,  and  but  one  poor  solitary  cave. 
Too  sparing  of  her  favours,  nature  gave ; 
That  one  alone  (hard  tax  on  Scottish  pride !) 
Shelter  at  once  for  man  and  beast  supplied. 
Their  snares  without  entangling  briars  spread. 
And  thistles,  arm'd  against  th'  invader's  head, 
Stood  in  close  ranks  all  entrance  to  oppose. 
Thistles  now  held  more  precious  than  the  rose. 
All  creatures  which,  on  nature's  earliest  plan, 
Were  form'd  to  loathe,  and  to  be  loathed  by  man, 
Which  owed  their  birth  to  nastiness  and  spite, 
Deadly  to  touch  and  hateful  to  the  sight. 
Creatures,  which  when  admitted  in  the  ark. 
Their  saviour  shunn'd,  and  rankled  in  the  dark. 
Found  place  within  :  marking  her  noisome  road 
With  poison's  trail,  here  crawl'd  the  bloated  toad; 
There  webs  were  spread  of  more  than  common 

size. 
And  half-starved  spiders  prey'd  on  half-starved 

flies; 
In  quest  of  food,  efts  strove  in  vain  to  crawl ; 
Slugs,  pinch'd  with  hunger,  smear'd  the  slimy  wall ; 
The  cave  around  with  hissing  serpents  rung; 
On  the  damp  roof  unhealthy  vapour  hung  ; 
And  Famine,  by  her  children  always  known, 
As  proud  as  poor,  here  fix'd  her  native  throne. 

Here, — for  the  sullen  sky  was  overcast. 
And  summer  shrunk  beneath  a  wint'ry  blast, 
A  native  blast,  which  arm'd  with  hail  and  rain. 
Beat  unrelenting  on  the  naked  swain, — 
The  boys  for  shelter  made;  behind,  the  sheep. 
Of  which  those  shepherds  every  day  take  keep, 
Sickly  crept  on,  and  with  complainings  rude, 
On  nature  seem'd  to  call,  and  bleat  for  food. 

Jock.  Sith  to  this  cave,  by  tempest  we're  con- 
fined. 
And  within  ken  our  flocks,  under  the  wind, 
Safe  from  the  pelting  of  this  perilous  storm, 
Are  iaid  among  yon  thistles,  dry  and  warm, 

[*  The  severity  of  satire  is  in  its  truth ;  and  however 
treeless  her  clime  may  be,  or  cold  her  hills,  or  naked  her 
inhabitants — her  streams  are  as  clear  as  crystal,  and  dauce, 
iind  bicker  to  a  music  all  their  own.] 

[t  Th<j  Pretender's  birth-dfty.] 


What,  Sawney,  if  by  Shepherd's  art  we  try 
To  mock  the  rigour  of  this  cruel  sky  1 
What  if  we  tune  some  merry  roundelay? 
Well  dost  thou  sing,  nor  ill  doth  Jockey  play. 

Saw.  Ah,  Jockey,  ill  advisest  thou,  I  wis, 
To  think  of  songs  at  such  a  time  as  this. 
Sooner  shall  herbage  crown  these  barren  rocks, 
Sooner  shall  fleeces  clothe  these  ragged  flocks. 
Sooner  shall  want  seize  shepherds  of  the  south, 
And  we  forget  to  live  from  hand  to  mouth. 
Than  Sawney,  out  of  season,  shall  impart 
The  songs  of  gladness  with  an  aching  heart. 

Jock.  Still  have  I  known  thee  for  a  silly  swain  : 
Of  things  past  help,  what  boots  it  to  complain  1 
Nothing  but  mirth  can  conquer  fortune's  spite; 
No  sky  is  heavy,  if  the  heart  be  light : 
Patience  is  sorrow's  salve ;  what  can't  be  cured. 
So  Donald  right  areeds,  must  be  endured. 

Saw.  Full  silly  swain,  I  wot,  is  Jockey  now , 
How  didst  thou  bear  thy  Maggy's  falsehood  1  how, 
When  with  a  foreign  loon  she  stole  away. 
Didst  thou  forswear  thy  pipe  and  shepherd's  lay  ] 
Where  was  thy  boasted  wisdom  then,  when  I 
Applied  those  proverbs,  which  you  now  apply  1 

Jock.  O  she  was  bonny !    All  the  Highlands 
Was  there  a  rival  to  my  Maggy  found  1    [round 
Nore  precious  (though  that  precious  is  to  all) 
Than  the  rare  med'cine  which  we  brimstone  call, 
Or  that  choice  plant,  so  grateful  to  the  nose. 
Which  in  I  know  not  what  far  country  grows, 
Was  Maggy  unto  me;  dear  do  I  rue, 
A  lass  so  fair  should  ever  prove  untrue.         [ear. 

Saw.  Whether  with  pipe  or  song  to  charm  the 
Through  all  the  land  did  Jamie  find  a  peer  ] 
Cursed  be  that  year  by  ev'ry  honest  Scot, 
And  in  the  shepherd's  calendar  forgot. 
That  fatal  year,  when  Jamie,  hapless  swain, 
In  evil  hour  forsook  the  peaceful  plain. 
Jamie,  when  our  young  laird  discreetly  fled. 
Was  seized  and  hang'd  till  he  was  dead,  dead, 
dead. 

Jock.  Full  sorely  may  we  all  lament  that  day  ; 
For  all  were  losers  in  the  deadly  fray. 
Five  brothers  had  I  on  the  Scottish  plains, 
Well  dost  thou  know  were  none  more  hopeful 

swains ; 
Five  brothers  there  I  lost,  in  manhood's  pride. 
Two  in  the  field,  and  three  on  gibbets  died  : 
Ah  !  silly  swains,  to  follow  war's  alarms ! 
Ah !  what  hath  shepherds'  life  to  do  with  arms ! 

Saw.  Mention  it  not — There  saw  I  strangers 
In  all  the  honours  of  our  ravish'd  plaid,         [clad 
Saw  the  ferrara  too,  our  nation's  pride. 
Unwilling  grace  the  awkward  victor's  side. 
There  fell  our  choicest  youth,  from  that  day 
Mote  never  Sawney  tune  the  merry  lay ; 
Bless'd  those  which  fell !  cursed  those  which  still 
To  mourn  fifteen  renew'd  in  forty-five,  [survive. 

Thus  plain'd  the  boys,- when  from  her  throne 
of  turf, 
With  boils  emboss'd,  and  overgrown  with  scurf. 
Vile  humours,  which,  in  life's  corrupted  well, 
Mix'd  at  the  birth,  not  abstinence  could  quell, 
Pale  Famine  rear'd  the  head :  her  eager  eyes, 
Where  hunger  ev'n  to  madness  seem'd  to  rise, 


ROBERT  DODSLEY. 


505 


Speaking  aloud  her  throes  and  pangs  of  heart, 
Strain'd  to  get  loose,  and  from  their  orbs  to  start; 
Her  hollow  cheeks  were  each  a  deep-sunk  cell, 
Where  wretchedness  and  horror  loved  to  dwell ; 
With  double  rows  of  useless  teeth  supplied, 
Her  mouth,  from  ear  to  ear,  extended  wide, 
Which,  when  for  want  of  food  her  entrails  pined, 
She  oped,  and,  cursing,  swallow'd  naught  but 

wind ; 
All  shrivell'd  was  her  skin,  and  here  and  there 
Making  their  way  by  force,  her  bones  lay  bare : 
Such  filthy  sight  to  hide  from  human  view. 
O'er  her  foul  limbs  a  tatter'd  plaid  she  threw. 
Cease,   cried   the   goddess,   cease    despairing 

swains. 
And  from  a  parent  hear  what  Jove  ordains ! 

Pent  in  this  barren  corner  of  the  isle, 
Where  partial  fortune  never  deign'd  to  smile; 
Like  Nature's  bastards,  reaping  for  our  share 
What  was  rejected  by  the  lawful  heir; 
Unknown  among  the  nations  of  the  earth. 
Or  only  known  to  raise  contempt  and  mirth  ; 
Long  free,  because  the  race  of  Roman  braves 
Thought  it  not  worth  their  while  to  make  us 

t        slaves, 
Then  into  bondage  by  that  nation  brought, 
Whose  ruin  we  for  ages  vainly  sought ; 
Whom  still  with   unslack'd   hate  we  view,  and 

still. 
The  pow'r  of  mischief  lost,  retain  the  will ; 
Consider'd  as  the  refuse  of  mankind, 
A  mass  till  the  last  moment  left  behind. 
Which  frugal  nature  doubted,  as  it  lay. 
Whether  to  stamp  with  life,  or  throw  away; 
Which,  form'd  in  haste,  was  planted  in  this  nook, 
But  never  enter'd  in  creation's  book ; 
Branded  as  traitors,  who  for  love  of  gold 
Would  sell  their  God,  as  once  their  king  they 

sold ; 
Long  have  we  born  this  mighty  weight  of  ill. 
These  vile  injurious  taunts,  and  bear  them  still. 
But  times  of  happier  note  are  now  at  hand. 
And  the  full  promise  of  a  better  land : 


There,  like  the  sons  of  Israel,  having  trod, 
For  the  fix'd  term  of  years  ordain'd  by  God, 
A  barren  desert,  we  shall  seize  rich  plains, 
Where  milk  with  honey  flows,  and  plenty  reigns. 
With  some  few  natives  join'd,  some  pliant  few, 
Who  worship  int'rest  and  our  track  pursue, 
There  ^  shall  we,   though    the   wretched   people 

grieve. 
Ravage  at  large,  nor  ask  the  owner's  leave. 

For  us,  the  earth  shall  bring  forth  her  increase 
For  us,  the  flocks  shall  wear  a  golden  fleece  ; 
Fat  beeves  shall  yield  us  dainties  not  our  own, 
And  the  grape  bleed  a  nectar  yet  unknown  ; 
For  our  advantage  shall  their  harvests  grow. 
And  Scotsmen  reap  what  they  disdain 'd  to  sow ; 
For  us,  the  sun  shall  climb  the  eastern  hill ; 
For  us,  the  rain  shall  fall,  the  dew  distil ; 
When  to  our  wishes  nature  cannot  rise. 
Art  shall  be  task'd  to  grant  us  fresh  supplies. 
His  brawny  arm  shall  drudging  labour  strain, 
And  for  our  pleasure  suffer  daily  pain  ; 
Trade  shall  for  us  exert  her  utmost  pow'rs,  ' 
Hers  all  the  toil,  and  all  the  profit  ours ; 
For  us,  the  oak  shall  from  his  native  steep 
Descend,  and  fearless  travel  through  the  deep ; 
The  sail  of  commerce,  for  our  use  unfurl'd, 
Shall  waft  the  treasures  of  each  distant  world ; 
For  us,  sublimer  heights  shall  science  reach. 
For  us  their  statesmen   plot,  their  churchmen 

preach ; 
Their  noblest  limbs  of  counsel  we'll  disjoint, 
And,  mocking,  new  ones  of  our  own  appoint; 
Devouring  War,  imprison'd  in  the  north. 
Shall,  at  our  call,  in  horrid  pomp  break  forth. 
And   when,   his   chariot   wheels   with   thunder 

bung. 
Fell  Discord  braying  with  her  brazen  tongue, 
Death  in  the  van,  with  Anger,  Hate  and  Fear, 
And  Desolation  stalking  in  the  rear. 
Revenge,  by  Justice  guided,  in  his  train. 
He  drives  impetuous  o'er  the  trembling  plain, 
Shall  at  our  bidding,  quit  his  lawful  prey, 
And  to  meek,  gentle,  gen'rous  Peace  give  way. 


ROBEET  DODSLEY. 


CBorn,  ITOS.     Died,  1764.] 


It  is  creditable  to  the  memory  of  Pope  to  have 
been  the  encourager  of  this  ingenious  man,  who 
rose  from  the  situation  of  a  footman  to  be  a  very 
eminent  bookseller.     His  plan  of  republishing 


«  Old  English  Plays"  is  said  to  have  been  sug- 
gcsted  to  him  by  the  literary  amateur  Coxeter  • 
but  the  execution  of  it  leaves  us  still  indebted  U> 
Dodsley's  enterprise. 


SONG. 
Man's  a  poor  deluded  bubble, 

Wand'ring  in  a  mist  of  lies. 
Seeing  false,  or  seeing  double  ; 

Who  would  trust  to  such  weak  eyes  1 


Yet  presuming  on  his  senses, 

On  he  goes,  most  wondrous  wim. 

Doubts  of  truth,  lielieves  pretences 
Lost  in  error,  lives  and  die-<. 
2S 


506 


ROBERT  LLOYD. 


SONG. 


THE  PARTINa  KISS. 


One  kind  kiss  before  we  part, 
Drop  a  tear  and  bid  adieu : 

Though  we  sever,  my  fond  heart 
Till  we  meet  shall  pant  for  you. 


Yet,  yet  weep  not  so,  my  love, 
Let  me  kiss  that  falling  tear, 

Though  my  body  must  remove, 
All  my  soul  will  still  be  here. 

All  my  soul,  and  all  my  heart. 
And  every  wish  shall  pant  for  you ; 

One  kind  kiss  then  ere  we  part, 
Drop  a  tear  and  bid  adieu. 


ROBERT  LLOYD. 


[Born,  1733.    Died,  1764  ] 


Robert  Lloyd  was  the  son  of  one  of  the 
masters  of  Westminster  school.  He  studied  at 
Cambridge,  and  was  for  some  time  usher  at  West- 
minster, but  forsook  that  employment  for  the  life 
of  an  author  and  the  habits  of  a  man  of  plea- 
sure. His  first  publication  that  attracted  any 
notice  was  the  "  Actor,"  the  reputation  of  which 
stimulated  Churchill  to  his  "  Rosciad."  He  con- 
tributed to  several  periodical  works;  but  was 
unable  by  his  literary  efforts  to  support  the  dis- 
sipated life  which  he  led  with  Colman,  Thornton, 
and  other  gay  associates.  His  debts  brought  him 
to  the  Fleet ;  and  those  companions  left  him  to 


moralize  on  the  instability  of  convivial  friend- 
ships. Churchill,  however,  adhered  to  him,  and 
gave  him  pecuniary  relief  to  prevent  him  from 
starving  in  prison.  During  his  confinement  he 
published  a  volume  of  his  poems ;  wrote  a  comic 
opera,  "  The  Capricious  Lovers ;"  and  took  a 
share  in  translating  the  Contes  Moraux  of  Mar- 
montel.  When  the  death  of  Churchill  was  an- 
nounced to  him,  he  exclaimed,  "  I  shall  follow 
poor  Charles !"  fell  into  despondency,  and  died 
within  a  few  weeks.  Churchill's  sister,  to  whom 
he  was  betrothed,  died  of  a  broken  heart  for  his 
loss.* 


CHIT  CHAT.    AN  IMITATION  OF  THEOCRITUS. 
Idill.  XV.  'Ei/SoT  ripaftfrfa,  &c. 

Sirs,  B.  Is  Mistress  Scot  at  home,  my  dear  1 

Sen).  Ma'am,  is  it  you  1  I'm  glad  you're  here. 
My  missess,  though  resolved  to  wait, 
Is  quite  unpatient — 'tis  so  late. 
She  fancied  you  would  not  come  down, 
— But  pray  walk  in,  ma'am — Mrs.  Brown. 

Mrs.  S.  Your  servant,  madam.    Well,  I  swear 
I'd  given  you  over. — Child,  a  chair. 
Pray,  ma'am,  be  seated. 

Mrs.  B.  Lard  !  my  dear, 

I  vow  I'm  almost  dead  with  fear. 
There  is  such  a  scrouging  and  such  squeeging, 
The  folks  are  all  so  disobliging ; 
And  then  the  wagons,  carts,  and  drays 
So  clog  up  all  these  narrow  ways. 
What  with  the  bustle  and  the  throng, 
I  wonder  how  I  got  along. 
Besides,  the  walk  is  so  immense — 
Not  that  I  grudge  a  coach  expense. 
But  then  it  jumbles  me  to  death, 
— And  I  was  always  short  of  breath. 
How  can  you  live  so  far,  my  dearl 
Its  quite  a  journey  to  come  here. 

Mrs.  S.  Lard !  ma'am,  I  left  it  all  to  him, 
Husbands,  you  know,  will  have  their  whim. 
He  took  this  house. — This  house  !  this  den. — 
See  but  the  temper  of  some  men. 
And  I,  forsooth,  am  hither  hurld, 
To  live  quite  out  of  all  the  world. 
Husband,  uideed ! 


Mr$.  B.  Hist !  lower,  pray, 

The  child  hears  every  word  you  say. 
See  how  he  looks — 

Mrs.  S.  Jacky,  come  here, 

There's  a  good  boy,  look  up,  my  dear. 
'Twas  not  papa  we  talk'd  about. 
— Surely  he  cannot  find  it  out. 

Mrs.  B.  See  how  the  urchin  holds  his  hands ! 
Upon  my  life  he  understands. 
— There's  a  sweet  child,  come,  kiss  me,  come, 
Will  Jacky  have  a  sugar-plum  1 

Mrs.  S.  This  person,  madam,  (call  him  so 
And  then  the  child  will  never  know,) 
From  house  to  house  would  ramble  out, 
And  every  night  a  drunken-bout. 
For  at  a  tavern  he  will  spend 
His  twenty  shillings  with  a  friend. 
Your  rabbits  fricasseed  and  chicken, 
With  curious  choice  of  dainty  picking, 
Each  night  got  ready  at  the  Crown, 
With  port  and  punch  to  wash  'em  down, 
Would  scarcely  serve  this  belly-glutton, 
Whilst  we  must  starve  on  mutton,  mutton. 

Mrs,  B.  My   good   man,   too — Lord  bless  us . 
Are  born  to  lead  unhappy  lives,  [wives 

Although  his  profits  bring  him  clear 
Almost  two  hundred  pounds  a  year, 


[•  To  Lloyd  and  Churchill,  Mr.  Southey  has  given,  in 
his  Life  of  Cowper,  an  undue  though  interesting  im- 
portance. 

Lloyd's  best  productions  are  his  two  Odes,  to  Obscurity 
and  Oblivion,  written  in  ridicule  of  Gray;  and  in  which 
the  elder  Colmau  bad  an  uncertain  share.] 


zif 


ROBERT 

LLOYD.                                                         507 

Keeps  me  of  cash  so  short  and  bare, 

Call  in  the  dog,  and  shut  the  door. 

That  I  have  not  a  gown  to  wear  ; 

Now,  ma'am. 

Except  my  robe,  and  yellow  sack, 

Mrs.  B.     Oh  lard  ! 

And  this  old  lutestring  on  my  back. 

Mrs.  S.                    Fray  go  before. 

— But  we've  no  time,  my  dear,  to  waste. 

Mrs.  B.  I  can't  indeed,  now. 

Come,  where's  your  cardinal  1  make  haste. 

Mrs.  S.                                    Madam,  pray. 

•    The  king.  God  bless  his  majesty,  I  say, 

^lrs.  B.  Well  then,  for  once,  I'll  lead  the  way. 

Goes  to  the  house  of  lords  to-day. 

Mrs.  S.  Lard!  what  an  uproar!  what  a  throng! 

In  a  fine  painted  coach-and-eight. 

How  shall  we  do  to  get  along? 

And  rides  along  in  all  his  state. 

What  will  become  of  us  ? — look  here. 

And  then  the  queen — 

Here's  all  the  king's  horse-guards,  my  dear. 

Mrs.  S.                       Ay,  ay,  you  know, 

Let  us  cross  over — haste,  be  quick. 

Great  folks  can  always  make  a  show. 

— Pray,  sir,  take  care — your  horse  will  kick. 

But  tell  me,  do — I've  never  seen 

He'll  kill  his  rider — he's  so  wild. 

Her  present  majesty,  the  queen. 

— I'm  glad  I  did  not  brinif  the  child. 

Mrs.  B.  Lard !  we've  no  time  for  talking  now. 

Mrs.  B.  Don't  be  afraid,  my  dear,  come  on ; 

Hark  ! — one — two — three — 'tis  twelve  I  vow. 

Why  don't  you  see  the  guards  are  gone? 

Mrs.  S.  Kitty,  my  things, — I'll  soon  have  done; 

Mrs.  S.  Well,  I  begin  to  draw  my  breath; 

It's  time  enough,  you  know,  at  one. 

But  I  was  almost  scared  to  death ; 

—  Why,  girl!  see  how  the  creature  stands ! 

For  where  a  horse  rears  up  and  capers, 

Some  water  here  to  wash  my  hands. 

It  always  puts  me  in  the  vapours. 

— Be  quick — why  sure  the  gipsy  sleeps! 

For  as  I  live, — nay,  don't  you  laugh. 

— Look  how  the  drawling  dawdle  creeps. 

I'd  rather  see  a  toad  by  half; 

That  basin  there — why  don't  you  pour] 

They  kick  and  prance,  and  look  so  bold, 

Go  on,  I  say — stop,  stop — no  more — 

It  makes  my  very  blood  run  cold. 

Lud !  I  could  beat  the  hussy  down, 

But  let's  go  forward — come,  be  quick, 

She's  pour'd  it  ail  upon  my  gown, 

The  crowd  again  grows  vastly  thick. 

— Bring  me  my  ruffles — canst  not  mindl 

Mrs.  B.  Come  you  from  Palace-yard,  old  dame  1 

And  pin  my  handkerchief  behind. 

Old  Woman.  Troth, do  I,  my  young  ladies,  why? 

Sure  thou  hast  awkwardness  enough, 

Mrs.  B.  Was  it  much  crowded  when  you  came? 

Go — fetch  my  gloves,  and  fan,  and  muff. 

Mrs.  S.  And  is  his  Majesty  gone  by  ? 

— Well,  heaven  be  praised — this  work  is  dope, 

Mrs.  B.  Can  we  get  in,  old  lady,  pray. 

Im  ready  now,  my  dear — let's  run. 

To  see  him  robe  himself  to-day  ? 

Girl, — put  that  bottle  on  the  shelf. 

.1  rs.  S.  Can  you  direct  us,  dame? 

And  bring  me  back  the  key  yourself. 

Old  Woman.                                     Endeavour. 

Mrs.  B.  That  clouded  silk  becomes  you  much, 

Troy  could  not  stand  a  siege  for  ever. 

I  wonder  how  you  meet  with  such. 

By  frequent  trying,  Troy,  was  won. 

But  you've  a  charming  taste  in  dress. 

All  things,  by  trying,  may  be  done. 

What  might  it  cost  you,  madam  1 

Mrs.  B.  Go  thy  ways,  Proverbs — well,    she'? 

Mrs.  S.                                         Guess. 

Shall  we  turn  back,  or  venture  on  ?          [gono-- 

Mrs.  B.  Oh!  that's  impossible — for  I 

Look  how  the  folks  press  on  before. 

Am  in  the  world  the  worst  to  buy. 

And  throng  impatient  at  the  door. 

Mrs.  S.  I  never  love  to  bargain  hard. 

Mrs.  S.  Perdigious  !  I  can  hardly  stand. 

Five  shillings,  as  I  think,  a  yard. 

Lord  bless  me,  Mrs.  Brown,  your  hand  ; 

— I  was  afraid  it  should  be  gone — 

And  you.  my  dear,  take  hold  of  hers, 

'Twas  what  I'd  set  my  heart  upon. 

For  we  must  stick  as  close  as  burrs. 

Mrs.  B.  Indeed  you  bargain'd  with  success. 

Or  in  this  racket,  noise,  and  pother. 

For  it's  a  most  delightful  dress. 

We  certainly  shall  lose  each  other. 

Besides,  it  fits  you  to  a  hair. 

Good  God  !  my  cardinal  and  sack 

And  then  'tis  sloped  with  such  an  air. 

Are  almost  torn  from  off  my  back. 

Mrs.  S.  I'm  glad  you  think  so, — Kitty,  here, 

Lard,  I  shall  faint — 0  lud — my  breast— 

Bring  me  my  cardinal,  my  dear. 

I'm  crush'd  to  atoms,  I  protest. 

Jacky,  my  love,  nay  don't  you  cry, 

God  bless  me — I  have  dropp'd  my  fan, 

Take  you  abroad!  Indeed  not  I; 

Pray,  did  you  see  it,  honest  man  ? 

For  all  the  bugaboes  to  fright  ye — 

Man.  I,  madam,  no ! — indeed,  I  fear 

Besides,  the  naughty  horse  will  bite  ye; 

You'll  meet  with  some  misfortune  here. 

With  such  a  mob  about  the  street, 

— Stand  back,  I  say — pray,  sir,  forbear- 

Bless  me,  they'll  tread  you  under  feet ! 

Why,  don't  you  see  the  ladies  there  ? 

Whine  as  you  please,  I'll  have  no  blame. 

Put  yourselves  under  my  direction. 

You'd  better  blubber  than  be  lame. 

Ladies,  I'll  be  your  safe  protection. 

Kitty,  I  say,  here,  take  the  boy. 

Mrs.  S.  You're  very  kind,  sir ;  truly  f«»« 

And  fetch  him  down  the  last  new  toy. 

Are  half  so  complaisant  as  you. 

Make  him  as  merry  as  you  can. 

We  shall  be  glad  at  any  day 

There,  go  to  Kitty — there's  a  man. 

This  obligation  to  repay. 

508 


DAVID  MALLET. 


And  you'll  be  always  sure  to  meet 
A  welcome,  sir,  in — i^ard  !  the  street 
Bears  such  a  name,  I  can't  tell  how 
To  tell  him  where  I  live,  I  vow. 
— Mercy  !  what's  all  this  noise  and  stir  1 
Pray  is  *he  king  a  coming,  sir? 

Mail.  No — don't  you  hear  the  people  shout  ? 
'Tis  Mr.  Pitt,  just  going  out. 

Mrs.  B.  Ay,  there  he  goes,  pray  heaven  bless 
Well  may  the  people  all  caress  him.  [him  1 

— Lord,  how  my  husband  used  to  sit, 
And  drink  success  to  honest  Pitt, 
And  happy,  o'er  his  evening  cheer, 
Cry,  "  you  shall  pledge  this  toast,  ray  dear." 

Man.  Hist — silence — don't  you  hear  the  drum- 
Now,  ladies,  now,  the  king's  a  coming,  [ming  1 
There,  don't  you  see  the  guards  approach  ] 

Mrs.  B.  Which  is  the  king? 

Mrs.  S.  Which  is  the  coach  1 

Scotchman.  Which  is  the  noble  earl  of  Bute  1 
Geud-faith,  I'll  gi  him  a  salute. 
For  he's  the  Laird  of  aw  our  clan, 
Troth  he's  a  bonny  miirkle  man. 

Man.  Here  conies  the  coach  so  very  slow 
As  if  it  ne'er  was  made  to  go, 
In  all  the  gingerbread  of  state, 
And  staggering  under  its  own  weight. 

Mrs.  S.  Upon  my  word,  its  monstrous  fine ! 
Would  half  the  gold  upon  't  were  mine ! 
How  gaudy  all  the  gilding  shows ! 
It  puts  one's  eyes  out  as  it  goes. 
What  a  rich  glare  of  various  hues. 
What  shining  yellows,  scarlets,  blues  ! 
It  must  have  cost  a  heavy  price ; 
'Tis  like  a  mountain  drawn  by  mice. 

Mrs.  B.  So  painted,  gilded,  and  so  large. 
Bless  me!   'tis  like  my  lord  mayor's  barge. 
And  so  it  is — look  how  it  reel^ ! 
'Tis  nothing  else — a  barge  on  wheels. 

31uii.  Large!  it  can't  pass  St.  James's  gate, 
So  big  the  coach,  the  arch  so  strait. 
It  might  be  made  to  rumble  through 
And  pass  aa  other  coaches  do, 


Could  they  a  body-coachmen  get 
So  most  preposterously  fit, 
Who'd  undertake  (and  no  rare  thing) 
Without  a  head  to  drive  the  king. 

Mrs.  S.  Lard  !  what  are  those  two  ugly  tilings 
There — with  their  hands  upon  the  springs, 
Filthy,  as  ever  eyes  beheld, 
With  naked  breasts,  and  faces  swell'd  1 
What  could  the  saucy  maker  mean, 
To  put  such  things  to  fright  the  queen  ? 

Man.  Oh  !  they  are  gods,  ma'am,  which  you  see, 
Of  the  Marine  Society, 
Tritons,  which  in  the  ocean  dwell, 
And  only  rise  to  blow  their  shell. 

Mrs.  S.  Gods  d'ye  call  those  filthy  men  ' 
Why  don't  they  go  to  sea  again  1 
Pray,  tell  me,  sir,  you  understand. 
What  do  these  Tritons  do  on  land? 

Mrs.  B.  And  what  are  they  1  those  hindmost 
things, 
Men,  fish,  and  birds,  with  flesh,  scales,  wings  1 

Mati.  Oh,  they  are  gods  too,  like  the  others, 
All  of  one  family  and  brothers ; 
Creatures,  which  seldom  come  ashore, 
Nor  seen  about  the  king  before. 
For  show,  they  wear  the  yellow  hue, 
Their  proper  colour  is  true-blue. 

Mrs.  S.  Lord  bless  us !  what's  this  noise  about  1 
Lord,  what  a  tumult  and  a  rout ! 
How  the  folks  hollow,  hiss,  and  hoot ! 
Well — Heaven  preserve  the  Earl  of  Bute  ! 
I  cannot  stay,  indeed,  not  I, 
If  there's  a  riot  I  shall  die. 
Let's  make  for  any  house  we  can, 
Do — give  us  shelter,  honest  man. 

Mrs.  B.  I  wonder'd  where  you  was,  my  dear, 
I  thought  I  should  have  died  with  fear. 
This  noise  and  racketing  and  hurry 
Has  put  my  nerves  in  such  a  flurry  ! 
I  could  not  think  where  you  was  got, 
I  thought  I'd  lost  you,  Mrs.  Scot; 
Where's  Mrs.  Tape,  and  Mr.  Grini 
Lard,  I'm  so  glad  we're  all  got  in. 


DAVID  MALLET. 


[Born,  1700.    Died,  1765.] 


Of  Mallet's  birth-place  and  family  nothing  is 
certainly  known;  but  Dr.  Johnson's  account  of 
his  descent  from  the  sanguinary  clan  of  Mac 
Gregor  is  probably  not  much  better  founded 
than  what  he  tells  us  of  his  being  janitor  to 
the  High-School  of  Edinburgh.  That  officer  has, 
from  time  immemorial,  lived  in  a  small  house  at 
the  gate  of  the  school,  of  which  he  sweeps  the 
floors,    and    rings    the    bell.*       Mallet,    at    the 

[*  And  is  an  office  always  intrusted,  we  believe,  to  men 
technically  called  up  in  ye::rs.] 

[t  He  had  no  fixed  salary  at  -Jlr.  Home's ;  at  the  Duke 
of  Monlro.-e's  his  eiicouratrenieut  wo,*  an  allow;ince  yearly 
of  thirty  pounds.  He  v/aa  edu(  ated  at  Aberdeen  under 
k^olessoi  Ker,  tbrouirh  whose  inliuence  Mr.  Sjcott  so  suo- 


alleged  time  of  his  being  thus  employed,  was 
private  tutor  in  the  family  of  Mr.  Home,  of  Dreg- 
horn,  near  Edinburgh.  By  a  Mr.  Scott  he  was 
recommended  to  be  tutor  to  the  sons  of  the  Duke 
of  Montrose,  and  after  travelling  on  the  Conti- 
nent with  his  pupils,  and  returning  to  London, 
made  his  way,  according  to  Dr.  Johnson,  into 
the  society  of  wits,  nobles,  and  statesmen,  by  the 
influence  of  the  family  in  which  he  had  lived.f 

cessfuUy  interested  himself  ahout  him.  Mallet  left  Edin- 
burgh for  London  in  August,  172;i,  and  did  not  po  abroad 
with  Iho  Montrose  fi.mily.  lie  had  fraiued  the  frieiid>bip 
of  Vount;  in  1725,  and  in  17-6  had  changed  his  ni:me  from 
Malio(h  to  Mnllet,  for  he  found  no  Englishmen  who  could 
pronounce  the  original.] 


DAVID  MALLET. 


609 


Perhaps  the  mere  situation  of  a  nobleman's  tutor 
would  not  have  gained  such  access  to  a  diffi- 
dent man ;  but  Mallet's  manners  and  talents 
were  peculiarly  fitted  to  make  their  way  in  the 
world.  His  ballad  of  "  WilUam  and  Margaret," 
in  1724,  first  brought  him  into  notice.  He  be- 
came intimate  with  Pope,  and  had  so  much 
celebrity  in  his  day  as  to  be  praised  in  rhyme 
both  by  Savage  and  Lord  Chesterfield.  In  time 
[June,  1742]  he  was  appointed  under-secretary 
to  the  Prince  of  Wales.  Some  of  his  letters  in 
the  earlier  part  of  his  life  express  an  interest  and 


friendship  for  the  poet  Thomson,  which  do  honour 
to  his  heart ;  but  it  cannot  be  disguised  that  his 
general  history  exhibits  more  address  than  prin- 
ciple, and  his  literary  career  is  unimportant. 
Some  years  before  his  death  he  was  appointed 
keeper  of  the  book  of  entries  for  the  port  of 
London,  and  enjoyed  a  pension  for  an  address 
to  the  public,  which  contributed  to  hasten  the 
execution  of  Byng — a  fact  for  which,  if  true, 
his  supposed  ancestors,  the  MacGregors,  might 
have  been  ashamed  to  acknowledge  him.* 


WILLIAM  AND  MARQARET. 

'TwAS  at  the  silent,  solemn  hour 
When  night  and  morning  meet;t 

In  glided  Margaret's  grimly  ghost, 
And  stood  at  William's  feet. 

Her  face  was  like  an  April-mom, 

Clad  in  a  wintry  cloud; 
And  clay-cold  was  her  lily  hand. 

That  held  her  sable  shroud. 

So  shall  the  fairest  face  appear, 

When  youth  and  years  are  flown : 

Such  is  the  robe  that  kings  must  wear, 
When  death  has  reft  their  crown. 

Her  bloom  was  like  the  springing  flower. 

That  sips  the  silver  dew ; 
The  rose  was  budded  in  her  cheek, 

Just  opening  to  the  view. 

But  love  had,  like  the  canker-worm, 

Consumed  her  early  prime  : 
The  rose  grew  pale,  and  left  her  cheek ; 

She  died  before  her  time. 

"  Awake  !"  she  cried,  "  thy  true  love  calls, 
Come  from  her  midnight-grave; 

Now  let  thy  pity  hear  the  maid, 
Thy  love  refused  to  save. 

"This  is  the  dumb  and  dreary  hour. 
When  injured  ghosts  complain  ; 

When  yawning  graves  give  up  their  dead. 
To  haunt  the  faithless  swain. 

«<  Bethink  thee,  William,  of  thy  fault, 

Thy  pledge  and  broken  oath  ! 
And  give  me  back  my  maiden-vow, 

And  give  me  back  my  troth. 

«  Why  did  you  promise  love  to  me, 
And  not  that  promise  keep  ] 

[•  Thig  aoooant  is  very  mcigre,  and  Mallet's  life  deserves 
to  be  written  iit  some  length ;  for  it  would  afford  a  curious 
liLstor)'.  8uch  as  literary  lives  too  Huldom  offer.  The  mate- 
riali,  though  scattered,  are  various  and  ample.  It  was 
to  Mallet's  bouse  that  Gibbon  the  historian  went  after  his 
removal  from  College. 

Mallet  is  the  only  instance  of  an  author  who  has  written 
so  much  and  so  variedly,  and  at  such  different  periotls  of 
life,  whoso  first  prcxlnctiotis  are  still  considered  his  best. 
William  and  Margui-ot  is  indeed  a  beautiful  ballad,  and 


Why  did  you  swear  my  eyes  were  bright, 
Yet  leave  those  eyes  to  weep  ? 

"  How  could  you  say  my  face  was  fair, 

And  yet  that  face  forsake  ? 
How  could  you  win  my  virgin-heart. 

Yet  leave  that  heart  to  break  1 

"  Why  did  you  say  my  lip  was  sweet, 

And  made  the  scarlet  pale  1 
And  why  did  I,  young  witless  maid! 

Believe  the  flattering  tale? 

"  That  face,  alas  !  no  more  is  fair. 

Those  lips  no  linger  red  : 
Dark  are  my  eyes,  now  closed  in  death, 

And  every  charm  is  fled. 

«« The  hungry  worm  my  sister  is ; 

This  winding-sheet  I  wear : 
And  cold  and  weary  lasts  our  night, 

Till  that  last  morn  appear. 

<<  But,  hark  !  the  cock  has  wam'd  me  hence ; 

A  long  and  late  adieu  ! 
Come,  see,  false  man,  how  low  she  lies, 

Who  died  for  love  of  you." 

The  lark  sung  loud ;  the  morning  smUed, 

With  beams  of  rosy  red : 
Pale  William  quaked  in  every  limb, 

And  raving  left  his  bed. 

He  hied  him  to  the  fatal  place 

Where  Margaret's  body  lay  ; 
And  stretch'd  him  on  the  green-grass  turf, 

That  wrapp'd  her  breathless  clay. 

And  thrice  he  call'd  on  Margaret's  name. 

And  thrice  he  wept  full  sore; 
Then  laid  his  cheek  to  her  cold  gra>e. 

And  word  spake  never  more  ! 

the  Banks  of  Endcrmay,  another  early  attempt,  very  ele- 
gant and  vnry  plca^^iMg.! 

[t  The  lAO  introiluctory  lines,  says  Percy,  (and  one  or 
two  others  elsewhere)  had  originally  more  of  the  ballad 
g'.mplicity,  vix. 

'  When  all  was  wrapt  in  dark  midntf;ht, 
And  all  were  liist  lu^Ieep,  &c. 
For  a  rhanuter  of  Mallet's  Imllads.  see  Scott's  Knsav  on 
Imitations,  P,«t.  W.rkt,  vol.  Iv.  p.  -Si.     The  l..illrd  l«f)re 
us  Percy  has  ealleii  one  of  the  most  beautiful  ballads  in 
our  own  or  any  languaK*.    Jid.  vol.  Ui.  p.  Ibfi.J 


610 


EDWARD   YOUNG. 


SONG. 
The  smiling  morn,  the  breathing  spring, 
Invite  the  tuneful  birds  to  sing, 
And  while  they  warble  from  each  spray, 
Love  melts  the  universal  lay. 
Let  us,  Amanda,  timely  wise, 
Like  them  improve  the  hour  that  flies, 
And  in  soft  raptures  waste  the  day 
Among  the  shades  of  Enderraay. 


For  soon  the  winter  of  the  year. 
And  age,  life's  winter,  will  appear ; 
At  this,  thy  living  bloom  will  fade, 
As  that  will  strip  the  vernal  shade. 
Our  taste  of  pleasure  then  is  o'er. 
The  feather'd  songsters  love  no  more ; 
And  when  they  droop,  and  we  decay, 
Adieu  the  shades  of  Endermay. 


EDWARD  YOUNG. 


[Born,  leei.    Died,  1766.] 


Young's  satires  have  at  least  the  merit  of  con- 
laining  a  number  of  epigrams,  and  as  they 
appeared  rather  earlier  than  those  of  Pope,  they 
may  boast  of  having  afforded  that  writer  some 
degree  of  example.  Swift's  opinion  of  them, 
however,  seems  not  to  have  been  unjust,  that 
they  should  have  either  been  more  merry  or 
more  angry.*  One  of  his  tragedies  is  still 
popular  on  the  stage ;  and  his  Night  Thoughts 
have  many  admirers  both  at  home  and  abroad. 
Of  his  lyrical  poetry  he  had  himself  the  good 
sense  to  think  but  indifferently.  In  none  of  his 
works  is  he  more  sjnrited  and  amusing  than  in 
his  Essay  on  Original  Composition,  written  at 
the  age  of  eighty. 

The  Night  Thoughts  have  been  translated  into 
more  than  one  foreign  language;  and  it  is  usual 
for  foreigners  to  regard  them  as  eminently 
characteristic  of  the  peculiar  temperament  of 
English  genius.  Madame  de  Stael  has  indeed 
gravely  deduced  the  genealogy  of  our  national 
melancholy  from  Ossian  and  the  Northern  Scalds, 
down  to  Dr.  Young.  Few  Englishmen,  however, 
will  probably  be  disposed  to  recognise  the  author 
of  the  Night  Thoughts  as  their  national  poet  by 
way  of  eminence.  His  devotional  gloom  is  more 
in  the  spirit  of  St.  Francis  of  Asisium  than  of  an 
English  divine:  and  his  austerity  is  blended  with 
a  vein  of  whimsical  conceit  that  is  still  more  un- 
like the  plainness  of  English  character.  The 
Night  Thoughts  certainly  contain  many  splendid 
and  happy  Conceptions,  but  their  beauty  is  thickly 
marred  by  false  wit  and  overlaboured  antithesis: 
indeed  his  whole  ideas  seem  to  have  been  in  a 
state  of  antithesis  while  he  composed  the  poem. 
One  portion  of  his  fancy  appears  devoted  to 
aggravate  the  picture  of  his  desolate  feelings,  and 
the  other  half  to  contradict  that  picture  by 
eccentric  images  and  epigrammatic  ingenuities. 
As  a  poet  he  was  fond  of  exaggeration,  but  it 
was  that  of  the  fancy  more  than  of  the  heart. 
This  appears  no  less  in  the  noisy  hyperboles  of 

[*  The  Universal  Passion  is  indeed  a  very  great  perform- 
ance.    It  is  said  to  he  a  scries  of  epigrfims. 

Young's  species  of  satire  is  l>et\veen  ttiose  of  Horace  and 
Juvenal ;  and  he  has  the  payety  of  Horace  without  his  laxity 
of  numbers,  and  the  morality  of  Juvenal  with  (!:rentcr 
▼nriation  of  imajres.  He  plays  inUewd  only  on  the  surface 
of  life:  he  never  penetrattw  the  recosses  of  ihe  mind,  and 
therefore  tho  whole  power  of  hig  poetry  is  exhausted  by 


his  tragedies,  than  in  the  studied  melancholy  of 
the  Night  Thoughts,  in  which  he  pronounces  the 
simple  act  of  laughter  to  be  half  immoral.  That 
he  was  a  pious  man,  and  had  felt  something  from 
the  afflictions  described  in  the  Complaint,  need 
not  be  called  in  question,t  but  he  seems  cove- 
nanting with  himself  to  be  as  desolate  as  possible, 
as  if  he  had  continued  the  custom  ascribed  to 
him  at  college,  of  studying  with  a  candle  stuck  in 
a  human  skull ;  while,  at  the  same  time,  the 
feelings  and  habits  of  a  man  of  the  world,  which 
still  adhere  to  him,  throw  a  ^singular  contrast 
over  his  renunciations  of  human  vanity.  He 
abjures  the  world  in  witty  metaphors,  commences 
his  poem  with  a  sarcasm  on  sleep,  deplores  his 
being  neglected  at  court,  compliments  a  lady  of 
quality  by  asking  the  moon  if  she  would  choose  to 
be  called  the  '^fuir  Portlajid  of  the  shies" — and 
dedicates  to  the  patrons  of  "  a  much  indebted 
muse"  one  of  whom  (Lord  Wilmington:]:)  on  some 
occasion  he  puts  in  the  balance  of  antithesis  as  a 
counterpart  to  heaven.  He  was,  in  truth,  not  so 
sick  of  life  as  of  missing  its  preferments,  and  was 
still  ambitious  not  only  of  converting  Lorenzo, 
but  of  shining  before  this  utterly  worthless  and 
wretched  world  as  a  sparkling,  sublime,  and  witty 
poet.  Hence  his  poetry  has  not  the  majestic 
simplicity  of  a  heart  abstracted  from  human 
vanities,  and  while  tlie  groundwork  of  his  senti- 
ments is  more  darkly  shaded  than  is  absolutely 
necessary  either  for  poetry  or  religion,  the  sur- 
face of  his  expression  glitters  with  irony  and 
satire,  and  with  thoughts  sometimes  absolutely 
approaching  to  pleasantry.  His  ingenuity  in  the 
false  sublime  is  very  peculiar.  In  Night  IX.  he 
concludes  his  description  of  the  day  of  judgment 
by  showing  the  just  and  the  unjust  consigned 
respectively  to  their  *^  sulphureous  or  ambrosial 
seals"  while 

"  Hell  through  all  her  glooms 
Returns  in  groans  a  melancholy  roar ;" 

this  is  aptly  put  under  the  book  of  Consolation. 

a  single  perusal ;  his  conceits  please  only  when  they  jmr- 
prise. — .loHNSojj.] 

+  It  appears,  however,  from  Sir  Herbert  Croft's  account 
of  his  lite,  [in  Johnson's  Poets,]  that  he  had  not  lost  the  ob- 
jects of  his  iiffection  in  such  rapid  succession  as  he  feigned, 
when  he  addresses  the  ••ln>iHtiate  archer  (Death;  who.se 
shaft  Hew  thrioe.  ere  thrice  yon  moon  had  filled  her  horn." 

\X  The  Lord  'Wilniiugton  of  Thomson's  '•  Winter."] 


EDWARD  YOUNG. 


511 


But  instead  of  winding  up  his  labours,  he  proceeds 
through  a  multitude  of  reflections,  and  amidst 
many  comparisons  assimilates  the  constellations 
of  heaven  to  gems  of  immense  weight  and  value 
on  a  ring  for  the  finger  of  their  Creator.  Con- 
ceit could  hardly  go  farther  than  to  ascribe  finery 
to  Omnipotence.  The  taste  of  the  French  artist 
was  not  quite  so  bold,  when  in  the  picture  of 
Belshazzar's  feast,  he  put  a  ring  and  ruffle  on  the 
hand  that  was  writing  on  the  wall. 

Here,  however,  he  was  in  earnest  compara- 
tively with  some  other  passages,  such  as  that  in 
which  he  likens  Death  to  Nero  driving  a  phaeton 
in  a  female  guise,  or  where  he  describes  the  same 
personage.  Death,  borrowing  the  ^^cockaded  brow 
of  a  spendlhrift,"  in  order  to  gain  admittance  to 
"  a  gay  circle."  Men,  with  the  same  fami- 
liarity, are  compared  to  monkeys  before  a  look- 
ing-glass ;  and,  at  the  end  of  the  eighth  book, 
Satan  is  roundly  denominated  a  "dunce:"*  the 
first  time,  perhaps,  that  his  abilities  were  ever 
seriously  called  in  question.t 

Shall  we  agree  with  Dr.  Johnson  when  he 
affirms  of  the  Night  Thoughts  that  particular 
lines  are  not  to  be  regarded,  that  the  power  is  in 
the  whole,  and  that  in  the  whole  there  is  a  mag- 
nificence like  that  which  is  ascribed  to  a  Chinese 
plantation,  the  magnificence  of  vast  extent  and 
endless  diversity  1  Of  a  Chinese  plantation  few 
men  have  probably  a  very  distinct  conception ; 
but  unless  that  species  of  landscape  be  an  utterly 
capricious  show  of  objects,  in  which  case  even 
extent  and  variety  will  hardly  constitute  magni- 
ficence, it  must  possess  amusement  and  vicis- 
situde, arising  from  the  relation  of  parts  to  each 
other.  But  there  is  nothing  of  entertaining  suc- 
cession of  parts  in  the  Night  Thoughts.  The 
poem  excites  no  anticipation  as  it  proceeds.  One 
book  bespeaks  no  impatience  for  another,  nor  is 
found  to  have  laid  the  smallest  foundation  for 
new  pleasure  when  the  succeeding  Night  sets  in. 
The  poet's  fancy  discharges  itself  on  the  mind  in 
short  ictuses  of  surprise,  which  rather  lose  than 
increase  their  force  by  reiteration ;  but  he  is  re- 
markably defective  in  progressive  interest  and 
calleclive  effect.  The  power  of  the  poem,  instead 
of  "  being  in  the  v>hole,"  lies  in  short,  vivid,  and 
broken  gleams  of  genius ;  so  that  if  we  disregard 
particular  lines,  we  shall  but  too  often  miss  the 
only  gems  of  ransom  which  the  poet  can  bring  as 
the  price  of  his  relief  from  surrounding  tedium. 
Of  any  long  work,  where  the  power  really  lies  in 
the  whole,  we  feel  reluctant  to  hazard  the  cha- 
racter by  a  few  short  quotations,  because  a  few 
fragments  can  convey  no  adequate  idea  of  the 


*  "  Nor  think  this  sentence  is  severe  on  thee, 
Satan,  thy  master,  I  dare  call  a  dunce." 

C&naluding  Unet  of  Night  Sth. 

[t  The  Night  Thoughts  are  spoken  of  differently,  either 
with  exnggerated  applause  or  contempt,  as  the  reader's 
disposition  is  either  turned  to  mirth  or  melancholy. — 
OouwiaTH.] 


architecture;  but  the  directly  reverse  of  this  is 
the  case  with  the  Night  Thoughts,  for  by  select- 
ing particular  beauties  of  the  poem  we  should 
delight  and  electrify  a  sensitive  reader,  but  might 
put  him  to  sleep  by  a  perusal  of  the  whole.  This 
character  of  detached  felicities,  unconnected  with 
interesting  progress  or  reciprocal  animation  of 
parts,  may  be  likened  to  a  wilderness,  without 
path  or  perspective,  or  to  a  Chinese  plantation 
(if  the  illustration  be  more  agreeable ;)  but  it 
does  not  correspond  with  our  idea  of  the  magni- 
ficence of  a  great  poem,  of  which  it  can  be  said 
that  the  power  is  in  the  whole.  After  all,  the 
variety  and  extent  of  reflection  in  the  Night 
Thoughts  is  to  a  certain  degree  more  imposing 
than  real.  They  have  more  metaphorical  than 
substantial  variety  of  thought.  Questions  which 
we  had  thought  exhausted  and  laid  at  rest  in  one 
book,  are  called  up  again  in  the  next  in  a  Proteus 
metamorphosis  of  shape, and  a  chamelion  diversity 
of  colour.  Happily  the  awful  truths  which  they 
illustrate  are  few  and  simple.  Around  those 
truths  the  poet  directs  his  course  with  innume- 
rable sinuosities  of  fancy,  like  a  man  appearing 
to  make  a  long  voyage,  while  be  is  in  reality 
only  crossing  and  recrossing  the  same  expanse 
of  water. 

He  has  been  well  described  in  a  late  poem,  as 
one  in  whom 

"  Still  gleams  and  still  expires  the  cloudy  day 
Of  genuine  poetry." 

The  above  remarks  have  been  made  with  no 
desire  to  depreciate  what  is  genuine  in  his  beau- 
ties. The  reader  most  sensitive  to  his  faults  must 
have  felt,  that  there  is  in  him  a  spark  of  origi- 
nality which  is  never  long  extinguished,  however 
far  it  may  be  from  vivifying  the  entire  mass  of 
his  poetry.  Many  and  exquisite  are  his  touches 
of  sublime  expression,  of  profound  reflection, 
and  of  striking  imagery.  It  is  recalling  but  a 
few  of  these  to  allude  to  his  description,  in  the 
eighth  book,  of  the  man  whose  thoughts  are  not 
of  this  world,  to  his  simile  of  the  traveller  at  the 
opening  of  the  ninth  book,  to  his  spectre  of  the 
antediluvian  world,  and  to  some  parts  of  his  very 
unequal  description  of  the  conflagration;  above 
all,  to  that  noble  and  familiar  image, 

"  When  final  Ruin  fiercely  drives 
Her  ploughKliare  o'er  creation." 

It  is  true  that  he  seldom,  if  ever,  maintains  a 
flight  of  poetry  long  free  from  oblique  associa- 
tions ;  but  he  has  individual  passages  which  Phi- 
losophy might  make  her  texts,  and  Experience 
select  for  her  mottos. 


[*  A  passage  imitated  by  Bums  in  his  Poem  "  To  the 
Daisy :" 

Stern  Ruin's  ploughshare  drives  elate 

Full  on  thy  bloom, 
Till  crush'd  beneath  the  furrow's  weight, 
Shall  be  thy  doom. 
Bums  was  a  great  reader  of  Young,  u  the  Scotch  indeed 
universally  ue.] 


512 


EDWARD  YOUNG. 


FROM  NIGHT  I. 

Introduction  to  the  Night  Thoughts — Uncertainty  of 
human  happiness — UniTersality  of  huiuan  misery. 

Tired  nature's  sweet  restorer,  balmy  sleep ! 
He,  like  the  world,  his  ready  visit  pays 
Where  fortune  smiles;  the  wretched  he  forsakes; 
Swift  on  his  downy  pinion  flies  from  woe, 
And  lights  on  lids  unsullied  with  a  tear. 

From  short  (as  usual)  and  disturb'd  repose, 
I  wake  :  How  happy  they,  who  wake  no  more  ! 
Yet  that  were  vain,  if  dreams  infest  the  grave. 
I  wake,  emerging  from  a  sea  of  dreams 
Tumultuous;    where    my    wreck'd    desponding 

thought 
From  wave  to  wave  of  fancied  misery. 
At  random  drove,  her  helm  of  reason  lost. 
Though  now  restored,  'tis  only  change  of  pain, 
(A  bitter  change !)  severer  for  severe, 
The  day  too  short  for  my  distress ;  and  night, 
Even  in  the  zenith  of  her  dark  domain, 
Is  sunshine  to  the  colour  of  my  fate. 

Night,  sable  goddess !  from  her  ebon  throne, 
In  ray  less  majesty,  now  stretches  forth 
Her  leaden  sceptre  o'er  a  slumbering  world, 
Silence,  how  dead !  and  darkness  how  profound ! 
Nor  eye,  nor  listening  ear,  an  object  finds; 
Creation  sleeps.     'Tis  as  the  general  pulse 
Of  life  stood  still,  and  nature  made  a  pause; 
An  awful  pause  !  prophetic  of  her  end. 
And  let  her  prophecy  be  soon  fulfill'd ; 
Fate  !  drop  the  curtain  ;  I  can  lose  no  more. 

Silence  and  darkness!  solemn  sisters!  twins 
From  ancient  night,  who  nurse  the  tender  thought! 
To  reason,  and  on  reason  build  resolve 
(That  column  of  true  majesty  in  man,) 
Assist  me  :  I  will  thank  you  in  the  grave ; 
The  grave,  your  kingdom :  there  this  frame  shall 

fall 
A  victim  sacred  to  your  dreary  shrine. 
But  what  are  ye? — 

Thou  who  didst  put  to  flight 
Primeval  silence,  when  the  morning  stars, 
Exulting,  shouted  o'er  the  rising  ball ; 
O  thou,  whose  word  from  solid  darkness  struck 
That  spark,  the  sun,  strike  wisdom  from  my  soul; 
My  soul,  which  flies  to  thee,  her  trust,  her  trea- 
sure. 
As  misers  to  their  gold,  while  others  rest. 

Through  this  opaque  of  nature  and  of  soul, 
This  double  night,  transmit  one  pitying  ray, 
To  lighten  and  to  cheer.     O  lead  my  mind 
(A  mind  that  fain  would  wander  from  its  woe,) 
Lead   it   through    various   scenes   of    life    and 

death ; 
And  fi-om  each  scene  the  noblest  truths  inspire. 
Nor  less  inspire  my  conduct  than  my  song; 
Teach  my  best  reason,  reason  ;  my  best  will 
Teach  rectitude;  and  fix  my  firm  resolve 
Wisdom  to  wed,  and  pay  her  long  arrear : 
Nor  let  the  vial  of  thy  vengeance  pour'd 
On  this  devoted  head,  be  pour'd  in  vain. 

The  ball  strikes  one.    We  take  no  note  of  time 
But  from  its  loss    To  give  it  then  a  tongue 
Is  wise  in  man.    As  if  an  angel  spoke, 


I  feel  the  solemn  sound.  If  heard  aright, 

It  is  the  knell  of  my  departed  hours : 

Where  are  they  1   With  the  years  beyond  the 

flood. 
It  is  the  signal  that  demands  despatch: 
How  much  is  to  be  done?   My  hopes  and  fears 
Start  up  alarm'd,  and  o'er  life's  narrow  verge 
Look  down^ — -On  what  ?   a  fathomless  abyss; 
A  dread  eternity !  how  surely  mine  ! 
And  can  eternity  belong  to  me. 
Poor  pensioner  on  the  bounties  of  an  hour? 

How  poor,  how  rich,  how  abject,  how  august. 
How  complicate,  how  wonderful  is  man  ! 
How  passing  wonder  he  who  njide  him  such ! 
Who  center'd  in    our  make   such  strange  ex- 
tremes ! 
From  different  natures  marvellously  mix'd, 
Connexion  exquisite  of  distant  worlds ! 
Distinguish'd  link  in  being's  endless  chain  ! 
Midway  from  nothing  to  the  Deity ! 
A  beam  ethereal,  sullied,  and  absorb'd  ! 
Though  sullied  and  dishonour'd,  still  divine! 
Dim  miniature  of  greatness  absolute  ! 
An  heir  of  glory  !  a  frail  child  of  dust ! 
Helpless  immortal !  insect  infinite  ! 
A  worm  !  a  god  ! — I  tremble  at  myself. 
And  in  myself  am  lost !  at  home  a  stranger. 
Thought  wanders  up  and  down,  surprised,  aghast, 
And  wondering  at  her  own :  How  reason  reels  ! 
0  what  a  miracle  to  man  is  man. 
Triumphantly  distress'd  !  what  joy,  what  dread  ! 
Alternately  transported  and  alarm'd  ! 
What  can  preserve  my  life,  or  what  destroy  ? 
An    angel's    arm    can't    snatch    me    from    the 

grave ; 
Legions  of  angels  can't  confine  me  there. 

'Tis  past  conjecture  ;  all  things  rise  to  proof: 
While  o'er  my  limbs  sleep's  soft  dominion  spread. 
What  though  my  soul  fantastic  measures  trod 
O'er  fairy  fields ;  or  mourn'd  along  the  gloom 
Of  pathless  woods ;  or  down  the  craggy  steep 
Hurl'd  headlong,  swam  with  pain  the  mantled 

pool ; 
Or  scaled  the  cliff;  or  danced  on  hollow  winds, 
With  antic  shapes,  wild  natives  of  the  brain? 
Her  ceaseless  flight,  though  devious,  speaks  her 

nature 
Of  subtler  essence  than  the  trodden  clod ; 
Active,  aerial,  towering,  unconfined, 
Unfetter'd  with  her  gross  companion's  fall. 
Ev'n  silent  night  proclaims  my  soul  immortal ; 
Ev'n  silent  night  proclaims  eternal  day. 
For  human  weal  Heaven  husbands  all  events; 
Dull  sleep  instructs,  nor  sport  vain  dreams  in 

vain. 
Why  then  their  loss  deplore  that  are  not  lost? 
Why    wanders   wretched   thought  their    tombi 

around 
In  infidel  distress  ?  Are  angels  there  ? 
Slumbers,  raked  up  in  dust,  ethereal  fire  ? 

They  live !  they  greatly  live  a  life  on  earth 
Unkindled,  unconceived ;  and  from  an  eye 
Of  tenderness  let  heavenly  pity  fall 
On  me,  more  justly  number'd  with  the  dead. 
This  is  the  desert,  this  the  solitude : 


EDWARD  YOUNG. 


518 


How  populous,  how  vital,  is  the  grave! 

This  is  creatioa's  melancholy  vault, 

The  vale  funereal,  the  sad  cypress  gloom ; 

The  land  of  apparitions,  empty  shades ! 

All,  all  on  earth,  is  shadow,  all  beyond 

Is  substance  ;  the  reverse  is  folly's  creed  : 

How  solid  all,  where  change  shall  be  no  more ! 

This  is  the  bud  of  being,  the  dim  dawn, 
The  twilight  of  our  day,  the  vestibule; 
Life's  theatre  as  yet  is  shut,  and  death. 
Strong  death,  alone  can  heave  the  massy  bar, 
This  gross  impediment  of  clay  remove. 
And  make  us  embryos  of  existence  free, 
From  real  life  ;  but  little  more  remote 
Is  he,  not  yet  a  candidate  for  light. 
The  future  embryo,  slumbering  in  his  sire, 
flmbryos  we  must  be  till  we  burst  the  shell, 
Yon  ambient  tizure  shell,  and  spring  to  life. 
The  life  of  gods,  O  transport !  and  of  man. 

Yet    man,    fool    man !    here    buries    all    his 
thoughts ; 
Inters  celestial  hopes  without  one  sigh. 
Prisoner  of  earth,  and  pent  beneath  the  moon, 
Here  pinions  all  his  wishes ;  wing'd  by  heaven 
To  fly  at  infinite ;  and  reach  it  there 
Where  seraphs  gather  immortality, 
On  life's  fair  tree,  fast  by  the  throne  of  God. 
What  golden  joys  ambrosial  clustering  glow 
In  his  full  beam,  and  ripen  for  the  just, 
Where  momentary  ages  are  no  more  ! 
Where  time,  and  pain,  and   chance,  and  death 

expire ! 
And  is  it  in  the  flight  of  threescore  years 
To  push  eternity  from  human  thought, 
And  smother  souls  immortal  in  the  dusti 
A  soul  immortal,  spending  all  her  fires, 
Wasting  her  strength  in  strenuous  idleness. 
Thrown  into  tumult,  raptured  or  alarm'd. 
At  aught  this  scene  can  threaten  or  indulge. 
Resembles  ocean  into  tempest  wrought. 
To  waft  a  feather,  or  to  drown  a  fly. 

Where  falls  this  censure?  Ito'erwhelms  myself: 
How  was  my  heart  incrusted  by  the  world ! 
O  how  self-fetter'd  was  my  grovelling  soul. 
How,  like  a  worm,  was  I  wrapt  round  and  round 
In  silken  thought,  which  reptile  fancy  spun, 
Till  darken'd  reason  lay  quite  clouded  o'er 
With  soft  conceit  of  endless  comfort  here. 
Nor  yet  put  forth  her  wings  to  reach  the  skies! 

Night-visions  may  befriend  :   (as  sung  above) 
Our  waking  dreams  are  fatal.     How  I  dream'd 
Of  things  impossible  !   (Could  sleep  do  more  1) 
Of  joys  perpetual  in  perpetual  change  ! 
Of  stable  pleasures  on  the  tossing  wave ! 
Eternal  sunshine  in  the  storms  of  life  ! 
How  richly  were  my  noon-tide  trances  hung 
With  gorgeous  tapestries  of  pictured  joys  ! 
loy  behind  joy,  in  endless  perspective  ! 
Till  at  death's  toll,  whose  restless  iron  tongue 
Calls  daily  for  his  millions  at  a  meal, 
Starting  I  woke,  and  found  myself  undone. 
Where  now  my  frenzy's  pompous  furniture  1 
The  cobweb'd  cottage,  with  its  ragged  wall 
Of  mouldering  mud,  is  royalty  to  me ! 
The  spider's  most  attenuated  thread 


Is  cord,  is  cable,  to  man's  tender  tie 

On  earthly  bliss ;  it  breaks  at  every  breeze. 

*  »  #  * 

Yet  why  complain  ?  or  why  complain  for  one  ! 
Hangs  out  the  sun  his  lustre  but  for  me. 
The  single  man  T   Are  angels  all  beside  ? 
I  mourn  for  millions:   'Tis  the  common  lot: 
In  this  shape,  or  in  that,  has  fate  entail'd 
The  mother's  throes  on  all  of  woman  born. 
Not  more  the  children  than  sure  heirs  of  pain 
War,  fafiiine,  pest,  volcano,  storm,  and  fire, 
Intestine  broils,  oppression,  with  her  heart 
Wrapt  up  in  triple  brass,  besiege  mankind. 
God's  image  disinherited  of  day, 
ELere,  plunged  in  mines,  forgets  a  sun  was  made. 
There,  beings  deathless  as  their  haughty  lord. 
Are  hammer'd  to  the  galling  oar  for  life. 
And  plough  the  winter's  wave,  and  reap  despair 
Some  for  hard  masters,  broken  under  arms,    . 
In  battle  lopp'd  away,  with  half  their  limbs. 
Beg   bitter    bread   through  realms   their  valour 
If  so,  the  tyrant,  or  his  minion,  doom.       [saved, 
Want,  and  incurable  disease,  (fell  pair !) 
On  hopeless  multitudes  remorseless  seize 
At  once,  and  make  a  refuge  of  the  grave. 
How  groaning  hospitals  eject  their  dead  ! 
What  numbers  groan  for  sad  admission  thei«  ! 
What  numbers,  once  in  fortune's  lap  high-fed. 
Solicits  the  cold  hand  of  charity ! 
To  shock  us  more,  solicit  it  in  vain ! 
Ye  silken  sons  of  pleasure ;  since  in  pains 
You  rue  more  modish  visits,  visit  here, 
And  breathe  from  your  debauch :  give  and  redaca 
Surfeit's  dominion  over  you  :  but  so  great 
Your  impudence,  you  blush  at  what  is  right 

Happy  !  did  sorrow  seize  on  such  alone. 
Not  prudence  can  defend,  or  virtue  save ; 
Disease  invades  the  chastest  temperance. 
And  punishment  the  guiltless,  and  alarm. 
Through  thickest  shades,  pursues  the  fond  of  peac« 
Man's  caution  often  into  danger  turns : 
And  his  guard  falli/ig  crushes  him  to  death. 
Not  happiness  itself  makes  good  her  name ; 
Our  very  wishes  give  us  not  our  wish. 
How  distant  oft  the  thing  we  doat  on  most 
From  that  for  which  we  doat,  felicity  ! 
The  smoothest  course  of  nature  has  its  pains  ; 
And  truest  friends,  through  error,  wound  our  rest. 
Without  misfortune,  what  calamities; 
And  what  hostilities,  without  a  foe! 
Nor  are  foes  wanting  to  the  best  on  earth. 
But  endless  is  the  list  of  human  ills. 
And  sighs  might  sooner  fail,  than  cause  to  sigh. 


FROM  NIGHT  H. 
Apology  for  the  seriousness  of  the  subject 
Thou  say'st  I  preach,  Lorenzo ;  tis  confest 
What  if,  for  once,  I  preach  thee  quite  awake ' 
Who  wants  amusement  in  the  flame  of  battle  i 
Is  it  not  treason  in  the  soul  immortal. 
Her  foes  in  arms,  eternity  the  prize  1 
Will  toys  amuse,  when  medicines  cannot  cure  ? 
When  spirits  ebb,  when  life's  enchanting  scene* 


614 


EDWARD  YOUNG. 


Their  lustre  lose,  and  lessen  in  our  sight, 
As  lands  and  cities  with  their  glittering  spires, 
To  the  poor  shatter'd  bark,  by  sudden  storm 
Thrown  otT  to  sea,  and  soon  to  perish  there  ] 
Will  toys  amuse?    No:  Thrones  will  then  be 

toys, 
And  earth  and  skies  seem  dust  upon  the  scale. 


FROM  THE  SAME. 
Madneas  of  men  in  pursuit  of  amusement. 

Ah  !  how  unjust  to  Nature  and  himself, 
Is  thoughtless,  thankless,  inconsistent  man  ! 
Like  children,  babbling  nonsense  in  their  sports, 
We  censure  nature  for  a  span  too  short ; 
That  span  too  short,  we  tax  as  tedious  too ; 
Torture  invention,  all  expedients  tire. 
To  lash  the  lingering  moments  into  speed, 
And  whirl  us  (happy  riddance !)  from  ourselves. 
Art,  brainless  art !  our  furious  charioteer 
(For  nature's  voice  unstifled  would  recall,) 
Drives  headlong  toward  the  precipice  of  death ; 
Death,  most  our  dread  ;  death  thus  more  dreadful 
O  what  a  riddle  of  absurdity  !  [made : 

Leisure  is  pain;  takes  off  our  chariot  wheels  ; 
How  heavily  we  drag  the  load  of  life  ! 
Blest  leisure  is  our  curse ;  like  that  of  Cain, 
It  makes  us  wander ;  wander  earth  around, 
To  fly  that  tyrant,  thought.     As  Atlas  groan'd 
The  world  beneath,  we  groan  beneath  an  hour. 
We  cry  for  mercy  to  the  next  amusement; 
The  next  amusement  mortgages  our  fields ; 
Slight  inconvenience !  prisons  hardly  frown. 
From  hateful  time  if  prisons  set  us  free. 
5fet  when  death  kindly  tenders  us  relief. 
We  call  him  cruel;  years  to  moments  shrink. 
Ages  to  years.     The  telescope  is  turn'd. 
To  man's  false  optics  (from  his  folly  false) 
Time,  in  advance,  behind  him  hides  his  wings. 
And  seems  to  creep,  decrepit  with  his  age; 
Behold  him,  when  pass'd  by ;  what  then  is  seen. 
But  his  broad  pinions  swifter  than  the  winds  1 
And  all  mankind,  in  contradiction  strong. 
Rueful,  aghast,  cry  out  on  his  career. 


PROM  THE  SAME. 
Blessedness  of  the  son  of  foresight. 
Where  shall  I  find  hirn?   Angels!   tell  me 
where. 
You  know  him :  He  is  near  you :  Point  him  out : 
Shall  I  see  glories  beaming  fi-om  his  brow  ? 
Or  trace  his  footsteps  by  the  rising  flowers ! 
Your  golden  wings,  how  hovering  o'er  him,  shed 
Protection :  now  are  waving  in  applause 
To  that  blest  son  of  foresight !  lord  of  fate  ! 
That  awful  independent  on  to-morrow ! 
Whose  work  is  done  ;  who  triumphs  in  the  past; 
Whose  yesterdays  look  backward  with  a  smile  ; 
Nor,  like  the  Parthian,  wound  him  as  they  fly ; 
That  common,  but  opprobrious  lot !  past  hours. 
If  not  by  guilt,  yet  wound  us  by  their  flight ; 
If  folly  b«iunds  our  prospect  by  the  grave, 


All  feeling  of  futurity  benumb'd; 

All  god-like  passion  for  eternals  quench'd ; 

All  relish  of  realities  expired; 

Renounced  all  correspondence  with  the  skies : 

Our  freedom  chain'd;  quite  wingless  our  desire; 

In  sense  dark-prison'd  ail  that  ought  to  soar ; 

Prone  to  the  centre  ;  crawling  in  the  dust; 

Dismounted  every  great  and  glorious  aim ; 

Ilmbruted  every  faculty  divine  ; 

Heart-buried  in  the  rubbish  of  the  world. 

The  world,  that  gulf  of  souls,  immortal  souls, 

Souls  elevate,  angelic,  wing'd  with  fire 

To  reach  the  distant  skies,  and  triumph  there 

On  thrones,  which  shall  not  mourn  their  masters 

changed ; 
Though  we  from  earth ;  ethereal  they  that  fell. 


FROM  THE  SAME. 
Society  necessary  to  happiness. 

Wisdom,  though  richer  than  Peruvian  mines, 
And  sweeter  than  the  sweet  ambrosial  hive. 
What  is  she  but  the  means  of  happiness  1 
That  unobtain'd,  than  folly  more  a  fool ; 
A  melancholy  fool,  without  her  bells. 
Friendship,  the  means  of  wisdom,  richly  gives. 
The  precious  end  which  makes  our  wisdom  wise. 
Nature,  in  zeal  for  human  amity. 
Denies,  or  damps,  an  undivided  joy. 
Joy  is  an  import,  joy  is  an  exchange ; 
Joy  flies  monopolists  :  it  calls  for  two ; 
Rich  fruit!  heaven-planted!  never  pluck'd  by  i>ne. 
Needful  auxiliars  are  our  friends,  to  give 
To  social  man  true  relish  of  himself. 
Full  on  ourselves,  descending  in  a  line, 
Pleasure's  bright  beam  is  feeble  in  delight: 
Delight  intense  is  taken  by  rebound ; 
Reverberated  pleasures  fire  the  breasL 


FROM  NIGHT  HI. 
Complaint  for  Narcissa. 

0  Philander  I 
What  was  thy  fate  1  A  double  fate  to  me ; 
Portent  and  pain,  a  menace  and  a  blow, 
Like  the  black  raven  hovering  o'er  my  peace, 
Not  less  a  bird  of  omen  than  of  prey. 
It  call'd  Narcissa  long  before  her  hour ; 
It  call'd  her  tender  soul  by  break  of  bliss. 
From  the  first  blossom,  from  the  buds  of  joy ; 
Those  few  our  noxious  fate  unblasted  leaves 
In  this  inclement  clime  of  human  life. 

Sweet  harmonist !  and  beautiful  as  sweet ! 
And  young  as  beautiful !  and  soft  as  young ! 
And  gay  as  soft !  and  innocent  as  gay  ! 
And  happy  (if  aught  happy  here)  as  good  ! 
For  fortune  fond  had  built  her  nest  on  high. 
Like  birds  quite  exquisite  of  note  and  plume, 
Trans^x'd  by  fate,  (who  loves  a  lofty  mark,) 
How  from  the  summit  of  the  grove  she  fell. 
And  left  it  unharmonious.     All  its  charms 
Extinguish'd  in  the  wonders  of  her  song  ! 
Her  song  still  vibrates  in  my  ravish'd  ear, 


EDWARD  TOTING. 


616 


\ 


Still  melting  there,  and  with  voluptuous  pain 
(O  to  forget  her)  thrilling  through  my  heart! 

Songjbeauty,  youth,  love,  virtue,  joy ;  this  group 
Of  bright  ideas,  flowers  of  paradise, 
As  yet  unforfeit!  in  one  blaze  we  bind, 
Kneel,  and  present  it  to  the  skies  as  all 
We  guess  of  heaven :  and  these  were  all  her  own. 
And  she   was  mine;   and   I  was — was! — most 
Gay  title  of  the  deepest  misery  !  [blest — 

As  bodies  grow  more  ponderous  robb'd  of  life, 
Good  lost  weighs  more  in  grief  than  gain'd  in  joy, 
Like  blossom'd  trees  o'erturn'd  by  vernal  storm. 
Lovely  in  death  the  beauteous  ruin  lay  ; 
And  if  in  death  still  lovely,  lovelier  there. 
Far  lovelier !  pity  swells  the  tide  of  love. 
And  will  not  the  severe  excuse  a  sigh  1 
Scorn  the  proud  man  that  is  ashamed  to  weep ; 
Our  tears  indulged  indeed  deserve  our  shame. 
Ye  that  e'er  lost  an  angel,  pity  me ! 

Soon  as  the  lustre  languish'd  in  her  eye. 
Dawning  a  dimmer  day  on  human  sight, 
And  on  her  cheek,  the  residence  of  spring. 
Pale  omen  sat,  and  scatter'd  fears  around 
On  all  that  saw  (and  who  would  cease  to  gaze 
That  once  had  seeni)  with  haste,  parental  haste, 
I  flew,  I  snatch'd  her  from  the  rigid  north, 
Her  native  bed,  on  which  bleak  Boreas  blew, 
And  bore  her  nearer  to  the  sun :  the  sun 
(As  if  the  sun  could  envy)  check'd  his  beam, 
Denied  his  wonted  succour;  nor  with  more 
Regret  beheld  her  drooping  than  the  bells 
Of  lilies ;  fairest  lilies  not  so  fair ! 

*  *  *  » 

So  man  is  made ;  nought  ministers  delight 
By  what  his  glowing  passions  can  engage ; 
And  glowing  passions,  bent  on  aught  below. 
Must,  soon  or  late,  with  anguish  turn  the  scale ; 
And  anguish  after  rapture,  how  severe  1 
Rapture !  Bold  man !    who  tempt'st  the  wrath 

divine. 
By  plucking  fruit  denied  to  mortal  taste, 
While  here,  presuming  on  the  rights  of  heaven. 
For  transport  dost  thou  call  on  every  hour, 
Lorenzo  ]   At  thy  friend's  expense  be  wise ; 
Lean  not  on  earth;  'twill  pierce  thee  to  the  heart; 
A  broken  reed  at  best,  but  oft  a  spear ; 
On  its  sharp  point  peace  bleeds,  and  hope  ex- 
pires. 
Turn,  hopeless   thought!    turn    from  her: — 
thought  repell'd 
Resenting  rallies,  and  wakes  every  woe. 
Snatch'd  ere  thy  prime !  and  in  thy  bridal  hour  ! 
And  when  kind  fortune,  with  thy  lover,  smiled ! 
And  when  high-flavour'd  thy  fresh  opening  joys  ! 
And  when  blind  man  pronounced  thy  bliss  com- 
plete ! 
And  on  a  foreign  shore,  where  strangers  wept ! 
Strangers  to  thee ;  and,  more  surprising  still, 
Strangers  to  kindness,  wept :  their  eyes  let  fall 
Inhuman  tears!  strange  tears!  that  trickled  down 
From  marble  hearts  !  obdurate  tenderness  ! 
A  tenderness  that  call'd  them  more  severe : 
In  spite  of  nature's  soft  persuasion  steel'd ; 
While  nature  melted,  superstition  raved; 
That  mourn'd  the  dead,  and  this  denied  a  grave. 


Their  sighs  incensed ;  sighs  foreign  to  the  will ! 
Their  will  the  tiger  suck'd,  outraged  the  storm. 
For,  oh  !  the  curst  ungodliness  of  zeal ! 
While  sinful  flesh  relented,  spirit  nurst. 
In  blind  infallibility's  embrace. 
The  sainted  spirit,  petrified  the  breast; 
Denied  the  charity  of  dust  to  spread 
O'er  dust !   a  charity  their  dogs  enjoy. 
What  could  I  do  ?    What  succour !    What  it» 
With  pious  sacrilege,  a  grave  I  stole ;     [source 
With  impious  piety,  that  grave  I  wrong'd ; 
Short  in  my  duty  ;  coward  in  my  grief! 
More  Hke  her  murderer,  than  friend,  I  crept. 
With  soft  suspended  step,  and  mufQed  deep 
In  midnight  darkness,  whisper'd  my  last  sigh. 
I    whisper'd   what   should   echo   through    their 

realms ; 
Nor  writ  her  name,  whose  tomb  should  pierce  the 

skies. 
Presumptuous  fear !  How  durst  I  dread  her  foes. 
While  nature's  loudest  dictates  I  obey'd  ] 
Pardon  necessity,  bless'd  shade  !  of  grief 
And  indignation  rival  bursts  I  pour'd ; 
Half  execration  mingled  with  my  prayer; 
Kindled  at  man  while  I  his  God  adored ; 
Sore  grudged  the  savage  land  her  sacred  dust ; 
Stamp'd  the  cursed  soil;  and  with  humanity 
(Denied  Narcissa)  wish'd  them  all  a  grave. 


FROM  NIGHT  IV. 

Compari?on  of  the  80ul  viewing  the  prospects  of  immor- 
tality to  the  prisoner  enlarged  from  a  dungeon. 

As  when  a  wretch,  from  thick,  polluted  air, 
Darkness,  and  stench,  and  sutTocating  damps, 
And  dungeon  horrors,  by  kind  fate  discharged. 
Climbs  some  fair  eminence,  where  ether  pure 
Surrounds  him,  and  Elysian  prospects  rise, 
His  heart  exults,  his  spirits  cast  their  load  ; 
As  if  new-born,  he  triumphs  in  the  change; 
So  joys  the  soul  when  from  inglorious  aims. 
And  sordid  sweets,  from  feculence  and  froth 
Of  ties  terrestrial,  set  at  large,  she  mounts 
To  Reason's  region,  her  own  element. 
Breathes  hope  immortal,  and  affects  the  skies. 


FROM  NIGHT  V. 
The  danger  to  virtue  of  infection  from  the  world. 

Virtue,  for  ever  frail,  as  fair,  below. 
Her  tender  nature  suffers  in  the  crowd. 
Nor  touches  on  the  world  without  a  stain: 
The  world's  infectious  ;  few  bring  back  at  eve. 
Immaculate,  the  manners  of  the  morn. 
Something,  we  thought,  is  blotted  ;  we  resolved, 
Is  shaken  ;  we  renounced,  returns  again. 
Each  salutation  may  slide  in  a  sin 
Unthought  before,  or  fix  a  former  flaw. 
Nor  is  it  strange;  light,  motion,  concourse,  noise 
All  scatter  us  abroad ;  thought,  outward  bound, 
Neglectful  of  our  home  affairs,  flies  off 
III  fume  and  dissipation;  quits  her  charge, 
And  leaves  the  brea^t  unguarded  to  the  foe 


616 


EDWARD  YOUNG. 


FROM  NlGirr  VI. 
Insufficiency  of  genius  without  Tirtue. 

Genius  and  Art,  ambition's  boasted  wings, 
Our  boast  but  ill  deserve.     A  feeble  aid ! 
Dedalian  enginery  !  If  these  alone 
Assist  our  flight,  Fame's  flight  is  glory's  fall. 
Heart  merit  wanting,  mount  we  ne'er  so  high, 
Our  height  is  but  the  gibbet  of  our  name. 
A  celebrated  wretch,  when  I  behold ; 
When  I  behold  a  genius  bright  and  base. 
Of  towering  talents  and  terrestrial  aims ; 
Methinks  I  see,  as  thrown  from  her  high  sphere. 
The  glorious  fragments  of  a  soul  immortal. 
With  rubbish  mix'd,  and  glittering  in  the  dust. 
Struck  at  the  splendid  melancholy  sight, 
At  once  compassion  soft  and  envy  rise — 
But  wherefore  envy  1  Talents  angel-bright, 
If  wanting  worth,  are  shining  instruments 
In  false  ambition's  hand  to  finish  faults 
Illustrious,  and  give  infamy  renown. 


FROM  NIGHT  VHI. 

Description  of  the  man  whose  thoughts  are  not  of  this 
world. 

Some  angel  guide  my  pencil,  while  I  draw 
What  nothing  less  an  angel  can  exceed ! 
A  man  on  earth  devoted  to  the  skies ; 
Like  ships  in  seas,  while  in,  above  the  world. 

With  aspect  mild,  and  elevated  eye, 
Behold  him  seated  on  a  mount  serene, 
Above  the  fogs  of  sense,  and  passion's  storm ; 
All  the  black  cares  and  tumults  of  this  life. 
Like  harmless  thunders  breaking  at  his  feet. 
Excite  his  pity,  not  impair  his  peace. 
Earth's  genuine  sons,  the  scepter'd  and  the  slave, 
A  mingled  mob !  a  wandering  herd  !   he  sees 
Bewilder'd  in  the  vale;  in  all  unlike! 
His  full  reverse  in  all !  what  higher  praise  1 
What  stronger  demonstration  of  the  right  1 

The  present  all  their  care,  the  future  his. 
When  public  welfare  calls,  or  private  want, 
They  give  to  fame,  his  bounty  he  conceals. 
Their  virtues  varnish  nature,  his  exalt. 
Mankind's  esteem  they  court,  and  he  his  own. 
Theirs,  the  wild  chase  of  false  felicities. 
His,  the  composed  possession  of  the  true. 
Alike  throughout  is  his  consistent  peace, 
All  of  one  colour,  and  an  even  thread ; 
While  party-colour'd  shreds  of  happiness. 
With  hideous  gaps  between,  patch  up  for  them 
A  madman's  robe ;  each  puif  of  fortune  blows 
't'he  tatters  by,  and  shows  their  nakedness. 

He  sees  with  other  eyes  than  theirs ;  where  they 
Behold  a  sun,  he  spies  a  Deity ; 
W^hat  makes  them  only  smile,  makes  him  adore. 
Where  they  see  mountains,  he  but  atoms  sees ; 
An  empire  in  his  balance  weighs  a  grain. 
They  things  terrestrial  worship  as  divine; 
His  hopes  immortal  blow  them  by  as  dust. 
That  dims  his  sight,  and  shortens  his  survey. 
Which  longs  in  infinite  to  lose  all  bound. 
Titles  and  honours  (if  they  prove  his  fate) 


He  lays  aside  to  find  his  dignity  ; 
No  dignity  they  find  in  aught  besides. 
They  triumph  in  externals,  (which  conceal 
Man's  real  glory,)  proud  of  an  eclipse. 
Himself  too  much  he  prizes  to  be  proud, 
And  nothing  thinks  so  great  in  man  as  man. 
Too  dear  he  holds  his  interest,  to  neglect 
Another's  welfare,  or  his  right  invade ; 
Their  interest,  like  a  lion,  lives  on  prey. 
They  kindle  at  the  shadow  of  a  wrong ; 
Wrong  he  sustains  with  temper,  looks  on  heaven, 
Nor  stoops  to  think  his  injurer  his  foe; 
Nought  but  what  wounds  his  virtue  wounds  his 
A  cover'd  heart  their  character  defends ;    [peace. 
A  cover'd  heart  denies  him  half  his  praise. 
With  nakedness  his  innocence  agrees ; 
While  their  broad  foliage  testifies  their  fall. 
Their  no  joys  end,  where  his  full  feast  begins : 
His  joys  create,  theirs  murder,  future  bliss. 
To  triumph  in  existence,  his  alone ; 
And  his  alone,  triumphantly  to  think 
His  true  existence  is  not  yet  begun. 
His  glorious  course  was,  yesterday,  complete ; 
Death,  then,  was  welcome ;  yet  life  still  is  sweet 


FROM  HIS  SATIRES. 


SATIRE  I. 

The  love  of  praise. 

What  will  not  men  attempt  for  sacred  praise ! 
The  love  of  praise,  howe'er  conceal'd  by  art. 
Reigns,  more  or  less,  and  glows,  in  every  heart; 
The  proud,  to  gain  it,  toils  on  toils  endure ; 
The  modest  shun  it,  but  to  make  it  sure. 
O'er  globes,  and  sceptres,  now  on  thrones  it  swells ; 
Now  trims  the  midnight  lamp  in  college  cells  : 
'Tis  Tory,  Whig ;  it  plots,  prays,  preaches,  pleads, 
Harangues  in  senates,  squeaks  in  masquerades. 
Here,  to  Steele's  humour  makes  a  bold  pretence ; 
There,  bolder,  aims  at  Pulteney's  eloquence. 
It  aids  the  dancer's  heel,  the  writer's  head. 
And  heaps  the  plain  with  mountains  of  the  dead: 
Nor  ends  with  life ;  but  nods  in  sable  plumes, 
Adorns  our  hearse,  and  flatters  on  our  tombs. 


SATIRE  V. 


Propensity  of  man  to  false  and  fentastic  joys. 

Man's  rich  with  little,  were  his  judgment  true ; 
Nature  is  frugal,  and  her  wants  are  few ; 
Those  few  wants  answer'd,  bring  sincere  delights; 
But  fools  create  themselves  new  appetites  : 
Fancy  and  pride  seek  things  at  vast  expense, 
Which  relish  not  to  reason,  nor  to  sense. 
When  surfeit,  or  unthankfulness,  destroy*. 
In  nature's  narrow  sphere,  our  solid  joys 
In  fancy's  airy  land  of  noise  and  show,    [grow; 
Where  nought  but  dreams,  no  real  pleasuiea 
Like  cats  in  air-pumps,  to  subsist  we  strive 
On  joys  too  thin  to  keep  the  soul  alive. 
»  *  * 


JOHN  BROWN. 


6n 


*  *         Such  blessings  nature  pours, 

O'erstock'd  mankind  enjoys  but  half  her  stores  : 
In  distant  wilds,  by  human  eyes  unseen, 
She   rears   her  flowers,  and  spreads  her  velvet 

green : 
Pure  gurgling  rills  the  lonely  desert  trace, 
And  waste  their  music  on  the  savage  race. 
Is  nature  then  a  niggard  of  her  bliss  1 
Repine  we  guiltless  in  a  world  like  this  ? 
But  our  lewd  tastes  her  lawful  charms  refuse, 
A.nd  painted  arts  depraved  allurements  choose. 


CHARACTERS  OF  WOMEN— THB  ASTRONOMICAL 
LADY. 

FROM  THE  8AMB. 

Some  nymphs  prefer  astronomy  to  love ; 
Elope  from  mortal  man,  and  range  above. 
The  fair  philosopher  to  Rowley  flies, 
Where  in  a  box  the  whole  creation  lies : 
She  sees  the  planets  in  their  turns  advance, 
And  scorns,  Poitier,  thy  sublunary  dance  ! 
Of  Desaguliers  she  bespeaks  fresh  air ; 
And  Whiston  has  engagements  with  the  fair. 
What  vain  experiments  Sophronia  tries  ! 
'Tis  not  in  air-pumps  the  gay  colonel  dies. 
But  though  to-day  this  rage  of  science  reigns, 
(O  fickle  sex  !)  soon  end  her  learned  pains. 
Lo  !  Pug  from  Jupiter  her  heart  has  got, 
Turns  out  the  stars,  and  Newton  is  a  sot. 


THE  LANGUID  LADY. 

FBOK  THS  SAMS. 

The  languid  lady  next  appears  in  state. 
Who  was  not  born  to  carry  her  own  weight; 
She  lolls,  reels,  staggers,  till  some  foreign  aid 
To  her  own  stature  lifts  the  feeble  maid. 
Then,  if  ordain'd  to  so  severe  a  doom, 
She,  by  just  stages,  journeys  round  the  room  : 
But,  knowing  her  own  weakness,  she  despairs 
To  scale  the  Alps — that  is,  ascend  the  stairs. 
My  fan  !  let  others  say,  who  laugh  at  toll : 
Fan!  hood!  glove!  scarf!  is  her  laconic  style ; 
And  that  is  spoke  with  such  a  dying  fall. 
That  Betty  rather  sees  than  hears  the  call : 
The  motion  of  her  lips,  and  meaning  eye. 
Piece  out  th'  idea  her  faint  words  deny. 


O  listen  with  attention  most  profound  ! 
Her  voice  is  but  the  shadow  of  a  sound. 
And  help,  oh  help !  her  spirits  are  so  dead, 
One  hand  scarce  lifts  the  other  to  her  head. 
If  there  a  stubborn  pin,  it  triumphs  o'er. 
She  pants !  she  sinks  away  !  and  is  no  more. 
Let  the  robust  and  the  gigantic  carve, 
Life  is  not  worth  so  much,  she'd  rather  starve  j 
But  chew  she  must  herself!  ah  cruel  fate! 
That  Rosalinda  can't  by  proxy  eat. 


THE  SWEARER. 

raOH  TBI  8A1IX. 

Thalestris  triumphs  in  a  manly  mien ; 
Loud  is  her  accent,  and  her  phrase  obscene. 
In  fair  and  open  dealing  where's  the  shame? 
What  nature  dares  to  give,  she  dares  to  name. 
This  honest  fellow  is  sincere  and  plain. 
And  justly  gives  the  jealous  husband  pain. 
(Vain  is  the  task  to  petticoats  assign'd. 
If  wanton  language  shows  a  naked  mind.) 
And  now  and  then,  to  grace  her  eloquence. 
An  oath  supplies  the  vacancies  of  sense. 
Hark !  the  shrill  notes  transpierce  the  yielding  air, 
And  teach  the  neighbouring  echoes  how  to  swear. 
By  Jove,  is  faint,  and  for  the  simple  swain ; 
She  on  the  Christian  system  is  profane. 
But  though  the  volley  rattles  in  your  ear. 
Believe  her  dress,  she's  not  a  grenadier. 
If  thunder's  awful,  how  much  more  our  dread, 
When  Jove  deputes  aJady  in  his  stead? 
A  lady  ?   pardon  my  mistaken  pen, 
A  shameless  woman  is  the  worst  of  men. 


THE  WEDDED  WIT. 


FROM  THE  8AXK. 


Nought  but  a  genius  can  a  genius  fit: 
A  wit  herself,  Amelia  weds  a  wit : 
Both  wits !  though  miracles  are  said  to  cease. 
Three  days,  three  wondrous  days !  they  lived  in 

peace ; 
With  the  fourth  sun  a  warm  dispute  arose, 
On  D'Urfey's  poesy,  and  Bunyan's  prose: 
The  learned  war  both  wage  with  equal  force, 
And  the  fifth  morn  concluded  the  divorce. 


JOHN  BROWN. 


CBorn,  1715,    Died.  1765.] 


Dr.  Brown,  author  of  the  tragedies  of  Athel- 
stan  and  Barbarossa,  and  of  several  other  works, 
was  born  at  Rothbury,  in  Northumberland,  where 
his  father  was  curate.  He  studied  at  Cambridge, 
obtained  a  minor  canonry  and  lectureship  in  the 
cathedral  of  Carlisle,  and  was  afterward  pre- 
ferred to  the  living  of  Morland,  in  Westmoreland. 
The  latter  office  he  resigned  in  disgust  at  being 
rebuked  ior  an  accidental  omission  of  the  Athana- 


sian  creed.  He  remained  for  some  years  in  ob- 
scurity at  Carlisle,  till  the  year  of  the  Rebellion, 
when  he  distinguished  himself  by  his  intrepidity 
as  a  volunteer  at  the  siege  of  the  castle.  Hi» 
Essay  on  Satire  introduced  him  to  Warburton, 
who  exhorted  him  to  write  his  Remarks  on 
Shaftesbury's  Characteristics,  as  well  as  to  at- 
tempt an  epic  poem  on  the  plan  which  Pope  had 
sketched.  Through  Warburton's  influence  be 
2T 


518 


JOHN  BROWN. 


obtained  the  rectory  of  Horkesly, near  Colchester; 
but  his  fate  was  to  be  embroiled  with  his  patrons, 
and  having  quarrelled  with  those  who  had  given 
him  the  living  in  Essex,  he  was  obliged  to  retire 
upon  the  vicarage  of  St.  Nicholas,  at  Newcastle. 
A  latent  taint  of  derangement  had  certainly 
made  him  vain  and  capricious ;  but  Warburton 
<!eems  not  to  have  been  a  delicate  doctor  to  his 
mind's  disease.  In  one  of  his  letters  he  says, 
"  Brown  is  here,  rather  perter  than  ordinary, 
but  no  wiser.  You  cannot  imagine  how  tender 
they  are  all  of  his  tender  places,  and  with  hvw 
unfeeling  a  hand  1  probe  them"  The  writer  of 
this  humane  sentence  was  one  whom  Brown  had 
praised  in  his  Estimate  as  the  Gulliver  and  Colos- 
sus of  a  degenerate  age.  When  his  Barbarossa 
came  out,  it  appears  that  some  friends,  equally 
tender  with  the  Bishop  of  Gloucester,  reproved 


him  for  having  any  connection  with  players.  The 
players  were  not  much  kinder  to  his  sore  feelings. 
Garrick  offended  him  deeply  by  a  line  in  the  pro- 
logue which  he  composed  for  his  Barbarossa, 
alluding  to  its  author,  "  Let  the  poor  devil  eat — 
allow  him  thai." 

His  poetry  never  obtained,  or  indeed  deserved 
much  attention  ;  but  his  "  Estimate  of  the  Man 
ners  and  Principles  of  the  times"  passed  through 
seven  editions,  and  threw  the  nation  into  a  tem- 
porary ferment.  Voltaire  alleges  that  it  roused  the 
English  from  lethargy  by  the  imputation  of  de- 
generacy, and  made  them  put  forth  a  vigour  that 
proved  victorious  in  the  war  with  France.  Dr. 
Brown  was  preparing  to  accept  of  an  invitation 
from  the  Empress  of  Russia  to  superintend  her  pub- 
lic plans  of  education,  when  he  was  seized  with  a 
fit  of  lunacy,  and  put  a  period  to  his  own  existence. 


FROM  THE  TRAaEDY  OF  '•BARBAROSSA." 

ACT  n. 

^lim,  the  son  of  the  deceased  Prince  of  Algiers,  admitted 
in  disguise  into  the  palace  of  the  usurper  Barbarossa, 
and  meeting  with  Othman,  his  secret  friend. 

Persons — Barbarossa,  Seum,  Oiuman. 

Bar.  Most  welcome,  Othman. 
Behold  this  gallant  stranger.     He  hath  done 
The  state  good  service.     Let  some  high  reward 
Await  him,  such  as  may  o'erpay  his  zeal. 
Conduct  him  to  the  queen :  for  he  hath  news 
Worthy  her  ear,  from  her  departed  son ; 
Such  as  may  win  her  love — Come,  Aladin  ! 
The  banquet  waits  our  presence :  festal  joy 
Laughs  in  the  mantling  goblet ;  and  the  night, 
Illumined  by  the  taper's  dazzling  beam, 
Rivals  departed  day.  [Exeunt  Bar.  and  Ala. 

Selim.  What  anxious  thought 
Rolls  in  thine  eye,  and  heaves  thy  labouring  breast  1 
Why  join'st  thou  not  the  loud  excess  of  joy, 
That  riots  through  the  palace  1 

Olh.  Barest  thou  tell  me 
On  what  dark  errand  thou  art  here  ? 

Selim,  I  dare. 
Dost  not  perceive  the  savage  lines  of  blood 
Deform  my  visage]  Read'st  not  in  mine  eye 
Remorseless  fury  1 — I  am  Selim's  murderer. 

0th.  Selim's  murderer ! 

Selim.  Start  not  from  me. 

My  dagger  thirsts  not  but  for  regal  blood 

Why  this  amazement  1  [should  be 

Olh.  Amazement ! — No — 'Tis  well — 'Tis  as  it 
He  was  indeed  a  foe  to  Barbarossa. 

Selim.  And  therefore  to  A  Igiers : — Was  it  not  so  ] 
Why  dost  thou  pause  1    What  passion  shakes  thy 
frame  ] 

0th.  Fate,  do  thy  worst !  I  can  no  more  dis- 
semble ! 

Can  I,  unmoved,  behold  the  murdering  ruffian, 
Smear'd  with  my  prince's  blood! — Go,  tell  the 

tyrant, 
Othman  defies  his  power;  that,  tired  with  life, 
He  dares  his  bloody  hand,  and  pleads  to  die. 

Selim.  What,  didst  thou  love  this  Selim] 


Olh.  All  men  loved  him. 
He  was  of  such  unmix'd  and  blameless  quality, 
That  envy,  at  his  praise,  stood  mute,  nor  dared 
To  sully  his  fair  name  !  Remorseless  tyrant ! 

Selim.  I  do  commend  thy  faith.     And  since 
thou  lovest  him, 
I  have  deceived  this  tyrant  Barbarossa : 
Selim  is  yet  alive. 

Olh.  Alive! 

Selim.  Nay  more 
Selim  is  in  Algiers. 

Olh.  Impossible  !  [hither  straight. 

Selim.  Nay,  if  thou  doubt'st,  I'll  bring  him 

0th.  Not  for  an  empire  ! 
Thou  might'st  as  well  bring  the  devoted  lamb 
Into  the  tiger's  den. 

SeltTti.  But  I'll  bring  him 
Hid  in  such  deep  disguise  as  shall  deride 
Suspicion,  though  she  wear  the  lynx's  eyes. 
Not  even  thyself  couldst  know  him. 

0th.  5fes,sure:  too  sure  to  hazard  such  an  awful 
Trial! 

Selim.  Yet  seven  revolving  years,  worn  out 
In  tedious  exile,  may  have  wrought  such  change 
Of  voice  and  feature  in  the  state  of  youth, 
As  might  elude  thine  eye. 

0th.  No  time  can  blot 
The  memory  of  his  sweet  majestic  mien, 
The  lustre  of  his  eye  !  besides,  he  wears, 
A  mark  indellible,  a  beauteous  scar. 
Made  on  his  forehead  by  a  furious  pard. 
Which  rushing  on  his  mother,  Selim  slew. 

Selim.  A  scar ! 

Olh.  Ay,  on  his  forehead. 

Selim.  What !  like  this  ]  [Lifling  his  turban. 

0th.  Whom  do  I  see ! — am  I  awake  ^ — my 
prince ! 
My  honour'd,  honour'd  king!  [Kneels. 

Selim.  Rise,  faithful  Othman. 
Thus  let  me  thank  thy  truth!  [Embraces him. 

0th.  O  happy  hour!  fmy  hand] 

Selim.  Why  dost  thou  tremble  thus]  Why  grasp 
And  why  that   ardent   gaze !    Thou   canst  not 
doubt  me ! 


JOHN  BROWN. 


619 


Oih.  Ah,  no !  I  see  thy  sire  in  every  line. — 
Howtlid  my  prince  escape  the  murderer's  hand? 

Selim.  I  wrench'd  the  dagger  from  him,  and 
gave  back 
That  death  he  meant  to  bring.  The  ruffian  wore 
The  tyrant's  signet: — "Take  this  ring," he  cried, 
"The  sole  return  my  dying  hand  can  make  thee 
For  its  accursed  attempt :  this  pledge  restored, 
Will  provetheeslain!  Safe  may'slthou  see  Algiers, 
Unknown  to  all."     This  said,  the  assassin  died. 

0th.  But  how  to  gain  admittance  thus  unknown? 

Selim.  Disguised  as  Selim's  murderer  I  come: 
The  accomplice  of  the  deed :  the  ring  restored, 
Gain'd  credence  to  ray  words. 

0th.    Yet   ere    thou    camest,   thy   death   was 
rumour'd  here. 

Selim.  I  spread  the  flattering  tale,  and  sent  it 
hither. 
That  babbling  rumour,  like  a  lying  dream. 
Might  make  belief  more  easy.     Tell  me,  Othman, 

And  yet  I  tremble  to  approach  the  theme 

How  fares  my  mother!  does  she  still  retain 
Her  native  greatness? 

Oih    Still :  in  vain  the  tyrant 
Tempts  her  to   marriage,  though  with  impious 

threats 
Of  death  or  violation. 

Selim.  May  kind  heaven 
Strengthen  her  virtue,  and  by  me  reward  it! 
When  shall  I  see  her,  Othman  1 

Otiu  Yet,  my  prince, 
I  tremble  for  thy  presence. 

Selim.  Let  not  fear 
Sully  thy  virtue  :  'tis  the  lot  of  guilt 
To  tremble.  What  hath  innocence  to  do  with  fearl 

Oih.  Yet  think — should  Barbarossa 

Selim.  Dread  him  not — 
Thou  know'st  by  his  command  I  see  Zaphira; 
And  wrapt  in  this  disguise,  I  walk  secure. 
As  if  from  heaven  some  guarding  power  attending, 
Threw  ten-fold  night  around  me. 

Oih.  Still  my  heart 
Forebodes  some  dire  event! — O  quit  these  walls! 

Selinu  Not  till  a  deed  be  done,  which  every 
tyrant 
Shall  tremble  when  he  hears. 


FROM  THE  SAME. 
Enter  Othma.x  and  Sadi  friend  ta  Othman. 

Selim.  Honour'd  friends ! 
How  goes  the  night  1 

Sadi.  'Tis  welUnigh  midnight. 

0th.  What — In  tears,  my  prince? 

Selim.  But  tears  of  joy :  for  I  have  seen  Zaphira, 
And  pnur'd  the  balm  of  peace  into  her  breast: 
Think  not  these  tears  unnerve  me,  valiant  friends! 
They  have  but  harmonized  my  soul;  and  waked 
All  that  is  man  within  me,  to  disdain 
I  eril.or  death. — What  tidings  from  the  city  ? 

Saili.  All,  all  is  ready.  Our  confederate  friends 
Burn  with  impatience,  till  the  hour  arrive. 

Selim.  What  is  the   signal  of  the  appointed 
hour? 


Sadi.  The  midnight  watch  gives  signal  of  our 
meeting ; 
And  when  the  second  watch  of  night  is  rung. 
The  work  of  death  begins. 

Selim.  Speed,  speed,  ye  minutes! 
Now  let  the  rising  whirlwind  shake  Algiers, 
And  justice  guide  the  storm  !     Scarce  two  hours 
hence — 

Sadi.  Scarce  more  than  one. 

*  »  *  » 

Selim.  But  is  the  city  quiet? 

Sadi.  All,all  ishusl)'d.  Throughout  the  empty 
streets, 
Nor  voice,  nor  sound.     As  if  the  inhabitants, 
Like  the  presaging  herds,  that  seek  the  covert 
Ere  the  loud  thunder  rolls,  had  inly  felt 
And  shunn'd  the  impending  uproar. 

Oih.  There  is  a  solemn  horror  in  the  night,  too. 
That  pleases  me :  a  general  pause  through  nature : 
The  winds  are  hush'd — 

Sadu  And  as  I  pass'd  the  beach. 
The  lazy  billow  scarce  could  lash  the  shore : 
No  star  pmeps  through  the  firmament  of  heaven — 

Selim.  And,  lo  !  where  eastward,  o'er  the  sullen 
wave 
The  waning  moon,  deprived  of  half  her  orb. 
Rises  in  blood:  her  beam,  well-nigh  extinct, 
Faintly  contends  with  darkness —  [BeUtoOt. 

Hark ! — what  meant 
That  tolling  bell  ? 

0th.  It  rings  the  midnight  watch. 

Sadi  This  was  the  signal — 
Come,  Othman,  we  arecall'd:  the  passing  minutes 
Chide  our  delay  ;  brave  Othman,  let  us  hence. 

SeUm,    One    last   embrace ! — nor   doubt,    but, 
crown'd  with  glory, 
We  soon  shall  meet  again.     But,  oh,  remember, 
Amid  the  tumult's  rage,  remember  mercy  ! 
Stain  not  a  righteous  cause  with  guiltless  blood ! 
Warn  our  brave  friends,  that  we  unsheath  the 

sword. 
Not  to  destroy,  but  save!  nor  let  blind  zeal, 
Or  wanton  cruelty,  e'er  turn  its  edge 
On  age  or  innocence !  or  bid  us  strike 
Where  the  most  pitying  angel  in  the  skies. 
That  now  looks  on  us  from  his  blest  abode. 
Would  wish  that  we  should  spare. 

0th.  So  may  we  prosper. 
As  mercy  shall  direct  us ! 

Selim.  Farewell,  friends! 

SadL  Intrepid  prince,  farewell ! 

[Eteunt  0th.  and  Saol 


SELIM'S  SOtlLOQUT  BEFORE  THE  INSURRECTION 

SeUm.  Now  sleep  and  silence 
Brood  o'er  the  city. — The  devoted  sentinel 
Now  takes  his  lonely  stand  ;  and  idly  dreams 
Of  that  to-morrow  he  shall  never  see  ! 
In  this  dread  interval,  0  busy  thought. 
From  outward  things  descend  into  thyself 
Search  deep  my  heart !    bring  with  thee  awfu. 

conscience. 
And  firm  resolve  !  that,  in  the  approaching  houi 


520 


MICHAEL  BRUCE. 


Of  blood  and  horror,  I  may  stand  unmoved ; 
Nor  fear  to  strike  where  justice  calls,  nor  dare 
To  strike  where  she  forbids ! — Why  bear  I,  then, 
This  dark  insidious  dagger  1 — 'Tis  the  badge 
Of  vile  assassins ;  of  the  coward  hand 
That  dares  not  meet  its  foe. — Detested  thought ! 


Yet — as  foul  lust  and  murder,  though  on  thrones 
Triumphant,  still  retain  their  hell-born  quality ; 
So  justice,  groaning  beneath  countless  wrongs, 
Quits  not  her  spotless  and  celestial  nature  ; 
But,  in  the  unhallow'd  murderer's  disguise, 
Can  sanctify  this  steel ! 


MICHAEL  BRUCE. 


[Bom,  1746.    Died,  1767.] 


Michael  Bruce  was  bom  in  the  parish  of 
Kinneswood,  in  Kinross-shire,  Scotland.  His 
father  was  by  trade  a  weaver,  who  out  of  his 
scanty  earnings  had  the  merit  of  affording  his 
son  an  education  at  the  grammar-school  of  Kin- 
ross, and  at  the  university  of  Edinburgh.  Michael 
was  delicate  from  his  childhood,  but  showed  an 
early  disposition  for  study,  and  a  turn  for  poetry, 
which  was  encouraged  by  some  of  his  neigh- 
bours lending  him  a  few  of  the  most  popular 
English  poets.  The  humblest  individuals  who 
have  befriended  genius  deserve  to  be  gratefully 
mentioned.  The  first  encouragers  to  whom 
Bruce  showed  his  poetical  productions  were  a 
Mr.  Arnot,  a  farmer  on  the  banks  of  Lochleven, 
and  one  David  Pearson,  whose  occupation  is  not 
deccribed.  In  his  sixteenth  year  he  went  to  the 
university  of  Edinburgh,  where,  after  the  usual 
course  of  attendance,  he  entered  on  the  study  of 
divinity,  intending,  probably,  to  be  a  preacher  in 
the  Burgher  sect  of  dissenters,  to  whom  his 
parents  belonged.  Between  the  latter  sessions, 
which  he  attended  at  college,  he  taught  a  small 
school  at  Gairney  bridge,  in  the  neighbourhood 
of  his  native  place,  and  afterward  at  Forest-Hill, 
near  Allan,  in  Clackmannanshire.  This  is  nearly 
the  whole  of  his  sad  and  short  history.  At  the 
'latter  place  he  was  seized  with  a  deep  consump- 


tion, the  progress  of  which  in  his  constitution 
had  always  inclined  him  to  melancholy.  Under 
the  toils  of  a  day  and  evening  school,  and  with- 
out the  comforts  that  might  have  mitigated  dis- 
ease, he  mentions  his  situation  to  a  friend  in  a 
touching  butresigned  manner — "  I  had  expected," 
he  says,  "  to  be  happy  here  ;  but  my  sanguine 
hopes  are  the  reason  of  my  disappointment." 
He  had  cherished  sanguine  hopes  of  happi- 
ness, poor  youth  !  in  his  little  village-school ;  but 
he  seems  to  have  been  ill  encouraged  by  his  em- 
ployers, and  complains  that  he  had  no  company, 
but  what  was  worse  than  solitude.  "  I  believe," 
he  adds,  "  if  I  had  not  a  lively  imagination  I 
should  fall  into  a  state  of  stupidity  or  delirium." 
He  was  now  composing  his  poem  on  Lochleven, 
in  which  he  describes  himself, 

"  Amid  unfertile  wilds,  recording  thus, 
The  dear  remembrance  of  his  native  fieldH, 
To  cheer  the  tedious  night ;  while  slow  disease 
Prey'd  on  his  pining  vitals,  and  the  blasts 
Of  dark  December's  shook  his  bumble  cot." 

During  the  winter  he  quitted  his  school,  and, 
returning  to  his  father's  house,  lingered  on  for  a 
few  months  till  he  expired,  in  his  twenty-first 
year.  During  the  spring  he  wrote  an  elegy  on  the 
prospect  of  his  own  dissolution,  a  most  interest- 
ing relic  of  his  amiable  feelings  and  fortitude. 


FROM  THE  ELEOY  ON  SPRING. 

Now  spring  returns :  but  not  to  me  returns 
The  vernal  joy  my  better  years  have  known ; 

Dim  in  my  breast  life's  dying  taper  burns, 
And  all  the  joys  of  life  with  health  are  flown. 

Stalling  and  shiv'ring  in  th'  inconstant  wind, 
Meagre  and  pale,  the  ghost  of  what  I  was, 

Beneath  some  blasted  tree  I  lie  reclined. 
And  count  the  silent  moments  as  they  pass: 

The  winged  moments,  whose  unstaying  speed 
No  iwt  can  stop,  or  in  their  course  arrest; 

Whose  flight  shall  shortly  count  me  with  the  dead, 
And  lay  me  down  in  peace  with  them  that  rest. 

Oft  morning  dreams  presage  approaching  fate; 

And  morning  dreams,  as  poets  tell,  are  true. 
Jjcd  by  pale  ghosts,  I  enter  death's  dark  gate. 

An  1  bid  the  realms  of  light  and  life  adieu. 


I  hear  the  helpless  wail,  the  shriek  ot  woe ; 

I  see  the  muddy  wave,  the  dreary  shore. 
The  sluggish  streams  that  slowly  creep  below. 

Which  mortals  visit,  and  return  no  more. 

Farewell,  ye  blooming  fields  !  ye  cheerful  plains ! 

Enough  for  me  the  churchyard's  lonely  mound, 
Where  melancholy  with  still  silence  reigns. 

And  the  rank  grass  waves  o'er  the  cheerless 
ground. 

There  let  me  wander  at  the  close  of  eve. 

When  sleep  sits  dewy  on  the  labourer's  eyes , 

The  world  and  all  its  busy  follies  leave. 

And  talk  with  wisdom  where  my  Daphnis  lies. 

There  let  me  sleep  forgotten  in  the  clay. 

When  death  shall  shut  these  weary  aching  eyes, 

Rest  in  the  hopes  of  an  eternal  day. 

Till  the  long  night  is  gone,  and  the  last  mom 
arise. 


JAMES  GRAINGER. 


521 


FROM  "liOCHLEVKX." 

Now  sober  Industry,  illustrious  power ! 
Hath  raised  the  peaceful  cottage,  calm  abode 
Of  innocence  and  joy ;  now,  sweating,  glides 
The  shining   ploughshare;  tames  the  stubborn 

soil; 
Leads  the  long  drain  along  th'  unfertile  marsh ; 
Bids  the  bleak  hill  with  vernal  verdure  bloom. 
The  haunt  of  flocks;  and  clothes  the  barren  heath 
With  waving  harvests,  and  the  golden  grain. 

Fair  from  his  hand,  behold  the  village  rise, 
In  rural  pride,  'mong  intermingled  trees ! 
Above  whose  aged  tops,  the  joyful  swains 
At  even-tide,  descending  from  the  hill, 
With  eye  enamour'd,  mark  the  many  wreaths 
Of  pillar'd  smoke,  high-curling  to  the  clouds. 
The  street  resounds  with  labour's  various  voice, 
Who  whistles  at  his  work.     Gay  on  the  green. 
Young  blooming  boys,  and  girls  with  golden  hair. 
Trip  nimble-footed,  wanton  in  their  play. 
The  village  hope.     All  in  a  rev'rend  row. 
Their  gray-hair'd  grandsires,  sitting  in  the  sun. 
Before  the  gate,  and  leaning  on  the  staff. 
The  well-remember'd  stories  of  their  youth 
Recount,  and  shake  their  aged  locks  with  joy. 


How  fair  a  prospect  rises  to  the  eye. 
Where  beauty  vies  in  all  her  vernal  forms. 
For  ever  pleasant,  and  for  ever  new ! 
Swells  the  exulting  thought,  expands  the  soul. 
Drowning  each  ruder  care  :  a  blooming  train 
Of  bright  ideas  rushes  on  the  mind. 
Imagination  rouses  at  the  scene. 
And  backward,  through  the  gloom  of  ages  past. 
Beholds  Arcadia,  like  a  rural  queen. 
Encircled  with  her  swaina  and  rosy  nymphs, 
The  mazy  dance  conducting  on  the  green. 
Nor  yield  to  old  Arcadia's  blissful  vales 
Thine,  gentle  Leven!  green  on  either  hand 
Thy  meadows  spread,  unbroken  of  the  plough, 
With  beauty  all  their  own.     Thy  fields  rejoice 
With  all  the  riches  of  the  golden  year. 
Fat  on  the  plain,  and  mountain's  sunny  side. 
Large  droves  of  oxen,  and  the  fleecy  flocks 
Feed  undisturb'd,  and  fill  the  echoing  air 
With  music  grateful  to  the  master's  ear: 
The  traveller  stops,  and  gazes  round  and  rouna 
O'er  all  the  scenes,  that  aiiimate  his  heart 
With  mirth  and  music.     Even  the  mendicant, 
Bowbent  with  age,  that  on  the  old  gray  stone, 
Sole  sitting,  suns  him  in  the  public  way, 
Feels  his  heart  leap,  and  to  himself  he  sings. 


JAMES  GRAINGER. 


[Boni,im.*    Oied,IT6«.] 


Dk.  James  Grainger,  the  translator  of  Ti- 
buUus,  was  for  some  time  a  surgeon  in  the  army  ; 
he  afterward  attempted,  without  success,  to  ob- 
tain practice  as  a  physician  in  London,  and  finally 
settled  in  St.  Kitt's,  where  he  married  the  gover- 
nor's  daughter.     The  novelty  of  West  Indian 


scenery  inspired  him  with  the  unpromising  sub- 
ject of  the  Sugar-cane,  in  which  he  very  poeti- 
cally dignifies  the  poor  negroes  with  the  name 
of  "  Swains."'\  He  died  on  the  same  island,  a 
victim  to  the  West  Indian  fever. 


ODE  TO  SOUTUDB. 

0  SOLITUDE,  romantic  maid ! 
Whether  by  nodding  towers  you  tread, 
Or  haunt  the  desert's  trackless  gloom. 
Or  hover  o'er  the  yawning  tomb, 
Or  climb  the  Andes'  clifted  side. 
Or  by  the  Mile's  coy  source  abide. 
Or  starting  from  your  half-year's  sleep 
From  Hecla  view  the  thawing  deep. 
Or,  at  the  purple  dawn  of  day, 
Tadmor's  marble  wastes  survey ,J 

[*  See  Priors  Ufe  of  Goldsmith,  vol.  i.  p.  237.] 

[t  If  tirainirer  has  invoked  the  Muse  to  ging  of  mis,  and 
meUimor|iho8od,  in  Arcailian  phrase,  negro  slaves  into 
swains,  the  fault  is  in  the  writer  not  in  the  topic.  The 
ar-iumonts  whit  h  he  has  pri'flxed  are  indeed  ludicrously 
flat  and  formal. — Southet,  Quar.  Hev.  vol.  xi.  p.  489. 

Dr.  liraingers  Sugar-cane  is  capable  of  teiiig  rendered  a 
good  poem. — .Shenstoxe,  W<rkf.  vol.  iii.  p.  'H'i.] 

[J.Iohnson  praised  (Iraingcr's  Ode  to  Solitude,  and  re- 
peatel  with  ureat  energy  the  exordium. ohperving,  ''This, 
sir,  Ls  very  noble."— Choker's  Biswfll.  vol.  iv.  p.  f)0. 

AVhat  makes  the  p^etry  in  the  image  of  I  lie  marbU  watte 
of  Twlmor,  in  Grainger's  '-Ode  to  Solitude,"  so  much 
admired  by  Johnson!  Is  it  the  marble  or  the  watle,  the 
66 


You,  recluse,  again  I  woo. 
And  again  your  steps  pursue. 

Plumed  Conceit  himself  surveying, 
Folly  with  her  shadow  playing. 
Purse-proud,  elbowing  Insolence, 
Bloated  empiric,  puff'd  Pretence, 
Noise  that  through  a  trumpet  speaks. 
Laughter  in  loud  peals  that  breaks. 
Intrusion  with  a  fopling's  face, 
(Ignorant  of  time  and  place,) 
Sparks  of  fire  Dissension  blowing. 
Ductile,  court-bred  Flattery,  bowing, 

artificial  or  the  natural  object »  The  vxule  Is  like  all  other 
wasUi ;  but  the  marble  of  I'almyra  makes  the  poetry  ol 
the  passage  aa  of  the  place. — Lord  Uthon,  Worki,  vol.  vi 
p.  369. 

This  was  said  by  Byron  in  the  great  controversy  thes* 
Specimens  gave  ri.se  to  between  Lord  Byron  and  Mr.  Bowie* 
the  poet, — the  Art  and  Nature  squabble.  Surely  the  po» 
try  of  the  passage  does  not  depend  upon  a  single  word : 

*Tis  not  a  lip  or  eye,  we  beauty  cull. 

"In  this  fine  Ode,"  says  Percy,  "are  R.sscml>led  some  of 
the  sublimest  images  in  nature." — Beliquet,  voL  U.  p 
352.] 

8t8 


522                                                   JOHN  GILBERT  COOPER. 

Restraint's  stiff  neck,  Grimace's  leer, 

Where  as  you  pensive  pace  along. 

Squint-eyed  Censure's  artful  sneer, 

You  catch  the  distant  shepherd's  song. 

Ambition's  buskins,  steep'd  in  blood, 

Or  brush  from  herbs  the  pearly  dew. 

Fly  thy  presence,  Solitude. 

Or  the  rising  primrose  view. 

Sage  Reflection,  bent  with  years, 

Devotion  lends  her  heaven-plumed  wings,    < 

Conscious  Virtue  void  of  fears. 

You  mount,  and  nature  with  you  sings. 

Muffled  Silence,  wood-nymph  shy, 

But  when  mid-day  fervors  glow. 

Meditation's  piercing  eye. 

To  upland  airy  shades  you  go. 

Halcyon  Peace  on  moss  reclined. 

Where  never  sunburnt  woodman  came. 

Retrospect  that  scans  the  mind, 

Nor  sportsman  chased  the  timid  game ; 

Rapt  earth-gazing  Reverie, 

And  there  beneath  an  oak  reclined. 

Blushing,  artless  Modesty, 

With  drowsy  waterfalls  behind. 

Health  that  snufls  the  morning  air, 

You  sink  to  rest. 

Full-eyed  Truth  with  bosom  bare, 

Till  the  tuneful  bird  of  night 

Inspiration,  Nature's  child, 

From  the  neighbouring  poplars'  height 

Seek  the  solitary  wild. 

Wake  you  wiih  her  solemn  strain. 

You  with  the  tragic  muse  retired. 

And  teach  pleased  Echo  to  complain. 

The  wise  Euripides  inspired, 

With  you  roses  brighter  bloom, 

You  taught  the  sadly-pleasing  air 

Sweeter  every  sweet  perfume. 

That  Athens  saved  from  ruins  bare. 

Purer  every  fountain  flows. 

You  gave  the  Cean's  tears  to  flow, 

Stronger  every  wilding  grows. 

And  unlock'd  the  springs  of  woe; 

Let  those  toil  for  gold  who  please. 

You  penn'd  what  exiled  Naso  thought, 

Or  for  fame  renounce  their  ease. 

And  pour'd  the  melancholy  note. 

What  is  fame  ?  an  empty  bubble. 

With  Petrarch  o'er  Vaucluse  you  stray'd, 

Gold  ■?   a  transient  shining  trouble. 

When  death  snatch'd  his  long-loved  maid; 

Let  them  for  their  country  bleed. 

You  taught  the  rocks  her  loss  to  mourn, 

What  was  Sidney's,  Raleigh's  meedl 

Ye  strew'd  with  flowers  her  virgin  urn. 

Man's  not  worth  a  moment's  pain. 

And  late  in  Hagley  you  were  seen, 

Base,  ungrateful,  fickle,  vain. 

With  bloodshed  eyes,  and  sombre  mien, 

Then  let  me,  sequester'd  fair. 

Hymen  his  yellow  vestment  tore. 

To  your  sibyl  grot  repair; 

And  Dirge  a  wreath  of  cypress  wore. 

On  yon  hanging  cliff  it  stands. 

But  chief  your  own  the  solemn  lay 

Scoop'd  by  nature's  salvage  hands, 

That  wept  Narcissa  young  and  gay, 

Bosom'd  in  the  gloomy  shade 

Darkness  clapp'd  her  sable  wing, 

Of  cypress  not  with  age  decay'd. 

While  you  touch'd  the  mournful  string. 

Where  the  owl  still-hooting  sits. 

Anguish  left  the  pathless  wild, 

Where  the  bat  incessant  flits. 

Grim-faced  Melancholy  smiled. 

1'here  in  loftier  strains  I'll  sing 

Drowsy  Midnight  ceased  to  yawn. 

Whence  the  changing  seasons  spring, 

The  starry  host  put  back  the  dawn. 

Tell  how  storms  deform  the  skies. 

Aside  their  harps  even  seraphs  flung 

Whence  the  waves  subside  and  rise, 

To  hear  thy  sweet  Complaint,  0  Young! 

Trace  the  comet's  blazing  tail. 

When  all  nature's  hush'd  asleep, 

Weigh  the  planets  in  a  scale ; 

Nor  Love  nor  Guilt  their  vigils  keep, 

Bend,  great.  God,  before  thy  shrine. 

Soft  you  leave  your  cavern'd  den. 

The  bournless  macrocosm's  thine. 

And  wander  o'er  the  works  of  men  ; 

But  when  Phosphor  brings  the  dawn 

*                  *                  * 

By  her  dappled  coursers  drawn, 

The  remainder  of  this  ode,  which  is  rather  tedious,  haa 

Again  you  to  the  wild  retreat 

been  omitted. 

And  the  early  huntsman  meet. 

JOHN  GILBI 

V 

mT  COOPER, 

! 

[Bom,  1723. 

Died,  176S.J 

Was  of  an  ancient  family  in  Nottinghamshire, 

factures.    He  died  at  his  house  in  May-Fair,  aflei 

and  possessed  the  estate  of  Thurgarton  Priory, 

a  long  and  excruciating  illness,  occasioned  by  the 

where  he  exercised  the  active  and  useful  duties 

stone.    He  was  a  zealous  pupil  of  the  Shaftesbury 

of  a  magistrate.     He  resided,  however,  occasion- 

school;  and  published,  besides  his  Poems,  a  Life 

ally  in  London,  and  was  a  great  promoter  of  the 

of  Socrates,  Letters  on  Taste,  and  Epistles  to  the 

Society  fo'  the  Encouragement  of  Arts  and  Manu- 

Great  from  Aristippus  in  retirement. 

i 

1 

SONG* 

AwAT  !  let  nought  to  love  displeasing, 

My  Winifreda,  move  your  care ; 
Let  nought  delay  the  heavenly  blessing, 

Nor  squeamish  pride,  nor  gloomy  fear. 

What  though  no  grants  of  royal  donors 
With  pompous  titles  grace  our  blood, 

We'll  shine  in  more  substantial  honours, 
And,  to  be  noble,  we'll  be  good. 

Our  name  while  virtue  thus  we  tender, 
Will  sweetly  sound  where'er  'tis  spoke ; 

And  all  the  great  ones,  they  shall  wonder 
How  they  respect  such  little  folk. 

What  though,  from  Fortune's  lavish  bounty, 
No  mighty  treasures  we  possess; 

We'll  find,  within  our  pittance,  plenty, 
And  be  content  without  excess. 

Still  shall  each  kind  returning  season 

Sufficient  for  our  wishes  give  ; 
For  we  will  live  a  life  of  reason. 

And  that's  the  only  life  to  live. 

Through  youth  and  age,  in  love  excelling, 
We'll  hand  in  hand  together  tread ; 

Sweet-smiling  peace  shall  crown  our  dwelling, 
And  babes,  sweet-smiling  babes,  our  bed. 

How  should  I  love  the  pretty  creatures, 
While  round  my  knees  they  fondly  clung ! 


To  see  them  look  their  mother's  features. 
To  hear  them  lisp  their  mother's  tongue ! 

And  when  with  envy  Time  transported, 
Shall  think  to  rob  us  of  our  joys ; 

You'll  in  your  girls  again  be  courted. 
And  I'll  go  wooing  in  my  boys. 


SONO. 


The  nymph  that  I  loved  was  as  cheerful  as  day, 
And  as  sweet  as  the  blossoming  hawthorn  in  May, 
Her  temper  was  smooth  as  the  down  on  the  dove. 
And  her  face  was  as  fair  as  the  mother's  of  love. 

Though  mild  asthe  pleasantness  zephyr  that  sheds. 
And  receives  gentle  odours  from  violet  beds. 
Yet  warm  in  affection  as  Phoebus  at  noon. 
And  as  chaste  as  the  silver-white  beams  of  the 


Her  mind  was  unsullied  as  new-fallen  snow. 
Yet  as  lively  as  tints  of  young  Iris's  bow, 
As  firm  as  the  rock,  and  as  calm  as  the  flood 
Where  the  peace-loving  halcyon  deposits  her  brood. 

The  sweeta  that  each  virtue  or  grace  had  in  store 
She  cull'd  as  the  bee  would  the  bloom  of  each 

flower ; 
Which  treasured  for  me,  Oh !  how  happy  was  I, 
For  though  hers  to  collect,  it  was  mine  to  enjoy. 


James  Merrick  was  a  fellow  of  Trinity  Col- 
lege, Oxford,  where  Lord  North  was  one  of  his 
pupils.  He  entered  into  holy  orders,  but  never 
could  engage  in  parochial  duty,  from  being  sub- 
ject to  excessive  pains  in  his  head.  He  was  an 
eminent  Grecian,  and  translated  Tryphiodorus 


JAMES  MERRICK. 

[Born,  17J0.    Died,  1769.] 

at  the   age  of  twenty 


Bishop  Lowth  charac- 
terized him  as  one  of  the  best  men,  and 
most  eminent  of  scholars.  His  most  import- 
ant poetical  work  is  his  version  of  the  Psalms ; 
besides  which  he  published  poems  on  sacred  sub- 
jects. 


THE  WISH. 
How  short  is  life's  uncertain  space ! 

Alas !  how  quickly  done ! 
How  swift  the  wild  precarious  chase ! 
And  yet  how  diflicult  the  race ! 

How  very  hard  to  run ! 

Youth  stops  at  first  its  wilful  ears 

To  wisdom's  prudent  voice ; 
Till  now  arrived  to  riper  years. 
Experienced  age,  worn  out  with  cares, 
Repents  its  earlier  choice. 


[*  'This  Yienutiful  ajilress  to  conjugal  love,"  says  Dr. 
I>ercy,  ••  u  subject  too  much  iieslccteil  by  the  libertine 
Miides.  wa.'J.  1  bi'lievo,  first  printed  in  a  vnliime  of  miflwl- 
laneoiia  poems,  by  several  hands.  puMi-^hed  by  D.  Lewis, 
17-2t».  'ivo.  It  is  tliero  s.iid.  how  truly  1  know  not,  to  bo  a 
translation  from  Vi'  anci-nt  Biitis'i  langwi'if." 

That  it  was  printed  lu  1720  is  cerUin,  wliich  aa  Cooper 


What  though  its  prospecte  now  appear 

So  pleasing  and  refined  1 
Yet  groundless  hope,  and  anxious  fear. 
By  turns  the  busy  moments  share, 

And  prey  upon  the  mind. 

Since  then  false  joys  our  fancy  cheat 

With  hopes  of  real  bliss ; 
Ye  guardian  powers  that  rule  my  fate. 
The  only  wish  that  I  create 

Is  all  comprised  in  this: — 

wa»  then  only  three  years  old,  Is  fetal  to  his  riaht  Alkin 
blames  Percy  for  insertinn  it  among  hi.«  R-liqwt.  "  for  the 
title.'"  he  any*,  '•  was  only  a  poetic  fiction,  or  rather  a  rtrok* 
of.satlre."  /-i»i..\ 

Cooper  printed  the  poem  in  hia  Lettars  '»n  Taste  (17&0> 
but  did  not  print  his  claim,  aa  Aikin  and  others  hare 
igaorantly  done.] 


624 


WILLIAM   FALCONER. 


May  I,  through  life's  uncertain  tide, 

Be  still  from  pain  exempt! 
May  all  my  wants  be  still  supplied, 
My  state  too  low  t'  admit  of  pride, 
And  yet  above  contempt ! 


But  should  your  providence  divine 

A  greater  bliss  intend ; 
May  all  those  blessings  you  design, 
(If  e'er  those  blessings  shall  be  mine,) 

Be  centred  in  a  friend ! 


WILLIAM  FALCONER. 


[Born,  1730.    Died,  1769.] 


William  Falconer  was  the  son  of  a  barber  in 
Edinburgh,  and  went  to  sea  at  an  early  age  in  a 
merchant  vessel  of  Leith.  He  was  afterward 
mate  of  a  ship  that  was  wrecked  in  the  Levant, 
and  was  one  of  only  three  out  of  her  crew  that 
were  saved,  a  catastrophe  which  formed  the  sub- 
ject of  his  future  poem.  He  was  for  some  time 
in  the  capacity  of  a  servant  to  Campbell,  the 
author  of  Lexiphanes,  when  purser  of  a  ship. 
Campbell  is  said  to  have  discovered  in  Falconer 
talents  worthy  of  cultivation,  and  when  the  latter 
distinguished  himself  as  a  poet,  used  to  boast  that 
he  had  been  his  scholar.  What  he  learned  from 
Campbell  it  is  not  very  easy  to  ascertain.  His 
education,  as  he  often  assured  Governor  Hunter, 
had  been  confined  to  reading,  writing,  and  a  little 
arithmetic,  though  in  the  course  of  his  life  he 
picked  up  some  acquaintance  with  the  French, 
Spanish,  and  Italian  languages.  In  these  his 
countryman  was  not  likely  to  have  much  assisted 
him ;  but  he  might  have  lent  him  books,  and 
possibly  instructed  him  in  the  use  of  figures. 
Falconer  published  his  "Shipwreck"  in  1762, 
and  by  the  favour  of  the  Duke  of  York,  to  whom 
it  was  dedicated,  obtained  the  appointment  of  a 
midshipman  in  the  Royal  George,  and  afterward 
that  of  purser  in  the  Glory  frigate.  He  soon 
afterward  married  a  Miss  Hicks,  an  accom- 
plished and  beautiful  woman,  the  daughter  of  the 
surgeon  of  Sheerness-yard.  At  the  peace  of  1763, 
he  was  on  the  point  of  being  reduced  to  distressed 
circumstances  by  his  ship  being  laid  up  in  ordi- 
nary at  Chatham,  when,  by  the  friendship  of 
Commissioner  Hanway,  who  ordered  the  cabin  of 
the  Glory  to  be  fitted  up  for  his  residence,  he  en- 
joyed for  some  time  a  retreat  for  study  without 
expense  or  embarrassment.  Here  he  employed 
himself  in  compiling  his  Marine  Dictionary,  which 
appeared  in  1769,  and  has  been  always  highly 
spoken  of  by  those  who  are  capable  of  estimating 
its  merits.  He  embarked  also  in  the  politics  of 
the  day,  as  a  poetical  antagonist  to  Churchill, 
but  with  little  advantage  to  his  memory.  Before 
the  publication  of  his  Marine  Dictionary  he  had 
left  his  retreat  at  Chatham  for  a  less  comfortable 
abode  in  the  metropolis,  and  appears  to  have 
struggled  with  considerable  difficulties,  in  the 
midst  of  which  he  received  proposals  from  the 
late  Mr.  Murray,  the  bookseller,*  to  join  him  in 
the  business  which  he  had  newly  established, 

r*  The  £a.ther  of  the  publisher  of  this  work.] 


The  cause  of  his  refusing  this  offer  was,  in  all 
probability,  the  appointment  which  he  received  to 
the  pursership  of  the  Aurora,  East  Indiaman. 
In  that  ship  he  embarked  for  India,  in  September 
1769,  but  the  Aurora  was  never  heard  of  after 
she  passed  the  Cape,  and  was  thought  to  have 
foundered  in  the  Channel  of  Mozambique;  so 
that  the  poet  of  the  "  Shipwreck"  may  be  sup- 
posed to  have  perished  by  the  same  species  of 
calamity  which  he  had  rehearsed. 

The  subject  of  the  Shipwreck,  and  the  fate  of 
its  author,  bespeak  an  uncommon  partiality  in 
its  favour.  .  If  we  pay  respect  to  the  ingenious 
scholar  who  can  produce  agreeable  verses  amidst 
the  shades  of  retirement,  or  the  shelves  of  his 
library,  how  much  more  interest  must  we  take  in 
the  "ship-boy  on  the  high  and  giddy  mast," 
cherishing  refined  visions  of  fancy  at  the  hour 
which  he  may  casually  snatch  from  fatigue  and 
danger.  Nor  did  Falconer  neglect  the  proper 
acquirements  of  seamanship  in  cultivating  poetry, 
but  evinced  considerable  knowledge  of  his  pro- 
fession, both  in  his  Marine  Dictionary  and  in  the 
nautical  precepts  of  the  Shipwreck.  In  that 
poem  he  may  be  said  to  have  added  a  congenial 
and  peculiarly  British  subject  to  the  language ; 
at  least,  we  had  no  previous  poem  of  any  length 
of  which  the  characters  and  catastrophe  were 
purely  naval. 

The  scene  of  the  catastrophe  (though  he  fol- 
lowed only  the  fact  of  his  own  history)  was  poeti- 
cally laid  amidst  seas  and  shores  where  the  mind 
easily  gathers  romantic  associations,  and  where 
it  supposes  the  most  picturesque  vicissitudes  of 
scenery  and  climate.  The  spectacle  of  a  majestic 
British  ship  on  the  shores  of  Greece  brings  as 
strong  a  reminiscence  to  the  mind,  as  can  well  be 
imagined,  of  the  change/ which  time  has  wrought 
in  transplanting  the  empire  of  arts  and  civiliza- 
tion. Falconer's  characters  are  few  ;  but  the  calm 
sagacious  commander,  and  the  rough  obstinate 
Rodmond,  are  well  contrasted.  Some  part  of  the 
love-story  of  "  Palemon"  is  rather  swainish  and 
protracted,  yet  the  eflect  of  his  being  involved  in 
the  calamity,  leaves  a  deeper  sympathy  in  the 
mind  for  the  daughter  of  Albert,  when  we  con- 
ceive her  at  once  deprived  both  of  a  father  and  a 
lover.  The  incidents  of  the  "Shipwreck,"  like 
those  of  a  well-wrought  tragedy,  gradually  deepen, 
while  they  yet  leave  a  suspense  of  hope  and  fear 
to  the  imagination.  In  the  final  scene  there  is 
something  that  deeply  touches  our  compassion 


WILLIAM  FALCONER. 


626 


in  the  picture  of  the  unfortunate  man  who  is 
struck  blind  by  a  flash  of  lightning  at  the  helm. 
I  remember,  by  the  way,  to  have  met  with  an 
affecting  account  of  the  identical  calamity  befall- 
ing the  steersman  of  a  forlorn  vessel  in  a  similar 
moment,  given  in  a  prose  and  veracious  history 
of  the  loss  of  a  vessel  on  the  coast  of  America. 
Falconer  skilfully  heightens  this  trait  by  showing 
its  effect  on  the  commiseration  of  Rodmond,  the 
roughest  of  his  characters,  who  guides  the  victim 
of  misfortune  to  lay  hold  of  a  sail. 

"  A  fla.«h,  quick  glancing  on  the  nerves  of  light, 
Struck  the  pale  helsman  with  eternal  nii^ht : 
Bodmond,  who  heard  a  piteous  groan  t>chind, 
Touch'd  with  compassion,  gazed  upon  the  blind . 


And,  while  around  hl«  i>ad  rompanions  crowd, 
He  guides  th'  uuli.-ippy  victim  to  the  shroud. 
Hie  thee  aloft,  my  gallant  friend '.  he  cries : 
Thy  only  succour  on  the  m«.-t  relies!" 

The  effect  of  some  of  his  sea-phrases  is  to  give 
a  definite  and  authentic  character  to  his  descrip- 
tions; but  that  of  most  of  them,  to  a  landsman's 
ear,  resembles  slang,  and  produces  obscurity.* 
His  diction,  too,  generally  abounds  with  common- 
place expletives  and  feeble  lines.  His  scholar- 
ship on  the  shores  of  Greece  is  only  what  we 
should  accept  of  from  a  seaman ;  but  his  poem 
has  the  sensible  charm  of  appearing  a  transcript 
of  reality,  and  leaves  an  impression  of  truth  and 
nature  on  the  mind. 


FROM  "THE  SHIPWRECK." 

CHARACTSR   OF  THE  0FFICEB8. 

O'er  the  gay  vessel,  and  her  daring  band, 
Experienced  Albert  held  the  chief  command  ; 
Though  train'd  in  boisterous  elements,  his  mind 
Was  yet  by  soft  humanity  refined. 
Each  joy  of  wedded  love  at  home  he  knew ; 
Abroad  confess'd  the  father  of  his  crew  ! 
Brave,  liberal,  just,  the  calm,  domestic  scene      i 
Had  o'er  his  temper  breathed  a  gay  serene. 
Him  science  taught  by  mystic  lore  to  trace 
The  planets  wheeling  in  eternal  race ; 
To  mark  the  ship  in  floating  balance  held. 
By  earth  attracted  and  by  seas  repell  d;  [known, 
Or  point  her  devious  track,  through  climes  un- 
rhat  leads  to  every  shore  and  every  zone. 
He  saw  the  moon  through  heaven's  blue  concave 
And  into  motion  charm  th'  expanding  tide ;  [glide, 
While  earth  impetuous  round  her  axle  rolls. 
Exalts  her  watery  zone,  and  sinks  the  poles. 
Light  and  attraction,  from  their  genial  source, 
He  saw  still  wandering  with  diminish'd  force ; 
While  on  the  margin  of  declining  day. 
Night's  shadowy  cone  reluctant  melts  away. — 
Inured  to  peril,  with  unconquer'd  soul, 
The  chief  beheld  tempestuous  ocean's  roll ; 
His  genius,  ever  for  the  event  prepared. 
Rose  with  the  storm,  and  all  its  dangers  shared. 

The  second  powers  and  office  Rodmond  bore : 
A  hardy  son  of  England's  furthest  shore  ! 
Where  bleak  Northumbria  pours  her  savage  train 
In  sable  squadrons  o'er  the  northern  main ; 
That,  with  her  pitchy  entrails  stored,  resort, 
A  sooty  tribe  !  to  fair  Augusta's  port. 
Where'er  in  ambush  lurk  the  fatal  sands, 
They  claim  the  danger;  proud  of  skilful  bands; 
For  while  with  darkling  course  their  vessels  sweep 
The  winding  shore,  or  plough  the  faithless  deep, 
O'er  bar  and  shelf  the  watery  path  they  sound, 
With  dextrous  arm  ;  sagacious  of  the  ground  : 

[*  The  first  edition  has  this  title :  "  The  Shipwreck.  A 
Poem  in  Three  Cantos.  By  a  Sailor  :"  and  in  the  prefatory 
Advertisement,  Falconer  Hays  that  he  was  forced  to  ex- 
jlaiu  the  seu-pliraset",  for  he  could  recommend  no  Marino 
Dictionary,  '•without  forfeiting  his  claim  to  the  capacity 
wsumed  in  the  title  page,  of  which  be  is  much  more  tena- 


Fearless  they  combat  ev'ry  hostile  wind. 
Wheeling  in  mazy  tracks  with  course  inclined. 
Expert  to  moor,  where  terrors  line  the  road ; 
Or  win  the  anchor  from  its  dark  abode : 
But  drooping  and  relax'd  in  climes  afar, 
Tumultuous  and  undisciplined  in  war. 
Such  Rodmond  was ;  by  learning  unrefined, 
That  ofl  enlightens  to  corrupt  the  mind  : 
Boisterous  of  manners;  train'd  in  early  youih 
To  scenes  that  shame  the  conscious  cheek  of  truth; 
To  scenes  that  nature's  struggling  voice  control, 
And  freeze  compassion  rising  in  the  soul !  [shore. 
Where  the  grim  hell-hounds,  prowling  round  the 
With  foul  intent  the  stranded  bark  explore — 
Deaf  to  the  voice  of  woe,  her  decks  they  board, 
While  tardy  justice  slumbers  o'er  her  sword — 
Th'  indignant  Muse,  severely  taught  to  feel. 
Shrinks  from  a  theme  she  blushes  to  reveal ! 
Too  ofl  example,  arm'd  with  poisons  fell. 
Pollute  the  shriiie  where  mercy  loves  to  dwelt. 
Thus  Rodmond,  train'd  by  this  unhallow'd  crew. 
The  sacred  social  passions  never  knew  : 
Unskill'd  to  argue ;  in  dispute  yet  loud  ; 
Bold  without  caution ;  without  honours  proud ; 
In  art  unschool'd,  each  veteran  rule  he  prized. 
And  all  improvement  haughtily  despised : 
Yet  though  full  oft  to  future  perils  blind. 
With  skill  superior  glow'd  his  daring  mind. 
Through  snares  of  death  the  reeling  bark  to  guide 
When  midnight  shades  involve  the  raging  tide. 

To  Rodmond  next,  in  order  of  command. 
Succeeds  the  youngest  of  our  naval  band. 
But  what  avails  it  to  record  a  name 
That  courts  no  rank  among  the  sons  of  fame  1 
While  yet  a  stripling,  oft  with  fond  alarms. 
His  bosom  danced  to  nature's  boundless  charms ; 
On  him  fair  science  dawn'd  in  happier  hour. 
Awakening  into  bloom  young  fancy's  flower; 
But  frowning  fortune  with  untimely  blast 
The  blossom  wither'd,  and  the  dawn  o'ercast. 
Forlorn  of  heart,  and  by  severe  decree 
Condemned  reluctant  to  the  faithless  sea, 

eious  than  of  his  character  as  a  poet"  The  poem  m  tint 
publishtKi  though  in  three  ranlos,  its  present  number,  if 
not  one-third  in  extent  of  what  it  now  is.  There  is  uofh- 
inj;  of  Albert  and  Rodmond,  Falemon  and  .\nn» — it  Is  sim- 
ply a  descriptive  poem.  The  alteration*  defy  euumenUic  n, 
sud  are  everywhere  for  the  bettor.) 


626 


WILLIAM  FALCONER. 


With  long  farewell  he  left  the  laurel  grove, 
Where  science  and  the  tuneful  sisters  rove. — 
Hither  he  wander'd,  anxious  to  explore 
Antiquities  of  nations  now  no  more  ; 
To  penetrate  each  distant  realm  unknown, 
And  range  excursive  o'er  th'  untraveli'd  zone. 
Ill  vain  ! — for  rude  adversity's  command, 
Still  on  the  margin  of  each  famous  land, 
With  unrelenting  ire  his  steps  opposed. 
And  every  gate  of  hope  against  him  closed. 
Permit  my  verse,  ye  bless'd  Pierian  train. 
To  call  Arion  this  ill  fated  swain  !* 
For,  like  that  bard  unhappy,  on  his  head 
Malignant  stars  their  hostile  influence  shed. 
Both,  in  lamenting  numbers,  o'er  the  deep, 
With  conscious  anguish  taught  the  harp  to  weep ; 
And  both  the  raging  surge  in  safety  bore 
Amid  destruction  panting  to  the  shore. 
This  last  our  tragic  story  from  the  wave 
Of  dark  oblivion  haply  yet  may  save; 
With  genuine  sympathy  may  yet  complain, 
While  sad  remembrance  bleeds  at  ev'ry  vein. 

Such  were  the  pilots ;  tutor'd  to  divine 
Th'  untraveli'd  course  by  geometric  line  ; 
Train'd  to  command,  and  range  the  various  sail. 
Whose  various  force  conforms  to  every  gale. — 
Charged  with  the  commerce,  hither  also  came 
A  gallant  youth,  Palemon  was  his  name ; 
A  father's  stern  resentment  doom'd  to  prove, 
He  came,  the  victim  of  unhappy  love  ! 
His  heart  for  Albert's  beauteous  daughter  bled : 
Foi  her  a  secret  flame  his  bosom  fed. 
Nor  let  the  wretched  slaves  of  folly  scorn 
This  genuine  passion,  nature's  eldest  born  ! 
'Twas  his  with  lasting  anguish  to  complain, 
While  blooming  Anna  mourn'd  the  cause  in  vain. 

Graceful  of  form,  by  nature  taught  to  please, 
Of  power  to  melt  the  female  breast  with  ease. 
To  her  Palemon  told  his  tender  tale. 
Soft  as  the  voice  of  summer's  evening  gale. 
O'erjoy'd,  he  saw  her  lovely  eyes  relent ; 
The  blushing  maiden  smiled  with  sweet  consent. 
Oft  in  the  mazes  of  a  neighbouring  grove, 
Unheard,  they  breathed  alternate  vows  of  love: 
By  fond  society  their  passion  grew. 
Like  the  young  blossom  fed  with  vernal  dew. 
In  evil  hour  th'  officious  tongue  of  fame 
Betray'd  the  secret  of  their  mutual  flame. 
With  grief  and  anger  struggling  in  his  breast, 
Palemon's  father  heard  the  tale  confest. 
Long  had  he  listen'd  with  suspicion's  ear, 
And  learn'd,  sagacious,  this  event  to  fear. 
Ti»o  well,  fair  youth!  thy  liberal  heart  he  knew; 
A  heart  to  nature's  warm  impressions  true  ! 
Full  oft  his  wisdom  strove,  with  fruitless  toil, 
With  avarice  to  pollute  the  generous  soil: 
That  Koil,  impregnated  with  nobler  seed. 
Refused  the  culture  of  so  rank  a  weed. 


[*  Thy  woes,  Arion  1  and  thy  simple  tale, 
0"er  all  the  heart  shall  triumph  and  prevail! 
Charui'd  as  they  read  the  verse  too  sadly  true. 
How  gallant  Albert  and  hix  weary  crew, 
Heaved  all  their  guns,  their  founderin;;  bark  to  save. 
And  toil'd — and  shriek'd — and  perish'd  on  the  wave ! 
Pleoiurf-s  of  Hope.] 


Elate  with  wealth,  in  active  commerce  won. 
And  basking  in  the  smile  of  fortune's  sun. 
With  scorn  the  parent  eyed  the  lowly  shade. 
That  veil'd  the  beauties  of  this  charming:  maid. 
Indignant  he  rebuked  th'  enamour'd  boy, 
The  flattering  promise  of  his  future  joy  : 
He  sooth'd  and  menaced,  anxious  to  reclaim 
This  hopeless  passion,  or  divert  its  aim : 
Oft  led  the  youth  where  circling  joys  delight 
The  ravish'd  sense,  or  beauty  charms  the  sight. 
With  all  her  powers  enchanting  music  fail'd. 
And  pleasure's  syren  voice  no  more  prevail'd. 
The  merchant,  kindling  then  with  proud  disdain. 
In  look  and  voice  assumed  an  harsher  strain. 
In  absence  now  his  only  hope  remain'd  ; 
And  such  the  stern  decree  his  will  ordain'd. 
Deep  anguish,  while  Palemon  heard  his  doom. 
Drew  o'er  his  lovely  face  a  saddening  gloom. 
In  vain  with  bitter  sorrow  he  repined, 
No  tender  pity  touch'd  that  sordid  mind  ; 
To  thee,  brave  Albert,  was  the  charge  consign'd. 
The  stately  ship,  forsaking  England's  shore. 
To  regions  far  remote  Palemon  bore. 
Incapable  of  change,  th'  unhappy  youth 
Still  loved  fair  Anna  with  eternal  truth: 
From  clime  to  clime  an  exile  doom'd  to  roam. 
His  heart  still  panted  for  its  secret  home. 


FBOM  THE  SAME. 

Evening  described — Midnight — The  ship  weighing  anchor 
and  departing  from  the  haven. 

The  sun's  bright  orb  declining  all  serene. 
Now  glanced  obliquely  o'er  the  woodland  scene. 
Creation  smiles  around  ;  on  every  spray 
The  warbling  birds  exalt  their  evening  lay. 
Blithe  skipping  o'er  yon  hill,  the  fleecy  train 
Join  the  deep  chorus  of  the  lowing  plain : 
The  golden  lime  and  orange  there  were  seen. 
On  fragrant  branches  of  perpetual  green. 
The  crystal  streams,  that  velvet  meadows  lave. 
To  the  green  ocean  roll  with  chiding  wave. 
The  glassy  ocean  hush'd  forgets  to  roar, 
But  trembling  murmurs  on  the  sandy  shore : 
And  lo !  his  surface,  lovely  to  behold  ! 
Glows  in  the  west,  a  sea  of  living  gold  ! 
While  all  above  a  thousand  liveries  gay 
The  skies  with  pomp  ineffable  array. 
Arabian  sweets  perfume  the  happy  plains : 
Above,  beneath,  around  enchantment  reigns  ! 
While  yet  the  shades,  on  time's  eternal  scale. 
With  long  vibration  deepen  o'er  the  vale ; 
While  yet  the  songsters  of  the  vocal  grove 
With  dying  numbers  tune  the  soul  to  love; 
With  joyful  eyes  th'  attentive  master  sees 
Th'  auspicious  omens  of  an  eastern  breeze. — 
Now  radiant  Vesper  leads  the  starry  train, 
And  night  slow  draws  her  veil  o'er  land  and  main; 
Round  the  charged  bowl  the  sailors  form  a  ring  ; 
By  turns  recount  the  wondrous  tale  or  sing; 
As  love  or  battle,  hardships  of  the  main, 
Or  genial  wine  awake  their  homely  strain : 
Then  some  the  watch  of  night  alternate  keep. 
The  rest  lie  buried  in  obliyious  sleep. 


WILLIAM  FALCONER. 


627 


Deep  midnight  now  involves  the  livid  skies, 
While  infant  breezes  from  the  shore  arise. 
The  waning  moon,  behind  a  wat'ry  shroud, 
Pale  glimmer'd  o'er  the  long-protracted  cloud. 
A  mighty  ring  around  her  silver  throne. 
With  parting  meteors  cross'd,  portentous  shone. 
This  in  the  troubled  sky  full  oft  prevails ; 
Oft  decm'd  a  signal  of  tempestuous  gales. — 
While  young  Arion  sleeps,  before  his  sight 
Tumultuous  swim  the  visions  of  the  night, 
Now  blooming  Anna,  with  her  happy  swain, 
A  pproach'd  the  sacred  hymeneal  fane : 
Anon  tremendous  lightnings  flash  between  ; 
And  funeral  pomp  and  weeping  loves  are  seen ! 
Now  with  Palemon  up  a  rocky  steep. 
Whose  summit  trembles  o'er  the  roaring  deep, 
With  painful  step  he  climb'd ;  while  far  above 
Sweet  Anna  charm'd  them  with  the  voice  of  love. 
Then  sudden  from  the  slippery  height  they  fell, 
While  dreadful  yawn'd  beneath  the  jaws  of  hell — 
Amid  this  fearful  trance,  a  thundering  sound 
He  hears — and  thrice  the  hollow  decks  rebound. 
Upstarting  from  his  couch  on  deck  he  sprung ; 
Thrice  with  shrill  note  the  boatswain's  whistle 

rung. 
"All  hands  unmoor!"  proclaims  a  boisterous  cry : 
"All  hands  unmoor!"  the  cavern  rocks  reply. 
Roused  from  repose  aloft  the  sailors  swarm, 
And  with  their  levers  soon  the  windlass  arm. 
The  order  given,  up-springing  with  a  bound 
They  lodge  the  bars,  and  wheel  their  engine  round : 
At  every  turn  the  clanging  pauls  resound. 
Uptorn  reluctant  from  its  oozy  cave. 
The  ponderous  anchor  rises  o'er  the  wave. 
Along  their  slippery  masts  the  yards  ascend, 
And  high  in  air  the  canvas  wings  extend: 
Redoubling  cords  the  lofty  canvas  guide. 
And  through  inextricable  mazes  glide. 
The  lunar  rays  with  long  reflection  gleam, 
To  light  the  vessel  o'er  the  silver  stream : 
Along  the  glassy  plain  serene  she  ghdes. 
While  azure  radiance  trembles  on  her  sides. 
Erom  east  to  north  the  transient  breezes  play  ; 
And  in  the  Egyptian  quarter  soon  decay. 
A  calm  ensues ;  they  dread  th'  adjacent  shore ; 
The  boats  with  rowers  arm'd  are  sent  before : 
With  cordage  fasten'd  to  the  lofty  prow, 
Aloof  to  sea  the  stately  ship  they  tow. 
The  nervous  crew  their  sweeping  oars  extend  ; 
And  pealing  shouts  the  shore  of  Candia  rend. 
Success  attends  their  skill ;  the  danger's  o'er  : 
The  port  is  doubled  and  beheld  no  more. 

Now  morn,  her  lamp  pale  glimmering  on  the 
Scatter'd  before  her  van  reluctant  night,     [sight, 
She  comes  not  in  refulgent  pomp  array'd. 
But  sternly  frowning,  wrapt  in  sullen  shade. 
Above  incumbent  vapours,  Ida's  height. 
Tremendous  rock !  emerges  on  the  sight. 
North-east  the  guardian  isle  of  Standia  lies, 
And  westward  Freschin's  woody  capes  arise. 

With  winning  postures  now  the  wanton  sails 
Spread  all  their  snares  to  charm  th'  inconstant 

gales. 
Th?  swelling  stu'n  sails  now  their  wings  extend. 
Then  stay-sails  sidelong  to  the  breeze  ascend : 


While  all  to  court  the  wandering  breezeare  placed ; 
With  yards  now  thwarting,  now  obliquely  braced. 

The  dim  horizon  lowering  vapours  shroud, 
And  blot  the  sun  yet  struggling  in  the  cloud : 
Through  the  wide  atmosphere  condensed  with 
His  glaring  orb  emits  a  sanguine  blaze.       [haze, 
The  pilots  now  their  rules  of  art  apply. 
The  mystic  needle's  devious  aim  to  try. 
The  compass  placed  to  catch  the  rising  ray. 
The  quadrant's  shadows  studious  they  survey  ! 
Along  the  arch  the  gradual  index  slides. 
While  Phoebus  down  the  vertic  circle  glides. 
Now,  seen  on  ocean's  utmost  verge  to  swim. 
He  sweeps  it  vibrant  with  his  nether  limb. 
Their  sage  experience  thus  explores  the  height 
And  polar  distance  of  the  source  of  light: 
Then  through  the  chiliads'  triple  maze  they  trace 
Th'  analogy  that  proves  the  magnet's  place. 
The  wayward  steel,  to  truth  thus  reconciled. 
No  more  the  attentive  pilot's  eye  beguiled. 

The  natives,  while  the  ship  departs  the  land, 
Ashore  with  admiration  gazing  stand. 
Msjestically  slow,  before  the  breeze. 
In  silent  pomp  she  marches  on  the  seas. 
Her  milk-white  bottom  casts  a  softer  gleam. 
While  trembling  through  the  green  translucent 

stream. 
The  wales,  that  close  above  in  contrast  shone. 
Clasp  the  long  fabric  with  a  jetty  zone, 
Britannia  riding  awful  on  the  prow, 
Gazed  o'er  the  vassal-wave  that  roli'd  below : 
Where'er  she  moved  the  vassal-waves  were  seen 
To  yield  obsequious,  and  confess  their  queen. 
Th'  imperial  trident  graced  her  dexter-hand. 
Of  power  to  rule  the  surge,  like  Moses'  wand, 
Th'  eternal  empire  of  the  main  to  keep. 
And  guide  her  squadrons  o'er  the  trembling  deep 
Her  left  propitious  bore  a  mystic  shield. 
Around  whose  margin  rolls  the  wat'ry  field. 
There  her  bold  genius  in  his  floating  car. 
O'er  the  wild  billow  hurls  the  storm  of  war— 
And  lo !  the  beasts,  that  oft  with  jealous  rage 
In  bloody  combat  met,  from  age  to  age. 
Tamed  into  union,  yoked  in  friendship's  chain, 
Draw  his  proud  chariot  round  the  vanquish'd  main. 
From  the  broad  margin  to  the  centre  grew 
Shelves,  rocks,  and  whirlpools,  hideous  to  tho 

view ! — 
Th'  immortal  shield  from  Neptune  she  received, 
When  first  her  head  above  the  waters  heaved. 
Looze  floated  o'er  her  limbs  an  azure  vest ; 
A  figured  scutcheon  glitter'd  on  her  breast; 
There,  from  one  parent  soil,  for  ever  young, 
The  blooming  rose  and  hardy  thistle  sprung. 
Around  her  head  an  oaken  wreath  was  seen. 
Inwove  with  laurels  of  unfading  green. 
Such  was  the  sculptured  prow,  from  van  to  rear, 
Th'  artillery  frown'd,  a  black  tremendous  tier! 
Embalm'd  with  orient  gum  alwve  the  wave. 
The  swelling  sides  a  yellow  radiance  gave. 
*  *  ♦  * 

High  o'er  the  poop,  the  flattering  winds  unfurl'd 
Th'  imperial  flag  that  rules  the  wat'ry  world- 
Deep-blushing  armours  all  the  tops  invest; 
And  warlike  trophies  either  quarter  drest: 


628 


WILLIAM  FALCONER. 


Then  tower'd  the  masts,  the  canvas  swell'd  on 
And  waving  streamers  floated  in  the  sky.  [high, 
Thus  the  rich  vessel  moves  in  trim  array, 
Like  some  fair  virgin  on  her  bridal  day; 
Thus  Hke  a  swan  she  cleaves  the  wat'ry  plain. 
The  pride  and  wonder  of  the  .ifJgean  main ! 


FROM  THE  SAME. 
Distress  of  the  vessel — heaving  of  the  guns  overboard. 
No  season  this  for  counsel  or  delay ! 
Too  soon  th'  eventful  moments  haste  away ! 
Here  perseverance,  with  each  help  of  art, 
Must  join  the  boldest  efTorts  of  the  heart. 
These  only  now  their  misery  can  relieve ; 
These  only  now  a  dawn  of  safety  give ! 
While  o'er  the  quivering  deck  from  van  to  rear, 
Broad  surges  roll  in  terrible  career, 
Rodmond,  Arion,  and  a  chosen  crew. 
This  office  in  the  face  of  death  pursue. 
The  wheel'd  artillery  o'er  the  deck  to  guide, 
Rodmond  descending  claim'd  the  weather-side. 
Fearless  of  heart,  the  chief  his  orders  gave; 
Fronting  the  rude  assaults  of  every  wave,  [deep. 
Like  some  strong  watch-tower  nodding  o'er  the 
Whose  rocky  base  the  foaming  waters  sweep, 
Untamed  he  stood ;  the  stern  aerial  war. 
Had  mark'd  his  honest  face  with  many  a  scar. — 
Meanwhile  Arion,  traversing  the  waist. 
The  cordage  of  the  leeward  guns  unbraced. 
And  pointed  crows  beneath  their  metal  placed. 
Watching  the  roll,  their  forelocks  they  withdrew, 
And  from  their  beds  the  reeling  cannon  threw. 
Then,  from  the  windward  battlements  unbound, 
Redmond's  associates  wheel  th'  artillery  round  ; 
Pointed  with  iron  fangs,  their  bars  beguile 
The  ponderous  arms  across  the  steep  defile ; 
Then,  hurl'd  from  sounding  hinges  o'er  the  side. 
Thundering  they  plunge  into  the  flashing  tide. 


FROM  THE  SAME. 

Council  of  officers — Albert's  directions  to  prepare  for  the 
last  extremities. 

Again  the  chief  th'  instructive  draught  extends. 
And  o'er  the  figured  plane  attentive  bends! 
To  him  the  motion  of  each  orb  was  known, 
That  wheels  around  the  sun's  refulgent  throne ; 
But  here,  alas,  his  science  nought  avails  ! 
Art  droops  unequal,  and  experience  fails. 
The  diflerent  traverses  since  twilight  made. 
He  on  the  hydrographic  circle  laid  ; 
Then  the  broad  angle  of  lee-way  explored, 
As  swept  across  the  graduated  chord. 
Her  place  discover'd  by  the  rules  of  art, 
Unusual  terrors  shook  the  master's  heart; 
When  Falconera's  rugged  isle  be  found  [bound; 
Within    her    drift,    with    shelves,    and    breakers 
For  if  on  those  destructive  shallows  tost, 
Th^  helpless  bark  with  all  her  crew  are  lost : 
As  fatal  still  appears,  that  danger  o'er, 
Thjj  steep  St.  George,  and  rocky  Gardalor. 
With  him  the  pdots  of  their  hopeless  state 
(n  mournful  consultation  now  debate. 


Not  more  perplexing  doubts  her  chiefs  appal 
When  some  proud  city  verges  to  her  fall; 
While  ruin  glares  around,  and  pale  affright 
Convenes  her  councils  in  the  dead  of  night — 
No  blazon'd  trophies  o'er  their  concave  spread. 
Nor  storied  pillars  raised  aloft  the  head : 
But  here  the  queen  of  shade  around  them  threw 
Her  dragon-win^,  disastrous  to  the  view  ! 
Dire  was  the  scene,  with  whirlwind,  hail,  and 

shower; 
Black  melancholy  ruled  the  fearful  hour! 
Beneath  tremendous  roll'd  the  flashing  tide. 
Where  fate  on  every  billow  seem'd  to  ride — 
Inclosed  with  ills,  by  peril  unsubdued. 
Great  in  distress  the  master-seaman  stood: 
Skill'd  to  command,  deliberate  to  advise ; 
Expert  in  action,  and  in  council  wise ; 
Thus  to  his  partners,  by  the  crew  unheard, 
The  dictates  of  his  soul  the  chief  referr'd  : 

Ye  faithful  mates,  who  all  my  troubles  share, 
Approved  companions  of  your  master's  care ! 
To  you,  alas !  'twere  fruitless  now  to  tell 
Our  sad  distress,  already  known  too  well ! 
This  morn  with  favouring  gales  the  port  we  left, 
Though  now  of  every  flattering  hope  bereft : 
No  skill  nor  long  experience  could  forecast 
Th'  unseen  approach  of  this  destructive  blast. 
These  seas,  where  storms  at  various  seasons  blow, 
No  reigning  winds  nor  certain  omens  know. 
The  hour,  th'  occasion,  all  your  skill  demands ; 
A  leaky  ship  embay'd  by  dangerous  lands. 
Our  bark  no  transient  jeopardy  surrounds; 
Groaning  she  lies  beneath  unnumber'd  wounds, 
'Tis  ours  the  doubtful  remedy  to  find; 
To  shun  the  fury  of  the  seas  and  wind. 
For  in  this  hollow  swell,  with  labour  sore. 
Her  flank  can  bear  the  bursting  floods  no  more ; 
Yet  this  or  other  ills  she  must  endure ; 
A  dire  disease,  and  desperate  is  the  cure ! 
Thus  two  expedients  offer'd  to  your  choice. 
Alone  require  your  counsel  and  your  voice. 
These  only  in  our  power  are  left  to  try  : 
To  perish  here,  or  from  the  storm  to  fly. 
The  doubtful  balance  in  my  judgment  cast. 
For  various  reasons  I  prefer  the  last. 
'Tis  true,  the  vessel  and  her  costly  freight, 
To  me  consign'd  my  orders  only  wait ; 
Yet,  since  the  charge  of  every  life  is  mine. 
To  equal  votes  our  counsels  I  resign ; 
Forbid  it.  Heaven,  that  in  this  dreadful  hour, 
I  claim  the  dangerous  reins  of  purblind  power ! 
But  should  we  now  resolve  to  bear  away, 
Our  hopeless  state  can  suflfer  no  delay. 
Nor  can  we,  thus  bereft  of  every  sail. 
Attempt  to  steer  obliquely  on  the  gale; 
For  then,  if  broaching  sideward  to  the  sea. 
Our  dropsy'd  ship  may  founder  by  the  lee ; 
No  more  obedient  to  the  pilot's  power, 
Th'o'erwhelming  wave  may  soon  her  frame  devour. 

He  said  ;  the  listening  mates  with  fix'd  regard, 
And  silent  reverence,  his  opinion  heard. 
Important  was  the  question  in  debate, 
And  o'er  their  counsels  hung  impending  fate 
Rodmond,  in  many  a  scene  of  peril  tried, 
Had  oft  the  master  s  happiest  skill  descried. 


WILLIAM  FALCONER. 


bl'J 


Yet  now,  the  hour,  the  scene,  the  occasion  known, 
Perhaps  with  equal  right  preferr'd  his  own. 
Of  long  experience  in  the  naval  art, 
Blunt  was  his  speech,  and  naked  was  his  heart; 
.Mike  to  him  each  climate  and  each  blast; 
The  first  in  danger,  in  retreat  the  last : 
Sagacious  balancing  th'  opposed  events. 
From  Albert  his  opinion  thus  dissents. 

Too  true  the  perils  of  the  present  hour, 
Where  toils  exceeding  toils   our  strength  o'er- 

power ! 
Yet  whither  can  we  turn,  what  road  pursue. 
With  death  before  still  opening  on  the  view  ? 
Our  bark,  'tis  true,  no  shelter  here  can  find. 
Sore  shatter'd  by  the  ruffian  seas  and  wind. 
Yet  with  what  hope  of  refuge  can  we  flee, 
Chased  by  this  tempest  and  outrageous  sea  1 
For  while  its  violence  the  tempest  keeps. 
Bereft  of  every  sail  we  roam  the  deeps  : 
At  random  driven,  to  present  death  we  haste ; 
And  one  short  hour  perhaps  may  be  our  last. 
In  vain  the  gulf  of  Corinth,  on  our  lee, 
Now  opens  to  her  ports  a  passage  free  ; 
Since,  if  before  the  blast  the  vessel  flies, 
Full  in  her  track  unnumber'd  dangers  rise. 
Here  Falconera  spreads  her  lurking  snares  ; 
There  distant  Greece  her  rugged  shelft  prepares. 
Should  once  her  bottom  strike  that  rocky  shore, 
The  splitting  bark  that  instant  were  no  more ; 
Nor  she  alone,  but  with  her  all  the  crew 
Beyond  relief  were  doom'd  to  perish  too. 
Thus  if  to  scud  too  rashly  we  consent, 
Too  late  in  fatal  hour  we  may  repent. 
Then  of  our.  purpose  this  appears  the  scope. 
To  weigh  the  danger  with  the  doubtful  hope. 
Though  sorely  buffeted  by  every  sea. 
Our  hull  unbroken  long  may  try  a-lee. 
The  crew,  though  harass'd  long  with  toils  severe, 
Still  at  their  pumps  perceive  no  hazards  near. 
Shall  we,  incautious,  then  the  danger  tell. 
At  once  their  courage  and  their  hope  to  quell  1 
Prudence  forbids  ! — This  southern  tempest  soon 
May  change  its  quarter  with  the  changing  moon: 
Its  rage,  though  terrible,  may  soon  subside. 
Nor  into  mountains  lash  th'  unruly  tide,     [more 
These  leaks  shall  then  decrease :  the  sails  once 
Direct  our  course  to  some  relieving  shore. — 

Thus  while  he  spoke,  around  from  man  to  man 
At  either  pump  a  hollow  murmur  ran. 
For  while  the  vessel,  through  unnumber'd  chinks. 
Above,  below,  th'  invading  waters  drinks. 
Sounding  her  depth  they  eyed  the  wetted  scale. 
And  lo !  ihe  leaks  o'er  all  their  powers  prevail. 
Yet  in  their  post,  by  terrors  unsubdued. 
They  with  redoubling  force  their  task  pursued. 

And  now  the  senior-pilot  seem'd  to  wait 
Arion's  voice  to  close  the  dark  debate. 
Though  many  a  bitter  storm,  with  peril  fraught. 
In    Neptune's   school   the    wandering   stripling 

taught. 
Not  twice  nine  summers  yet  matured  his  thought 
So  oft  he  bled  by  fortune's  cruel  dart, 
It  fell  at  last  innoxious  on  his  heart. 
His  mind  still  shunning  care  with  secret  hate, 
In  patient  Indolence  resign'd  to  fate. 
67 


But  now  the  horrors  that  around  him  roll. 
Thus  roused  to  action  his  rekindling  soul. 

With  fix'd  attention  pondering  in  my  mind 
The  dark  distresses  on  each  side  combin'd: 
While  here  we  linger  in  the  pass  of  fate, 
I  see  no  moment  left  for  sad  debate. 
For,  some  decision  if  we  wish  to  form. 
Ere  yet  our  vessel  sink  beneath  the  storm. 
Her  shatter'd  state  and  yon  desponding  crew 
At  once  suggest  what  measures  to  pursue. 
The  labouring  hull  already  seems  half-fill'd 
With  waters  through  a  hundred  leaks  distill'd; 
As  in  a  dropsy,  wallowing  with  her  freight, 
Half-drowti'd  she  lies,  a  dead  inactive  weight; 
Thus  drench'd  by  every  wave,  her  riven  deck 
Stripp'd  and  defenceless  floats  a  naked  wreck; 
Her  wounded  flanks  no  longer  can  sustain 
These  fell  invasions  of  the  bursting  main. 
At  every  pitch  the  o'erwhelming  billows  bend, 
Beneath  their  load,  the  quivering  bowsprit  end. 
A  fearful  warning !  since  the  masts  on  high 
On  that  support  with  trembling  hope  rely. 
At  either  pump  our  seamen  pant  for  breath. 
In  dark  dismay  anticipating  death. 
Still  all  our  power  th'  increasing  leak  defy  : 
We  sink  at  sea,  no  shore,  no  haven  ni^h. 
One  dawn  of  hope  yet  breaks  athwart  the  gloom, 
To  light  and  save  us  from  the  wat'ry  tomb. 
That  bids  us  shun  the  death  impending  here ; 
Fly  from  the  following  blast,  and  shoreward  steer. 
'Tis  urged  indeed,  the  fury  of  the  gale 
Precludes  the  help  of  every  guiding  sail ; 
And  driven  before  it  on  the  watery  waste. 
To  rocky  shores  and  scenes  of  death  we  haste 
But  haply  Falconera  we  may  shun  ; 
And  far  to  Grecian  coasts  is  yet  the  run : 
Less  harass'd  then,  our  scudding  ship  may  bear 
Th'  assaulting  surge  repell'd  upon  her  rear; 
Even  then  the  wearied  storms  as  soon  shall  die. 
Or  less  torment  the  groaning  pines  on  high. 
Should  we  at  last  be  driven  by  dire  decree 
Too  near  the  fatal  margin  of  the  sea. 
The  hull  dismasted  there  a  while  may  ride, 
With  lengthen'd  cables  on  the  raging  tide. 
Perhaps  kind  Heaven,  with  interposing  power, 
May  curb  the  tempest  ere  that  dreadful  hour. 
But  here  ingulf'd  and  foundering  while  we  stay 
Fate  hovers  o'er  and  marks  us  for  her  prey. 

He  said : — Palemon  saw,  with  grief  of  heart, 
The  storm  prevailing  o'er  the  pilot's  art; 
In  silent  terror  and  distress  involved. 
He  heard  their  last  alternative  resolved. 
High  beat  his  bosom ;  with  such  fear  subdued  ; 
Beneath  the  gloom  of  some  enchanted  wood. 
Oft  in  old  time  the  wandering  swain  explored 
The  midnight  wizards'  breathing  rites  abhorr'd ; 
Trembling  approach'd  their  incantations  fell. 
And,  chill'd  with  horror,  heard  the  songs  of  hell. 
Arion  saw,  with  secret  anguish  moved. 
The  deep  affliction  of  the  friend  he  loved ; 
And,  all  awake  to  friendship's  genial  heat, 
His  bosom  felt  consenting  tumults  beat 
Alas  !  no  season  this  for  tender  love ; 
Far  hence  the  music  of  the  myrtle  grove  !^— 
iV 


(7^ 


530 


WILLIAM  FALCONER. 


With  comfort's  soothing  voice,  from  hope  deceived, 
Palemon's  drooping  spirit  he  revived, 
For  consolation  oft,  with  healing  art, 
Retunes  the  jarring  numbers  of  the  heart. 
Now  had  the  pilots  all  the  events  revolved, 
And  on  their  final  refuge  thus  resolved ; 
When,  like  the  faithful  shepherd,  who  beholds 
Some  prowling  wolf  approach  his  fleecy  folds ; 
To  the  brave  crew,  whom  racking  doubts  perplex, 
The  dreadful  purpose  Albert  thus  directs  • 

Unhappy  partners  in  a  wayward  fate ! 
Whose  gallant  spirits  now  are  known  too  late, 
Ye !  wno  unmoved  behold  this  angry  storm 
Jta  terrors  all  the  rolling  deep  deform. 
Who,  patient  in  adversity,  still  bear 
The  firmest  front  when  greatest  ills  are  near  ! 
The  truth,  though  grievous,  I  must  now  reveal. 
That  long  in  vain  I  purposed  to  conceal. 
Ingulf 'd,  all  helps  of  art  we  vainly  try. 
To  weather  leeward  shores,  alas  !  too  nigh. 
Our  crazy  bark  no  longer  can  abide 
The  seas  that  thunder  o'er  her  batter'd  side ; 
And  while  the  leaks  a  fatal  warning  give, 
That  in  this  raging  sea  she  cannot  live. 
One  only  refuge  from  despair  we  find ; 
At' once  to  wear  and  scud  before  the  wind. 
Perhaps  even  then  to  ruin  we  may  steer ; 
For  broken  shores  beneath  our  lee  appear ; 
But  that's  remote,  and  instant  death  is  here  ; 
Yet  there,  by  Heaven's  assistance  we  may  gain 
Some  creek  or  inlet  of  the  Grecian  main  ; 
Or,  shelter'd  by  sotne  rock,  at  anchor  ride, 
Till  with  abating  rage  the  blast  subside. 

But  if,  determined  by  the  will  of  Heaven, 
Our  helpless  bark  at  last  ashore  is  driven. 
These  counsels  follow'd,  from  the  wat'ry  grave 
Our  floating  sailors  in  the  surf  may  save. 

And  first  let  all  our  axes  be  secured, 
To  cut  the  masts  and  rigging  from  aboard. 
Then  to  the  quarters  bind  each  plank  and  oar. 
To  float  between  the  vessel  and  the  shore. 
The  longest  cordage  too  must  be  convey'd 
On  deck,  and  to  the  weather  rails  belay 'd. 
So  they  who  haply  reach  alive  the  land, 
Th'  extended  lines  may  fasten  on  the  strand. 
Whene'er  loud  thundering  on  the  leeward  shore, 
While  yet  aloof  we  hear  the  breakers  roar, 
Thus  for  the  terrible  event  prepared. 
Brace  fore  and  aft  to  starboard  every  yard. 
So  shall  our  masts  swim  lighter  on  the  wave. 
And  from  the  broken  rocks  our  seamen  save. 
Then  westward  turn  the  stem,  that  every  mast 
May  shoreward  fall,  when  from  the  vessel  cast. — 
When  o'er  her  side  once  more  the  billows  bound. 
Ascend  the  rigging  till  she  strikes  the  ground : 
And  when  you  hear  aloft  the  alarming  shock 
That  strikes  her  bottom  on  some  pointed  rock. 
The  boldest  of  our  sailors  must  descend. 
The  dangerous  business  of  the  deck  to  tend ; 
Then  each,  secured  by  some  convenient  cord, 
Should  cut  the  shrouds  and  rigging  from  the  board. 
Let  the  broad  axes  next  assail  each  mast! 
And  booms,  and  oars,  and  rafts  to  leeward  cast 
Thus,  while  the  cordage  stretch 'd  ashore  may  guide 
Our  brave  companions  through  the  swelling  tide. 


This  floating  lumber  shall  sustain  them  o'er 
The  rocky  shelves,  in  safety  to  the  shore. 
But  as  your  firmest  succour,  till  the  last, 
O  cling  securely  on  each  faithful  mast ! 
Though  great  the  danger,  and  the  task  severe. 
Yet  bow  not  to  the  tyranny  of  fear ! 
If  once  that  slavish  yoke  your  spirits  quell, 
Adieu  to  hope  !  to  life  itself  farewell ! 

I  know  among  you  some  full  oft  have  view'd. 
With  murd'ring  weapons  arm'd,  a  lawless  brood, 
On  England's  vile  inhuman  shore  who  stand. 
The  foul  reproach  and  scandal  of  our  land  ! 
To  rob  the  wanderers  wreck'd  upon  the  strand. 
These,  while  their  savage  office  they  pursue. 
Oft  wound  to  death  the  helpless,  plunder'd  crew. 
Who,  'scaped  from  every  horror  of  the  main. 
Implored  their  mercy,  but  implored  in  vain. 
But  dread  not  this! — a  crime  to  Greece  unknown. 
Such  blood-hounds  all  her  circling  shores  disown ; 
Her  sons,  by  barbarous  tyranny  oppress'd. 
Can  share  afiliction  with  the  wretch  distress'd: 
Their  hearts,  by  cruel  fate  inur'd  to  grief, 
Oft  to  the  friendless  stranger  yield  relief. 

With  conscious  horror  struck,  the  naval  band 
Detested  for  a  while  their  native  land : 
They  cursed  the  sleeping  vengeance  of  the  laws. 
That  thus  forgot  her  guardian  sailors'  cause. 
Meanwhile  the  master's  voice  again  they  heard, 
Whom,  as  with  filial  duty  all  revered. 

No  more  remains — but  now  a  trusty  band 
Must  ever  at  the  pump  industrious  stand ; 
And  while  with  us  the  rest  attend  to  wear. 
Two  skilful  seamen  to  the  helm  repair ! — 
O  Source  of  life !  our  refuge  and  our  stay ! 
Whose  voice  the  warring  elements  obey. 
On  thy  supreme  assistance  we  rely; 
Thy  mercy  supplicate,  if  doom'd  to  die ! 
Perhaps  this  storm  is  sent,  with  healing  breath. 
From  neighbouring  shores  to  scourge  disease  and 

death ! 
'Tis  ours  on  thine  unerring  laws  to  trust : 
With  thee,  great  Lord !  "  whatever  is,  is  just." 


FROM  THE  SAME. 
The  vessel  going  to  pieces— death  of  Albert. 
And  now,  lash'd  on  by  destiny  severe. 
With  horror  fraught  the  dreadful  scene  drew  near 
The  ship  hangs  hovering  on  the  verge  of  death. 
Hell  yawns,  rocks  rise,  and  breakers  roar  beneath ! 
In  vain,  alas  !  the  sacred  shades  of  yore 
Would  arm  the  mind  with  philosophic  lore; 
In  vain  they'd  teach  us,  at  the  latest  breath. 
To  smile  serene  amid  the  pangs  of  death. 
Even  Zeno's  self,  and  Epictetus  old. 
This  fell  abyss  had  shudder'd  to  behold. 
Had  Socrates,  for  godlike  virtue  famed. 
And  wisest  of  the  sons  of  men  proclaim'd. 
Beheld  this  scene  of  frenzy  and  distress, 
His  soul  had  trembled  to  its  last  recess ! — 
0  yet  confirm  my  heart,  ye  powers  above. 
This  last  tremendous  shock  of  fate  to  prove ; 
The  tottering  frame  of  reason  yet  sustain ; 
Nor  let  this  total  ruin  whirl  my  brain ! 


In  vain  the  cords  and  axes  were  prepared, 
For  now  th'  audacious  seas  insult  the  yard ; 
High  o'er  the  ship  they  throw  a  horrid  shade, 
And  o'er  her  burst,  in  terrible  cascade. 
Uplifted  on  the  surge,  to  heaven  she  flies, 
Her  shatter'd  top  half-buried  in  the  skies. 
Then  headlong  plunging  thunders  on  the  ground. 
Earth  groans!   air  trembles!   and  the  deeps  re- 
sound ! 
Her  giant  bulk  the  dread  concussion  feels. 
And  quivering  with  the  wound,  in  torment  reels. 
So  reels,  convulsed  with  agonizing  throes. 
The  bleeding  bull  beneath  the  murd'rer's  blows. — 
Again  she  plunges!  hark  !  a  second  shock 
Tears  her  strong  bottom  on  the  marble  rock ! 
Down  on  the  vale  of  death,  with  dismal  cries, 
The  fated  victims  shuddering  roll  their  eyes 
In  wild  despair,  while  yet  another  stroke, 
With  deep  convulsion,  rends  the  solid  oak: 
Till  like  the  mine,  in  whose  infernal  cell 
The  lurking  demons  of  destruction  dwell. 
At  length  asunder  torn  her  frame  divides. 
And  crashing  spreads  in  ruin  o'er  the  tides. 
*  *  *  * 

As  o'er  the  surge  the  stooping  main-mast  hung. 
Still  on  the  rigging  thirty  seamen  clung: 
Some,  struggling,  on  a  broken  crag  were  cast. 
And  there  by  oozy  tangles  grappled  fast : 
Awhile  they  bore  th'  o'erwhelming  billows'  rage, 
Unequal  combat  with  their  fate  to  wage ; 
Till  all  benumb'd  and  feeble  they  forego 
Their  slippery  hold,  and  sink  to  shades  below. 
Some,  from  the  main-yard-arm  impetuous  thrown 
On  marble  ridges,  die  without  a  groan. 
Three  with  Palemon  on  their  skill  depend. 
And  from  the  wreck  on  oars  and  rafts  descend. 
Now  on  the  mountain-wave  on  high  they  ride. 
Then  downward  plunge    beneath  th'  involving 
tide; 


Till  one,  who  seems  in  agony  to  strive, 
The  whirling  breakers  heave  on  shore  alive ; 
The  rest  a  speedier  end  of  anguish  knew, 
And  prcss'd  the  stony  beach,  a  lifeless  crew ! 
Next^  O  unhappy  chief!  th'  eternal  doom 
Of  Heaven  decreed  thee  to  the  briny  tomb ! 
What  scenes  of  misery  torment  thy  view  ! 
What  painful  struggles  of  thy  dying  crew! 
Thy  perish'd  hopes  all  buried  in  the  flood, 
O'erspread  with  corses !  red  with  human  blood ! 
So  pierced  with  anguish  hoary  Priam  gazed. 
When  Troy's  imperial  domes  in  ruin  blazed ; 
While  he,  severest  sorrow  doom'd  to  feel. 
Expired  beneath  the  victor's  murdering  steel. 
Thus  with  his  helpless  partners  till  the  last. 
Sad  refuge  !  Albert  hugs  the  floating  mast ; 
His  soul  could  yet  sustain  the  mortal  blow, 
But  droops,  alas!  beneath  superior  woe: 
For  now  soft  nature's  sympathetic  chain 
Tugs  at  his  yearning  heart  with  powerful  strain 
His  faithful  wife  for  ever  doom'd  to  mourn 
For  him,  alas !  who  never  shall  return ; 
To  black  adversity's  approach  exposed. 
With  want  and  hardships  unforeseen  inclosed: 
His  lovely  daughter  left  without  a  friend. 
Her  innocence  to  succour  and  defend  ; 
By  youth  and  indigence  set  forth  a  prey 
To  lawless  guilt,  that  flatters  to  betray — 
While  these  reflections  rack  his  feeling  mind, 
Kodmond,  who  hung  beside,  his  grasp  resign'd; 
And,  as  the  tumbling  waters  o'er  him  roll'd. 
His  out'Stretch'd  arms  the  master's  legs  enfold.— 
Sad  Albert  feels  the  dissolution  near. 
And  strives  in  vain  his  fetter'd  limbs  to  clear; 
For  death  bids  every  clinging  joint  adhere. 
All-faint,  to  Heaven  he  throws  his  dying  eyes, 
And,  "  0  protect  my  wife  and  child  !"  he  cries : 
The gushingslreams roll  backth'unfinish'd  sound! 
He  gasps !  he  dies !  and  tumbles  to  the  ground ! 


MARK  AKENSIDE. 


CBorn,  1711.    Died,  1770.] 


It  may  be  easy  to  point  out  in  Akenside  a 
superfluous  pomp  of  expression ;  -yet  the  cha- 
racter which  Pof«  l)estowed  on  him,  "  that  he 
Was  not  an  every  day  writer,"*  is  certainly  ap- 
parent in  the  decided  tone  of  his  moral  sentiments, 
and  in  his  spirited  maintenaiice  of  great  prin- 
ciples. His  verse  has  a  sweep  of  harmony  that 
seems  to  accord  with  an  emphatic  mind.  He 
encountered  in  his  principal  poem  the  more  than 
ordinary  dilhculties  of  a  didactic  subject. 

"  To  paint  the  finest  features  of  the  mind. 
And  to  most  subtle  and  mysterious  things 
Give  colour,  streuKtli,  and  muiinn." — iiook  1. 

The  object  of  his  work  was  to  trace  the  various 

f*  While  he  was  yet  unknown.] 

t  Viz ,  his  ooniparison  of  the  Votary  of  Imagination  to  a 
Knight  Krrant  in  some  enchanted  panidi-e,  I'ieasures  of 
Imat;ination,  book  iii.  I,  &((<  ;  in  his  sketch  of  the  village 
matron,  book  i.  I,  "266:  and  in  a  passage  of  book  iii.  at  line 
37i>.  beginning  "But  were  not  nature  thus  endowed  at 


pleasures  which  we  receive  fix)m  nature  and  art 
to  their  respective  principles  in  the  human  ima- 
gination, and  to  show  the  connection  of  those 
principles  with  the  moral  dignity  of  man.  and  the 
flnal  purposes  of  his  creation.  His  leading  spe- 
culative ideas  are  derived  from  Plato,  Addison, 
Shaftesbury,  and  Hutchinson.  To  .Xddison  he 
has  been  accused  of  being  indebted  for  more  than 
he  acknowledged;  but  surely  in  plagiarisms  from 
the  Spectator  it  might  be  taken  for  granted,  that 
no  man  could  have  counted  on  concealment;  and 
there  are  only  three  passages  (I  think)  in  his 
poem  where  his  obligations  to  that  source  are 
worthy  of  notice.t     Independent  of  these,  it  is 

large.''  His  ideas  of  the  final  rauw  of  our  delight  in  th« 
Vast  and  illimit;ible,  is  the  same  with  one  expres^-d  in  th« 
S|>ectat)r,  No  413.  But  Addisnu  and  he  twrmwcd  it  in 
romuiun  from  the  sublime  theology  of  I'lato.  The  leading 
hint  of  his  well-known  paasage.  ••  Say,  why  wa«  man  «)  emi- 
nently nined,"  &c.,  is  avowedly  taken  from  Longinas. 


oa2 


MARK  AKENSIDE. 


Tue  that  he  adopted  Addison's  threefold  division 
jf  the  sources  of  the  pleasures  of  the  imagination ; 
but  in  doing  so  he  properly  followed  a  theory 
which  had  the  advantage  of  being  familiar  to 
the  reader ;  and  when  he  afterward  substituted 
another,  in  recasting  his  poem,  he  profited*nothing 
by  the  change.  In  the  purely  ethical  and  didactic 
parts  of  his  subject  he  displays  a  high  zeal  of 
classical  feeling,  and  a  graceful  development  of 
the  philosophy  of  taste.  Though  his  metaphysics 
may  not  always  be  invulnerable,  his  general  ideas 
of  moral  truth  are  lofty  and  prepossessing.  He 
is  peculiarly  eloquent  in  those  passages  in  which 
he  describes  the  final  causes  of  our  emotions  of 
taste:  he  is  equally  skilful  in  delineating  the 
processes  of  memory  and  association ;  and  he 
gives  an  animated  view  of  Genius  collecting  her 
stores  for  works  of  excellence.  All  his  readers 
must  recollect  with  what  a  happy  brilliancy  he 
comes  out  in  the  simile  of  art  and  nature,  dividing 
our  admiration  when  he  compares  them  to  the 
double  appearance  of  the  sun  distracting  his  Per- 
sian worshipper.  But  "now  saiis  est  pulchra 
esse  poemata,  dulcia  sunto."  The  sweetness  which 
we  miss  in  Akenside  is  that  which  should  arise 
from  the  direct  representations  of  life,  and  its 
warm  realities  and  affections.  We  seem  to  pass 
in  his  poem  through  a  gallery  of  pictured  ab- 
stractions rather  than  of  pictured  things.  He 
reminds  ns  of  odours  which  we  enjoy  artificially 
extracted  from  the  flower  instead  of  inhaling 
them  from  its  natural  blossom.  It  is  true  that 
his  object  was  to  teaeh  and  explain  the  nature  of 
mind,  and  that  his  subject  led  him  necessarily 
into  abstract  ideas,  but  it  admitted  also  of  copious 
scenes,  full  of  solid  human  interest,  to  illustrate 
the  philosophy  which  he  taught.  Poetry,  what- 
ever be  its  title,  should  not  make  us  merely  con- 
template existence,  but  feel  it  over  again.  That 
descriptive  skill  which  expounds  to  us  the  nature 
of  our  own  emotions,  is  rather  a  sedative  than  a 
stimulant  to  enthusiasm.  The  true  poet  reno- 
vates our  emotions,  and  is  not  content  with  ex- 
plaining them.  Even  in  a  philosophical  poem 
on  the  imagination,  Akenside  might  have  given 
historical  tabletsof  the  power  which  he  delineated ; 
but  his  illustrations  for  the  most  part  only  consist 
in  general  ideas  fleetingly  personified.  There  is 
but  one  pathetic  passage  (I  think)  in  the  whole 
poem,  namely,  that  in  which  he  describes  the 


lover  embracing  the  urn  of  his  deceased  mistress. 
On  the  subject  of  the  passions,  in  book  ii.,  when 
our  attention  evidently  expects  to  be  disengaged 
from  abstraction,  by  spirited  draughts  illustrative 
of  their  influence,  how  much  are  we  disappointed 
by  the  cold  and  tedious  episode  of  Harmodius's 
vision,  an  allegory  which  is  the  more  intolerable, 
because  it  professes  to  teach  us  resignation  to  the 
will  of  Heaven,  by  a  fiction  which  neither  imposes 
on  the  fancy  nor  communicates  a  moral  to  the 
understanding.  Under  the  head  of  "  Beauty"  he 
only  personifies  Beauty  herself,  and  her  image 
leaves  upon  the  mind  but  a  vague  impression  of 
a  beautiful  woman,  who  might  have  been  any- 
body. He  introduces  indeed  some  illustrations 
under  the  topic  of  ridicule,  but  in  these  his  solemn 
manner  overlaying  the  levity  of  his  subjects  un- 
happily produces  a  contrast  which  approaches 
itself  to  the  ridiculous.  In  treating  of  novelty  he 
is  rather  more  descriptive ;  we  have  the  youth 
breaking  from  domestic  endearments  in  quest  of 
knowledge,  the  sage  over  his  midnight  lamp,  the 
virgin  at  her  romance,  and  the  village  matron  re- 
lating her  stories  of  witchcraft.  Short  and  com- 
pressed as  those  sketches  are,  they  are  still  beau- 
tiful glimpses  of  reality,  and  it  is  expressly  from 
observing  the  relief  which  they  afford  to  his 
didactic  and  declamatory  passages,  that  we  are  led 
to  wish  that  he  had  appealed  more  frequently  to 
examples  from  nature.  It  is  disagreeable  to  add, 
that  unsatisfactory  as  he  is  in  illustrating  the 
several  parts  of  his  theory,  he  ushers  them  in 
with  great  promises,  and  closes  them  with  self- 
congratulation.     He  says, 

"  Thus  with  a  faithful  aim  have  we  presumed 
Adventurous  to  duiineate  nature's  form:" 

when,  in  fact,  he  had  delineated  very  little  of  it. 
He  raises  triumphal  arches  for  the  entrance  and 
exit  of  his  subject,  and  then  sends  beneath  them 
a  procession  of  a  few  individual  ideas. 

He  altered  the  poem  in  maturer  life,  but  with 
no  accession  to  its  powers  of  entertainment.  Har- 
modius  was  indeed  dismissed,  as  well  as  the  phi- 
losophy of  ridicule  ;  but  the  episode  of  Solon  was 
left  unfinished,  and  the  whole  work  made  rather 
more  dry  and  scholastic;  and  he  had  even  the 
bad  taste,  I  believe,  to  mutilate  some  of  those  fine 
passages,  which,  in  their  primitive  state,  are  still 
deservedly  admired  and  popular.* 


FROM  "THE  PLEASURES  OF  IMAGINATION." 

BOOK  I. 

The  fiubject  proposed — Difflculty  of  treating  it  poetically 
— The  ideas  of  the  Divine  mind  the  origin  of  every 
quality  pleasin<;  to  the  imagination — Variety  of  mental 
constitutions — The  idea  of  a  fine  imagination,  and  the 
state  of  the  mind  in  the  enjoyment  of  those  pleasures  it 
affords. 

With  what  attractive  charms  this  goodly  frame 
Of  Nature  touches  the  consenting  hearts 
Of  mortal  men  ;  and  what  the  pleasing  stores 
Which  beauteous  imitation  thence  derives 
To  deck  the  poet's  or  the  painter's  toil ; 


My  verse  unfolds.     Attend,  ye  gentle  Powers 
Of  Musical  Delight!  and  while  I  sing 

[*  Akenside  holds  a  high  place  among  British  Poets. 
He  had  all  tlie  qualities  natural  and  acquired  of  a  great 
poet.  His  mind  was  imbued  with  classic  lore — with  lolly 
conceptions,  and  that  love  and  knowledge  of  nature  which 
no  book  can  communicate.  His  ear  was  correct,  and  his 
blank  verse  deserves  to  be  studied  by  all  who  would 
excel  in  this  truly  English  measure.  Of  his  smaller  poems 
the  Hymn  to  the  Naiads  stands  pre-eminent,  breathing 
a-s  it  iloes  the  very  spirit  of  Callimachus  and  antiquity. 
His  inscriptions  are  among  the  best  in  our  language,  and 
Southey  and  Wordsworth  have  profited  largely  by  them. 
His  (Ides  are  tame  proiluctions;  that  to  the  Earl  of  Hunt- 
ingdon has  most  admirers :  it  is  good,  but  it  is  not  excellent.] 


MARK  AKENSIDE. 


533 


"S  ou/  gifts,  your  honours,  dance  around  my  strain. 

Thou,  smiling  queen  of  every  tuneful  breast, 

Indulgent  Fancy  !  from  the  fruitful  banks 

Of  Avon,  whence  thy  rosy  fingers  cull 

Fresh  flowers  and  dews  to  sprinkle  on  the  turf 

Where  Shakspeare  lies,  be  present:  and  with  thee 

Let  Fiction  come,  upon  her  vagrant  wings 

Wafting  ten  thousand  colours  through  the  air, 

Which,  by  the  glances  of  her  magic  eye, 

She  blends  and  shifts  at  will,  through  countless 

Her  wild  creation.    Goddess  of  the  lyre,   [forms, 

Which  rules  the  accents  of  the  moving  sphere, 

Wilt  thou,  eternal  Harmony  !  descend 

And  join  this  festive  train  1  for  with  thee  comes 

The  guide,  the  guardian  of  their  lovely  sports, 

Majestic  Truth ;  and  where  Truth  deigns  to  come. 

Her  sister  Liberty  will  not  be  far. 

Be  present  all  ye  genii,  who  conduct 

The  wandering  footsteps  of  the  youthful  bard, 

New  to  your  springs  and  shades :  who  touch  his  ear 

With  finer  sounds:  who  heighten  to  his  eye 

The  bloom  of  Nature,  and  before  him  turn 

The  gayest,  happiest  attitude  of  things. 

Oft  have  the  laws  of  each  poetic  strain 
The  critic-verse  employ'd ;  yet  still  unsung 
Lay  this  prime  subject,  though  importing  most 
A  poet's  name :  for  fruitless  is  the  attempt, 
By  dull  obedience  and  by  creeping  toil 
Obscure  to  conquer  the  severe  ascent 
Of  high  Parnassus.     Nature's  kindling  breath 
Must  fire  the  chosen  genius ;  Nature's  hand 
Must  string  his  nerves,  and  imp  his  eagle-wings 
Impatient  of  the  painful  steep,  to  soar 
High  as  the  summit;  there  to  breath  at  large 
Ethereal  air;  with  bards  and  sages  old. 
Immortal  sons  of  praise.    These  flattering  scenes. 
To  this  neglected  labour  court  my  song; 
Yet  not  unconscious  what  a  doubtful  task 
To  paint  the  finest  features  of  the  mind, 
And  to  most  subtle  and  mysterious  things 
Give  colour,  strength,  and  motion.    But  the  love 
Of  Nature  and  the  Muses  bids  explore. 
Through  secret  paths  erewhile  untrod  by  man, 
The  fair  poetic  region,  to  detect 
Untasted  springs,  to  drink  inspiring  draughts. 
And  shade  my  temples  with  unfading  flowers 
CulI'd  from  the  laureate  vale's  profound  recess, 
Where  never  poet  gain'd  a  wreath  before. 

From  Heaven  my  strains  begin ;  from  Heaven 
descends 
The  flame  of  genius  to  the  human  breast, 
And  love  and  beauty,  and  poetic  joy 
And  inspiration.     Ere  the  radiant  Sun 
Sprang  from  the  east,  or  'mid  the  vaults  of  night 
The  Moon  suspended  her  serener  lamp;    [globe, 
Ere  mountains,  woods,  or  streams,  adorn'd  the 
Or  Wisdom  taught  the  sons  of  men  her  lore; 
Then  lived  the  Almighty  One  :  then,  deep  retired 
In  his  unfathom'd  essence,  view'd  the  forms, 
The  forms  eternal  of  created  things; 
The  radiant  Sun,  the  Moon's  nocturnal  lamp. 
The  mountains,  woods,  and  streams,  the  rolling 

globe, 
And  Wisdom's  mien  celestial.     From  the  first 
Of  days,  on  them  his  love  divine  be  fix'd, 


His  admiration  :  till  in  time  complete, 
What  he  admired  and  loved,  his  vital  smile 
Unfolded  into  being.     Hence  the  breath 
Of  life  informing  each  organic  frame. 
Hence  the  green  earth,  and  wild  resounding  waves , 
Hence  light  and  shade  alternate ;  warmth  and  cold ; 
And  clear  autumnal  skies  and  vernal  showers. 
And  all  the  fair  variety  of  things. 

But  not  alike  to  every  mortal  eye 
Is  this  great  scene  unveii'd.    For  since  the  claim* 
Of  social  life,  to  different  labours  urge 
The  active  powers  of  man ;  with  wise  intent 
The  hand  of  Nature  on  peculiar  minds 
Imprints  a  different  bias,  and  to  each 
Decrees  its  province  in  the  common  toil. 
To  some  she  taught  the  fabric  of  the  sphere. 
The  changeful  Moon,  the  circuit  of  the  stars. 
The  golden  zones  of  Heaven ;  to  some  she  gave 
To  weigh  the  moment  of  eternal  things. 
Of  time,  and  space,  and  Fate's  unbroken  chain, 
And  will's  quick  impulse:  others  by  the  hand 
She  led  o'er  vales  and  mountains,  to  explore 
What  healing  virtue  swells  the  tender  veins 
Of  herbs  and  flowers ;  or  what  the  beams  of  mora 
Draw  forth,  distilling  from  the  clifted  rind 
In  balmy  tears.     But  some,  to  higher  hopes 
Were  destined;  some  within  a  finer  mould 
She  wrought,  and  temper'd  with  a  purer  flame. 
To  these  the  Sire  Omnipotent  unfolds 
The  world's  harmonious  volume,  there  to  read 
The  transcript  of  himself.     On  every  part 
They  trace  the  bright  impressions  of  his  hand: 
In  earth  or  air,  the  meadow's  purple  stores. 
The  Moon's  mild  radiance,  or  the  virgin's  form 
Blooming  with  rosy  smiles,  they  see  portray'd 
That  uncreated  beauty,  which  delights 
The  mind  supreme.     They  also  feel  her  charms, 
Enamour'd  ;  they  partake  the  eternal  joy. 

For  as  old  Memnon's  image,  long  renown'd 
By  fabling  Nilus,  to  the  quivering  touch 
Of  Titan's  ray,  with  each  repulsive  string 
Consenting,  sounded  through  the  warbling  air 
Unbidden  strains ;  even  so  did  Nature's  hand 
To  certain  species  of  external  things. 
Attune  the  finer  organs  of  the  mind; 
So  the  glad  impulse  of  congenial  powers, 
Or  of  sweet  sounds,  or  fair  pri>portion'd  form. 
The  grace  of  motion,  or  the  bloom  of  light, 
Thrills  through  imagination's  tender  frame. 
From  nerve  to  nerve :  all  naked  and  alive 
They  catch  the  spreading  rays ;  till  now  the  soul 
At  length  discloses  every  tuneful  spring. 
To  that  harmonious  movement  from  without 
Responsive.     Then  the  inexpressive  strain 
Dilfuses  its  enchantment :  Fancy  <lreams 
Of  sacred  fountains  and  Elysian  groves. 
And  vales  of  Itliss:  the  intellectual  power 
Bends  from  his  awful  throne  a  wondering  ear. 
And  smiles:  the  passions,  gently  soothed  away, 
Sink  to  divine  repotie,  and  love  and  joy 
Alone  are  waking;  love  and  joy,  serene 
As  airs  that  fan  the  summer.    O  I  attend. 
Whoe'er  thou  art,  whom  these  delights  can  tonrh, 
Whose  candid  bosom  the  refining  love 
Of  Nature  warms,  O !  listen  to  my  song; 
2u2 


il  ' 


o34 


MARK  AKENSIDE. 


And  I  will  guide  thee  to  her  favourite  walks, 
And  teach  thy  solitude  her  voice  to  hear, 
And  point  her  loveliest  features  to  thy  view. 

Know  then,  whate'er  of  Nature's  pregnant  stores, 
Whate'er  of  mimic  Art's  reflected  forms 
With  love  and  admiration  thus  inflame 
The  powers  of  fancy,  her  delighted  sons 
To  three  illustrious  orders  have  referr'd ; 
Three  sister-graces,  whom  the  painter's  hand, 
The  poet's  tongue,  confesses;  the  sublime. 
The  wonderful,  the  fair.     I  see  them  dawn ; 
I  see  the  radiant  visions,  where  they  rise, 
More  lovely  than  when  Lucifer  displays 
His  beaming  forehead  through  the  gates  of  mom. 
To  lead  the  train  of  Phoebus  and  the  Spring. 

Say,  why  was  man  so  eminently  raised 
Amid  the  vast  creation  ;  why  ordain'd 
Through  life  and  death  to  dart  his  piercing  eye, 
With  thoughts  beyond  the  limit  of  his  frame; 
But  that  the  Omnipotent  might  send  him  forth 
In  sight  of  mortal  and  immortal  powers, 
As  on  a  boundless  theatre,  to  run 
The  great  career  of  justice  ;  to  exalt 
His  generous  aim  to  all  diviner  deeds ; 
To  chase  each  partial  purpose  from  his  breast : 
And  through  the  mists  of  passion  and  of  sense, 
And  through  the  tossing  tide  of  chance  and  pain. 
To  hold  his  course  unfaltering,  while  the  voice 
Of  Truth  and  Virtue,  up  the  steep  ascent 
Of  Nature,  calls  him  to  his  high  reward. 
The  applauding  smile  of  Heaven  ?  Else  wherefore 
In  mortal  bosoms  this  unquenched  hope,    [burns 
That  breathes  from  day  to  day  sublimer  things. 
And  mocks  possession  ]  wherefore  darts  the  mind. 
With  such  resistless  ardour  to  embrace 
Majestic  forms ;  impatient  to  be  free. 
Spurning  the  gross  control  of  wilful  might , 
Proud  of  the  strong  contention  of  her  toils; 
Proud  to  he  daring?    Who  but  rather  turns 
To  Heaven's  broad  fire  his  unconstrained  view, 
'J'han  to  the  glimmering  of  a  waxen  flame  1 
Who  that,  from  Alpine  heights,  his  labouring  eye 
Shoots  round  the  wide  horizon,  to  survey 
Nilus  or  Ganges  rolling  his  bright  wave 
Through  mountains,  plains,  through  empires  black 

with  shade. 
And  continents  of  sand,  will  turn  his  gaze 
To  mark  the  windings  of  a  scanty  rill 
That  murmurs  at  his  fleet  ]   The  high-born  soul 
Disdains  to  rest  her  heaven-aspiring  wing 
Beneath  its  native  quarry.     Tired  of  Earth 
And  this  diurnal  scene,  she  springs  aloft 
Through  fields  of  air;  pursues  the  flying  storm; 
Rides  on  thevollied  lightning  through  the  heavens; 
Or,  yoked  with  whirlwmds  and  the  northern  blast. 
Sweeps  the  long  tract  of  day.  Then  high  she  soars 
The  blue  profound,  and  hovering  round  the  Sun 
Beholds  him  pouring  the  redundant  stream 
Of  light;  beholds  his  unrelenting  sway 
Bend  the  reluctant  planets  to  absolve 
The  fated  rounds  of  Time.     Thence  far  effused 
She  darts  her  swiftness  up  the  long  career 
Of  devious  comets ;  through  its  burning  signs 
Exulting  measures  the  perennial  wheel 
Of  Nature,  and  looks  back  on  all  the  stars, 


Whose  blended  light,  as  with  a  milky  zone. 
Invests  the  orient.     Now  amazed  she  views 
The  empyreal  waste,  where  happy  spirits  hold, 
Beyond  this  concave  heaven,  their  calm  abode ; 
And  fields  of  radiance,  whose  unfading  light 
Has  travell'd  the  profound  six  thousand  years, 
Nor  yet  arrives  in  sight  of  mortal  things. 
Even  on  the  barriers  of  the  world  untired 
She  meditates  the  eternal  depth  below ; 
Till  half  recoiling,  down  the  headlong  steep 
She  plunges;  soon  o'erwhelm'd  and  swallow'dap 
In  that  immense  of  being.     There  her  hopes 
Rest  at  the  fated  goal.     For  from  the  birth 
Of  mortal  man,  the  sovereign  Maker  said. 
That  not  in  humble  nor  in  brief  delight, 
Not  in  the  fading  echoes  of  Renown, 
Power's  purple  robes,  nor  Pleasure's  flowery  lap, 
The  soul  should  find  enjoyment;  but  from  these 
Turning  disdainful  to  an  equal  good. 
Through  all  the  ascent  of  things  enlarge  her  view, 
Till  every  bound  at  length  should  disappear. 
And  infinite  perfection  close  the  scene. 


PUOM  THE  SAMB. 
Final  cause  of  our  pleasure  in  Beauty. 

Then  tell  me,  for  ye  know. 
Does  Beauty  ever  deign  to  dwell  where  health 
And  active  use  are  strangers  ?  Is  her  charm 
Confess'd  in  aught,  whose  most  peculiar  ends 
Are  lame  and  fruitless  1  or  did  Nature  mean 
This  pleasing  call  the  herald  of  a  lie ; 
To  hide  the  shame  of  discord  and  disease, 
And  catch  with  fair  hypocrisy  the  heart 
Of  idle  faith  7   O  no  !  with  better  cares 
The  indulgent  mother,  conscious  how  infirm 
Her  offspring  tread  the  paths  of  good  and  ill, 
By  this  illustrious  image,  in  each  kind 
Still  most  illustrious  where  the  object  holds 
Its  native  powers  most  perfect,  she  by  this 
Illumes  the  headstrong  impulse  of  desire. 
And  sanctifies  his  choice.     The  generous  glebe 
Whose  bosom  smiles  with  verdure,  the  clear  tract 
Of  streams  delicious  to  the  thirsty  soul. 
The  bloom  of  nectar'd  fruitage  ripe  to  sense. 
And  every  charm  of  animated  things. 
Are  only  pledges  of  a  state  sincwe, 
The  integrity  and  order  of  their  frame 
When  all  is  well  within,  and  every  end 
Accomplish'd.  Thus  was  Beauty  sent  from  Heaven 
The  lovely  ministress  of  truth  and  good 
In  this  dark  world :  for  truth  and  good  are  one, 
And  beauty  dwells  in  them;  and  they  in  her 
With  like  participation. 


FROM  THE  SAME. 

Mental  Beauty. 

Mind,  mind  alone,  (bear  witness.  Earth  and 
The  living  fountains  in  itself  contains    [Heaven!) 
Of  beauteous  and  sublime ;  here  hand  i/i  hand, 
bit  paramount  the  Graces:  here  enthroned. 
Celestial  Venus,  with  divinest  airs. 


MARK   AKENSIDE. 


635 


Invites  the  soul  to  never-fading  joy. 

Look  thea  abroad  through  Nature,  to  the  range 

Of  planets,  suns,  and  adamantine  spheres. 

Wheeling  unshaken  through  the  void  immense; 

And  speak,  O  man!  does  this  capacious  scene 

With  half  that  kindling  maje-sty  dilate 

Thy  strong  conception,  as  when  Brutus  rose 

Refulgent  from  the  stroke  of  Csesar's  fate. 

Amid  the  crowd  of  patriots;  and  his  arm 

Aloft  extending,  like  eternal  Jove 

When  guilt  brings  down  the  thunder,  calfd  aloud 

On  Tully's  name,  and  shook  his  crimson  steel, 

And  bade  the  father  of  his  country  hail  1 

For  lo !  the  tyrant  prostrate  on  the  dust. 

And  Rome  again  is  free !     Is  aught  so  fair 

In  all  the  dewy  landscapes  of  the  spring, 

In  the  bright  eye  of  Hesper  or  the  Morn, 

In  Nature's  fairest  forms,  is  aught  so  fair 

As  virtuous  Friendship  t  as  the  candid  blush 

Of  him  who  strives  with  fortune  to  be  just! 

The  graceful  tear  that  streams  for  others'  woesi 

Or  the  mild  majesty  of  private  life. 

Where  peace  with  ever-blooming  olive  crowns 

The  gate;  where  Honour's  iiberal  hands  eSuse 

Unenvied  treasures,  and  the  snowy  wings 

Of  Innocence  and  Love  protect  the  scene  1 


FROM  BOOK  n. 

All  tfae  nataral  pa.«8ion«,  grief,  pity,  and  indignation, 

partake  of  a  pleasing  sensation. 

Ask  the  faithful  youth. 
Why  the  cold  urn  of  her  whom  long  he  loved 
So  often  fills  his  arms ;  so  often  draws 
His  lonely  footsteps  at  the  silent  hour. 
To  pay  the  mournful  tribute  of  his  tears! 
O !  he  will  tell  thee,  that  the  wealth  of  worlds 
Should  ne'er  seduce  his  bosom  to  forego 
That  sacred  hour,  when,  stealing  from  the  noise 
Of  care  and  envy,  sweet  remembrance  soothes 
With  Virtue's  kindest  looks  hi^  aching  breast. 
And  turn-s  his  tears  to  rapture. — Ask  the  crowd 
Which  Hies  impatient  from  the  village-walk 
To  climb  the  neighbouring  cliffs,  when  far  below 
The  cruel  winds  have  hurl'd  upon  the  coast 
Some  helpless  bark;  while  sacred  Pity  melts 
The  general  eye,  or  Terror's  icy  hand 
Smites  their  distorted  limbs  and  horrent  hair; 
While  every  mother  closer  to  her  breast 
Catches  her  child,  and  pointing  where  the  waves 
Foam  through  the  shatter'd  vessel,  shrieks  aloud. 
As  one  poor  wretch  that  spreads  his  piteous  arras 
For  succour,  swallow'd  by  the  roaring  surge, 
As  n^w  another,  dash'd  against  the  rock, 
Drops  lifeless  down  :  O  !  deemest  thou  indeed 
No  kind  endearment  here  by  Nature  given 
To  mutual  terror  and  Compassion's  tears] 
No  sweetly-melting  softness  which  attracts. 
O'er  ail  that  edge  of  pain,  the  social  powers 
To  this  their  proper  action  and  their  end  1 
— Ask  thy  own  heart ;  when  at  the  midnight  hour. 
Slow  through  that  studious  gloom  thy  pausing  eye. 
Led  by  the  glimmering  taper,  moves  around 
The  sacred  volumes  of  the  dead,  the  songs 


Of  Grecian  bards,  and  records  writ  by  Fame 

For  Grecian  heroes,  where  the  present  power 

Of  Heaven  and  Earth  surveys  the  immortal  page. 

Even  as  a  father  blessing,  while  he  reads 

The  praises  of  his  son.     If  then  thy  soul. 

Spurning  the  yoke  of  these  inglorious  days. 

Mix  in  their  deeds  and  kindle  with  their  flame; 

Say,  when  the  prospect  blackens  on  thy  view, 

When  rooted  from  the  .ase,  heroic  states 

Mourn  in  the  dust,  and  tremble  at  the  frown 

Of  curst  Ambition:  when  the  pious  band 

Of  youths  who  fought  for  freedom  and  their  sires, 

Lie  side  by  side  in  gore ;  when  ruffian  Pride 

Usurps  the  throne  of  Justice,  turns  the  pomp 

Of  public  power,  the  majesty  of  rule. 

The  sword,  the  laurel,  and  the  purple  robe, 

To  slavish  empty  pageants,  to  adorn 

A  tyrant's  walk,  and  glitter  in  the  eyes 

Of  such  as  bow  the  knee;  when  honour'd  urns 

Of  patriots  and  of  chiefs,  the  awful  bust 

And  storied  arch,  to  glut  the  coward-age 

Of  regal  Envy,  strew  the  public  way 

With  hallow'd  ruins ;  when  the  Muse's  haunt, 

The  marble  porch  where  Wisdom  wont  to  talk 

With  Socrates  or  Tully,  hears  no  more. 

Save  the  hoarse  jargon  of  contentious  monks, 

Or  female  superstition's  midnight  prayer; 

When  ruthless  Rapine  from  the  hand  of  Time 

Tears  the  destroying  scythe,  with  surer  blow 

To  sweep  the  works  of  glory  from  their  base ; 

Till  Desolation  o'er  the  grass-grown  street 

Expands  his  raven-wings,  and  up  the  wall. 

Where  senates  once  the  price  of  monarchs  doom'd. 

Hisses  the  gliding  snake  through  hoary  weeds 

That  clasp  the  mouldering  column;  thus  defaced. 

Thus  widely  mournful  when  the  prospect  thrills 

Thy  beating  bosom,  when  the  patriot's  tear 

Starts  from  thine  eye,  and  thy  extended  arm 

In  fancy  hurls  the  thunderl>olt  of  Jove 

To  fire  the  impious  wreath  on  Philip's  brow. 

Or  dash  Octavius  from  the  trophied  car ; 

Say,  does  thy  secret  soul  repine  to  taste 

The  big  distress  ?  Or  wouldst  thou  then  exchang«. 

Those  heart-ennobling  sorrows  for  the  lot 

Of  him  who  sits  amid  the  gaudy  herd 

Of  mute  barbarians  bending  to  his  nod. 

And  bears  aloft  his  gold-invested  front, 

.\nd  says  within  himself — I  am  a  king. 

And  wherefore  should  the  clamorous  voice  of  woe 

Intrude  upon  mine  ear ! — The  baleful  dregs 

Of  these  late  ages,  this  inglorious  draught 

Of  servitude  and  folly,  have  not  yet. 

Blest  be  the  eternal  Ruler  of  the  world! 

Defiled  to  such  a  depth  of  sordid  shame 

The  native  honours  of  the  human  soul. 

Nor  ao  effaced  the  image  of  its  sire. 


FROM  BOOK  m. 
Enjoymenta  of  genius  in  collecting  her  ctoras  tw  com- 
position. 

By  these  mysterious  ties  the  busy  power 
Of  Memory  her  ideal  train  preserves 
Entire ;  or  when  they  would  elude  her  watco. 


686 


MARK  AKENSIDE. 


Reclaims  their  fleeting  footsteps  from  the  waste 

Of  darli  oblivion  ;  thus  collecting  all 

The  various  forms  of  being  to  present, 

Before  the  curious  aim  of  mimic  Art, 

Their  largest  choice ;  like  spring's  unfolded  blooms 

Exhaling  sweetness,  that  the  skilful  bee 

l^ay  taste  at  will  from  their  selected  spoils 

To  work  her  dulcet  food.     For  not  the  expanse 

Of  living  lakes  in  summer's  noontide  calm, 

Reflects    the    bordering   shade,   and   sun-bright 

heavens 
With  fairer  semblance;  not  the  sculptured  gold 
More  faithful  keeps  the  graver's  lively  trace. 
Than  he,  whose  birth  the  sister  powers  of  Art 
Propitious  view'd,  and  from  his  genial  star 
Shed  influence  to  the  seeds  of  fancy  .kind; 
Than  his  attemper'd  bosom  must  preserve 
The  seal  of  Nature.     There  alone  unchanged. 
Her  form  remains.     The  balmy  walks  of  May 
There  breathe  perennial  sweets :    the  trembling 
Resounds  for  ever  in  the  abstracted  ear,     [chord 
Melodious  :  and  the  virgin's  radiant  eye, 
Superior  to  disease,  to  grief,  and  time. 
Shines  with  unbating  lustre.     Thus  at  length 
Endow'd  with  all  that  Nature  can  bestow, 
The  child  of  Fancy  oft  in  silence  bends 
O'er  these  mix'd  treasures  of  his  pregnant  breast, 
With  conscious  pride.   From  them  he  ofl  resolves 
To  frame  he  knows  not  what  excelHng  things; 
And  win  he  knows  not  what  sublime  reward 
Of  praise  and  wonder.    By  degrees,  the  mind 
Feels  her  young  nerves  dilate;  the  plastic  powers 
Labour  for  action :  blind  emotions  heave 
His  bosom,  and  with  loveliest  frenzy  caught. 
From  Earth  to  Heaven  he  rolls  his  daring  eye, 
From  Heaven  to  Earth.     Anon  then  thousand 

shapes. 
Like  spectres  trooping  to  the  wizard's  call. 
Flit  swift  before  him.    From  the  womb  of  Earth, 
From    Ocean's    bed    they   come:  'the    eternal 

Heavens 
Disclose  their  splendours,  and  the  dark  Abyss 
Pours  out  her  births  unknown.    With  fixed  gaze 
He  marks  the  rising  phantoms.    Now  compares 
Their  different  forms ;   now  blends  them,  now 
Enlarges  and  extenuates  by  turns ;  [divides, 

Opposes  ranges  in  fantastic  bands. 
And  infinitely  varies.     Hither  now. 
Now  thither  fluctuates  his  inconstant  aim. 
With  endless  choice  perplex'd.  At  length  his  plan 
Begins  to  open.    Lucid  order  dawns; 
And  as  from  Chaos  old  the  jarring  seeds 
Of  Nature  at  the  voice  divine  repair'd 
Each  to  its  place,  till  rosy  Earth  unveil'd 
Her  fragrant  bosom  and  the  joyful  Sun 
Sprung  up  the  blue  serene ;  by  swift  degrees 
Thus  disentangled,  his  entire  design 
Emerges.     Colours  mingle,  features  join. 
And  lines  converge :  the  fainter  parts  retire ; 
The  fairer  eminent  in  light  advance ; 
And  every  image  on  its  neighbour  smiles. 
Awhile  he  stands,  and  with  a  father's  joy 
Contemplates.     Then  with  Promethean  art, 
Into  its  proper  vehicle  he  breathes 
The  fair  conception ;  which,  embodied  thus, 


And  permanent,  becomes  to  eyes  or  ears 
An  object  ascertain'd :   while  thus  inform 'd. 
The  various  organs  of  his  mimic  skill, 
The  consonance  of  sounds,  the  featured  rock, 
The  shadowy  picture  and  impassion'd  verse. 
Beyond  their  proper  powers  attract  the  soul 
By  that  expressive  semblance,  while  in  sight 
Of  Nature's  great  original  we  scan 
The  lively  child  of  Art ;  while  line  by  line. 
And  feature  after  feature,  we  refer 
To  that  sublime  exemplar  whence  it  stole 
Those  animating  charms.    Thus  beauty's  palm 
Betwixt  them  wavering  hangs:  applauding  love 
Doubts  where  to  choose ;  and  mortal  man  aspires 
To  tempt  creative  praise.     As  when  a  cloud 
Of  gathering  hail,  with  limpid  crusts  of  ice 
Inclosed  and  obvious  to  the  beaming  Sun, 
Collects  his  large  effulgence ;  straight  the  Heavens 
With  equal  flames  present  on  either  hand 
The  radiant  visage :  Persia  stands  at  gaze, 
Appall'd ;  and  on  the  brink  of  Ganges  doubts 
The  snowy-vested  seer,  in  Mithra's  name. 
To  which  the  fragrance  of  the  south  shall  burn. 
To  which  his  warbled  orisons  ascend. 


IROM  BOOK  in. 
Conclusion. 

Oh  !  blest  of  Heaven,  whom  not  the  languid 
Of  Luxury,  the  syren  !  not  the  bribes         [songs 
Of  sordid  Wealth,  nor  all  the  gaudy  spoils 
Of  pageant  Honour,  can  seduce  to  leave 
Those  ever-blooming  sweets,  which  from  the  store 
Of  Nature  fair  Imagination  culls 
To  charm  the  enliven'd  soul !    What  though  not 
Of  mortal  offspring  can  attain  the  heights       [all 
Of  envied  life ;  though  only  few  possess 
Patrician  treasures  or  imperial  state; 
Yet  Nature's  care,  to  all  her  children  just. 
With  richer  treasures  and  an  ampler  state. 
Endows  at  large  whatever  happy  man 
Will  deign  to  use  them.     His  the  city's  pomp, 
The  rural  honours  his.    Whate'er  adorns 
The  princely  dome,  the  column  and  the  arch. 
The  hreathing  marbles  and  the  sculptured  gold. 
Beyond  the  proud  possessor's  narrow  claim 
His  tuneful  breast  enjoys.     For  him,  the  Spring 
Distils  her  dews,  and  from  the  silken  gem 
Its  lucid  leaves  unfolds :  for  him,  the  hand 
Of  Autumn  tinges  every  fertile  branch 
With  blooming  gold,  and  blushes  like  the  morn. 
Each  passing  hour  sheds  tribute  from  her  wings  ; 
And  still  new  beauties  meet  his  lonely  walk. 
And  loves  unfelt  attract  him.     Not  a  breeze 
Flies  o'er  the  meadow,  not  a  cloud  imbibes 
The  setting  Sun's  effulgence,  not  a  strain 
From  all  the  tenants  of  the  warbling  shade 
Ascends,  but  whence  his  bosom  can  partake 
Fresh  pleasure  unreproved.    Nor  thence  partakes 
Fresh  pleasures  only  :  for  the  attentive  mind. 
By  this  harmonious  action  on  her  powers, 
Becomes  herself  harmonious :  wont  so  of\ 
In  outward  things  to  meditate  the  charm 
Of  sacred  order,  soon  she  seeks  at  home 


THOMAS  CHATTERTOX. 


637 


To  find  a  kindred  order,  to  exert 
Within  herself  this  elegance  of  love, 
This  fair  inspired  delight :  her  temper'd  powers 
Refine  at  length,  and  every  passion  wears 
A  chaster,  milder,  more  attractive  mien. 
But  if  to  ampler  prospects,  if  to  gaze 
On  Nature's  form,  where,  negligent  of  all 
These  lesser  graces,  she  assumes  the  port 
Of  that  eternal  majesty  that  weigh'd 
The  world's  foundations,  if  to  these  the  mind 
Exalts  her  daring  eye ;  then  mightier  far 
Will  be  the  change,  and  nobler.    Would  the  forms 
Of  servile  custom  cramp  her  generous  powers  1 
Would  sordid  policies,  the  barbarous  growth 
Of  ignorance  and  rapine,  bow  her  down 
To  tame  pursuits,  to  indolence  and  fearl 
Lo  !  she  appeals  to  Nature,  to  the  winds 
And  rolling  waves,  the  Sun's  unwearied  course, 
The  elements  and  seasons :  all  declare 
For  what  the  eternal  Maker  has  ordain'd 
The  powers  of  man :  we  feel  within  ourselves 
His  energy  divine :  he  tells  the  heart. 
He  meant,  he  made  us  to  behold  and  love 
What  he  beholds  and  loves  the  general  orb 
Of  life  and  being ;  to  be  great  like  him, 
.  Beneficent  and  active.     Thus  the  men  [self 

Whom  Nature's  works  can  charm,  with  God  him- 


Hold  converse ;  grow  &niiliar,  day  by  day, 
With  his  conceptions,  act  upon  bis  plan  ; 
And  form  to  his,  the  relish  of  their  souls. 


INSCRIPTION  FOR  A  BUST  OF  SHAKSPEARE. 

O  TOOTHS  and  virgins:  O  declining  eld: 
O  pale  Misfortune's  slaves:  O  ye  who  dwell 
Unknown  with  humble  Quiet:  ye  who  wait 
In  courts,  or  fill  the  golden  seat  of  kings : 
O  sons  of  Sport  and  Pleasure :  O  thou  wretch 
That  weep'st  for  jealous  love,  or  the  sore  wounds 
Of  conscious  Guilt,  or  Death's  rapacious  hand 
Which  left  thee  void  of  hope :  0  ye  who  roam 
In  exile ;  ye  who  through  the  embattled  field 
Seek  bright  renown  ;  or  who  for  nobler  palms 
Contend,  the  leaders  of  a  public  cause ; 
Approach :  behold  this  marble.     Know  ye  not 
The  features  ?   Hath  not  oft  his  faithful  tongue 
Told  you  the  fashion  of  your  own  estate. 
The  secrets  of  your  bosom  1  Here  then,  round 
His  monument  with  reverence  while  ye  stand. 
Say  to  each  other ;  "  This  was  Shakspeare's  form : 
Who  walk'd  in  every  path  of  human  life; 
Felt  every  passion ;  and  to  all  mankind 
Doth  now,  will  ever,  that  experience  yield 
Which  his  own  genius  only  could  acquire." 


THOMAS  CHATTERTON. 

[Bo^^  KoT.  ao,  1752.     Died,  Aug.  16,  1770; 

AQXD  ayssnass  teabs,  mne  months,  and  a  few  datb.*] 

♦ 


Thomas  Chatterton  was  the  posthumous  child 
of  the.master  of  a  free-school  in  Bristol.  At  five 
years  of  age  he  was  sent  to  the  same  school  which 
his  father  had  taught;  but  he  made  so  little  im- 
proveineiit  that  his  mother  took  him  back,  nor 
could  he  be  induced  to  learn  his  letters  till  his 
attention  had  been  accidentally  struck  by  the 
illuminated  capitals  of  a  French  musical  MS. 
His  mother  afterward  taught  him  to  read  from 
an  old  black-letter  Bible.  One  of  his  biographers 
has  expressed  surprise  that  a  person  in  his 
mother's  rank  of  life  should  have  been  acquainted 
with  black-letter.  The  writer  might  have  known 
that  books  of  the  ancient  type  continued  to  be 
read  in  that  rank  of  life  long  after  they  had 
ceased  to  be  used  by  persons  of  higher  station. 
At  the  age  of  eight  he  was  put  to  a  charity-school 
in  Bristol,  where  he  was  instructed  in  reading, 
writing,  and  arithmetic.  From  his  tenth  year  he 
discovered  an  extraordinary  passion  for  books; 
and  before  he  was  twelve,  had  perused  about 
seventy  volumes,  chiefly  on  history  and  divinity. 
The  prematurity  of  his  mind,  at  the  latter  period, 
was  so  strongly  marked  in  a  serious  and  religious 
cast  of  thought,  as  to  induce  the  bishop  to  con- 
firm him,  and  admit  him  to  the  sacrament  at  that 
68 


early  age.  His  piety,  however,  was  not  of  long 
duration.  He  had  also  written  some  verses  suffi- 
ciently wonderful  for  his  years,  and  had  picked 
up  some  knowledge  of  music  and  drawing,  when, 
at  the  age  of  fourteen,  he  was  bound  apprentice 
to  a  Mr.  Lambert,  a  scrivener,  in  his  native  city. 
In  Mr.  Lambert's  house  his  situation  was  very 
humble ;  he  ate  with  the  servants,  and  slept  in 
the  same  room  with  the  footboy ;  but  his  em- 
ployments left  him  many  hours  of  leisure  for 
reading,  and  these  he  devoted  to  acquiring  a 
knowledge  of  English  antiquities  and  obsolete 
language,  which,  together  with  his  poetical  in- 
genuity, proved  sufficient  for  his  Rowleian  fabri- 
cations. 

It  was  in  the  year  1768  that  be  first  attracted 
attention.  On  the  occasion  of  the  new  bridge  of 
Bristol  being  opened,  he  sent  to  Farley's  Journal, 
in  that  city,  a  letter,  signed  Dunhelmus  Bristoli- 
ensis,  containing  an  account  of  a  procession  of 
friars,  and  of  other  ceremonies  which  had  taken 
place,  at  a  remote  period,  when  the  old  bridge 
bad  been  opened.     The  account  was  said  to  be 

[*  O  early  ripe !  to  thy  abundnnt  RtoT« 
What  could  BdTancing  age  have  lutdrd  mnret 

Dbtd&m  nf  OitOtam.] 


638 


THOMAS  CHATTERTON. 


taken  from  an  ancient  MS.  Curiosity  was  in- 
stantly excited ;  and  the  sages  of  Bristol,  with  a 
spirit  of  barbarism  which  the  monks  and  friars 
of  the  fifteenth  century  could  not  easily  have 
rivalled,  having  traced  the  letter  to  Chatterton, 
interrogated  him,  with  threats,  about  the  original. 
Boy  as  he  was,  he  haughtily  refused  to  explain 
upon  compulsion ;  but  by  milder  treatment  was 
brought  to  state,  that  he  had  found  the  MS.  in 
his  mother's  house.  The  true  part  of  the  history 
of  those  ancient  papers,  from  which  he  pretended 
to  have  derived  this  original  of  Farley's  letter, 
as  well  as  his  subsequent  poetical  treasures,  was, 
that  in  the  muniment-room  of  St.  Mary  Redcliffe 
(Church,  of  Bristol,  several  chests  had  been  an- 
ciently deposited,  among  which  was  one  called 
the  "  Cofre"  of  Mr.  Canynge,  an  eminent  mer- 
chant of  Bristol,  who  had  rebuilt  the  church  in 
the  reign  of  Edward  IV.  About  the  year  1727 
those  chests  had  been  broken  open  by  an  order 
from  proper  authority :  some  ancient  deeds  had 
been  taken  out,  and  the  remaining  MSS.  left 
exposed,  as  of  no  value.  Chatterton's  father, 
whose  uncle  was  sexton  of  the  church,  had  car- 
ried off  great  numbers  of  the  parchments,  and 
had  used  them  as  covers  for  books  in  his  school. 
Amidst  the  residue  of  his  father's  ravages,  Chat- 
terton gave  out  that  he  had  found  many  writings 
of  Mr.  Canynge,  and  of  Thomas  Rowley,  (the 
friend  of  Canynge,)  a  priest  of  the  fifteenth  cen- 
tury. The  rumour  of  his  discoveries  occasioned 
his  acquaintance  to  be  sought  by  a  few  individuals 
of  Bristol,  to  whom  he  made  presents  of  vellum 
MSS.  of  professed  antiquity.  The  first  who 
applied  to  him  was  a  Mr.  Catcott,  who  obtained 
from  him  the  Bristowe  Tragedy,  and  Rowley's 
Epitaph  on  Canynge's  ancestor.  Mr.  Barret,  a 
surgeon,  who  was  writing  a  history  of  Bristol, 
was  also  presented  with  some  of  the  poetry  of 
Rowley;  and  Mr.  Burgum,  a  pewterer,  was 
favoured  with  the  "  Romaunt  of  the  Knyghte," 
a  poem,  said  by  Chatterton  to  have  been  written 
by  the  pewterer's  ancestor,  John  de  Berghum, 
about  450  years  before.  The  believing  presentees, 
in  return,  supplied  him  with  small  sums  of  money, 
lent  him  books,  and  introduced  him  into  society. 
Mr.  Barret  even  gave  him  a  few  slight  instruc- 
tions in  his  own  profession.  Chatterton's  spirit 
and  ambition  perceptibly  increased;  and  he  used 
to  talk  to  his  mother  and  sisters  of  his  prospects 
of  fame  and  fortune,  always  promising  that  they 
should  be  partakers  in  his  success.* 

Having  deceived  several   incompetent  judges 


[*  Nothing  can  be  more  extraordinary  than  the  delight 
which  Chatterton  appears  to  have  f(!lt  in  executing  these 
numberless  and  multifarious  impositions.  His  ruling 
passion  was  not  the  vanity  of  a  p'let  who  depends  upon 
the  opinion  of  others  for  its  gratification,  but  the  stoical 
pride  of  talent,  which  felt  nourishment  in  the  solitary 
rontemplation  of  superiority  over  the  dupes  who  fell  into 
his  tolls.  He  has  himself  described  this  leading  feature 
of  liis  rharater  In  a  letter  to  Mr.  Barret:  '-It  is  my 
pride,  my  damned,  native,  unconquerable  pride,  that 
plunges  me  into  distraction.  You  must  know  that  19- 
20ths  of  my  compo-ition  is  pride.  I  must  either  live  a 
Rlave — a  serTaut— have  no  will  of  my  own  which  I  may 


with  regard  to  his  MSS.  he  next  ventured  to 
address  himself  to  Horace  Walpole,  to  whom  he 
sent  a  letter,  offering  to  supply  him  with  an  ac- 
count of  a  series  of  eminent  painters,  who  had 
flourished  at  Bristol.  Walpole  returned  a  polite 
answer,  desiring  further  information ;  on  which 
Chatterton  transmitted  to  him  some  of  his  Row- 
leian  poetry,  described  his  own  servile  situation, 
and  requested  the  patronage  of  his  correspondent. 
The  virtuoso,  however,  having  shown  the  poeti- 
cal specimens  to  Gray  and  Mason,  who  pro- 
nounced them  to  be  forgeries,  sent  the  youth  a 
cold  reply,  advising  him  to  apply  to  the  business 
of  his  profession.  Walpole  set  out  soon  after  for 
Paris,  and  neglected  to  return  the  MSS.  till  they 
had  been  twice  demanded  back  by  Chatterton; 
the  second  time  in  a  very  indignant  letter.  On 
these  circumstances  was  founded  the  whole  charge 
that  was  brought  against  Walpole,  of  blighting 
the  prospects,  and  eventually  contributing  to  the 
ruin  of  the  youthful  genius.  Whatever  may  be 
thought  of  some  expressions  respecting  Chatter- 
ton, which  Walpole  employed  in  the  explanation 
of  the  affair  which  he  afterward  published,  the 
idea  of  taxing  him  with  criminality  in  neglecting 
him  was  manifestly  unjust.  But  in  all  cases  of 
misfortune  the  first  consolation  to  which  human 
nature  resorts,  is,  right  or  wrong,  to  find  some- 
body to  blame,  and  an  evil  seems  to  be  half 
cured  when  it  is  traced  to  an  object  of  indig- 
nation.t 

In  the  mean  time  Chatterton  had  commenced 
a  correspondence  with  the  Town  and  Country 
Magazine  in  London,  to  which  he  transmitted 
several  communications  on  subjects  relating  to 
English  antiquities,  besides  his  specimens  of 
Rowley's  poetry,  and  fragments,  purporting  to 
be  translations  of  Saxon  poems,  written  in  the 
measured  prose  of  Macpherson's  style.  His 
poetical  talent  also  continued  to  develope  itself 
in  several  pieces  of  verse,  avowedly  oiiginal, 
though  in  a  manner  less  pleasing  than  in  his 
feigned  relics  of  the  Gothic  Muse.  When  we 
conceive  the  inspired  boy  transporting  himself  in 
imagination  back  to  the  days  of  his  fictitious 
Rowley,  embodying  his  ideal  character,  and 
giving  to  airy  nothing  a  "  local  habitation  and  a 
name,"  we  may  forget  the  impostor  in  the  enthu- 
siast, and  forgive  the  falsehood  of  his  reverie  for 
its  beauty  and  ingenuity.  One  of  his  companions 
has  described  the  air  of  rapture  and  inspiration 
with  which  he  used  to  repeat  his  passages  from 
Rowley,  and  the  delight  which  he  took  to  con- 


fairly  declare  as  such,  or  die." — Sib  Walter  Scott,  Misc. 

WuH->,  vol.  xvii.  p.  231. 

I  thought  of  Chatterton,  the  marvellous  boy : 
The  sleepless  soul  that  perish'd  in  his  pride. 

WORIISWORTH.] 

[fMr.  Alexander  Chalmers,  the  literary  hack  of  London 
for  msny  a  long  year,  has  written,  in  liis  edition  of  the 
English  Poets,  a  blackening  life  of  Cliattertou.  '"Horace 
Walpole,"  says  Southey,  •'  has  been  frequently  inveiL'hed 
aprainst  by  the  ardent  admirers  of  Chatterton.  with  more 
severity  than  justice;  we  recommend  Mr.  Chalmers  to 
them  in  future  as  a  proper  subject  for  any  ca.«tij:ation. 
which  they  may  be  pleaseil  to  bestow  in  prose  or  rhyme.' 
— Qitar.  Rev.  vol.  xi.  p.  496.] 


THOMAS  CHATTERTON. 


539 


template  the  church  of  St.  Mary  Redcliffe,  while 
it  awoke  the  associations  of  antiquity  in  his 
romantic  mind.  There  was  one  spot  in  particu- 
lar, full  in  view  of  the  church,  where  he  would 
ofYen  lay  himself  down,  and  fix  his  eyes,  as  it 
were,  in  a  trance.  On  Sundays,  as  long  as  day- 
light lasted,  he  would  walk  alone  in  the  country 
around  Bristol,  taking  drawings  of  churches,  or 
other  objects  that  struck  his  imagination.  The 
romance  of  his  character  is  somewhat  disen- 
chanted, when  we  find  him  in  his  satire  of  "  Kew 
Gardens,"  which  he  wrote  before  leaving  Bristol, 
indulging  in  the  vulgar  scandal  of  the  day,  upon 
the  characters  of  the  Princess  Dowager  of  Wales 
and  Lord  Bute;  whatever  proofs  such  a  produc- 
tion may  afibrd  of  the  quickness  and  versatility  of 
his  talents. 

As  he  had  not  exactly  followed  Horace  Wal- 
pole's  advice  with  regard  to  moulding  his  inclina- 
tions to  business,  he  felt  the  irksomeness  of  his 
situation  in  Mr.  Lambert's  office  at  last  intoler- 
able; and  he  vehemently  solicited  and  obtained 
the  attorney's  consent  to  release  him  from  his 
apprenticeship.  His  master  is  said  to  have  been 
alarmed  into  this  concession  by  the  hints  which 
Chatterton  gave  of  his  intention  to  destroy  him- 
self; but  even  without  this  fear,  Mr.  Lambert 
could  have  no  great  motive  to  detain  so  reluctant 
an  apprentice,  from  the  hopes  of  his  future 
services. 

In  the  month  of  April,  1770,  Chatterton  arrived 
in  London,  aged  seventeen  years  and  five  months. 
He  immediately  received  from  the  booksellers, 
with  whom  he  had  already  corresponded,  several 
important  literary  engagements.  He  projected  a 
History  of  England,  and  a  History  of  London, 
wrote  for  the  magazines  and  newspapers,  and 
contributed  songs  for  the  public  gardens.  But 
party  politics  soon  became  his  favourite  object; 
as  they  flattered  his  self-importance,  and  were 
likely  to  give  the  most  lucrative  employment  to 
his  pen.  His  introduction  to  one  or  two  indi- 
viduals, who  noticed  him  on  this  account,  seems 
to  have  filled  his  ardent  and  sanguine  fancy  with 
unbounded  prospects  of  success.  Among  these 
acquaintances  was  the  Lord  Mayor  Beckford, 
and  it  is  not  unlikely,  if  that  magistrate  had  not 
died  soon  after,  that  Chatterton  might  have  found 
a  patron.  His  death,  however,  and  a  little  ex- 
perience, put  an  end  to  the  young  adventurer's 
hopes  of  making  his  fortune  by  writing  in  hostility 
to  government ;  and  with  great  accommodation 
of  principle  he  addressed  a. letter  to  Lord  North, 
in  praise  of  his  administration.  There  was  per- 
haps more  levity  than  profligacy  in  this  tergiver- 
sation :*  though  it  must  be  owned  that  it  was 
not  the  levity  of  an  ingenuous  boy. 


During  the  few  months  of  his  existence  in 
London  his  letters  to  his  mother  and  sister, 
which  were  always  accompanied  with  presents, 
expressed  the  most  joyous  anticipations.  But 
suddenly  all  the  flush  of  his  gay  hopes  and  busy 
projects  terminated  in  despair.  The  particular 
causes  which  led  to  his  catastrophe  have  not  been 
distinctly  traced.  His  own  descriptions  of  his 
prospects  were  but  little  to  be  trusted ;  for  while 
apparently  exchanging  his  shadowy  visions  of 
Rowley  for  the  real  adventures  of  life,  he  was 
still  moving  under  the  spell  of  an  imagination  that 
saw  every  thing  in  exaggerated  colours.  Out  of 
this  dream  he  was  at  length  awakened,  when  he 
found  that  he  had  miscalculated  the  chances  of 
patronage,  and  the  profits  of  literary  labour. 
The  abortive  attempt  which  he  made  to  obtain 
the  situation  of  a  surgeon's  mate  on  board  an 
African  vessel,  shows  that  he  had  abandoned  the 
hopes  of  gaining  a  livelihood  by  working  for  the 
booksellers,  though  he  was  known  to  have  shrewdly 
remarked,  that  they  were  not  the  worst  patrons 
of  merit.  After  this  disappointment  his  poverty 
became  extreme,  and  though  there  is  an  account 
of  a  gentleman  having  sent  him  a  guinea  within 
the  few  last  days  of  his  life,  yet  there  is  too  much 
reason  to  fear  that  the  pangs  of  his  voluntary 
death  were  preceded  by  the  actual  sufTerings  of 
want  Mrs.  Angel,  a  sack-maker,  in  Brook- 
street,  Holborn,  in  whose  house  he  lodged, 
offered  him  a  dinner  the  day  before  his  death, 
knowing  that  he  had  fasted  a  long  time  ;  but  his 
pride  made  him  refuse  it  with  some  indignation. 
On  the  25th  of  August  he  was  found  dead  in  his 
bed,  from  the  effects  of  poison,  which  he  bad 
swallowed.  He  was  interred  in  a  shell  in  the 
burial-ground  of  Shoe-lane  workhouse. 

The  heart  which  can  peruse  the  fate  of  Chat- 
terton without  being  moved,  is  little  to  be  envied 
for  its  tranquillity  ;  but  the  intellects  of  those  men 
must  be  as  deficient  as  their  hearts  are  unchari- 
table, who,  confounding  all  shades  of  moral  dis- 
tinction, have  ranked  his  literary  fiction  of  Rowley 
in  the  same  class  of  crimes  with  pecuniary  forgery, 
and  have  calculated  that  if  he  had  not  died  by  his 
own  hand  he  would  probably  have  ended  his  days 
upon  a  gallows.  This  disgusting  sentence  has 
been  pronounced  upon  a  youth  who  was  exem- 
plary for  severe  study,  temperance,  and  natural 
affection.  His  Rowleian  forgery  must  indeed  be 
pronounced  improper  by  the  general  law  which 
condemns  all  falsifications  of  history;  but  it  de- 
prived no  man  of  his  fame,  it  had  no  sacrilegious 
interference  with  the  memory  of  departed  genius, 
it  had  not,  like  Lauder's  imposture,  any  malig- 
nant motive,  to  rob  a  party  or  a  country,  of  a 
name  which  was  its  pride  and  ornament.'f 


[*  Mr.  Campbell  has  borrowed  the  expresclon  from 
Chalmurg's  I.ifo.  "  To  call,"  sHva  Mr.  Southey,  "  Chat- 
tiTloii's  boyi.'-h  esjcays,  in  polili'al  controversy,  political 
tergiversation.  i.«  a.s  preposterous  an  aliiiw)  of  language, 
as  it  woulj  be  to  call  .Mr.  Clialuiers  a  jiidiciou.s  critic  or 
a  candid  bio.irnpluT." — Quar.  Her.  vol.  xi.  p.  494.] 

[t  Nor  is  Chatterton's  imposition  reprehensible  like 
Trelnnd's  forgeries,  for  no  real  name  or  fame  suffered  as 
Shakspeare'g  mii$ht  have  suOered.    A  real  Rowley,  such 


aa  Chatterton  gave  birth  to,  never  ezbted  till  be  wrote, 
and  no  poet  iM-tween  Chaucer  and  Spenser  but  might  own 
with  pride  the  pniductions  of  the  boy  "of  itri- towe." 
Lauder's  imposture  went  to  degrade  a  great  author,  Ire- 
land's to  nialve  an'  ther  write  aj<  only  an  Ireland  could 
hav«»  written,  but  Clintterton'n  to  make  a  new  poet  t«.  ad- 
vance the  glory  of  his  native  city  and  of  hix  nation  at  large. 
"  The  deception,"  cavs  tMJUlhoy,  "  was  not  lnteude<  lo  d* 
,  fraud  or  injure  one  human  Iwiug."] 


- , 

540                                                  THOMAS  CHATTERTON. 

Setting  aside  the  opinion  of  those  uncharitable 
biographers,  whose  imaginations  have  conducted 
him  to  the  gibbet,  it  may  be  owned  that  his  un- 
formed character  exhibited  strong  and  conflicting 
elements  of  good  and  evil.    Even  the  momentary 
project  of  the  infidel  boy  to  become  a  Methodist 
preacher,  betrays  an  obliquity  of  design,  and  a 
contempt  of  human   credulity  that  is   not  very 
amiable.     But  had  he  been  spared,  his  pride  and 
ambition  would  have  come  to  flow  in  their  proper 
channels ;  his  understanding  would  have  taught 
him  the  practical  value  of  truth  and  the  dignity 
of  virtue,  and  he  would  have  despised  artifice, 
when  he  had  felt  the  strength  and  security  of 
wisdom.      In    estimating    the    promises    of   his 
genius,  I  would  rather  lean  to  the  utmost  enthu- 
siasm of  his  admirers,  than  to  the  cold  opinion  of 
those,  who  are   afraid   of  being   blinded  to  the 
defects  of  the  poems   attributed   to  Rowley,  by 
the  veil  of  obsolete  phraseology  which  is  thrown 
over  them.     If  we    look    to   the   ballad  of  Sir 
Charles  Bawdin,  and  translate   it  into  modern 
English,  we  shall  find  its  strength  and  interest  to 
have  no  dependence  on  obsolete  words.     In  the 
striking  passage  of  the  mart^'r  Bawdin  standing 
erect  in  his  car  to  rebuke  Edward,  who  beheld 
him  from  the  window,  when 

"  The  tyrant's  soul  rush'd  to  his  face," 

and  when  he  exclaimed, 

"  Behold  the  man !  he  speaks  the  truth. 
He's  greater  than  a  king ;" 

in  these,  and  in  all  the  striking  parts  of  the  ballad, 

no  effect  is  owing  to  mock  antiquity,  but  to  the 

simple  and  high  conception  of  a  great  and  just 

character,  who 

"  Summ'd  the  actions  of  the  day. 
Each  night  before  he  slept." 

What  a  moral  portraiture  from  the  hand  of  a 
boy !     The    inequality    of  Chatterton's    various 
productions  may  be  compared  to  the  dispropor- 
tions of  the    ungrown    giant.     His  works    had 
nothing  of  the  definite  neatness  of  that  preco- 
cious  talent  which  stops  short  in  early  maturity. 
His  thirst  for  knowledge  was  that  of  a   being 
taught  by  instinct  to  lay  up  materials  for  the  ex- 
ercise of  great  and  undeveloped  powers.     Even 
in  his  favourite  maxim,  pushed  it  might  be  to 
hyperbole,  that  a  man  by  abstinence  and  perse- 
verance might  accomplish  whatever  he  pleased, 
may  be  traced  the  indications  of  a  genius  which 
nature  had  meant  to  achieve  works  of  immor- 
tality.    Tasso  alone  can  be  compared  to  him  as 
a  juvenile    prodigy.*      No    English   poet   ever 
equalled  him  at  the  same  age.'f ' 

BRISTOWE  TRAQEDUi: 

OE, 

THE  DETHB  OP  SYR  CHARLES  BAWDIN. 

The  feathered  songster  chaunticleer 

Han  wounde  hys  bugle  home, 
And  tolde  the  earlie  villager 

The  commynge  of  the  morne : 

Kynge  Edwarde  sawe  the  ruddie  streakes 

Of  lighte  eclypse  the  greie, 
And  herde  the  raven's  crokynge  throte 

Proclayme  the  fated  daie. 

«  Thou'rt  ryght,"  quod  he,  "  for,  by  the  Godde 
That  syttes  enthroned  on  hyghe  ! 

Charles  Bawdin,  and  hys  feliowes  twaine, 
To-daie  shall  surelie  die." 

Thenne  wyth  ajugge  of  nappy  ale 

Hys  knyghtes  dydd  onne  hymm  waite ; 

«  Goe  tell  the  traytour,  thatt  to-daie 
Hee  leaves  thys  mortall  state." 

Syr  Canterlone  thenne  bendedd  Iowa, 
Wythe  harte  brynim-full  of  woe; 

Hee  journey'd  to  the  castle-gate, 
And  to  Syr  Charles  dydd  goe. 

But  whenne  hee  came,  hys  children  twaine, 

And  eke  hys  lovynge  wyfe, 
Wythe  brinie  tears  dydd  wett  the  floore. 
For  goode  Syr  Charleses  lyfe. 

"  0,  goode  Syr  Charles !"  sayd  Canterlone, 

■  "  Badde  tydyngs  I  doe  brynge." 
**  Speke  boldlie,  manne,"  sayd  brave  Syr  Charles 
"  Whatte  says  thie  tray  tor  kynge]" 

"  I  greeve  to  telle ;  before  yonne  sonne 

Does  fromme  the  welkin  flye, 
Hee  hath  upponn  hys  honour  sworne, 

Thatt  thou  shalt  surelie  die." 

«'  Wee  all  must  die,"  quod  brave  Syr  Charles, 

"Ofthatte  I'm  not  affearde; 
Whatte  bootes  to  ly ve  a  little  space  1 

Thanke  Jesu,  I'm  prepared  : 

«  Butt  telle  thye  kynge,  for  myne  hee's  not, 

I'de  sooner  die  to-daie, 
Thanne  lyve  hys  slave,  as  manie  are. 

Though  I  shoulde  lyve  for  aie." 

Then  Canterlone  hee  dydd  goe  out, 

To  telle  the  maior  straite 
To  gett  all  thynges  ynne  reddyness 

For  goode  Syr  Charleses  fate. 

*  In  the  verses  which  Tast^o  sent  to  his  mother  when  he 
was  nine  years  old.    [One  of  his  juvenile  productions  ig 
a  Hymn  for  Chri.vlmas-day,  which,  if  real;y  writlen  al>out 
the  :ige  of  eleven,  bears  ample  testimony  to  the  premature 
powers  of  the  author;  and  when  the  harmony  and  ease  of 
expression  are  contrasted  with  the  author's  boyhood,  in- 
experience, and  wiintof  instruction,  appears  almost  miracu- 
lous.—Sir  Waltkr  Scott.  Misc.  ilorKs.  vol.  xvii.  p.  218.] 

[t  No  place  In  BrLstol  is  sought  out  with  such  anxiety  as 
St.  .Mary's  KeUcliffe;  not  so  much  from  the  beauty  of  its 
urchiteeture,  as  from  its  Chattertun   associations.     The 
very  place  seems  to  speak  of  the  marrelious  boy:  we 

tread  where  he  trod  and  see  what  he  saw — the  muniment 
room    and    its    empty   coffers,   the    tomb    of   "  .Maifter 
Canynire,"  and  its  curious  inscriptions.   Xor  is  the  grave  in 
the  ehurchvard  of  the  poet's  father  without  lis  interest, 
while  the  bays  of  the  vcho  il  to  which  Chatterton  belonged 
are  seen  in  the  nelghlourhood  clad  as  Chatterlon  was 
clad.     Bristol  indeed  seems  to  breathe  of  its  wonder  and 
disgrace;  the  New  Bridu'e  derives  its  hole  interest,  from 
a  Chatterton  forgery,    it  is  rit;ht  to  add  that  the  people 
of  Bristol  have  become  at  last  alive  to  the  surpassing  in- 
terest of  their  city,  and  have  erected  a  tasteful  monumeut 
to  the  boy  of  seventeen.] 

THOMAS  CHATTERTON. 


541 


Thenne  Maisterr  Canynge  saughte  the  kynge, 
And  felle  downe  onne  hys  knee ; 

"I'm  come,"  quod  hee,  "unto  your  grace 
To  move  your  clemencye." 

Thenne  quod  the  kynge,  "  Youre  tale  speke  out. 
You  have  been  much  oure  friende ; 

Whatever  youre  request  may  bee, 
We  wylle  to  ytte  attende." 

"  My  nobile  Icige !  alle  my  request 

Ys  for  a  nobile  knyghte, 
Who,  though  may  hap  hee  has  donne  wronge, 

Hee  thoughte  ytte  stylle  was  ryghte: 

"  He  has  a  spouse  and  children  twaine, 

Alle  rewyn'd  are  for  aie  ;  . 
Yff  that  you  are  resolved  to  lett 

Charles  Bawdin  die  to-daie." 

"  Speke  not  of  such  a  tray  tour  vile," 

The  kynge  ynn  furie  sayde; 
"  Before  the  evening  starre  doth  sheene, 

Bawdin  shall  loose  hys  hedde : 

"Justice  does  loudlie  for  hym  calle, 
And  hee  shalle  have  hys  meede : 

Speke,  Maister  Canynge !  whatte  thynge  else 
Att  present  doe  you  neede  V 

«  My  nobile  leige  !"  goode  Canynge  sayde, 

"  Leave  justice  to  our  Godde, 
And  laye  the  yronne  rule  asyde ; 

Be  thyne  the  olyve  rodde. 

"  Was  Godde  to  serche  our  hertes  and  reines 

The  best  were  synners  grete ; 
Christ's  vicarr  only  knowcs  no  synne, 

Ynne  alle  thys  mortall  state. 

"  Lett  mercie  rule  thyne  infante  reigne, 
'Twylle  faste  thye  crowne  fulle  sure  ; 

From  race  to  race  thye  familie 
Alle  sov'reigns  shall  endure : 

"But  yff  wythe  bloode  and  slaughter  thou 

Beginne  thy  infante  reigne, 
Thy  crowne  upponne  thy  childrennes  brows 

Wylle  never  long  remayne." 

"  Canynge,  awaie  !  thys  traytour  vile 
Has  scorn'd  my  power  and  mee  ; 

Howe  canst  thou  then,  for  such  a  manne, 
Intreate  my  clemencye  1" 

«  My  nobile  Icige !  the  trulie  brave 

Wylle  val'rous  actions  prize, 
Respect  a  brave  and  nobile  mynde, 

Although  ynne  enemies." 

"  Canynge,  awaie  !  By  Godde  in  heav'n, 

Thatt  dydd  mee  being  gyve. 
[  wylle  nott  taste  a  bitt  of  breade 

Whilst  thys  Syr  Charles  dothe  lyve. 

''  By  Marie,  and  alle  Seinctes  ynne  heav'n, 
Thys  sunne  shall  be  hys  laste." 

Thenne  Canynge  dropt  a  brinie  teare, 
And  from  the  presence  paste. 


Wyth  herte  brymm-fulle  of  gnawynge  grief, 

Hee  to  Syr  Charles  dy<}d  goe, 
And  sat  hymm  downe  uponne  a  stoole. 

And  teares  beganne  to  flowe. 

"  Wee  all  must  die,"  quod  brave  Syr  Charles; 

"  Whatte  bootes  ytte  howe  or  whenne? 
Dethe  ys  the  sure,  the  certaine  fate 

Of  all  wee  mortal!  menne. 

• 
«  Saye  why,  my  friende,  thie  honest  soul 

Runns  over  att  thyne  eye ; 
Is  ytte  for  my  most  welcome  doome 

Thatt  thou  dost  child-lyke  cryel" 

Quod  godlie  Canynge,  "  I  doe  weepe 

Thatt  thou  soe  soone  must  dye. 
And  leave  thy  sonnes  and  helpless  wyfe; 

"Fys  thys  that  wettes  myne  eye." 

"  Thenne  drie  the  tears  thatt  out  thyne  eye 
From  godlie  fountaines  sprynge ; 

Dethe  I  despise,  and  all  the  power 
Of  Edwarde,  traytour  kynge. 

"  Whan  through  the  tyrant's  welcome  means 

I  shall  resigne  my  lyfe, 
The  Godde  I  serve  wylle  soone  provyde 

For  bothe  mye  sonnes  and  wyfe. 

(<  Before  I  sawe  the  lyghtsome  sunne, 

Thys  was  appointed  mee; 
Shall  mortall  manne  repyne  or  grudge 

What  Godde  ordeynes  to  bee  ? 

"  Howe  oft  ynne  battaile  have  I  stoode. 
Whan  thousands  dy'd  arounde ; 

When  smokynge  streemes  of  crimson  blooda 
Imbrew'd  the  fatten'd  grounde : 

"  Howe  dydd  I  knowe  thatt  ev'ry  darte, 

Thatt  cutte  the  airie  waie, 
Myghte  nott  fynde  passage  toe  my  harte, 

And  close  myne  eyes  for  aie ! 

"  And  shall  I  nowe,  forr  feere  of  dethe, 
Looke  wanne  and  bee  dysmayde  1 

Ne !  fromm  my  herte  flie  childyshe  feere. 
Bee  alle  the  manne  display'd. 

"  Ah,  goddelyke  Henrie !  Godde  fbrefende 
And  guarde  thee  and  thye  sonne, 

Yff 'tis  hys  wylle;  but  yff 'tis  nott, 
Why  thenne  hys  wylle  bee  donne. 

"My  honest  friende,  my  faulte  has  beene 
To  serve  Godde  and  my  prynce ; 

And  thatt  I  no  tyme-server  am. 
My  dethe  wylle  soone  convynce. 

"  Ynne  Londonne  citye  was  I  borne. 

Of  parenU  of  grete  note; 
My  fad  re  dydd  a  nobile  armes 

Emblazon  onne  hys  cote : 

«•  I  make  ne  doubte  but  hee  ys  gone 

Where  soone  I  hope  to  goe ; 
Where  wee  for  ever  shall  Itee  blest. 

From  oute  the  reech  of  woe. 
2  V 


642 


THOMAS  CHATTERTON. 


"  Tfee  taughtc  mee  justice  and  the  laws 

With  pitie  to  unite ; 
And  eke  hee  taught  mee  howe  to  knowe 

The  wronge  cause  fromm  the  ryghte : 

«  Hee  taughte  mee  wyth  a  prudent  hande 

To  feede  the  hungrie  poore, 
Ne  lett  mye  sarvants  dryve  awaie 

The  hungrie  fromme  my  doore : 
* 
"  And  none  can  saye  butt  all  mye  lyfe 

I  have  hys  wordyes  kept; 
And  summ'd  the  actyonns  of  the  daie 

Eche  nyghte  before  I  slept. 

« I  have  a  spouse,  goe  aske  of  her 

Yff  I  defyl'd  her  bedde ; 
I  have  a  kynge,  and  none  can  laie 

Black  treason  onne  my  hedde. 

"  Ynne  Lent,  and  onne  the  holie  eve, 
Fromm  fleshe  I  dydd  refrayne; 

Whie  should  I  thenne  appeare  dismay'd 
To  leave  thys  worlde  of  payne  1 

«  Ne,  hapless  Henrie  !  I  rejoyce 

I  shall  ne  see  thye  dethe ; 
Most  willynglie  ynne  thye  just  cause 

Doe  I  resign  my  brethe. 

«  Oh,  fickle  people !  rewyn'd  londe  ! 

Thou  wylt  kenne  peace  ne  moe ; 
Whyle  Richard's  sonnes  exalt  themselves 

Thye  brookes  wyth  bloude  wylle  flowe. 

«  Sale,  were  ye  tyr'd  of  godlie  peace, 

And  godlie  Henrie's  reigne, 
Thatt  you  dyd  choppe  your  easie  dales 

For  those  of  bloude  and  peyne  1 

"  Whatt  though  I  onne  a  sledde  be  drawne, 

And  mangled  by  a  hynde, 
I  doe  defye  the  traytor's  pow'r, 

Hee  can  ne  harm  my  mynde ; 

"  Whatte  though,  uphoisted  onne  a  pole, 
Mye  lymbes  shall  rotte  ynne  ayre. 

And  ne  ryche  monument  of  brasse 
Charles  Bawdin's  name  shall  bear; 

<•  Yett  ynne  the  holie  book  above, 
Whyche  tyme  can't  eate  awaie. 

There  wythe  the  servants  of  the  Lorde 
Mye  name  shall  lyve  for  aie. 

"  Thenne  welcome  dethe!  for  lyfe  eterne 

I  leave  thys  mortal  I  lyfe : 
Farewell,  vayne  worlde,  and  all  that's  deare, 

Mye  sonnes  and  lovynge  wyfe ! 

'•  Nowe  dethe  as  welcome  to  mee  comes 

As  e'er  the  moneth  of  Maie ; 
Nor  woulde  I  even  wyshe  to  lyve, 

Wyth  my  dere  wyfe  to  staie." 

Quod  Canynge,  "'Tys  a  goodlie  thynge 

To  bee  prepared  to  die ; 
And  from  thys  worlde  of  peyne  and  grefe 

To  Godde  vnne  heav'n  to  file." 


And  now  the  belle  began  to  tolle. 

And  claryonnes  to  sound; 
Syr  Charles  hee  herde  the  horses  feete 

A  prauncyng  onne  the  grounde : 

And  just  before  the  officers 

His  lovynge  wyfe  came  ynne, 
Weepynge  unfeigned  teeres  of  woe, 

Wythe  loudd  and  dysmalle  dynne. 

"  Sweet  Florence !  nowe  I  praie  forbere, 

Ynn  quiet  lett  mee  die ; 
Praie  Godde  that  ev'ry  Christian  soule 

Maye  looke  onne  dethe  as  I. 

"  Sweet  Florence !  why  these  brinie  teeres  1 

Theye  washe  my  soule  awaie. 
And  almost  make  mee  wyshe  for  lyfe, 

Wyth  thee,  sweete  dame,  to  staie. 

"  'Tys  butt  a  journie  I  shall  goe 

Untoe  the  lande  of  blysse; 
Nowe,  as  a  proofe  of  husbande's  love. 

Receive  thys  holie  kysse." 

Thenne  Florence,  fault'ring  ynne  her  saie, 
Tremblynge  these  wordes  spoke  : 

"Ah,  cruele  Edwarde  !  bloudie  kynge  ! 
Mye  herte  ys  welle  nyghe  broke  : 

"  Ah,  sweete  Syr  Charles  !  why  wylt  thou  goe 

Wythoute  thye  lovynge  wyfe  ? 
The  cruelle  axe  thatt  cuttes  thy  necke, 

Ytte  eke  shall  ende  mye  lyfe." 

And  nowe  the  officers  came  ynne 

To  brynge  Syr  Charles  awaie, 
Whoe  turnedd  toe  hys  lovynge  wyfe. 

And  thus  to  her  dydd  saie : 

"  I  goe  to  lyfe,  and  nott  to  dethe ; 

Truste  thou  ynne  Godde  above, 
And  teache  thy  sonnes  to  feare  the  Lorde, 

And  ynne  theyre  hertes  hym  love : 

•«  Teache  them  to  runne  the  nobile  race 

Thatt  I  theyre  fader  runne ; 
Florence  !  shou'd  dethe  thee  take — adieu  ! 

Yee  officers,  leade  onne." 

Thenne  Florence  raved  as  anie  madde. 

And  dydd  her  tresses  tere; 
"  Oh  staie  mye  husbande,  lorde,  and  lyfe  !" — 

Syr  Charles  thenne  dropt  a  teare. 

Tyll  tyredd  oute  wythe  ravynge  loude, 

Shee  fellen  onne  the  flore; 
Syr  Charles  exerted  alle  hys  myghte. 

And  march  d  fromm  oute  the  dore. 

Uponne  a  sledde  hee  mounted  thenne, 
Wythe  lookes  full  brave  and  swete; 

Lookes  thatt  enshone  ne  moe  concern 
Thanne  anie  ynne  the  strete. 

Before  hym  went  the  council-menne, 

Ynn  Scarlett  robes  and  golde. 
And  tassils  spanglynge  ynne  the  sunne 

Muche  glorious  to  beholde : 


i 


THOMAS  CHATTERTON. 


548 


The  freers  of  Seincte  Augustyne  next 

Appeared  to  the  syghte, 
AUe  cladd  ynne  homelie  russett  weedes, 

Of  godlie  monkysh  plyghte : 

Ynne  diffraunt  partes  a  godlie  psaume 
Moste  sweetlie  theye  dyd  chaunt ; 

Behynde  theyre  backes  syx  mynstrelles  came, 
Who  tuned  the  strunge  bataunt. 

Thenne  fyve-and-twenty  archers  came, 

Echone  the  bowe  dydd  bende, 
From  rescue  of  Kynge  Henries  friends, 

Syr  Charles  forr  to  defend. 

Bolde  as  a  lyon  came  Syr  Charles, 
Drawne  onne  a  cloth-Iayde  sledde, 

Bye  two  blacke  stedes  ynne  trappynges  white, 
Wyth  plumes  uponne  theyre  hedde: 

Behynde  hym  fyve-and-twenty  moe 

Of  archers  stronge  and  stoute, 
Wyth  bended  bowe  echone  ynne  hande. 

Marched  ynne  goodlie  route : 

Seincte  Jameses  Freers  marched  next, 

Echone  hys  parte  dydd  chaunt ; 
Behynde  theyre  backes  syx  mynstrelles  came. 

Who  tun'd  the  strunge  bataunt : 

Thenne  came  the  maior  and  eldermenne, 

Ynne  clothe  of  scarlett  deck't ; 
And  theyre  attendyng  inenne  echone, 

Lyke  easterne  princes  trick't : 

And  after  them  a  multitude 

Of  citizens  dydd  thronge  ; 
The  wyndowes  were  alle  fulle  of  heddes 

As  hee  dydd  passe  alonge. 

And  whenne  hee  came  to  the  hyghe  crosse, 
Syr  Charles  dydd  turne  and  sale, 

"  O  thou  thatt  savest  manne  fromme  synne, 
Washe  mye  soule  clean  thys  daie  !" 

Att  the  grete  mynster  wyndowe  sat 

The  kynge  ynne  myckle  state, 
To  see  Charles  Bawdin  goe  alonge 

To  hys  most  welcom  fate. 

Soon  as  the  sledde  drewe  nyghe  enowe 
Thatt  Edwarde  hee  myghte  heare, 

The  brave  Syr  Charles  hee  dydd  stande  uppe, 
And  thus  hys  wordes  declare: 

"  Thou  seest  me,  Edwarde  !  traytour  vile ! 

Expos'd  to  infamie; 
Butt  bee  assur'd,  disloyall  manne! 

I'm  greater  nowe  thanne  thee. 

"  Bye  foule  proceedyngs,  murdre,  bloude. 

Thou  wearest  now  a  crowne ; 
And  hast  appoynted  mee  to  dye, 

By  power  nott  thyne  owne. 

"Thou  thynkest  I  shall  dye  to-daie; 

I  have  been  dede  'till  nowe, 
And  soone  shall  lyve  to  weare  a  crowne 

For  aie  uponne  my  browe: 


"  Whylst  thou,  perhapps,  for  som  few  yearea, 

Shalt  rule  thys  fickle  lande. 
To  lett  them  knowe  howe  wyde  the  rule 

'Twixt  kynge  and  tyrant  hande: 

«Thye  pow'r  unjust,  thou  traytour  slave! 

Shalle  falle  onne  thye  owne  hedde." — 
Fromm  out  of  hearyng  of  the  kynge 

Departed  thenne  the  sledde. 

Kynge  Edwarde's  soul  rush'd  to  hys  face, 

Hee  turn'd  his  hedde  awaie. 
And  to  hys  broder  Gloucester 

Hee  thus  dydd  speke  and  sale: 

«  To  hym  that  soe  much  dreaded  dethe, 

Ne  ghastlie  terrors  brynge, 
Beholde  the  manne  !  hee  spake  the  truthe, 

Hee's  gi4liter thanne  a  kynge!" 

"  Soe  lett  hym  die  !"  Duke  Richard  sayde ; 

"  And  maye  echone  oure  foes 
Bende  downe  theyre  neckes  to  bloudie  axe. 

And  feede  the  carryon  crowes." 

And  nowe  the  horses  gentlie  drewe 
Syr  Charles  uppe  the  hyghe  hylle ; 

The  axe  dydd  glyster  ynne  the  sunne. 
His  pretious  bloude  to  spylle. 

Syr  Charles  dydd  uppe  the  scaflbid  goe. 

As  uppe  a  gilded  carre 
Of  victorye,  bye  val'rous  chiefs 

Gayn'd  ynne  the  bloudie  warre : 

And  to  the  people  hee  dyd  saie, 

"  Beholde,  you  see  me  dye, 
For  servynge  loyally  mye  kynge, 

Mye  kynge  most  ryghtfuliie. 

«As  longe  as  Edwarde  rules  thys  lande, 

Ne  quiet  you  wylle  knowe : 
Your  sonnes  and  husbandes  shalle  bee  slayne, 

And  brookes  wythe  bloude  shall  flowe. 

<'You  leave  your  goode  and  lawiiiUe  kynge 

Whenne  ynne  in  adversitye ; 
Lyke  mee,  untoe  the  true  cause  stycke. 

And  for  the  true  cause  dye." 

Thenne  hee,  wyth  preestes,  uponne  hys  knees, 

A  pray'r  to  Godde  dyd  make, 
Beseechynge  hym  unto  hymselfe 

Hys  partynge  soule  to  take. 

Thenne,  kneelynge  downe,  hee  layd  hys  hedde 

Most  seemlie  onne  the  blocke ; 
Whych  fromme  hys  bodie  fayre  at  once 

The  able  heddes-manne  stroke : 

And  oute  the  bloude  beganne  to  flowe. 
And  rounde  the  scaffolde  twyne; 

And  teares,  enow  to  washe  't  awaie, 
Dydd  flowe  from  each  mann's  eyne. 

The  bloudie  axe  hys  bodie  fayre 

Ynnto  four  partes  cutte; 
And  ev'rye  parte,  and  eke  hys  hedde, 

Uponne  a  pole  was  putte. 


544 


CHRISTOPHER  SMART. 


One  parte  dyd  rotte  onne  Kynwulph-hylle, 

One  onne  the  mynster-tower, 
And  one  from  off  the  castle  gate 

The  crowen  dydd  devoure : 

The  other  onne  Seyncte  Powle's  goode  gate, 
A  dreery  spectacle ; 


Hys  hedde  was  placed  onne  the  hyghe  crosse, 
Ynne  hyghe-streete  most  nobile. 

Thus  was  the  ende  of  Bawdin's  fate : 
Godde  prosper  longe  oure  kynge, 

And  grante  hee  maye,  with  Bawdin's  soule, 
Ynne  heav'n  Godd's  mercie  synge  ! 


CHRISTOPHER  SMART. 


tBorn,  17M.     Died,  1770.] 


Christopher  Smart  was  borne  at  Shipbourne, 
in  Kent,  Being  an  eight  months  child,  he  had 
from  his  birth  an  infirm  constitution,  which  un- 
fortunately his  habits  of  life  never  tended  to 
strengthen.  His  father,  who  was  Reward  of  the 
Kentish  estates  of  Lord  Barnard,  (afterward 
Earl  of  Darlington,)  possessed  a  property  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  Shipbourne  of  about  300/. 
a  year;  but  it  was  so  much  encumbered  by  debt 
that  his  widow  was  obliged  to  sell  it  at  his  death 
at  a  considerable  loss.  This  happened  in  our 
poet's  eleventh  year,  at  which  time  he  was  taken 
from  the  school  of  Maidstone,  in  Kent,  and 
placed  at  that  of  Durham.  Some  of  his  paternal 
relations  resided  in  the  latter  place.  An  ancestor 
of  the  family,  Mr.  Peter  Smart,  had  been  a  pre- 
bendary of  l)urham  in  the  reign  of  Charles  the 
First,  and  was  regarded  by  the  puritans  as  a 
proto-martyr  in  their  cause,  having  been  de- 
graded, fined,  and  imprisoned  for  eleven  years, 
on  account  of  a  Latin  poem  which  he  published 
in  1643,  and  which  the  high-church  party  chose 
to  consider  as  a  libel.  What  services  young 
Smart  met  with  at  Durham  from  his  father's 
relations  we  are  not  informed ;  but  he  was  kindly 
received  by  Lord  Barnard,  at  his  seat  of  Raby 
Castle ;  and  through  the  interest  of  his  lordship's 
family  obtained  the  patronage  of  the  Duchess  of 
Cleveland,  who  allowed  him  for  several  years  an 
annuity  of  forty  pounds.  In  his  seventeenth 
year  he  went  from  the  school  of  Durham  to  the 
university  of  Cambridge,  where  he  obtained  a 
fellowship  of  Pembroke-hall,  and  took  the  degree 
of  master  of  arts.  About  the  time  of  his  obtain- 
ing his  fellowship  he  wrote  a  farce,  entitled  "the 
Grateful  Fair,  or  the  trip  to  Cambridge,"  which 
was  acted  in  the  hall  of  his  college.  Of  this 
production  only  a  few  songs,  and  the  mock- 
heroic  soliloquy  of  the  Princess  Periwinkle,  have 
been  preserved  ;  but  from  the  draught  of  the 
plot  given  by  his  biographer,  the  comic  ingenuity 
of  the  piece  seems  not  to  have  been  remarkable.* 
He  distinguished  himself  at  the  university,  both 
by  his  Latin  and  English  verses :  among  the 
former  was  his  translation  of  Pope's  Ode  on  St. 
Cecilia's  Day,  on  the  subject  of  which,  and  of 
other  versions  which  he  projected  from  the  same 
author,  he  had  the  honour  of  corresponding  with 
Pope.     He  also  obtained,  during  several  years, 

[•  See  Gray'8  Works  by  Mitford,  vol.  iii.  pp.  41  and  47.] 


the  Seatonian  prize  for  poetical  essays  on  the  at- 
tributes of  the  Deity.  He  afterward  printed 
those  compositions,  and  probably  rested  on  them 
his  chief  claims  to  the  name  of  a  poet.  In  one 
of  them  he  rather  too  loftily  denominates  himself 
"  the  poet  of  his  God"  From  his  verses  upon  the 
Eagle  chained  in  a  College  Court,  in  which  he 
addresses  the  bird, 

"  Thou  type  of  wit  and  sense,  confined, 
Chaia'd  by  th'  oppressors  of  the  mind," 

it  does  not  appear  that  he  had  great  respect  for 
his  college  teachers ;  nor  is  it  pretended  that  the 
oppressors  of  the  mind,  as  he  calls  them,  had 
much  reason  to  admire  the  application  of  his 
eagle  genius  to  the  graver  studies  of  the  uni- 
versity ;  for  the  life  which  he  led  was  so  dissipa- 
ted, as  to  oblige  him  to  sequester  his  fellowship 
for  tavern  debts. 

In  the  year  1753  he  quitted  college,  upon  his 
marriage  with  a  Miss  Carnan,  the  step-daughter 
of  Mr.  Newbery  the  bookseller.  With  Newbery 
he  had  already  been  engaged  in  several  schemes 
of  authorship,  having  been  a  frequent  contri- 
butor to  the  "  Student,  or  Oxford  and  Cambridge 
Miscellany,"  and  having  besides  conducted  the 
"  Midwife,  or  Old  Woman's  Magazine."  He  had 
also  published  a  collection  of  his  poems,  and 
having  either  detected  or  suspected  that  the 
notorious  Sir  John  (formerly  Dr.)  Hill  had  re- 
viewed them  unfavourably,  he  proclaimed  war 
with  the  paper  knight,  and  wrote  a  satire  on 
him,  entitled  the  Hilliad.  One  of  the  bad  effects 
of  the  Dunciad  had  been  to  afford  to  indignant 
witlings,  an  easily  copied  example  of  allegory  and 
vituperation.  Every  versifier,  who  could  echo 
Pope's  numbers,  and  add  an  tad  to  the  name  of 
the  man  or  thing  that  offended  him,  thought 
himself  a  Pope  for  the  time  being,  and  however 
dull,  an  hereditary  champion  against  the  powers 
of  Dulness.  Sir  John  Hill,  who  wrote  also  a 
book  upon  Cookery,  replied  in  a  Smartiad ;  and 
probably  both  of  his  books  were  in  their  different 
ways  useful  to  the  pastry-cooks.  If  the  town 
was  interested  in  such  a  warfare,  it  was  to  be 
pitied  for  the  dearth  of  amusement.  But  though 
Smart  was  thus  engaged,  his  manners  were  so 
agreeable,  and  his  peirsonal  character  so  inoffen- 
sive, as  to  find  friends  among  some  of  the  most 
eminent  men  of  his  day,  such  as  Dr.  Johnson, 
Garrick,  and  Dr.  Burney.  Distress  brought  on 
by  imprudence,  and  insanity,  produced,  by  dis- 


CHRISTOPHER  SMART. 


545 


tress,  soon  made  him  too  dependent  on  the  kind- 
ness of  his  friends.  Some  of  them  contributed 
money.  Garrick  gave  him  a  free  benefit  at 
Drury-lane  theatre,  and  Dr.  Johnson  furnished 
him  with  several  papers  for  one  of  his  periodical 
publications.  During  the  confinement  which  his 
alienation  of  mind  rendered  necessary,  he  was 
deprived  of  pen  and  ink  and  paper;  and  used  to 
indent  his  poetical  thoughts  with  a  key  on  the 
wainscot  of  the  wall.  On  his  recovery  he  re- 
sumed his  literary  employments,  and  for  some 
time  conducted  himself  with  industry.  Among 
the  compositions  of  his  saner  period,  was  a  verse 
translation  of  the  Fables  of  Phaedrus,  executed 
with  tolerable  spirit  and  accuracy.  But  he  gave 
a  lamentable  proof  of  his  declining  powers  in  his 
translation  of  the  Psalms,  and  in  his  "  Parables 
of  Jesus  Christ,  done  into  familiar  verse,"  which 
were  dedicated  to  Master  Bonnel  Thornton,  a 
child  in  the  nursery.     He  was  also  committed  for 


debt  to  the  King's  Bench  prison,  within  the  Ruleh 
of  which  he  died,  after  a  short  illness,  of  a  dis 
order  in  the  liver. 

If  Smart  had  any  talent  above  mediocrity,  it 
was  a  slight  turn  for  humour.*  In  his  serious 
attempts  at  poetry,  he  reminds  us  of  those 

"  Whom  Phoebus  in-  hi*  Ire 
Hath  blasted  with  poetic  flre."t 

The  history  of  his  life  is  but  melancholy. 
Such  was  his  habitual  imprudence,  that  he  would 
bring  home  guests  to  dine  at  his  house,  when 
his  wife  and  family  had  neither  a  meal,  nor  money 
to  provide  one.  He  engaged,  on  one  occasion,  to 
write  the  Universal  Visitor,  and  for  no  other 
work,  by  a  contract  which  was  to  last  ninety-nine 
years.  The  publication  stopped  at  the  end  of 
two  years.  During  his  bad  health,  he  was  ad- 
vised to  walk  for  exercise,  and  he  used  to  walk 
for  that  purpose  to  the  ale-house;  but  he  wa$  aii 
ways  carried  back. 


m  THB  MOCK  PLAY  OF  "A  TRIP  TO  CAMBRIDGE, 
OR  THE  GRATEFUL  FAIR." 

BOULOQUT  OP  THB  PSnfOESS  PKRIWINKIE. 

[Princess  Periwinkle  $ola,  attended  by  fourteen  viaidt  cf 
great  hcnovx^ 

SrRK  snch  a  wretch  as  I  was  never  bom, 
By  all  the  world  deserted  and  forlorn : 
This  bitter-sweet,  this  honey-gall  to  prove, 
And  all  the  oil  and  vinegar  of  love ; 
Pride,  love,  and  reason,  will  not  let  me  rest. 
But  make  a  devilish  bustle  in  my  breast. 
To  wed  with  Fizgig,  pride,  pride,  pride  denies, 
Put  on  a  Spanish  padlock,  reason  cries ; 
But  tender,  gentle  love,  with  every  wish  com- 
plies. 
Pride,  love,  and  reason,  fight  till  they  are  cloy'd, 
And  each  by  each  in  mutual  wounds  destroy'd. 
Thus  when  a  barber  and  a  collier  fight. 
The  barber  beats  the  luckless  collier — white ; 
The  dusty  collier  heaves  his  ponderous  sack. 
And,  big  with  vengeance,  beats  the  barber — black. 
In  comes  the  brick-dust  man,  with  grime  o'er- 

spread, 
And  beats  the  collier  and  the  barber — red ; 
Black,  red,  and  white,  in  various  clouds  are  toss'd, 
And  in  the  dust  they  raise  the  combatants  are 
lost 


•  An  Instance  of  his  wit  is  given  in  his  extemporary 
spondaic  on  the  three  fet  beadles  of  the  tiniveivity : 
"  Pinguia  tergeminorum  abdomina  bedellorum." 
[t  See  however  an  extract  made  by  Mr.  Southey  fh>m 
his  "  Song  of  David,"  in  the  Quarterly  Review,  vol.  xL 
p.  497. 

He  sunc  of  God  the  mighty  source 
Of  all  things,  the  stupendous  force 

Ou  which  all  things  depend  :  , 

From  whose  right  arm.  beneath  whom  eyes, 
All  period,  power  and  enterprii«, 
Commence  and  reign  and  end. 

The  world,  the  clustering  spheres  He  made, 
The  glorious  light,  the  sootliing  shade, 
60 


ODE 
ON  AK  EAOtI  COmNSD  IN  A  OOIXIQB  COUBT. 

Imperial  bird,  who  wont  to  soar 

High  o'er  the  rolling  cloud, 
Where  Hyperborean  mountains  hoar 

Their  heads  in  ether  shroud ; — 
ThOu  servant  of  almighty  Jove, 
Who,  free  and  swift  as  thought,  couldst  rove 

To  the  bleak  north's  extremest  goal  ;— 
Thou,  who  magnanimous  couldst  bear 
The  sovereign  thunderer's  arms  in  air. 

And  shake  thy  native  pole  ! 

Oh,  cruel  fate !  what  barbarous  hand. 

What  more  than  Gothic  ire. 
At  some  fierce  tyrant's  dread  command, 

To  check  thy  daring  fire 
Has  placed  thee  in  this  servile  cell. 
Where  discipline  and  dullness  dwell. 

Where  genius  ne'er  was  seen  to  roam; 
Where  every  selfish  soul's  at  rest. 
Nor  ever  quits  the  carnal  breast. 

But  lurks  and  sneaks  at  home ! 

Though  dimm'd  thine  eye,  and  dipt  thy  winf, 

So  grov'ling !  once  so  g^reat ; 
The  grief-inspired  Muse  shall  sing 

In  tenderest  lays  thy  fete. 


Dale,  champaign,  grove,  and  bill ; 
The  multitudinous  abyss 
Vhen?  Secrecy  remains  in  bliss. 
And  wisdom  hides  her  sUll. 
Tell  them  I  am,  JfhoTah  said 
To  Moees.  while  earth  heard  in  dread, 

And  smitten  to  the  heart, 
At  once  abnre.  beneath,  around. 
All  nature,  without  voice  or  sound. 
Replied,  0  liord,  thoo  artI 
This  Pmnrt,  when  in  a  state  of  ia«*nlty.  Indented  with  a 
key  on  the  wsinsoot  of  a  madhouse.     Poor  .Nat.  Lee  when 
on  the  verge  of  miidne.«s  mndc  a  sensible  saying,  "  It  to 
very  difficult  to  write  like  a  madman,  but  very  easy  U 
write  like  a  fooll^J 

2v2 


M6 


THOMAS  GRAY. 


What  time  by  thee  scholastic  pride 
Takes  his  precise  pedantic  stride, 

Nor  on  thy  mis'ry  casts  a  care, 
The  stream  of  love  ne'er  from  his  heart 
Flows  out,  to  act  fair  pity's  part ; 

But  stinks,  and  stagnates  there. 

Yet  useful  still,  hold  to  the  throng — 
Hold  the  reflecting  glass, — • 


That  not  untutor'd  at  thy  wrong 

The  passenger  may  pass ! 
Thou  type  of  wit  and  sense  confined, 
Cramp'd  by  the  oppressors  of  the  mind. 

Who  study  downward  on  the  ground ; 
Type  of  the  fall  of  Greece  and  Rome ; 
While  more  than  mathematic  gloom 

Envelopes  all  around. 


THOMAS  GRAY. 


[Boro,  1716.    Died,  1771.] 


Mr.  Matthias,  the  accomplished  editor  of 
Gray,  in  delineating  his  poetical  character,  dwells 
with  peculiar  emphasis  on  the  charm  of  his  lyri- 
cal versification,  which  he  justly  ascribes  to  the 
naturally  exquisite  ear  of  the  poet  having  been 
trained  to  consummate  skill  in  harmony,  by  long 
familiarity  with  the  finest  models  in  the  most 
poetical  of  all  languages,  the  Greek  and  Italian. 
"  He  was  indeed  (says  Mr.  Matthias)  the  inventor, 
it  may  be  strictly  said  so,  of  a  new  lyrical  metre 
in  his  own  tongue.  The  peculiar  formation  of 
his  strophe,  antistrophe,  and  epode,  was  unknown 
before  him;  and  it  could  only  have  been  planned 
and  perfected  by  a  master  genius,  who  was  equally 
skilled  by  long  and  repeated  study,  and  by  trans- 
fusion into  his  own  mind  of  the  lyric  composi- 
tions of  ancient  Greece  and  of  the  higher  '  can- 
zoni'  of  the  Tuscan  poets,  'di  maggior  carme  e 
suotio,'  as  it  is  termed  in  the  commanding  energy 
of  their  language.  Antecedent  to  '  The  Progress 
of  Poetry,'  and  to  '  The  Bard,'  no  such  lyrics 
had  appeared.  There  is  not  an  ode  in  the  English 
language  which  is  constructed  like  these  two 
compositions ;  with  such  power,  such  majesty, 
and  such  sweetness,  with  such  proportioned 
pauses  and  just  cadences,  with  such  regulated 
measures  of  the  verse,  with  such  master  principles 
of  lyrical  art  displayed  and  exemplified,  and,  at 
the  same  time,  with  such  a  concealment  of  the 
difficulty,  which  is  lost  in  the  softness  and  unin- 
terrupted flowing  of  the  lines  in  each  stanza, 
with  such  a  musical  magic,  that  every  verse  in  it 
in  succession  dwells  on  the  ear  and  harmonizes 
with  that  which  has  gone  before." 

So  far  as  the  versification  of  Gray  is  con- 
cerned, I  have  too  much  pleasure  in  transcribing 
these  sentiments  of  Mr.  Matthias,  to  encumber 
them  with  any  quaUfying  remarks  of  my  own  on 
that  particular  subject;  but  I  dissent  from  him 
in  his  more  general  estimate  of  Gray's  genius. 


[•  For  poetry  in  ita  essence,  in  its  purest  signification 
and  realization.  Johnson  liad  no  kind  of  soul.  lie  tried 
the  creative  flight-f  of  the  fancy,  the  mid-air  and  heaven- 
ward soarings  of  the  Muse,  by  work-day-world  rules :  and 
that  kind  of  verse  was  with  him  the  most  commendable, 
v/hich  contained  the  greatest  quantity  of  forcible  truth 
aud  reasoning  elegantly  and  correctly  set  forth.    The 


when  he  afterward  speaks  of  it,  as  « second  to 
none." 

In  order  to  distinguish  the  positive  merits  of 
Gray  from  the  loftier  excellence  ascribed  to  him 
by  his  editor,  it  is  unnecessary  to  resort  to  the 
criticisms  of  Dr.  Johnson.  Some  of  them  may 
be  just,  but  their  general  spirit  is  malignant  and 
exaggerated.  When  we  look  to  such  beautiful 
passages  in  Gray's  odes,  as  his  Indian  poet  amidst 
the  forests  of  Chili,  or  his  prophet  bard  scattering 
dismay  on  the  array  of  Edward  and  his  awe- 
struck chieftains  on  the  side  of  Snowdon — when 
we  regard  his  elegant  taste,  not  only  gathering 
classical  flowers  from  the  Arno  and  Ilyssus,  but 
revealing  glimpses  of  barbaric  grandeur  amidst 
the  darkness  of  Runic  mythology — when  we  re- 
collect his  "thoughts  thai  breathe,  and  ivords  that 
burn" — his  rich  personifications,  his  broad  and 
prominent  images,  and  the  crowning  charm  of 
his  versification,  we  may  safely  pronounce  that 
Johnson's  critical  fulminations  have  passed  over 
his  lyrical  character  with  more  noise  than  de- 
struction.* 

At  the  same  time  it  must  be  recollected,  that 
his  beauties  are  rather  crowded  into  a  short  com- 
pass, than  numerous  in  their  absolute  sum.  The 
spirit  of  poetry,  it  is  true,  is  not  to  be  computed 
mechanically  by  tale  or  measure ;  and  abundance 
of  it  may  enter  into  a  very  small  bulk  of  lan- 
guage. But  neither  language  nor  poetry  are 
compressible  beyond  certain  limits ;  and  the  poet 
whose  thoughts  have  been  concentrated  into  a 
few  pages,  cannot  be  expected  to  have  given  a 
very  full  or  interesting  image  of  life  in  his  com 
positions.  A  few  odes,  splendid,  spirited,  and 
harmonious,  but  by  no  means  either  faultless  or 
replete  with  subjects  that  come  home  to  universal 
sympathy,  and  an  Elegy,  unrivalled  as  it  is  in 
that  species  of  composition,  these  achievements 
of  our  poet  form,  after  all,  no  such   extensive 

elder  Warton  tried  a  person's  love  for,  and  judgment  in 
poetry,  by  a  different  standard — by  his  admiration  of  Ly- 
cidas ;  nor  could  a  better  criterion  be  taken. 

Speaking  of  tin;  Reasoning  and  the  Imaginative  Schools, 
Hallam  justly  siiys  that  John.son  admired  Dryden  as  much 
as  be  could  admire  any  man.  He  seems  to  have  read  his 
writings  with  the  greatest  attention.] 


THOMAS  GRAY. 


547 


grounds  of  originality,  as  to  entitle  their  author 
to  be  spoken  of  as  in  genius  "  serond  to  none." 
He  had  not,  like  Goldsmith,  the  art  of  unbending 
from  grace  to  levity.*  Nothing  can  be  more  un- 
exhilarating  than  his  attempts  at  wit  and  humour, 
either  in  his  letters  or  lighter  poetry.  In  his 
graver  and  better  strains  some  of  the  most  ex- 
quisite ideas  are  his  own  ;  and  his  taste,  for  the 
most  part,  adorned,  and  skilfully  recast,  the  forms 
of  thought  and  expression  which  he  borrowed 
from  others.  If  his  works  often  "  whisper  whence 
they  stole  their  balmy  spoils,"  it  is  not  from  pla- 
giarism, but  from  a  sensibility  that  sought  and 
■elected  the  finest  impressions  of  genius  from 
other  gifted  minds.f  But  still  there  is  a  higher 
appearance  of  culture  than  fertility,  of  acquisi- 
tion than  originality,  in  Gray.  He  is  not  that 
being  of  independent  imagination,  that  native 
and  creative  spirit,  of  whom  we  should  say,  that 
he  would  have  plunged  into  the  flood  of  poetry 
had  there  been  none  to  leap  before  him.  Nor 
were  his  learned  acquisitions  turned  to  the  very 
highest  account  He  was  the  architect  of  no 
poetical  design  of  extensive  or  intricate  compass. 
One  noble  historical  picture,  it  must  be  confessed, 
he  has  left  in  the  opening  scene  of  his  Bard; 
and  the  sequel  of  that  ode,  though  it  is  not  per- 
haps the  most  interesting  prophecy  of  English 


history  which  we  could  suppose  Inspiration  to 
pronounce,  contains  many  richly  poetical  con 
ceptions.  It  is,  however,  exclusively  in  the 
opening  of  The  Bard,  that  Gray  can  be  ever 
said  to  have  portrayed  a  grand,  distinct,  and  he- 
roic scene  of  fiction.J 

The  obscurity  so  often  objected  to  him  is  cer- 
tainly a  defect  not  to  be  justified  by  the  authority 
of  Pindar,  more  than  any  thing  else  that  is  in- 
trinsically objectionable.  But  it  has  been  exag- 
gerated. He  is  nowhere  so  obscure  as  not  to  be 
intelligible  by  recurring  to  the  passage.  And  it 
may  be  further  observed,  that  Gray's  lyrical  ob- 
scurity never  arises,  as  in  some  writers,  from  un- 
defined ideas  or  paradoxical  sentiments.  On  the 
contrary,  his  moral  spirit  is  as  explicit  as  it  is 
majestic;  and  deeply  read  as  he  was  in  Plato,  he 
is  never  metaphysically  perplexed.  The  fault  of 
his  meaning  is  to  be  latent,  not  indefinite  or  con- 
fused. When  we  give  his  beauties  re-perusol 
and  attention,  they  kindle  and  multiply  to  the 
view.  The  thread  of  association  that  conducts 
to  his  remote  allusions,  or  that  connects  his  ab- 
rupt transitions,  ceases  then  to  be  invisible.  His 
lyrical  pieces  are  like  paintings  on  glass,  which 
must  be  placed  in  a  strong  light  to  give  out  the 
perfect  radiance  of  their  colouring. 


THE  BARD:  A  PINDARIC  ODE.? 

«« R01N  seize  thee,  ruthless  King ! 
Confusion  on  thy  banners  wait. 
Though  fann'd  by  Conquest's  crimson  wing, 
They  mock  the  air  with  idle  state. 
Helm,  nor  hauberk's  twisted  mail. 
Nor  e'en  thy  virtues,  Tyrant !  shall  avail 
To  save  thy  secret  soul  from  nightly  fears. 
From  Cambria's  curse,  from  Cambria's  tears!" — 
Such  were  the  sounds  that  o'er  the  crested  pride 
Of  the  first  Edward  scatter'd  wild  dismay. 
As  down  the  steep  of  Snowdon's  shaggy  side 
He  wound  with  toilsome  march  his  long  array. 
Stout  Glo'ster  stood  aghast  in  speechless  trance: 
"  To  arms  !"  cried   Mortimer,  and   couch'd  his 
quivering  lance. 

[*  Surely  Gray  is  a  (greater  pr>et  than  GoMomith.  in  their 
individual  claftses.  and  Oray"»  class  of  a  higher  order  than 
Goldsmith's.  Nor  is  Uvity  ko  desirable,  unlens  Mr.  Camp- 
bell means  the  poet's  lerity : 

"  From  grave  to  pay,  from  livfty  to  severe ;" 
which  if  Gray  wants,  Milton  wants.     Prior's  levity  and 
Goldsmith's  liveliness  are  both  pr(.)verbial.] 

[t  From  a  memory  fi.led  with  the  es-sence  of  universal 
song,  and  from  a  mistrust  of  his  own  powers,  it  w;i8  that 
Gray  composed  his  mosaic-like  pieces.  Nature  h.id  in- 
tended him  to  rely  on  his  own  resources,  whii  h  were  rich 
enough  to  have  made  him  wh;it  he  is;  but  Jirt  got  the 
better  of  Nature,  and  he  wrote,  it  would  seem,  to  exem- 
plify a  line  of  Marston  and  show  ua, 

Art  above  Nature.  Judgment  above  Art,] 

[X  Gray's   Klegy  pleaded  instantly  and  eternally.    IILi 

ies  did  not^  nor  do  they  yet,  please  like  hist  Elegy.— 
BiROX,  Wrrkt,  vol  V.  p.  15. 

Had  Gray  written  nothing  but  his  Elegy,  high  as  ho 
stands,  I  am  not  sure  that  he  would  not  stand  higher;  it 


Ode: 


On  a  rock,  whose  haughty  brow 
Frowns  o'er  old  Conway's  foaming  flood. 
Robed  in  the  sable  garb  of  woe, 
With  haggard  eyes  the  poet  stood  ; 
(Loose  his  beard,  and  hoary  hair 
Stream'd,  like  a  meteor,  to  the  troubled  air) 
And  with  a  master's  hand,  and  prophet's  fire. 
Struck  the  deep  sorrows  of  his  lyre. 
"  Hark,  how  each  giant  oak,  and  desert  cave, 
Sighs  to  the  torrent's  awful  voice  beneath ! 
O'er  thee,  O  King!    their  hundred   arms  they 

wave. 
Revenge  on  thee  in  hoarser  murmurs  breathe ; 
Vocal  no  more,  since  Cambria's  fatal  day, 
To  high-born  Hoel's  harp,  or  soft  Llewellyn's  lay. 

"  Cold  is  Cadwallo's  tongue, 
That  hush'd  the  stormy  main ; 


Ls  the  cornerstone  of  his  glory;  without  it.  his  odes 
would  Iw  insunicieut  for  hi*  Cime.— BvRox,  H'orkt,  vol. 
vi.  p.  oC9. 

It  is  rain  to  look  for  that  period  when  the  multitude 
will  relish  Grays  'idex  as  they  do  his  Elegy.  They  are 
above  the  level  of  ordinary  comprehensions  anderery-day 
ta«tes.  in  suljo<'t.  style.  Iiinguage,  and  allusions;  while hhi 
Elegy  comes  home  to  their  sympathies  and  knowledge,  in 
matter  and  in  manner.  "  In  I'oetry  it  is  urgt-d."  says 
Shenslone.  "thnt  the  vulgar  discover  the  same  lieantiM 
with  the  man  of  reading.  Now  half  or  more  of  the  beau- 
ties of  poetry  depend  on  metaphor  or  allusion,  neither  o' 
whl(h  by  a  mind  uncultivated,  can  be  applicl  to  their 
proper  ciiunter-|Rrtii."  Milton  is  less  read  than  Tliomson. 
Cowper.  Kirke  White,  or  Kloomtleld,  but  who  would  com- 
pare tlwrn  for  a  moment  P] 

[J  Founded  on  a  ttadition  current  In  Wales,  that  MwarJ 
I.,  when  he  compli  li-d  the  conquest  of  that  country,  or 
d<-r<'<l  all  the  Hards  that  fell  into  his  tiauds  to  be  put  tif 
death.— Orat.J 


648 


THOMAS    GRAY. 


Brave  Urien  sleeps  upon  his  craggy  bed : 
Mountains,  ye  mourn  in  vain 
Modred,  whose  magic  song 
Made  huge  Plinlimmon  how  his  cloud-topp'd  head. 
On  dreary  Arvon's  shore  they  lie, 
Smear'd  with  gore,  and  ghastly  pale : 
Far,  far  aloof  th'  atfrighted  ravens  sail : 
The  famish'd  eagle  screams  and  passes  by. 
Dear  lost  companions  of  my  tuneful  art ! 
Dear  as  the  light  that  visits  these  sad  eyes, 
Dear  as  the  ruddy  drops  that  warm  my  heart, 
Ye  died  amidst  your  dying  country's  cries — 
No  more  I  weep.     They  do  not  sleep. 
On  yonder  cliffs,  a  grissly  band, 
I  see  them  sit,  they  linger  yet, 
Avengers  of  their  native  land  : 
With  me  in  dreadful  harmony  they  join. 
And  weave  with  bloody  bands  the  tissue  of  thy 
line. 

" '  Weave  the  warp,  and  weave  the  woof, 
The  winding-sheet  of  Edward's  race. 
Give  ample  room,  and  verge  enough 
The  characters  of  hell  to  trace. 
Mark  the  year,  and  mark  the  night. 
When  Severn  shall  re-echo  with  affright, 
The  shrieks  of  death  through  Berkeley's  roofs 

that  ring; 
Shrieks  of  an  agonizing  king  ! 
She-wolf  of  France,  with  unrelenting  fangs, 
That  tear'st  the  bowels  of  thy  mangled  mate. 
From  thee  be  born,  who  o'er  thy  country  hangs 
The  scourge  of  Heaven.     What  terrors  round 

him  wait ! 
Amazement  in  his  van,  with  Flight  combined; 
And  Sorrow's  faded  form,  and  Solitude  behind. 

"'Mighty  Victor,  mighty  liord. 
Low  on  his  funeral  couch  he  lies ! 
No  pitying  heart,  no  eye  afford 
A  tear  to  grace  his  obsequies. 
Is  the  sable  warrior  fled  1 
Thy  son  is  gone.     He  rests  among  the  dead. 
The  swarm,  that  in  the  noon-tide  beam  were  born? 
Gone  to  salute  the  rising  morn. 
Fair  laughs  the  morn,  and  soft  the  zephyr  blows. 
While  proudly  riding  o'er  the  azure  realm 
In  gallant  trim  the  gilded  vessel  goes; 
Youth  on  the  prow,  and  Pleasure  at  the  helm  ; 
Regardless  of  the  sweeping  whirlwind's  sway, 
That,  hush'd  in  grim  repose,  expects  his  evening 
prey. 

"  '  Fill  high  the  sparkling  bowl, 
The  rich  repast  prepare ; 
Refl  of  a  crown,  he  may  yet  share  the  feast : 
Close  by  the  regal  chair 
Fell  thirst  and  Famine  scowl 
A  baleful  smile  upon  their  bafiSed  guest. 
Heard  ye  the  din  of  battle  bray, 
Lance  to  lance,  and  horse  to  horse  ! 
'.jong  years  of  havoc  urge  their  destined  course, 
Vnd  through  the  kindred  squadrons  mow  their 

way. 
Ye  towers  of  Julius,  London's  lasting  shame, 
With  many  a  foul  and  midnight  murder  fed, 
Revere  his  consort's  faith,  his  father's  fame, 
And  spare  the  meek  usurper's  holy  bead. 


Above,  below,  the  rose  of  snow. 

Twined  with  her  blushing  foe  we  spread: 

The  bristled  boar  in  infant  gore 

Wallows  beneath  the  thorny  shade. 

Now,  brothers,  bending  o'er  th'  accursed  loom, 

Stamp  we  our  vengeance  deep,  and  ratify  his  doom, 

"  'Edward,  lo  !  to  sudden  fate 
(Weave  we  the  woof.     The  thread  is  spun.) 
Half  of  thy  heart  we  consecrate, 
(The  web  is  wove.     The  work  is  done.") 
'  Stay,  oh  stay  !  nor  thus  forlorn 
Leave  me  unbless'd,  unpitied,  here  to  mourn: 
In  yon  bright  track,  that  fires  the  western  skies, 
They  melt,  they  vanish  from  my  eyes. 
But  oh !  what  solemn  scenes  on  Snowdon's  height 
Descending  slow  their  glittering  skirts  unroll  1 
Visions  of  glory,  spare  my  aching  sight ! 
Ye  unborn  ages,  crowd  not  on  my  soul ! 
No  more  our  long-lost  Arthur  we  bewail. 
All  hail, ye  genuine  kings;  Britannia's  issue, hail! 

"  Girt  with  many  a  baron  bold, 
Sublime  their  starry  fronts  they  rear; 
And  gorgeous  dames,  and  statesmen  old 
In  bearded  majesty  appear. 
In  the  midst  a  form  divine! 
Her  eye  proclaims  her  of  the  Briton-line ; 
Her  lion-port,  her  awe-commanding  face, 
Attemper'd  sweet  to  virgin-grace. 
What  strings  symphonious  tremble  in  the  air  ! ' 
What  strains  of  vocal  transport  round  her  play ! 
Hear  from  the  grave,  great  Taliessin,  hear ; 
They  breathe  a  soul  to  animate  thy  clay. 
Bright  Rapture  calls,  and  soaring,  as  she  sings. 
Waves  in  the  eye  of  heaven  her  many-colour'd 
wings. 

"  The  verse  adorn  again 
Fierce  War,  and  faithful  Love, 
And  Truth  severe,  by  fairy  Fiction  drest. 
In  buskin'd  measures  move 
Pale  Grief,  and  pleasing  Pain, 
With  Horror,  tyrant  of  the  throbbing  breast. 
A  voice,  as  of  the  cherub-choir. 
Gales  from  blooming  Eden  bear ; 
And  distant  warblings  lessen  on  my  ear, 
That  lost  in  long  futurity  expire. 
Fond,  impious  man,  think'st  thou  yon  sanguine 

cloud. 
Raised  by  thy  breath,  has  quench'd  the  orb  of 
To-morrow  he  repairs  the  golden  flood,       [day  ? 
And  warms  the  nations  with  redoubled  ray. 
Enough  for  me :  with  joy  I  see 
The  different  doom  our  fates  assign. 
Be  thine  despair,  and  sceptr'd  care ; 
To  triumph,  and  to  die,  are  mine."  [height 

He  spoke,  and  headlong  from   the   mountain's 
Deep  in  the  roaring  tide  he  plunged  to  endless 
night. 


THE  ALLIANCE  OF  EDUCATION  AND  GOVERNMENT 

A  FRAGMENT. 

As  sickly  plants  betray  a  niggard  earth, 
Whose  barren  bosom  starves  her  gen'rous  birti* 


Nor  genial  warmth,  nor  genial  juice  retains 
Their  roots  to  feed,  and  fill  their  verdant  veins: 
And  as  in  climes,  where  winter  holds  his  reign, 
The  soil,  though  fertile,  will  not  teem  in  vain. 
Forbids  her  germs  to  swell,  her  shades  to  rise. 
Nor*  trusts  her  blossoms  to  the  churlish  skies ; 
To  draw  mankind  in  vain  the  vital  airs, 
Unform'd,  unfriended,  by  those  kindly  cares, 
That  health  and  vigour  to  the  soul  impart, 
Spread  the  young  thought,  and  warm  the  opening 

heart : 
So  fond  instruction  on  the  growing  powers* 
Of  nature  idly  lavishes  her  stores. 
If  equal  justice,  with  unclouded  face. 
Smile  not  indulgent  on  the  rising  race, 
And  scatter  with  a  free,  though  frugal  hand. 
Light  golden  showers  of  plenty  o'er  the  land : 
But  tyranny  has  fix'd  her  empire  there, 
To  check  their  tender  hopes  with  chilling  fear, 
And  blast  the  blooming  promise  of  the  year. 

This  spacious  animated  scene  survey. 
From  where  the  rolling  orb,  that  gives  the  day, 
His  sable  sons  with  nearer  course  surrounds. 
To  either  pole,  and  life's  remotest  bounds. 
How  rude  soe'er  th'  exterior  form  we  find, 
Howe'er  opinion  tinge  the  varied  mind. 
Alike  to  all  the  kind,  impartial  heav'n 
The  sparks  of  truth  and  happiness  has  giv'n : 
With  sense  to  feel,  with  memory  to  retain, 
They  follow  pleasure,  and  they  fly  from  pain; 
Their  judgment  mends  the  plan  their  fancy  draws, 
Th'  event  presages,  and  explores  the  cause; 
The  soft  returns  of  gratitude  they  know. 
By  fraud  elude,  by  force  repel  the  foe ; 
While  mutual  wishes,  mutual  woes  endear 
The  social  smile  and  sympathetic  tear. 

Say,  then,  through  ages  by  what  fate  confin'd 
To  difl'erent  climes  seem  different  souls  assign'd  1 
Here  measured  laws  and  philosophic  ease 
Fix,  and  improve  the  polish'd  arts  of  peace. 
There  industry  and  gain  their  vigils  keep, 
Command  the  winds,  and  tame  th'  unwilling  deep. 
Here  force  and  hardy  deeds  of  blood  prevail ; 
There  languid  pleasure  sighs  in  every  gale. 
Oft  o'er  the  trembling  nations  from  afar 
Has  Scythia  breath'd  the  living  cloud  of  war ; 
And,  where  the  deluge  burst,  with  sweepy  sway. 
Their  arms,  their  kings,  their  gods  were  roU'd 

away. 
As  oft  have  issued,  host  impelling  host. 
The  blue-eyed  myriads  from  the  Baltic  coast. 
The  prostrate  south  to  the  destroyer  yields 
•  Her  boasted  titles,  and  her  goMen  fields ; 
With  grim  delight  the  brood  of  winter  view 
A  brighter  day,  and  heavens  of  azure  hue, 
Scent  the  new  fragrance  of  the  breathing  rose, 
And  quaff  the  pendent  vintage  as  it  grows. 
Proud  of  the  yoke,  and  pliant  to  the  rod, 
Why  yet  does  Asia  dread  a  monarch's  nod, 
While  European  freedom  still  withstands 
Th'  encroachmg  tide,  that  drowns  her  lessening 
And  sees  far  off  with  an  indignant  groan  [lands, 
Her  native  plains,  and  empires  once  her  ownl 
Can  opener  skies  and  sons  of  fiercer  flame 
O'erpower  the  fire  that  animates  our  frame ; 


As  lamps,  that  shetl  at  eve  a  cheerful  ray, 
Fade  and  expire  beneath  the  eye  of  day  1 
Need  we  the  influence  of  the  northern  star 
To  string  our  nerves  and  steel  our  hearts  to  war  1 
And,  where  the  face  of  nature  laughs  around, 
Must  sick'ning  virtue  fly  the  tainted  ground ! 
Unmanly  thought !  what  seasons  can  control, 
What  fancied  zone  can  circumscrilie  the  soul, 
Who,  conscious  of  the  source  from  whence  she 

springs. 
By  reason's  light,  on  resolution's  wings. 
Spite  of  her  frail  companion,  dauntless  goes 
O'er  Libya's  deserts  and  through  Zembla's  snows  ^ 
She  bids  each  slumb'ring  energy  awake, 
Another  touch,  another  temper  take. 
Suspends  th'  inferior  laws,  that  rule  our  clay : 
The  stubborn  elements  confess  her  sway ; 
Their  little  wants,  their  low  desires,  refine, 
And  raise  the  mortal  to  a  height  divine. 

Not  but  the  human  fabric  from  the  birth 
Imbibes  a  flavour  of  its  parent  earth. 
As  various  tracts  enforce  a  various  toil. 
The  manners  speak  the  idiom  of  their  soil. 
An  iron-race  the  mountain-clifis  maintain, 
Foes  to  the  gentler  genius  of  the  plain : 
For  where  unwearied  sinews  must  be  found 
With  side-long  plough  to  quell  the  flinty  ground 
To  turn  the  torrent's  swift-descending  flood. 
To  brave  the  savage  rushing  from  the  wood, 
What  wonder,  if  to  patient  valour  train'd. 
They  guard   with  spirit,  what  by  strength  thej 

gain'd! 
And  while  their  rocky  ramparts  round  they  see, 
The  rough  abode  of  want  and  liberty. 
(As  lawless  force  from  confidence  will  grow) 
Insult  the  plenty  of  the  vales  below ! 
What  wonder,  in  the  sultry  climes,  that  sprea<l. 
Where  Nile  redundant  o'er  his  summer  bed 
From  his  broad  bosom  life  and  verdure  flings, 
And  broods  o'er  Egypt  with  his  wat'ry  wings, 
If  with  advent'rous  oar  and  ready  sail. 
The  dusky  people  drive  before  the  gale ; 
Or  on  frail  floats  to  neigh'bring  cities  ride 
That  rise  and  glitter  o'er  the  ambient  tide. 


ON  VICISSITODK. 

Now  the  golden  morn  aloft 

Waves  her  dew-bespangled  wing, 

With  vermil  cheek,  and  whisper  soft, 

She  woos  the  tardy  spring: 

Till  April  starU,  and  calls  around 

The  sleeping  fragrance  from  the  ground  ; 

And  lightly  o'er  the  living  scene 

Scatters  his  freshest,  tenderest  green. 

New-born  flocks,  in  rustic  dance, 
Frisking  ply  their  feeble  feet; 
Forgetful  of  their  wint'ry  trance 
The  birds  his  presence  greet : 
But  chief  the  sky-lark  warbles  hi|rh 
His  trembling  thrilling  ecstasy  , 
And.  lessening  from  the  dazzled  sight. 
MelU  into  air  and  liquid  ligbu 


650 


THOMAS  GRAY. 


Yesterday  the  sullen  year 
Saw  the  snowy  whirlwind  fly; 
Mute  was  the  music  of  the  air, 
The  herd  stood  drooping  by  : 
Their  raptures  now  that  wildly  flow, 
No  yesterday,  nor  morrow  know  ; 
'Tis  man  alone  that  joy  descries 
With  forward  and  reverted  eyes. 

Smiles  on  past  misfortune's  brow, 
Soft  reflection's  hand  can  trace ; 
And  o'er  the  cheek  of  sorrow  throw 
A  melancholy  grace: 
While  hope  prolongs  our  happier  hour; 
Or  deepest  shades,  that  dimly  lower 
And  blacken  round  our  weary  way, 
Gilds  with  a  gleam  of  distant  day. 

Still,  where  rosy  pleasure  leads. 
See  a  kindred  grief  pursue; 
Behind  the  steps  that  misery  treads 
Approaching  comfort  view : 
The  hues  of  bliss  more  brightly  glow, 
Chastised  by  sabler  tints  of  woe ; 
And  blended  form,  with  artful  strife, 
The  strength  and  harmony  of  life. 

See  the  wretch,  that  long  has  tost 
On  the  thorny  bed  of  pain, 
At  length  repair  his  vigour  lost. 
And  breathe,  and  walk  again  : 
The  meanest  floweret  of  the  vale, 
The  simplest  note  that  swells  the  gale, 
The  common  sun,  the  air,  the  skies. 
To  him  are  opening  Paradise. 

Humble  Quiet  builds  her  cell 
JVear  the  course  where  pleasure  flows  ; 
She  eyes  the  clear  crystalline  well. 
And  tastes  it  as  it  goes. 


rHE  TRAGEDY  OF  "AGRIPPINA,"  A  FRAGMENT. 

ACT  I.      SCENE  I. 

Rrsons  — Aqrippina  the  Empress-mothek.  and  Aceronia 
Tier  ConfiUaute. 
^grip.  'Tis  well,  begone !  your  errand  is  per- 

form'd  :  [Speaks  as  to  Anicetus  entering. 

Themessage  needs  nocomment.  Tell  your  master. 
His  mother  shall  obey  him.     Say  you  saw  her 
Yielding  due  reverence  to  his  high  command : 
Alone,  unguarded,  and  without  a  lictor, 
As  fits  the  daughter  of  Germanicus. 
Say,  she  retired  to  Antium ;  there  to  tend 
Her  household  cares,  a  woman's  best  employment. 
What  if  you  add,  how   she   turn'd    pale,  and 

trembled ; 
You  think  you  spied  a  tear  stand  in  her  eye. 
And  would  have  dropp'd,  but  that  her  pride  re- 

strain'd  it  1 
(Go  !  you  can  paint  it  well)  'twill  profit  you, 
And  please  the  stripling.  Yet 'twould  dash  his  joy 
To  hear  the  spirit  of  liritannicus 
Yet  walks  on  earth ;  at  least  there  are  who  know 


Without  a  spell  to  raise,  and  bid  it  fire 
A  thousand  haughty  hearts,  unused  to  shake 
When  a  boy  frowns,  nor  to  be  lured  with  smiles 
To  taste  of  hollow  kindness,  or  partake 
His  hospitable  board  :  They  ate  aware 
Of  th'  unpledged  bowl,  they  love  not  aconite. 
^rer.  He's  gone ;  and  much  I  hope  these  walls 

alone. 
And  the  mute  air  are  privy  to  your  passion. 
Forgive  your  servant's  fears,  who  sees  the  danger 
Which  fierce  resentment  cannot  fail  to  raise 
In  haughty  youth,  and  irritated  power. 

^grip.  And  dost  thou  talk  to  me,  to  me  of 

danger. 
Of  haughty  youth,  and  irritated  power. 
To  her  that  gave  it  being,  her  that  arm'd 
This  painted  Jove,  and  taught  his  novice  hand 
To  aim  the  forked  bolt ;  whilst  he  stood  trembling. 
Scared  at  the  sound,  and  dazzled  with  its  bright- 
ness 1 
'Tis  like  thou  hast  forgot,  when  yet  a  stranger 
To  adoration,  to  the  grateful  steam 
Of  flattery's  incense,  and  obsequious  vows 
From  voluntary  realms,  a  puny  boy, 
Deck'd  with  no  other  lustre  than  the  blood 
Of  Agrippina's  race,  he  lived  unknown 
To  fame  or  fortune;  haply  eyed  at  distance 
Some  edileship,  ambitious  of  the  power 
To  judge  of  weights  and  measures ;  scarcely  dared 
On  expectation's  strongest  wing  to  soar 
High  as  the  consulate,  that  empty  shade 
Of  long  forgotten  liberty  :  When  I 
Oped  his  young  eye  to  bear  the  blaze  of  greatness; 
Show'd  him  where  empire  tower'd,  and  bade  him 

strike 
The  noble  quarry.     Gods!  then  was  the  time 
To  shrink  from  danger;  fear  might  then  have 

worn 
The  mask  of  prudence :  but  a  heart  like  mine, 
A  heart  that  glows  with  the  pure  Julian  fire, 
If  bright  ambition  from  her  craggy  seat 
Display  the  radiant  prize,  will  mount  undaunted. 
Gain  the  rough  heights,  and  grasp  the  dangerous 

honour. 
^cer.  Through  various  life  I  have  pursued  your 

steps. 
Have  seen  your  soul,  and  wonder'd  at  its  daring; 
Hence  rise  my  fears.     Nor  am  I  yet  to  learn 
How  vast  the  debt  of  gratitude,  which  Nero 
To  such  a  mother  owes;  the  world,  you  gave  him. 
Suffices  not  to  pay  the  obligation. 
I  well  remember  too  (for  I  was  present) 
When  in  a  secret  and  dead  hour  of  night. 
Due  sacrifice  perform'd  with  barbarous  rites 
Of  mutter'd  charms,  and  solemn  invocation, 
You  bade  the  magi  call  the  dreadful  powers, 
That  read  futurity,  to  know  the  fate 
Impending  o'er  your  son :  Their  answer  was, 
If  the  son  reign,  the  mother  perisiies. 
Perish  (you  cried)  the  mother!  reign  the  son! 
He  reigns;  the  rest  is  heaven's ;  who  oft  has  bade, 
Even  when  its  will  seein'd  wrote  in  lines  of  blood, 
Th'  unthought  event  disclose  a  whiter  meaning. 
Think  too  how  oft  in  weak  arid  sickly  minds 
The  sweets  of  kindness  lavishly  indulged 


THOMAS  GRAY. 


651 


Rankle  to  gall;  and  benefits  too  great 
To  be  repaid,  sit  heavy  on  the  soul. 
As  unrequited  wrongs.     The  willing  homage 
Of  prostrate  Rome,  the  senate's  joint  applause, 
The  riches  of  the  earth,  the  train  of  pleasures, 
That  wait  on  youth,  and  arbitrary  sway ; 
These  were  your  gift,  and  with  them  you  bestow'd 
The  very  power  he  has  to  be  ungrateful. 

jlgrtp.  Thus  ever  grave,  and  undisturb'd  re- 
flection 
Pours  its  cool  dictates  in  the  madding  ear 
Of  rage,  and  thinks  to  quench  the  fire  it  feels  not. 
Say'st  thou  I  must  be  cautious,  must  be  silent 
And  tremble  at  the  phantom  I  have  raised  1 
Carry  to  him  thy  timid  counsels.     He 
Perchance  may  heed  'em :  Tell  him  too,  that  one, 
Who  had  such  liberal  power  to  give,  may  still 
With  equal  power  resume  that  gift,  and  raise 
A  tempest  that  shall  shake  her  own  creation 
To  its  original  atoms — tell  me !  say. 
This  mighty  emperor,  this  dreaded  hero, 
Has  he  beheld  the  glittering  front  of  war  1 
Knows  his  soft  ear  the  trumpet's  thrilling  voice. 
And  outcry  of  the  battle  1   Have  his  limbs 
Sweat  under  iron  harness  !  Is  be  not 
The  silken  son  of  dalliance,  nursed  in  ease 
And  pleasure's  flowery  lapl — Rubellius  lives. 
And  Sylla  has  his  friends,  though  schooi'd  by  fear 
To  bow  the  supple  knee,  and  court  the  times 
With  shows  of  fair  obeisance:  and  a  call. 
Like  mine,  might  serve  belike  to  wake  pretensions 
Drowsier  than  theirs,  who  boast  the  genuine  blood 
Of  our  imperial  house. 

jlce»:  Did  I  not  wish  to  check  this  dangerous 
passion, 
I  might  remind  my  mistress  that  her  nod 
Can  rouse  eight  hardy  legions,  wont  to  stem 
With  stubborn  nerves  the  tide,  and  face  the  rigour 
Of  bleak  Germania's  snows.  Four,  not  less  brave. 
That  in  Armenia  quell  the  Parthian  force 
Under  the  warlike  Corbulo,  by  you 
Mark'd  for  their  leader :  These,  by  ties  confirm'd. 
Of  old  respect  and  gratitude,  are  yours. 
Surely  the  Masians  too,  and  those  of  Egypt, 
Have  not  forgot  your  sire :  The  eye  of  Rome 
And  the  prsetorian  camp  have  long  revered. 
With  custom'd  awe,  the  daughter,  sister,  wife, 
And  mother  of  their  Csesars. 

Jgrip.  Ha!  by  Juno, 
It  bears  a  noble  semblance.     On  this  base 
My  great  revenge  shall  rise ;  or  say  we  sound 
The  trump  of  liberty  ;  there  will  not  want, 
Even  in  the  servile  senate,  ears  to  own 
Her  spirit-stirring  voice  ;  Soranus  there, 
And  Cassius :  Vetus  too,  and  Thrasea, 
Minds  of  the  antique  cast,  rough  stubborn  bouIs, 
That  struggle  with  the  yoke.  How  shall  the  spark 
Unquenchable,  that  glows  within  their  breasU, 
BIrtze  into  freedom,  when  the  idle  herd 
(Slaves  from  the  womb,  created  but  to  stare. 
And  bellow  in  the  Circus)  yet  will  start, 
And  shake  em'  at  the  name  of  liberty, 
Stung  by  a  senseless  word,  a  vain  tradition. 
As  there  were  magic  in  iti  wrinkled  beldams 
Teach  it  their  grandchildren,  as  somewhat  rare 


That  anciently  appear'd,  but  when,  extends 

Beyond  their  chronicle — oh !  'tis  a  cause 

To  arm  the  hand  of  childhood,  and  rebrace 

The  slacken'd  sinews  of  time-wearied  age. 

Yes,  we  may  meet,  ingrateful  boy,  we  may ! 

Again  the  buried  genius  of  old  Rome 

Shall  from  the  dust  uprear  his  reverend  head, 

Roused  by  the  shout  of  millions :  There  before 

His  high  tribunal  thou  and  I  appear. 

Let  majesty  sit  on  thy  awful  brow, 

And  lighten  from  thy  eye:  Around  thee  call 

The  gilded  swarm  that  wantons  in  the  sunshine 

Of  thy  full  favour:   iJeneca  be  there 

In  gorgeous  phrase  of  labour'd  eloquence 

To  dress  thy  plea,  and  Burrhus  strengthen  it 

With  his  plain  soldier's  oath,  and  honest  seeming. 

Against  thee,  liberty  and  Agrippina : 

The  world,  the  prize ;  and  fair  befall  the  victors. 

But  soft !  why  do  I  waste  the  fruitless  hours 

In  threats  unexecuted  1  Haste  thee,  fly 

These  hated  walls,  that  seem  to  mock  my  shamo. 

And  cast  me  forth  in  duty  to  their  lord. 

^cer.  'Tis  time  we  go, the  sun  is  high  advanced. 
And,  ere  mid-day,  Nero  will  come  to  Bais. 

Jtgrip.  My  thought  aches  at  him ;  not  the  basilisk 
More  deadly  to  the  sight,  than  is  to  me 
The  cool  injurious  eye  of  frozen  kindness. 
I  will  not  meet  its  poison.     Let  him  feel 
Before  he  sees  me. 

Acer.  Why  then  stays  my  sovereign. 
Where  he  so  soon  may 

jlgrip.  Yes,  I  will  be  gone, 

But  not  to  Antium — all  shall  be  confess'd, 
Whate'er  the  frivolous  tongue  of  giddy  fame 
Has  spread  among  the  crowd ;  things  that  but 

whisper'd, 
Have  arch'd  the  hearer's  brow,  and  riveted 
His  eyes  in  fearful  ecstasy  :  No  matter 
What ;  so't  be  strange,  and  dreadful. — Sorceries, 
Assassinations,  poisonings — the  deeper 
My  guilt,  the  blacker  his  ingratitude. 
And  you,  ye  manes  of  ambition's  victims, 
Enshrined  Claudius,  with  the  pitied  ghosts 
Of  the  Syllani,  doom'd  to  early  death, 
(Ye  unavailing  horrors,  fruitless  crimes  !) 
If  from  the  realms  of  night  my  voice  ye  hear. 
In  lieu  of  penitence,  and  vain  remorse, 
Accept  my  vengeance.     Though  by  me  ye  bled. 
He  was  the  cause.     My  love,  my  fears  for  him. 
Dried  the  soft  springs  of  pity  in  my  heart, 
And  froze  them  up  with  deadly  cruelty. 
Yet  if  your  injured  shades  demand  my  fate, 
If  murder  cries  for  murder,  blood  for  blood, 
Let  me  not  fall  alone ;  but  crush  his  pride, 
And  sink  the  traitor  in  his  mother's  ruin. 

[JEreimt 


8CBNB  IL 

Otbo.  Poppxa. 

Otho.  Thug  far  we're  safe.    Thanks  to  tbf 
rosy  queen 
Of  amorous  thefts  :  And  had  her  wanton  son 
Lent  us  his  wings,  we  could  not  have  beguiled 


652 


CUTHBERT  SHAW. 


With  more  elusive  speed  the  dazzled  sight 
Of  wakelul  jealousy.     Be  gay  securely  : 
Dispel,  my  fair,  with  smiles,  the  tim'rous  cloud 
That  hangs  on  thy  clear  brow.     So  Helen  look'd, 
So  her  white  neck  reclined,  so  was  she  borne 


By  the  young  Trojan  to  his  gilded  bark 
With  fond  reluctance,  yielding  modesty. 
And  oft  reverted  eye,  as  if  she  knew  not 
Whether  she  fear'd,  or  wish'd  to  be  pursued. 
*  *  *  * 


CUTHBERT  SHAW. 


[Born,  1738.    Died,  ITZl.] 


CuTHBERT  Shaw  was  the  son  of  a  shoemaker,  | 
and  was  born  at  Ravensworth,  near  Richmond,  ! 
in  Yorkshire.  He  was  for  some  time  usher  to 
the  grammar-school  at  Darlington,  where  be 
published,  in  1756,  his  first  poem,  entitled 
»•  Liberty."  He  afterward  appeared  in  London 
and  other  places  as  a  player  ;  but  having  no  re- 
commendations for  the  stage,  except  a  handsome 
figure,  he  betook  himself  to  writing  for  subsist- 
ence. In  1762  he  attacked  Colman,  Churchill, 
Lloyd,  and  Shirley,  in  a  satire,  called  "  The  Four 
Farthing  Candles;"*  and  next  selected  the  au- 
thor of  the  Rosciad  as  the  exclusive  subject  of  a 
mock-heroic  poem,  entitled,  "The  Race,  by  Mer- 
curius  Spur,  with  Notes  by  Faustinus  Scriblerus." 
He  had,  for  some  time,  the  care  of  instructing 
an  infant  son  of  the  Earl  of  Chesterfield  in  the 
first  rudiments  of  learning.     He  married  a  wo- 


man of  superior  connections,  who,  for  his  sake, 
forfeited  the  countenance  of  her  family  ;  but  who 
did  not  live  long  to  share  his  affections  and  mis- 
fortunes. Her  death,  in  1768,  and  that  of  their 
infant,  occasioned  those  well-known  verses  which 
give  an  interest  to  his  memory.  Lord  Ijyttleton, 
struck  by  their  feeling  expression  of  a  grief  simi- 
lar to  his  own,  solicited  his  acquaintance,  and 
distinguished  him  by  his  praise ;  but  rendered 
him  no  substantial  assistance.  The  short  re- 
mainder of  his  days  was  spent  in  literary 
drudgery.  He  wrote  a  satire  on  political  corrup- 
tion, with  many  other  articles,  which  appeared 
in  the  Freeholder's  Magazine.  Disease  and  dis- 
sipation carried  him  off  in  the  prime  of  life, 
after  the  former  had  lefl  irretrievable  marks  of 
its  ravages  upon  his  countenance. 


FROM  «  A  MONODY  TO  THE  MEMOKY  OF  HIS 
WIFE." 

*     *    *     Where'er  I  turn  my  eyes, 

Some  sad  memento  of  my  loss  appears ; 
I  fly  the  fated  house — suppress  my  sighs. 
Resolved  to  dry  my  unavailing  tears  : 

But,  ah  !  in  vain — no  change  of  time  or  place 
The  memory  can  efface 
Of  all  that  sweetness,  that  enchanting  air. 
Now  lost;  and  nought  remains  but  anguish  and 


Where  were  the  delegates  of  Heaven,  oh  where! 

Appointed  virtue's  children  safe  to  keep ! 
Had  innocence  or  virtue  been  their  care, 

She  had  not  died,  nor  had  I  lived  to  weep : 
Moved  by  my  tears,  and  by  her  patience  moved. 
To  see  her  force  the  endearing  smile, 
My  sorrows  to  beguile. 
When  torture's  keenest  rage  she  proved  ; 
Sure  they  had  warded  that  untimely  dart. 
Which  broke  her  thread  of  life,  and  rent  a  hus- 
band's heart. 

How  shall  I  e'er  forget  that  dreadful  hour. 
When,  feeling  death's  resistless  power. 
My  hand  she  press'd,  wet  with  her  falling  tears, 
And  thus,  in  faltering  accents,  spoke  her  fears ! 
"  Ah,  my  loved  lord,  the  transient  scene  is  o'er, 
And  we  must  part  (alas  !)  to  meet  no  more ! 

[*  A  poem  of  which  no  copy  is  known  to  exist.] 


But,  oh  !  if  e'er  thy  Emma's  name  was  dear. 
If  e'er  thy  vows  have  charm'd  my  ravish'd  ear ! 
If  from  thy  loved  embrace  my  heart  to  gain, 
Proud  friends  have  frown'd,  and  fortune  smiled  in 
If  it  has  been  my  sole  endeavour  still  [vain; 

To  act  in  all  obsequious  to  thy  will ; 
To  watch  thy  very  smiles,  thy  wish  to  know. 
Then  only  truly  blest  when  thou  wert  so ; 
If  I  have  doated  with  that  fond  excess, 
Nor  love  could  add,  nor  fortune  make  it  less ; 
If  this  I've  done,  and  more — oh  then  be  kind 
To  the  dear  lovely  babe  I  leave  behind. 
When  time  my  once-loved  memory  shall  efface, 
Some  happier  maid  may  take  thy  Emma's  place. 
With  envious  eyes  thy  partial  fondness  see, 
And  hate  it  for  the  love  thou  bore  to  me: 
My  dearest  Shaw,  forgive  a  woman's  fears, 
But  one  word  more,  (I  cannot  bear  thy  tears,) 

Promise and  I  will  trust  thy  faithful  vow, 

(Oft  have  I  tried,  and  ever  found  thee  true,) 
That  to  some  distant  spot  thou  wilt  remove 
This  fatal  pledge  of  hapless  Emma's  love. 
Where  safe  thy  blandishments  it  may  partake. 
And,  oh  !  be  tender  for  its  mother's  sake. 

Wilt  thou 

I  know  thou  wilt — sad  silence  speaks  assent, 
And  in  that  pleasing  hope  thy  Emma  dies  content." 

I,  who  with  more  than  manly  strength  have  bore 
The  various  ills  imposed  by  cruel  fate, 

Sustain  the  firmness  of  my  soul  no  more — 
But  sink  beneath  the  weight: 


CUTHBERT  SHAW. 


55a 


Just  Heaven  (I  cried)  from  memory's  earliest  day 
No  comfort  has  thy  wretched  suppliant  known, 
Misfortune  still  with  unrelenting  sway 
Has  claim'd  me  for  her  own. 

But  0 in  pity  to  my  grief,  restore 

This  only  source  of  bliss ;  I  ask — I  ask  no  more — 
Vain  hope — th'  irrevocable  doom  is  past, 

Even  now  she  looks — she  sighs  her  last 

Vainly  I  strive  to  stay  her  fleeting  breath. 
And  with  rebellious  heart,  protest  against  her 
death. 
*  «  *  * 

Perhaps  kind  Heaven  in  mercy  dealt  the  blow, 

8ome  saving  truth  thy  roving  soul  to  teach ; 
To  wean  thy  heart  from  grovelling  views  below, 

And  point  out  bliss  beyond  misfortune's  reach  ; 
To  show  that  all  the  flattering  schemes  of  joy. 

Which  towering  hope  so  fondly  builds  in  air, 
One  fatal  moment  can  destroy. 

And  plunge  th'  exulting  maniac  in  despair. 
Then  oh  !  with  pious  fortitude  sustain 
Thy  pre.-ent  loss — haply,  thy  future  gain; 

Nor  let  thy  Emma  die  in  vain ; 
Time  shall  administer  its  wonted  balm, 
And  hush  this  storm  of  grief  to  no  unpieasing  calm. 

Thus  the  poor  bird,  by  some  disastrous  fate 

Caught  and  imprison'd  in  a  lonely  cage, 
Torn  from  its  native  fields,  and  dearer  mate, 

Flutters  a  while  and  spends  its  little  rage : 
But,  finding  ait  its  eflbrts  weak  and  vain, 

No  more  it  pants  and  rages  for  the  plain  ; 
Moping  a  while,  in  sullen  mood 

Droops  the  sweet  mourner — but,  ere  long. 
Prunes  its  light  wings,  and  pecks  its  food. 

And  meditates  the  song : 
Serenely  sorrowing,  breathes  its  piteous  case. 

And  with  its  plaintive  warblings  saddens  all 
the  place. 

Forgive  me,  Heaven — yet — ^yet  the  tears  will  flow. 

To  think  how  soon  my  scene  of  bliss  is  past ! 
My  budding  joys  just  promising  to  blow. 

All  nipt  and  wither'd  by  one  envious  blast ! 
My  hours,  that  laughing  wont  to  fleet  away, 
Move  heavily  along ; 

Where's  now  the  sprightly  jest,  the  jocund 
Time  creeps  unconscious  of  delight :       [song, 
How  shall  I  cheat  the  tedious  day  ] 

And  O the  joyless  night! 

Where  shall  I  rest  my  weary  head  1 

How  shall  I  find  repose  on  a  sad  widow'd  bed  1 
*  *  *  * 

iSickness  and  sorrow  hovering  round  my  bed, 
Who  now  with  anxious  haste  shall  bring  relief. 

With  lenient  hand  support  my  drooping  head. 
Assuage  my  pains,  and  mitigate  my  grief] 
70 


Should  worldly  business  call  away. 

Who  now  shall  in  my  absence  fondly  muurn, 

Count  every  minute  of  the  loitering  day. 
Impatient  for  my  quick  return  1 

Should  aught  my  bosom  decompose. 
Who  now  with  sweet  complacent  air 
Shall  smooth  the  rugged  brow  of  care. 
And  soften  all  my  woes? 

Too  faithful  memory Cease,  0  ceagc 

How  shall  I  e'er  regain  my  peace  1 

(0  to  forget  her !) — but  how  vain  each  art. 

Whilst  every  virtue  Uvea  imprinted  on  my  heart. 

And  thou,  my  little  cherub,  left  behind. 

To  hear  a  father's  plaints,  to  share  his  woes. 
When  reason's  dawn  informs  thy  infant  mind. 
And  thy  sweet-lisping  tongue  shall  ask  the  cause. 
How  oft  with  sorrow  shall  mine  eyes  run  o'er. 
When  twining  round  my  knees  I  trace 
Thy  mother's  smile  upon  thy  face  ? 
How  oft  to  my  full  heart  shalt  thou  restore 
Sad  memory  of  my  joys — ah  now  no  more ! 
By  blessings  once  enjoy'd  now  more  distress'd, 
More  beggar  by  the  riches  once  possess'd. 
My  little  darling !         dearer  to  me  grown 
By 'all  the  tears  thou'st  caused — (0  strange  to 
hear !) 
Bought  with  a  life  yet  dearer  than  thy  own. 
Thy  cradle  purchased  with  thy  mother's  bier ! 
Who  now  shall  seek,  with  fond  delight. 
Thy  infant  steps  to  guide  aright  1 
She  who  with  doating  eyes  would  gaze 
On  all  thy  little  artless  ways. 
By  all  thy  soft  endearments  blest. 
And  clasp  thee  oft  with  transport  to  her  breast, 

Alas !  is  gone ^yet  shalt  thou  prove 

A  father's  dearest,  tenderest  love ; 
And  oh  sweet  senseless  smiler  (envied  state !) 
As  yet  uncotiscious  of  thy  hapless  fate. 

When  years  thy  judgment  shall  mature, 
And  reason  shows  those  ills  it  cannot  cure. 
Wilt  thou,  a  father's  grief  to  assuage. 
For  virtue  prove  the  phoenix  of  the  earth  1 
(Like  her,  thy  mother  died  to  give  thee  birth) 
And  be  the  comfort  of  my  age  ! 

When  sick  and  languishing  I  lie. 

Wilt  thou  my  Emma's  wonted  care  supply  ? 

And  oft  as  to  thy  listening  ear 
Thy  mother's  virtues  and  her  fate  I  tell. 

Say;  wilt  thou  drop  the  tender  tear, 
Whilst  on  the  mournful  theme  I  dwell  1 
Then,  fondly  stealing  to  thy  father's  side. 

Whene'er  thou  see'st  the  soft  distress. 
Which  I  would  vainly  seek  to  hide. 

Say,  wilt  thou  strive  to  make  it  less ! 
To  soothe  my  sorrows  all  thy  cares  employ, 
And  in  my  cup  of  grief  infuse  one  drop  of  joy  I 
2W 


TOBIAS  SMOLLETT. 


[Bom,  17JL     Died,  1771.] 


Tobias  Smollett  was  the  grandson  of  Sir 
James  Smollett,  of  Bonhill,  a  member  of  the 
Scottish  parliament,  and  one  of  the  commission- 
ers for  the  Union.  The  father  of  the  novellist 
was  a  younger  son  of  the  knight,  and  had  mar- 
ried without  his  consent.  He  died  in  the  prime 
of  life,  and  left  his  children  dependent  on  their 
grandfather.  Were  we  to  trust  to  Roderick  Ran- 
dom's account  of  his  relations,  for  authentic 
portraits  of  the  author's  family,  we  should 
entertain  no  very  prepossessing  idea  of  the  old 
gentleman  ;  but  it  appears  that  Sir  James  Smol- 
lett supported  his  son,  and  educated  his  grand- 
children. 

Smollett  was  born  near  Renton,  in  the  parish 
of  Cardross,  and  shire  of  Dumbarton,  and  passed 
his  earliest  years  among  those  scenes  on  the 
banks  of  the  Leven,  which  he  has  described  with 
some  interest  in  the  Adventures  of  Humphrey 
Clinker.  He  received  his  first  instructions  in 
classical  learning  at  the  school  of  Dumbarton. 
He  was  afterward  removed  to  the  college  of 
Glasgow,  where  he  pursued  the  study  of  medi- 
cine ;  and,  according  to  the  practice  then  usued 
in  medical  education,  was  bound  apprentice  to  a 
Mr.  Gordon,  a  surgeon  in  that  city.  Gordon  is 
generally  said  to  have  been  the  original  of  Potion 
in  Roderick  Random.  This  has  been  denied  by 
Smollett's  biographers;  but  their  conjecture  is  of 
no  more  weight  than  the  tradition  which  it  con- 
tradicts. In  the  characters  of  a  work,  so  com- 
pounded of  truth  and  fiction,  the  author  alone 
could  have  estimated  the  personality  which  he 
intended,  and  of  that  intention  he  was  not  pro- 
bably communicative.  The  tradition  still  remain- 
ing at  Glasgow,  is,  that  Smollett  was  a  restive 
apprentice,  and  a  mischievous  strippling.  While 
at  the  university  he  cultivated  the  study  of  lite- 
rature, as  well  as  of  medicine,  and  showed  a  dis- 
position for  poetry,  but  very  often  in  that  bitter 
vein  of  satire  which  he  carried  so  plentifully  into 
the  temper  of  his  future  years.  He  had  also,  be- 
fore he  was  eighteen,  composed  a  tragedy,  entitled 
"  The  Regicide."  This  tragedy  was  not  published 
till  after  the  lapse  of  ten  years,  and  then  it  pro- 
bably retained  but  little  of  its  juvenile  shape. 
When  printed,  "  to  shame  the  rogues,"  it  was 
ushered  in  by  a  preface,  abusing  the  stage-mana- 
gers, who  had  rejected  it,  in  a  strain  of  indigna- 
tion with  which  the  perusal  of  the  play  itself  did 
not  dispose  the  reader  to  sympathize. 

The  death  of  his  grandfather  left  Smollett 
without  provision,  and  obliged  him  to  leave  his 
studies  at  Glasgow  prematurely.  He  came  to 
London,  and  obtained  the  situation  of  a  surgeon's 
mate  on  board  a  ship  of  the  line,  which  sailed  in 
the  unfortunate  expedition  to  Carthagena.  The 
strong  picture  of  the  discomforts  of  his  naval  life, 
654 


which  he  afterward  drew,  is  said  to  have  atrracted 
considerable  attention  to  the  internal  economy 
of  our  ships  of  war,  and  to  have  occasioned  the 
commencement  of  some  salutary  reformations. 
But  with  all  the  improvements  which  have  been 
made,  it  is  to  be  feared  that  the  situation  of  an 
assistant  surgeon  in  the  navy  is  still  less  respect- 
able and  comfortable  than  it  ought  to  be  made. 
He  is  still  without  equal  advantages  to  those  of 
a  surgeon's  mate  in  the  army,  and  is  put  too  low 
in  the  rank  of  officers. 

Smollett  quitted  the  naval  service  in  the  West 
Indies,  and  resided  for  some  time  in  Jamaica. 
He  returned  to  London  in  1746,  and  in  the  fol- 
lowing year  married  a  Miss  Lascelles,  whom  he 
had  courted  in  Jamaica,  and  with  whom  he  had 
the  promise  of  3000/.  Of  this  sum,  however,  he 
obtained  but  a  small  part,  and  that  after  an  ex- 
pensive lawsuit.  Being  obliged  therefore  to  have 
recourse  to  his  pen  for  his  support,  he,  in  1748, 
published  his  Roderick  Random,  the  most  popular 
of  all  the  novels  on  which  his  high  reputation 
rests.  Three  years  elapsed  before  the  appear- 
ance of  Peregrine  Pickle.  In  the  interval  he 
had  visited  Paris,  where  his  biographer.  Dr. 
Moore,  who  knew  him  there,  says  that  he  in- 
dulged in  the  common  prejudices  of  the  English 
against  the  French  nation,  and  never  attained 
the  language  so  perfectly  as  to  be  able  to  mix 
familiarly  with  the  inhabitants.  When  we  look 
to  the  rich  traits  of  comic  effect,  which  his  Eng- 
lish characters  derive  from  transferring  the  scene 
to  France,  we  can  neither  regard  his  journey  as 
of  slitrht  utility  to  his  powers  of  amusement,  nor 
regret  that  he  attended  more  to  the  follies  of  his 
countrymen  than  to  French  manners  and  phrase- 
ology. After  the  publication  of  Peregrine  Pickle 
he  attempted  to  establish  himself  at  Bath  as  a 
physician,  but  was  not  successful.  His  failure 
has  been  attributed  to  the  haughtiness  of  his 
manners.  It  is  not  very  apparent,  however,  what 
claims  to  medical  estimation  he  could  advance; 
and  the  celebrity  for  aggravating  and  exposing 
personal  follies,  which  he  had  acquired  by  his 
novels,  was  rather  too  formidable  to  recommend 
him  as  a  confidential  visitant  to  the  sick  cham- 
bers of  fashion.  To  a  sensitive  valetudinarian 
many  diseases  would  be  less  alarming  than  a 
doctor,  who  might  slay  the  character  by  his  ridi- 
cule, and  might  not  save  the  body  by  his  pre- 
scriptions. 

Returning  disappointed  from  Bath,  he  fixed 
his  residence  at  Chelsea,  and  supported  himself 
during  the  rest  of  his  life  by  his  literary  employ- 
ments. 'I"he  manner  in  which  he  lived  at  Chel- 
sea, and  the  hospitality  which  he  afforded  to 
many  of  his  poorer  brethren  of  the  tribe  of  litera- 
ture, have  been  somewhat  ostentatiously  descnoed 


TOBIAS  SMOLLETT. 


665 


by  his  own  pen  ;*  but  Dr.  Moore  assures  us,  that 
the  account  of  his  liberality  is  not  overcharged. 
In  1753  he  produced  his  novel  of  "Count  Fath- 
om ;"  and  three  years  afterward,  whilst  confined 
in  prison,  for  a  libel  on  Admiral  Knowles,  amused 
himself  with  writing  the  "  Adventures  of  Sir 
Iiauncelot  Greaves."  In  the  following  year  he 
attempted  the  stage  in  a  farce,  entitled  the  "  Re- 
prisals," which,  though  of  no  great  value,  met 
with  temporary  success.  Prolific  as  his  pen  was, 
be  seems  from  this  period  to  have  felt  that  he 
could  depend  for  subsistence  more  securely  upon 
works  of  industry  than  originality;  and  he  en- 
gaged in  voluminous  drudgeries,  which  added 
nothing  to  his  fame,  whilst  they  made  inroads  on 
his  health  and  equanimity.  His  conduct  of  the 
Critical  Review,  in  particular,  embroiled  him  in 
rancorous  personalities,  and  brought  forward  the 
least  agreeable  parts  of  his  character.  He  sup- 
ported the  ministry  of  Lord  Bute  with  his  pen, 
but  missed  the  reward  which  he  expected.  Though 
he  had  realized  large  sums  by  several  of  his  works, 
he  saw  the  evening  of  his  life  approach,  with  no 
provision  in  prospect,  but  what  he  could  receive 
from  severe  and  continued  labours ;  and  with 
him,  that  evening  might  be  said  to  approach 
prematurely,  for  his  constitution  seems  to  have 
begun  to  break  down  when  he  was  not  much 
turned  of  forty.  The  death  of  his  only  daughter 
obliged  him  to  seek  relief  from  sickness  and 
melancholy  by  travelling  abroad  for  two  years; 
and  the  Account  of  his  Travels  in  France  and 


Italy,  which  he  published  on  his  return,  afforded 
a  dreary  picture  of  the  state  of  his  mind.  Soon 
after  his  return  liom  the  Continent,  his  health 
still  decaying,  he  made  a  journey  to  Scotland, 
and  renewed  his  attachment  to  his  friends  and 
relations.  His  constitution  again  requiring  a 
more  genial  climate,  and  as  he  could  ill  support 
the  expense  of  travelling,  his  friends  tried,  in 
vain,  to  obtain  for  him  from  ministers,  the  situa- 
tion of  consul  at  Nice,  Naples,  or  Leghorn. 
Smollett  had  written  both  for  and  against  minis- 
ters, perhaps  not  always  from  independent  mo- 
tives ;  but  to  find  the  man,  whose  genius  has 
given  exhilaration  to  millions,  thus  reduced  to 
beg,  and  to  be  refused  the  means  that  might  have 
smoothed  the  pillow  of  his  death-bed  in  a  foreign 
country,  is  a  circumstance  which  fills  the  mind 
rather  too  strongly  with  the  recollection  of  Cer- 
vantes. He  set  out,  howevpr,  for  Italy  in  1770, 
and,  though  debilitated  in  body,  was  able  to  com- 
pose his  novel  of  "  Humphrey  Clinker."  After 
a  few  months'  residence  in  the  neighbourhood 
of  Leghorn,  he  expired  there,  in  his  fifty-first 
year.f 

The  few  poems  which  he  has  left  have  a  por- 
tion of  delicacy  which  is  not  to  be  found  in  his 
novels :  but  they  have  not,  like  those  prose  fic- 
tions, the  strength  of  a  master's  hand.  Were 
be  to  live  over  again,  we  might  wish  him  to  write 
more  poetry,  in  the  belief  that  his  poetical  talent 
would  improve  by  exercise;  but  we  should  b« 
glad  to  have  more  of  his  novels  just  as  they  are.^ 


THE  TEARS  OF  SCOTLAND. 

Mourn,  hapless  Caledonia,  mourn 
Thy  banish'd  peace,  thy  laurels  torn! 
Thy  sons,  for  valour  long  renown'd, 
Lie  slaughter'd  on  their  native  ground ; 
Thy  hospitable  roofs  no  more 
Invite  the  stranger  to  the  door; 
In  smoky  ruins  sunk  they  lie. 
The  monuments  of  cruelty. 

The  wretched  owner  sees  afar 
His  all  become  the  prey  of  war; 
Bethinks  him  of  his  babes  and  wife. 
Then  smites  his  breast,  and  curses  life. 
Thy  swains  are  famish'd  on  the  rocks. 
Where  once  they  fed  their  wanton  flocks ; 
Thy  ravish'd  virgins  shriek  in  vain; 
Thy  infants  perish  on  the  plain. 

What  boots  it  then,  in  every  clime. 
Through  the  wide-spreading  waste  of  time, 
Thy  martial  glory,  crown'd  with  praise, 
Still  shone  with  undiminish'd  blaze  1 


1*  In  Humphrey  Clinker.] 

It  I'ieldiiit,'  and  Smollett  went  nbroiid  for  health— but 
Rbnmd  to  die — the  one  at  Lisl  on,  Iho  other  at  r>e!rhnrn. 
Sir  Walter  >'cott,  who  wrote  their  livef".  was  imprewed 
with  their  Cites;  sought  in  vain  fi>r  health  where  they  had 
sought  it,  but  lived  to  return,  to  relapse,  and  to  die.  There 


Thy  tow'ring  spirit  now  is  broke, 
Thy  neck  is  bended  to  the  yoke. 
What  foreign  arms  could  never  quell, 
By  civil  rage  and  rancour  fell. 

The  rural  pipe  and  merry  lay 
No  more  shall  cheer  the  happy  day  * 
No  social  scenes  of  gay  delight 
Beguile  the  dreary  winter  night : 
No  strains  but  those  of  sorrow  flow, 
And  nought  be  heard  but  sounds  of  woe. 
While  the  pale  phantoms  of  the  slain 
Glide  nightly  o'er  the  silent  plain. 

Oh  baneful  cause,  oh  fatal  mora, 
Accursed  to  ages  yet  unborn ! 
The  sons  against  their  father  stood. 
The  parent  shed  his  children's  blood. 
Yet,  when  the  rage  of  battle  ceased. 
The  victor's  soul  was  not  appeased : 
The  naked  and  forlorn  must  feel 
Devouring  flames,  and  murd'ring  steel ! 

The  pious  mother,  doom'd  to  death. 
Forsaken  wanders  o'er  the  heath, 

is  mmething  melancholy  in  the  similarity  of  their  storiM 
towani  the  close.] 

[t  Thiji  pai<i>a)ce  Ix  qnotwi  by  .«'ir  Walter  Soott  in  hi.«  SI* 
moir  of  Smollett.  "  The  truth  in."  he  :idd.s  "  that  In  the»« 
very  novel*  are  expended  many  of  the  ingreilienUi  botti 
of  grave  and  humorous  poetry  .•"  Mite.  Wurkt,  vol.  lii.  p.  1T6.  | 


656 


TOBIAS  SMOLLETT. 


The  bleak  wind  whistles  round  her  head, 
Her  helpless  orphans  cry  for  bread ; 
Bereft  of  shelter,  food,  and  friend, 
She  views  the  shades  of  night  descend ; 
And  stretch'd  beneath  the  inclement  skies, 
Weeps  o'er  her  tender  babes,  and  dies. 

While  the  warm  blood  bedews  my  veins. 
And  unimpair'd  remembrance  reigns. 
Resentment  of  my  country's  fate 
Within  my  filial  breast  shall  beat ; 
And,  spite  of  her  insulting  foe, 
My  sympathizing  verse  shall  flow : 
Mourn,  hapless  Caledonia,  mourn 
Thy  banish'd  peace,  thy  laurels  torn.* 


ODE  TO  LEVEN-WATER. 

On  Leven's  banks,  while  free  to  rove. 
And  tune  the  rural  pipe  to  love, 
I  envied  not  the  happiest  swain 
That  ever  trod  the  Arcadian  plain. 

Pure  stream,  in  whose  transparent  wave 
My  youthful  limbs  I  wont  to  lave ; 
No  torrents  stain  thy  limpid  source  ; 
No  rocks  impede  thy  dimpling  course, 
That  sweetly  warbles  o'er  its  bed. 
With  white,  round,  polish'd  pebbles  spread; 
While,  lightly  poised,  the  scaly  brood 
In  myriads  cleave  thy  crystal  flood ; 
The  springing  trout  in  speckled  pride; 
The  salmon,  monarch  of  the  tide ; 
The  ruthless  pike,  intent  on  war; 
The  silver  eel,  and  mottled  par. 
Devolving  from  thy  parent  lake, 
A  charming  maze  thy  waters  make, 
By  bowers  of  birch,  and  groves  of  pine. 
And  edges  flower'd  with  eglantine. 

Still  on  thy  banks  so  gaily  green, 
May  numerous  herds  and  flocks  be  seen. 
And  lasses  chaunting  o'er  the  pail, 
And  shepherds  piping  in  the  dale, 
And  ancient  faith  that  knows  no  guile. 
And  industry  embrown'd  with  toil, 
And  hearts  resolved,  and  hands  prepared, 
The  blessings  they  enjoy  to  guard. 


ODE  TO  INDEPENDENCE. 

STROPHE. 

Thy  spirit.  Independence,  let  me  share. 
Lord  of  the  lion-heart  and  eagle-eye, 
Thy  steps  I  follow  with  my  bosom  bare. 
Nor  heed  the  storm  that  howls  along  the  sky.f 
Deep  in  the  frozen  regions  of  the  North, 
A  goddess  violated  brought  thee  forth, 
Immortal  Liberty,  whose  look  sublime        [clime. 
Hath  bleach'd  the  tyrant's  cheek  in  every  varying 

f*  This  Ode  by  Dr.  Smollett,  does  rather  more  honour  to 
the  auihor's  feclinjjs  tliiin  his  taste.  The  mechanical  part, 
with  ri;:-'nrcl  to  numl)ers  and  language,  is  not  so  perfect  as 
Bf.  short  a  work  as  this  requires ;  Imt  the  pathetic  it  con- 
tains, particularly  in  the  last  stauza  but  one,  iu  exquisitely 
fine..  -JKolbsmiih.J 


What  time  the  iron-hearted  Gaul 

With  frantic  superstition  for  his  guide, 

Arm'd  with  the  dagger  and  the  pall, 

The  sons  of  Woden  to  the  field  defied: 

The  ruthless  hag,  by  Weser's  flood. 

In  Heaven's  name  urged  the  infernal  blow ; 

And  red  the  stream  began  to  flow: 

The  vanquish'd  were  baptized  with  blood  !J 

ANTISTROPHB, 

The  Saxon  prince  in  horror  fled 
From  altars  stain 'd  with  human  gore ; 
And  Liberty  his  routed  legions  led 
In  safety  to  the  bleak  Norwegian  shore. 
There  in  a  cave  asleep  she  lay, 
Lull'd  by  the  hoarse-resounding  malin  ; 
When  a  bold  savage  pass'd  that  way, 
Impell'd  by  destiny,  his  name  Disdain. 
Of  ample  front  the  portly  chief  appear'd: 
The  hunted  bear  supplied  a  shaggy  vest; 
The  drifted  snow  hung  on  his  yellow  beard ; 
And  his  broad  shoulders  braved  the  furious  blast. 
He  stopped :  he  gazed  :  his  bosom  glow'd. 
And  deeply  felt  the  impression  of  her  charms: 
He  seized  the  advantage  fate  allow'd. 
And  straight  compress'd  her  in  his  vigorous  arms. 

STROPHE. 

The  curlew  scream'd,  the  tritons  blew 
Their  shells  to  celebrate  the  ravish'd  rite ; 
Old  Time  exulted  as  he  flew ; 
And  Independence  saw  the  light. 
The  light  he  saw  in  Albion's  happy  plains, 
Where  under  cover  of  a  flowering  thorn, 
While  Philomel  renew'd  her  warbled  strains, 
The  auspicious  fruit  of  stolen  embrace  was  born — 
The  mountain  dryads,  seized  with  joy. 
The  smiling  infant  to  their  charge  consign'd ; 
The  Doric  Muse  caress'd  the  favourite  boy; 
The  hermit  Wisdom  stored  his  opening  mind. 
As  rolling  years  matured  his  age, 
He  flourish'd  bold  and  sinewy  as  his  sire  ; 
While  the  mild  passions  in  his  breast  assuage 
The  fiercer  flames  of  his  maternal  fire. 

ANTISTROPHE. 

Accomplish'd  thus  he  wing'd  his  way. 
And  zealous  roved  from  pole  to  pole. 
The  rolls  of  right  eternal  to  display. 
And  warm  with  patriot  thoughts  the   aspiring 

soul. 
On  desert  isles  'twas  he  that  raised 
Those  spires  that  gild  the  Adriatic  wave. 
Where  tyranny  beheld  amazed 
Fair  Freedom's  temple,  where   he  mark'd   her 

grave. 
He  steel'd  the  blunt  Batavian's  arms 
To  burst  the  Iberian's  double  chain ; 
And  cities  rear'd,  and  planted  farms. 
Won  from  the  skirts  of  Neptune's  wide  domain. 

[f  Are  not  these  noble  verses?  They  are  the  introduc- 
tion of  Smollett's  Ode  to  Independence. — Burns.] 

IX  Smollett's  Ode  to  /nd'Tx^jidenc*,  the  most  charaoteristic 
of  his  poetical  works,  wa^  publisheii  two  years  after  his 
death,  by  the  Messrs.  Foulis  of  Gla.sgow;  the  mytholo- 
gical eommeucement  is  eminently  beautiful. — Sir  Walter 

SCOTT.] 


JOHN  CUNNINGHAM. 


557 


He,  with  the  generous  rustics,  sate 
On  Uri's  rocks  in  close  divan ; 
And  wing'd  that  arrow  sure  as  fate, 
Which  ascertain'd  the  sacred  rights  of  man. 


Arabia's  scorching  sands  he  cross'd, 
Where  blasted  nature  pants  supine, 
Conductor  of  her  tribes  adust. 
To  freedom's  adamantine  shrine  ; 
And  many  a  Tartar  horde  forlorn,  aghast ! 
He  snatch'd  from  under  fell  oppression's  wing ; 
And  taught  amidst  the  dreary  waste 
The  all-cheering  hymns  of  liberty  to  sing. 
He  virtue  finds,  like  precious  ore. 
Diffused  through  every  baser  mould. 
Even  now  he  stands  on  Calvi's  rocky  shore, 
And  turns  the  dross  of  Corsica  to  gold ; 
He,  guardian  genius,  taught  my  youth 
Pomp's  tinsel  livery  to  despise  : 
My  lips  by  him  chastised  to  truth, 
Ne'er  paid  that  homage  which  the  heart  denies. 

ANTISTROPHE. 

Those  sculptured  halls  my  feet  shall  never  tread, 
Where  varnish'd  Vice  and  Vanity  combined, 
To  dazzle  and  seduce,  their  banners  spread ; 
And  forge  vile  shackles  for  the  free-born  mind. 
While  Insolence  his  wrinkled  front  uprears. 
And  all  the  flowers  of  spurious  fancy  blow; 
And  Title  his  ill-woven  chaplet  wears. 
Full  often  wreathed  around  the  miscreant's  brow; 
Where  ever-dimpling  Falsehood,  pert  and  vain. 
Presents  her  cup  of  stale  profession's  froth ; 


And  pale  Disease,  with  all  his  bloated  train, 
Torments  the  sons  of  gluttony  and  sloth. 

STKOPHE. 

In  Fortune's  car  behold  that  minion  ride, 
With  either  India's  glittering  spoils  opprest ; 
So  moves  the  sumpter-mule,  in  hamess'd  pride, 
That  bears  the  treasure  which  he  cannot  taste. 
For  him  let  venal  bards  disgrace  the  bay. 
And  hireling  minstrels  wake  the  tinkling  string; 
Her  sensual  snares  let  faithless  Pleasure  lay  ; 
And  all  her  jingling  bells  fantastic  Folly  ring ; 
Disquiet,  Doubt,  and  Dread  shall  intervene ; 
And  Nature,  still  to  all  her  feelings  just. 
In  vengeance  hang  a  damp  on  every  scene. 
Shook  from  the  baleful  pinions  of  Disgust. 

AXTISTKOPHE. 

Nature  I'll  court  in  her  sequester'd  haunts, 
By  mountain,  meadow,  streamlet,  grove,  or  cell. 
Where  the  poised  lark  his  evening  ditty  chaunts. 
And   Health,   and    Peace,    and    Contemplation 

dwell. 
There  Study  shall  with  Solitude  recline ; 
And  Friendship  pledge  me  to  his  fellow-swains ; 
And  Toil  and  Temperance  sedately  twine 
The  slender  cord  that  fluttering  life  sustains : 
And  fearless  Poverty  shall  guard  the  door ; 
And  Taste  unspoil'd  the  frugal  table  spread ; 
And  Industry  supply  the  humble  store; 
And  Sleep  unbribed  his  dews  refreshing  shed: 
White-mantled  Innocence,  etherial  sprite. 
Shall  chase  far  off  the  goblins  of  the  night: 
And  Independence  o'er  the  day  preside, 
Propitious  power!  my  patron  and  my  pride. 


JOHN  CUNNINGHAM. 


[Born,  1729.    Died,  1773.J 


John  Cunningham  was  the  son  of  a  wine- 
cooper  in  Dublin.     Having  written  a  farce,  called 
"  Love  in  a   Mist,"  at  the  age  of  seventeen,  he 
ame  to  Britain  as  a  strolling  actor,  and  was  for 
a  long  time  a  performer  in  Digges's  company  in 


Edinburgh,  and  for  many  years  made  his  resi- 
dence  at  Newcastle-upon-Tyne.  He  died  at 
that  place,  in  the  house  of  a  benevolent  printer, 
whose  hospitality  had  for  some  time  supported 
him. 


CONTENT.    A  PASTORAL. 

O'er  moorlands  and  mountains,  rude,  barren, 
and  bare. 
As  wilder'd  and  wearied  I  roam, 
A  gentle  young  shepherdess  sees  my  despair 
And  leads  me — o'er  lawns — to  her  home : 
Yellow  sheaves  from  rich  Ceres  her  cottage  had 
crown'd. 
Green  rushes  were  strew'd  on  her  floor. 
Her  casement  sweet  woodbines  crept  wantonly 
round, 
^nd  deck'd  the  sod  seats  at  her  door. 


We  sate  ourselves  down  to  a  cooling  ^past, 

Fresh  fruits!  and  she  cull'd  me  the  best; 
While  thrown  from  my  guard  by  some  glances 
she  cast. 

Love  slily  stole  into  my  breast! 
I  told  my  soft  wishes  ;  she  sweetly  replied, 

(Ye  virgins,  her  voice  was  divine !) 
I've  rich  ones  rejected,  and  great  ones  denied. 

But  take  me,  fond  shepherd — I'm  thine. 

Her  air  was  so  modest,  her  aspect  so  meek ; 

So  simple,  yet  sweet  were  her  charms  I  [cheek, 
I   kiss'd    the   ripe    roses    that    glow'd    on    her 

And  lock'd  the  loved  maid  in  my  arms. 
2w3 


568 


ANONYMOUS. 


Now  jocund  together  we  tend  a  few  sheep, 
And  if,  by  yon  prattler,  the  stream, 

Reclined  on  her  bosom,  I  sink  into  sleep, 
Her  image  still  softens  my  dream. 

Together  we  range  o'er  the  slow-rising  hills, 

Delighted  with  pastoral  views, 
^r   rest   on   the    rock    whence    the    streamlet 
distils, 

And  point  out  new  themes  for  my  Muse. 
To  porvp  or  proud  titles  she  ne'er  did  aspire, 

The  damsel's  of  humble  descent; 
Th«  cottager.  Peace,  is  well  known  for  her  sire, 

And  shepherds  have  named  her  Content. 


MAY-EVE;  OR,  KATE  OF  ABERDEEN. 

The  silver  moon's  enamour'd  beam 

Steals  softly  through  ihe  night. 
To  wanton  with  the  winding  stream. 

And  kiss  reflected  light. 
To  beds  of  state  go,  balmy  sleep, 

('Tis  where  you've  seldom  been,) 
May's  vigil  whilst  the  shepherds  keep 

With  Kate  of  Aberdeen. 


Upon  the  green  the  virgins  wait. 

In  rosy  chaplets  gay. 
Till  Morn  unbar  her  golden  gate, 

And  give  the  promised  May. 
Methinks  I  hear  the  maids  declare. 

The  promised  May,  when  seen. 
Not  half  so  fragrant,  half  so  fair, 

As  Kate  of  Aberdeen. 

Strike  up  the  tabor's  boldest  notes. 

We'll  rouse  the  nodding  grove ; 
The  nested  birds  shall  raise  their  throats. 

And  hail  the  maid  I  love : 
And  see — the  matin  lark  mistakes, 

He  quits  the  tufted  green : 
Fond  bird  !  'tis  not  the  morning  brestks, 

'Tis  Kate  of  Aberdeen. 

.  Now  lightsome  o'er  the  level  mead. 

Where  midnight  fairies  rove, 
Like  them  the  jocund  dance  we'll  lead, 

Or  tune  the  reed  to  love: 
For  see  the  rosy  May  draws  nigh ; 

She  claims  a  virgin  queen ! 
And  hark  the  happy  shepherds  cry, 

'Tis  Kate  of  Aberdeen. 


ANONYMOUS. 


SONG. 

FROM  THE  SHAMBOCE,  OR  HIBEKNIAN  CK0SSE8. 
DUBLIN,  1772. 

Belinda's  sparkling  eyes  and  wit 

Do  various  passions  raise ; 
And,  like  the  lightning,  yield  a  bright, 

But  momentary  blaze. 

Eliza's  milder,  gentler  sway, 

Her  conquests  fairly  won. 
Shall  last  till  life  and  time  decay, 

Eternal  as  the  sun. 

Thus  the  wild  flood  with  deafning  roar 
Bursts  dreadful  from  on  high : 

But  soon  its  empty  rage  is  o'er, 
And  leaves  the  channel  dry  : 


While  the  pure  stream,  which  still  and  slow 

Its  gentler  current  brings, 
Through  every  change  of  time  shall  flow 

With  unexhausted  springs. 


EPIGRAM  ON  TWO  MONOPOLISTS. 

FROM   THE  8 AXE. 

Bone  and  Skin,  two  Millers  thin. 
Would  starve  us  all,  or  near  it; 

But  be  it  known  to  Skin  and  Bone, 
That  Flesh  and  Blood  can't  bear  it* 


[*  This  is  by  Byrom,  the  author  of  Phoebe,  a  Pastoral; 
see  ante,  p.  490.] 


T.r^r^»■■^^,y,^'■^;^l;^^lr-.-^T:v■B^^^^-~.1.^f■■V«->■■■^r■r;«^^ 


GEORGE  LORD  LYTTELTON. 


CBoni,170».    Died,  ins.] 


This  nobleman's  public  and  private  virtues, 
and  his  merits  as  the  historian  of  Henry  II.,  will 
be  remembered  when  his  verses  are  forgotten. 
By  a  felicity  very  rare  in  his  attempts  at  poetry, 
tht  kids  and  fawns  of  his  Monody  do  not  entirely 
extinguish  all  appearance  of  that  sincere  feeling 
with  which  it  must  have  been  composed.  Gray,  in 
a  letter  to  Horace  Walpole,  has  justly  remarked 
the  beauty  of  the  stanza  beginning  "In  vain  I 
look  around."    "  If  it  were  all  like  this  stanza," 


he  continues,  "  I  should  be  excessively  pleased. 
Nature,  and  sorrow,  and  tenderness  are  the  true 
genius  of  such  things,  (monodies,)  and  something 
of  these  I  find  in  several  part*  of  it  (not  in  the 
orange-tree.)  Poetical  ornaments  are  foreign  to 
the  purpose,  for  they  only  show  a  man  is  not 
sorry ;  and  devotion  is  worse,  for  it  teaches  him 
that  he  ought  not  to  be  sorry,  which  is  all  the 
pleasure  of  the  thing."* 


PROM  THE  MONODY. 

At  length  escaped  from  every  human  eye, 

From  every  duty,  every  care. 
That  in  my  mournful  thoughts  might  claim  a  share, 
Or  force  my  tears  their  flowing  stream  to  dry ; 
Beneath  the  gloom  of  this  embowering  shade, 
This  lone  retreat,  for  tender  sorrow  made, 
I  now  may  give  my  burden'd  heart  relief; 

And  pour  forth  all  my  stores  of  grief; 
Of  grief  surpassing  every  other  woe. 
Far  as  the  purest  bliss,  the  happiest  love 

Can  on  th'  ennobled  mind  bestow. 

Exceeds  the  vulgar  joys  that  move 
Our  gross  desires,  inelegant  and  low. 

*  *  *  * 

In  vain  I  look  around 
O'er  all  the  well-known  ground. 
My  Lucy's  wonted  footsteps  to  descry ; 
Where  oft  we  used  to  walk. 
Where  oft  in  tender  talk 
We  saw  the  summer  sun  go  down  the  sky ; 
Nor  by  yon  fountain's  side. 
Nor  where  its  waters  glide 
Along  the  valley,  can  she  now  be  found : 
In  all  the  wide-stretch'd  prospect's  ample  bound 
No  more  my  mournful  eye 
Can  aught  of  her  espy. 
But  the  sad  sacred  earth  where  her  dear  relics  lie. 
«  »  »  » 

Sweet  babes,  who,  like  the  little  playful  fawns. 
Were  wont  to  trip  along  these  verdant  lawns 
By  your  delighted  mother's  side: 
Who  now  your  infant  steps  shall  guide? 
Ah  !  where  is  now  the  hand  whose  tender  care 
To  every  virtue  would  have  form'd  your  youth. 
And  strew'd  with  flowers  the  thorny  ways  of  truth  ? 
0  loss  beyond  repair  ! 
O  wretched  father  !  left  alone. 
To  weep  their  dire  misfortune  and  thy  own: 

[*  And  in  a  letter  to  Wharton,  he  says,  "  Have  you 
Keen  Lyttelton's  Monody  on  his  wife's  doath?  there  are 
parts  of  it  too  stiff  and  poetical,  but  others  truly  tender 
and  elegiac  as  one  would  wish." — IVorks  by  Mit/ord,  vol. 
(i^  p.  49. — Among  Smollett's  Poems  is  a  Burlesque  on 


How  shall  thy  weaken'd  mind  oppress'd  with 
And  drooping  o'er  thy  Lucy's  grave,   [woe, 
Perform  the  duties  that  you  doubly  owe ! 

Now  she,  alas !  is  gone,  [save  1 

From  folly  and  from  vice  their  helpless  age  to 
«  *  •  « 

Oh  best  of  wives !  Oh  dearer  far  to  me 

Than  when  thy  virgin  charms 

Were  yielded  to  my  arms : 
How  can  my  soul  endure  the  loss  of  thee! 
How  in  the  world,  to  me  a  desert  grown, 

Abandon'd  and  alone, 
Without  my  sweet  companion  can  I  live  T 

W'ithout  thy  lovely  smile. 
The  dear  reward  of  every  virtuous  toil, 
W  hat  pleasures  now  can  pall'd  ambition  give  1 
Ev'n  the  delightful  sense  of  well-earn 'd  praise, 
Unshared  by  thee,  no  more  my  lifeless  thoughts 

could  raise. 

For  my  distracted  mind 
What  succour  can  I  find  ? 
On  whom  for  consolation  shall  I  call  1 

Support  me,  everj'  friend ; 

Your  kind  assistance  lend. 
To  bear  the  weight  of  this  oppressive  woe. 

Alas !  each  friend  of  mine. 
My  dear  departed  love,  so  much  was  thine, 
That  none  htis  any  comfort  to  bestow. 

My  books,  the  be«t  relief. 

In  every  other  grief, 
Are  now  with  your  idea  sadden'd  all : 
Each  favourite  author  we  together  read 
My  tortured  memory  wounds,  and  speaks  of  Lucy 

dead. 

We  were  the  happiest  pair  of  human  kind ; 
The  rolling  year  its  varying  course  perform'd 

And  back  return'd  again ; 
Another  and  other  smiUng  came, 

Lytt<  Iton's  Ode,  but  a  very  poor  one.  It  is  not  a  littl* 
curious,  wc  may  adil,  that  I'om  Jones  ix  inscribed  to  Ly> 
tcltou.  and  that  the  Uosling  Scrag  of  Peregrine  Pickle  waf 
the  patron  of  Iilelding.J 


560 


ROBERT  FERGUSSON. 


And  saw  our  happiness  unchanged  remain : 

Still  in  her  golden  chain 
Harmonious  concord  did  our  wishes  bind : 
Our  studies,  pleasures,  taste,  the  same. 
0  fatal,  fatal  stroke. 
That  all  this  pleasing  fabric  love  had  raised 

Of  rare  felicity. 
On  which  ev'n  wanton  vice  with  envy  gazed, 
And  every  scheme  of  bliss  our  hearts  had  form'd, 
With  soothing  hope,  for  many  a  future  day. 

In  one  sad  moment  broke  ! 
Yet,  O  my  soul,  thy  rising  murmurs  stay; 
Nor  dare  the  all-wise  Disposer  to  arraign, 
Or  against  his  supreme  decree 
With  impious  grief  complain, 
That  all  thy  full-blown  joys  at  once  should  fade; 
Was  his  most  righteous  will — and  be  that  will 
obey'd. 


PROLOGUE  TO  CORIOLAimS.* 

I  COME  not  here  your  candour  to  implore 
For  scenes  whose  author  is,  alas  !  no  more ; 
He  wants  no  advocate  his  cause  to  plead  ; 
You  will  yourselves  be  patrons  of  the  dead. 
No  party  his  benevolence  confined. 
No  sect — it  flow'd  alike  to  all  mankind. 
He  loved  his  friends — forgive  this  gushing  tear: 
Alas !  I  feel  I  am  no  actor  heie. 


He  loved  his  friends  with  such  a  warmth  of  heart 
So  clear  of  interest,  so  devoid  of  art. 
Such  generous  friendship,  such  unshaken  zeal, 
No  words  can  speak  it,  but  our  tears  may  tell. 
Oh  candid  truth,  Oh  faith  without  a  stain. 
Oh  manners  greatly  firm  and  nobly  plain, 
Oh  sympathizing  love  of  others'  bliss, 
Where  will  you  find  another  breast  like  his  1 
Such  was  the  man, — the  Poet  well  you  know : 
Oft  has  he  touch'd  your  hearts  with  tender  woe : 
Oft  in  this  crowded  house,  with  just  applause 
You  heard  him  teach  fair  Virtue's  purest  laws ; 
For  his  chaste  muse  employ'd  her  heav'n-taught 

lyre 
None  but  the  noblest  passions  to  inspire : 
Not  one  immoral,  one  corrupted  thought. 
One  line  which  dying  he  could  wish  to  blot. 
Oh  may  to-night  your  favourable  doom 
Another  laurel  add  to  grace  his  tomb ! 
W^hilst  he  superior  now  to  praise  or  blame. 
Hears  not  the  feeble  voice  of  human  fame. 
Yet  if  to  those,  whom  most  on  earth  he  loved, 
From  whom  his  pious  care  is  now  removed, 
With  whom  his  liberal  hand  and  bounteous  heart 
Shared  all  his  little  fortune  could  impart ; 
If  to  those  friends  your  kind  regard  shall  give 
What  they  no  longer  can  from  him  receive. 
That,  that,  even  now,  above  yon  starry  pole, 
May  touch  with  pleasure  his  immortal  soul. 


ROBERT  FERGUSSON. 


[Born,  1750.    Died,  1774.] 


This  unfortunate  young  man,  who  died  in  a 
mad-house  at  the  age  of  twenty-four,  left  some 
pieces  of  considerable  humour  and  originality  in 
the  Scottish  dialect.  Burns,  who  took  the  hint 
of  his  Cotter's  Saturday  Night  from  Fergus- 
son's  Farmer's  Ingle,  seems  to  have  esteemed  him 
with  an  exaggerated  partiality,  which  can  only 
be  accounted  for  by  his  having  perused  him  in 
flis  youth.t  On  his  first  visit  to  Edinburgh, 
Burns  traced  out  the  grave  of  Fergusson,  and 
placed  a  head-stone  over  it  at  his  own  expense, 
inscribed  with  verses  of  appropriate  feeling.^ 

Fergusson  was  born  at  Edinburgh,  where  his 
father  held  the  office  of  accountant  to  the  British 
Linen-hall.  He  was  educated  partly  at  the  high- 
school  of  Edinburgh,  and  partly  at  the  grammar- 
school  of  Dundee,  after  which  a  bursary,  or  ex- 
hibition, was  obtained  for  him  at  the  university 
of  St.  Andrew's,  where  he  soon  distinguished 
himself  as  a  youth  of  promising  genius.     His 


[*  Thomson's  posthumous  p!ay,  and  spoken  by  Quin. 
This  is  among  the  best  prologues  in  our  language :  and  is 
e.xcelled  only  by  Pope's  before  Ciito,  and  Johnson's  Drury 
Lane  opening.] 

[t  Burns  in  one  place  prefers  him  to  Allan  Bamsay; 
"  the  excellent  Ramsay,"  he  s^ays,  "  and  the  still  more  ex- 
cellent Fergusson."  But  he  has  found  no  follower. 
Burns'    obligations    to  i'ergusson  are  certainly  greater 


eccentricity  was,  unfortunately,  of  equal  growth 
with  his  talents;  and  on  one  occasion,  having 
taken  part  in  an  afl'ray  among  the  students,  that 
broke  out  at  the  distribution  of  the  prizes,  he 
was  selected  as  one  of  the  leaders,  and  expelled 
from  college ;  but  was  received  back  again  upon 
promises  of  future  good  behaviour.  On  leaving 
college  he  found  himself  destitute,  by  the  death  of 
his  father;  and  after  a  fruitless  attempt  to  obtain 
support  from  an  uncle  at  Aberdeen,  he  returned 
on  foot  to  his  mother's  house  at  Edinburgh,  half 
dead  with  the  fatigue  of  the  journey,  which 
brought  on  an  illness  that  had  nearly  proved 
fatal  to  his  delicate  frame.  On  his  recovery  he 
was  received  as  a  clerk  in  the  commissary's  clerk's 
ofiice,  where  he  did  not  continue  long,  but  ex- 
changed it  for  the  same  situation  in  the  office  of 
the  sheriff  clerk,  and  there  he  remained  as  long 
as  his  health  and  habits  admitted  of  any  appli- 
cation to  business.     Had  he  possessed  ordinary 

than  to  Ramsay,  and  gratitude  for  once  warped  his  gene- 
rally good,  sound,  and  discriminating  taste  in  poetic  cri 
ticlsm.] 

[%  No  sculptured  marble  here,  nor  pompous  lay, 
Ko  storied  urn  nor  animated  bust ; 
This  simple  stone  directs  pale  S'  otia's  way, 
To  pour  her  sorrows  o'er  her  poet's  dust.] 


ROBERT  FERGUSSON. 


661 


prudence,  he  might  have  lived  by  the  drudgery 
of  copying  papers ;  but  the  appearance  of  some 
of  his  poems  having  gained  him  a  flattering  no- 
tice, he  was  drawn  into  dissipated  company,  and 
became  a  wit,  a  songster,  a  mimic,  and  a  free 
liver;  and  finally,  after  fits  of  penitence  and  reli- 
gious despondency,  went  mad.  When  commit- 
ted to  the  receptacle  of  the  insane,  a  conscious- 
ness of  his  dreadful  fate  seemed  to  come  over 
him.  At  the  moment  of  his  entrance,  he  uttered 
a  wild  cry  of  despair,  which  was  re-echoed  by  a 


shout  from  all  the  inmates  of  the  dismal  man* 
sion,  and  left  an  impression  of  inexpressible 
horror  on  the  friends  who  had  the  task  of  attend- 
ing him.  His  mother,  being  in  extreme  poverty, 
had  no  other  mode  of  disposing  of  him.  A  re- 
mittance, which  she  received  a  few  days  after, 
from  a  more  fortunate  son,  who  was  abroad, 
would  have  enabled  her  to  support  the  expense 
of  affording  him  attendance  in  her  own  house  ; 
but  the  aid  did  not  arrive  till  the  poor  maniac  bad 
expired.* 


THE  FARMER'S  INGLE. 

Et  multo  Imprimis  hilnrans  convlTia  Baocho, 
Ante  focum,  si  frigus  erit. — Vieo. 

Whan  gloamin  grey  out  owre  the  welkin  keeks  ;• 

Whan  Batie  ca's  his  owsen'  to  the  byre ; 
Whan  Thrasher  John,  sair  dung,"  his  bam-door 
steeks,"* 

An'  lusty  lasses  at  the  dightin'*  tire; 
What  bangs'  fu*  leal  the  e'enin's  coming  cauld, 

An'  gars  snaw-tappit  Winter  freeze  in  vain ; 
Gars'  dowie  mortals  look  baith  blithe  an'  bauld, 

Nor  fley'd*  wi'  a'  the  poortith  o'  the  plain  ; 

Begin,  my  Muse !  and  chaunt  in  hamely  strain. 

Frae  the  big  stack,  weel  winnow't  on  the  hill, 

Wi'  divots  theekit*  frae  the  weet  an  drift ; 
Sods,  peats,  and  heathery  turfs  the  chimley^  fill, 

An'  gar  their  thickening  smeek*  salute  the  lift. 
The  gudeman,  new  come  hame,  is  blithe  to  find, 

Whan  he  out  owre  the  hallan'  flings  his  een, 
That  ilka  turn  is  handled  to  his  mind; 

That  a'  his  housie  looks  sae  cosh"  an'  clean ; 

For  cleanly  house  lo'es  he,  though  e'er  sae 
mean. 

Weel  kens  the  gudewife,  that  the  pleughs  require 
A  heartsome  meltith."  an'  refreshin'  synd* 

0'  nappy  liquor,  owre  a  bleezin'  fire : 

Sair  wark  an'  poortith  downa*"  weel  be  join'd. 

Wi'  butter'd  bannocks  now  the  girdle'  reeks; 
r  the  fair  nook  the  bowie'  briskly  reams ; 

The  readied  kail'  stands  by  the  chimley  cheeks, 
An'  haud  the  riggin'  het  wi'  welcome  streams, 
Whilk  than  the  daintiest  kitchen*  nicer  seems. 

Frae  this,  lat  gentler  gabs"  a  lesson  lear : 

Wad  they  to  labouring  lend  an  eident*  hand, 

They'd  rax  fell  Strang  upo'  the  simplest  fare, 
Nor  find  their  stamacks  ever  at  a  stand. 

Fu'  hale  an'  healthy  wad  they  pass  the  day; 
At  night,  in  calmest  slumbers  dose  fu'  sound ; 

Nor  doctor  need  theirweary  life  to  spae," 


[•  0  thou  my  elder  brother  in  misfortune, 
By  far  my  elder  brother  in  the  muses, 
With  tears  I  pity  thy  unhappy  fate  ?— BoRHB.] 

•  Peeps.— i  Oxen.— e  Fatigued.— ^  Shutji.— «  Winnowing.— 
/  What  banggfu'  leal—vihat  shut*  out  most  romfortably.— 
i  Maizes.— AFrightcned.-'Thatched  withturf— jCliimney 
—  » Smoke. — 'the  inner  wall  of  a  cottage.— "«  Comfortable. 
-••  Meal.— »  Drink.— l>  Should  not.— «  A  flat  Iron  for  toa«t- 


Nordrogstheirnoddle  and  their  sense  confound. 
Till  death  slip  sleely  on,  an'  gie  the  hindmost 
wound. 

On  sicken  food  has  mony  a  doughty  deed 

By  Caledonia's  ancestors  been  done  ; 
By  this  did  mony  a  wight  fu'  weirlike  bleed 

In  brulzies*  frae  the  dawn  to  set  o'  sun. 
'Twas  this  that  braced  their  gardics'  stiff  an' 
Strang ; 

That  bent  the  deadly  yew  in  ancient  days ; 
r<aid  Denmark's  daring  sons  on  yird'  alang ; 

Garr'd  Scottish  thristles  bang  the  Roman  bays ; 

For  near  our  crest  their  heads  they  dought  na 
raise.  ' 

The  couthy  cracks"  begin  whan  sapper's  owre ; 

The  cheering  bicker'  gars  them  glibly  gash*/ 
O'  Simmer's  showery  blinks,  an'  Winter's  sour, 

Whase  floods  did  erst  their  mailin's  produce 
hash.* 
'Bout  kirk  an'  market  eke  their  tales  gae  on ; 

How  Jock  woo'd  Jenny  here  to  be  his  bride ; 
An'  there,  how  Marion,  for  a  bastard  son, 

Upo'  the  cutty-stool  was  forced  to  ride; 

The  waefu'  scauld  o'  our  Mess  John  to  bide. 

The  fient  a  cheep  's'  amang  the  bairnies  now; 

For  a'  their  anger's  wi'  their  hunger  gane : 
Ay  maun  the  childer,  wi'  a  fastin'  mou. 

Grumble  an'  greet,  an'  mak  an  unco  maen/ 
In  rangles'  round,  before  the  ingle's  low, 

Frae  gudame's*  mouth  auld  warld  tales  they 
hear, 
0'  warlocks  loupin  round  the  wirrikow  :* 

O'  ghaists,  that  win'  in  glen  an  kirkyard  drear, 

Whilk  touzles  a'  their  tap,  an'  gars  them  shake 
wi'  fear! 

For  weel  she  trows,  that  fiends  an'  fairies  be 
Sent  frae  the  deil  to  flcetch*  us  to  our  ill ; 

That  ky  hae  tint'  their  milk  wi'  evil  ee; 

An'  corn  been  scowder'd"  on  the  glowin'  kiln. 


ing  cakes.— rBeer-barrel.—*  Broth  with  greens.— i  Kilehm 
here  means  what  is  eaU-n  with  bread :  there  is  no  English 
word  fir  It;  obrmitum  is  the  Latin.—"  Palates.—*  Assidu- 
ous. — «•  Forettll.  —I  In  contexts.  —  »  Arms.  —  «  >:arth.— 
al'leasant  tiilk.— *Th.'  cup.— « Chat.— ^  De'troy  the  pro- 
duce of  their  farms.—*  Not  a  whimper.-/  Mnan.— »  Circlaa. 
—A  Grandame.— •  S<»r»«row.— j  Abide*^  Battoe.-- «  UmI 
— m  Scorched. 


662 


PHILIP  DORMER  STANHOPE. 


0  mock  nae  this,  my  friends !  but  rather  mourn, 
Ye  in  life's  brawest  spring  wi'  reason  clear ; 

Wi'  eild"  our  idle  fancies  a'  return, 

And  dim  our  dolefu'  days  wi'  bairnly"  fear; 
The  mind*s  ay  cradled  whan  the  grave  is  near. 

Yet  Thrift,  industrious,  bides  her  latest  days, 
Though  Age  her  sair-dow'd  front  wi'  runcles 
wave; 

Yet  frae  the  russet  lap  the  spindle  plays ; 

Her  e'enin'  stent"  reels  she  as  weel's  the  lave.* 

On  some  feast-day,  the  wee  things  buskit  braw, 
ShaU  heese  her  heart  up  wi'  a  silent  joy, 

Fu'  cadgie  that  her  head  was  up  an'  saw 
Her  ain  spun  cleedin'  on  a  darlin'  oy  ;•■ 
Careless  though  death  shou'd  mak  the  feast 
her  foy.' 

In  its  auld  lerroch*  yet  the  deas"  remains,    [ease, 
Where  the  gudeman  aft  streeks'  him  at  his 

A  warm  and  canny  lean  for  weary  banes 
O'  labourers  doylt  upo'  the  wintry  leas. 

Round  him  will  baudrins"  an'  the  collie  come. 
To  wag  their  tail,  and  cast  a  thankfu'  ee. 

To  him  wha  kindly  flings  them  mony  a  crum 
C  kebbuck*  whang'd,  an'  dainty  fadge*  to  prie ;' 
This  a'  the  boon  they  crave,  an'  a'  the  fee. 

Frae  him  the  lads  their  mornin'  counsel  tak :  [till; 
What  stack  she  wants  to  thrash;  what  rigs  to 


How  big  a  birn'  maun  lie  on  hassle's*  back. 

For  meal  an'  mu'ter"  to  the  thirlin'  mill. 
Niest,  the  gudewife  her  hirelin'  damsels  bids 

Glowr  through  the  byre,  an'  see  the  hawkies* 
bound ; 
Tak  tent,  case  Crummy  tak  her  wonted  tids,' 

An'  ca'  the  laiglen's-^  treasure  on  the  ground ; 

Whilk  spills  a  kebbuck  nice,  or  yellow  pound. 

Then  a'  the  house  for  sleep  begin  to  green,' 
Their  joints  to  slack  frae  industry  a  while; 

The  leaden  god  fa's  heavy  on  their  e'en, 

An'  hafflins  steeks  them  frae  their  daily  toil : 

The  cruizy,*  too,  can  only  blink  and  bleer; 
The  reistit  ingle's  done  the  maist  it  dow ; 

Tacksman  an'  cottar  eke  to  bed  maun  steer, 
Upo'  the  cod*  to  clear  their  drumly  pow,''' 
Till  wauken'd  by  the  dawnin's  ruddy  glow. 

Peace  to  the  husbandman,  an'  a'  his  tribe,  [year! 

Whase  care   fells   a'  our  wants  frae  year  to 
Lang  may  his  sock*  and  cou'ter  turn  the  gleyb,' 

An'  banks  o'  corn  bend  down  wi'  laded  ear ! 
May  Scotia's  simmers  ay  look  gay  an'  green ; 

Her  yellow  ha'rsts  frae  scowry  blasts  decreed ! 
May  a'  her  tenants  sit  fu'  snug  an'  bien,*" 

Frae  the  hard  grip  o'  ails,  and  poortith  freed ; 

An'  a  lang  lasting  train    o'   peacefu'  hours 
succeed ! 


PHILIP  DORMER  STANHOPE 

EARL  OF  CHESTERFIELD. 

[Born,  ISM.    Died,  1T7S0 


ON  MR.  NASH'S  PICTURE,  AT  FULL  LENGTH,  BE- 
TWEEN THE  BUSTS  OF  SIR  I.  NEWTON 
AND  MR.  POPE,  AT  BATH.* 

The  old  Egyptians  hid  their  wit 

In  hieroglyphic  dress. 
To  give  men  pains  in  search  for  it, 

And  please  themselves  with  guess. 

Moderns,  to  hit  the  self-same  path, 

And  exercise  our  parts. 
Place  figures  in  a  room  at  Bath — 

Forgive  them,  God  of  Arts  ! 

Newton,  if  I  can  judge  aright. 
All  wisdom  does  express; 

«  Ape.— 0  Childish.— P  Task.— «  The  rest.— r  Grandchild.— 
»  Her  farewell  entertaiument.  —  t  Corner.  —  «  Bench. — 
t>  Stretches.- 1»  The  oat. — e  Cheese.— y  Loaf. — *  To  taste. — 
•  Burden.  —  *  The  horse.  —  e  The  miller's  perquisite. — 
<i  Cows. — «  Fit*. — f  The  milk-pail. — S  To  long. — A  The  lamp. 
—  t  Pillow.  —  j  Thick  heads.  —  *  Ploughshare.  — '  Soil. — 
n»  Comfortable. 

[*  To  add  to  his  honours,  the  corporation  of  Bath 
placed  a  full-length  statue  of  him  in  Wiltshire's  Ball- 
room, between  the  busts  of  Newton  and  I'ope.  It  was 
upon  this  occasion  that  the  Earl  of  Cbesterfie'd  wrote  that 
severe  but  witty  epigram,  the  last  lines  of  which  were  so 
deservedly  admired,  and  ran  thus: 

The  statue  placed  the  busts  between 
Adds  to  the  satire  strength ; 


His  knowledge  gives  mankind  new  light, 

Adds  to  their  happiness. 
Pope  is  the  emblem  of  true  wit. 

The  sunshine  of  the  mind; 
Read  o'er  his  works  for  proof  of  it, 

You'll  endless  pleasure  find. 
Nash  represents  man  in  the  mass, 

Made  up  of  wrong  and  right ; 
Sometimes  a  knave,  sometimes  an  ass. 

Now  blunt,  and  now  polite. 
The  picture  placed  the  busts  between 

Adds  to  the  thought  much  strength ; 
Wisdom  and  Wit  are  little  seen. 

But  Folly's  at  full  length. 

Wisdom  and  wit  are  little  seen. 
But  Folly  at  full  length. 

Goldsmith,  Lift  of  Ifaih  (Prior,) 

vol.  iii.  p.  314. 

Mr.  Prior  says  that  the  first  version  of  this  celebrated 
epigram  appeared  in  the  Gentleman's  Magazine  for  1741, 
but  we  find  it  in  Mr.  Dyce"8  Specimens  of  British  Poetesses, 
as  by  Jane  Brereton,  who  died  in  1740,  and  among  her 
poems  collected  by  Cave  in  1744.  It  was  soon  after  17.35 
that  the  statue,  not  the  picture,  was  put  up  at  ISath. 
Good  sayings  fly  loose  on  the  surface  of  society,  and  are 
generally  assigned  to  men  whom  it  is  the  fashion  to  cele- 
brate, and  who  accept  in  silence  all  such  felicities.] 


THOMAS  SCOTT. 


fBorn,  IT—.    Died,  17—.] 


FROM  "LYRIC  POEMS,  DEVOTIONAL  AND  MORAL.' 

LOSBos,  1773. 

GOVERNMENT  OF  THE  MIND. 

Imperial  Reason,  hold  thy  throne. 
Conscience  to  censure  and  approve 

Belongs  to  thee.     Ye  Passions,  own 
Subjection  and  in  order  move. 


Enchanting  order !  Peace  how  sweet ! 

Delicious  harmony  within ; 
Blest  self-command,  thy  power  I  greet. 

Ah !  when  shall  I  such  empire  win ! 

The  hero's  laurel  fades  \  the  fame 
For  boundless  science  is  but  wind; 

And  Samson's  strength  a  brutal  name, 
Without  dominion  of  the  mind. 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


[Boro,  Not.  10,  ITW.    Died,  1774.] 


Oliver  Goldsmith  was  born  at  a  place  called 
Pallas,  in  the  parish  of  Forney,  and  county  of 
Longford,  in  Ireland.  His  father  held  the  living 
of  Kilkenny  West,  in  the  county  of  Westmeath.* 
There  was  a  tradition  in  the  family,  that  they  were 
descended  from  Juan  Romeiro,  a  Spanish  gentle- 
man, who  had  settled  in  Ireland,  in  the  sixteenth 
century,  and  had  married  a  woman  whose  name 
of  Goldsmith  was  adopted  by  their  descendants. 
Oliver  was  instructed  in  reading  and  writing  by 
Thomas  Byrne,  a  schoolmaster  in  his  father's 
parish,  who  had  been  a  quarter-master  in  the 
wars  of  Queen  Anne ;  and  who,  being  fond  of 
relating  his  adventures,  is  supposed  to  have  com- 
municated to  the  young  mind  of  his  pupil  the 
romantic  and  wandering  disposition  which  showed 
itself  in  his  future  years.  He  was  next  placedf 
under  the  Rev.  Mr.  Griffin,  schoolmaster  of  Elphin, 
and  was  received  into  the  house  of  his  father's 
brother,  Mr.  Goldsmith  of  Ballyoughter.  Some 
relations  and  friends  of  his  uncle,  who  were  met 
on  a  social  party,  happening  to  be  strurk  with 
the  sprightliness  of  Oliver's  abilities,  and  knowing 
the  narrow  circumstances  of  his  father,  offered  to 
join  in  defraying  the  expense  of  giving  him  a 
liberal  education.  The  chief  contributor  was  the 
Rev.  Thomas  Contarine,;};  who  had  married  our 
poet's  aunt.  He  was  accordingly  sent,  for  some 
time,  to  the  school  of  Athlone,  and  afterward  to 
an  academy  at  Edgeworthstown,  where  he  was 

[*  His  mother,  by  name  Ann  Jones,  was  married  to 
Cbarle.H  Uold.<niith  on  the  4th  of  May,  1718. — I'riob,  vol.  i. 
p.  14.] 

It  An  att&rk  of  ronfluent  smallpox,  which  had  nearly 
^iepriv^.■d^liln  of  life,  iind  lefi  traces  of  its  ravages  in  liig 
face  ever  alter,  first  caused  him  to  be  taken  from  under 
the  faro  of  Byrne. — I'RIOR,  vol.  i.  p.  28.] 

I  This  benevolent  man  was  descended  from  the  nnblo 
family  of  the  Contarini  of  Venice.  His  ancestor,  having 
mMrried  a  nun  in  his  native  country,  was  oMiged  to  fly 
wi.h  her  into  France,  where  she  died  of  the  small-pox. 
Beinji  pursueti  by  ecclesiastical  censures,  Contnriai  came 
to  l-^ng'and:  but  the  puritanical  manners  which  then 
prevaiii'd,  having  allorded  him  but  »  cold  reception,  he 
was  oa  his  way  tx>  Ireland,  when  at  Che&ter,  he  met  with 


i  fitted  for  the  university.      He  was  admitted   a 
sizer  or  servitor  of  Trinity  College,  Dublin,  in  hit 
sixteenth  year,  [11th  June,  1746,]  a  circumstance 
which  denoted  considerable  proficiency ;  and  three 
years  afterward  was  elected  one  of  the  exhibition- 
,  ers  on  the  foundation  of  Erasmus  Smith.§     But 
though  he  occasionally  distinguished  himself  by 
his  translations  from  the  classics,  hiit  general  ap- 
]  ^earance  at  the  university  corresponded  neither 
j  with  the  former  promises,  nor  future  development 
I  of  his  talents.     He  was,  like  Johnson,  a  lounger 
I  at  the  college-gate.     He  gained  neither  premiums 
1  nor  a  scholarship,  and  was  not  admitted  to  the 
I  degree  of  bachelor  of  arts  till  two  years  after  the 
regular  time.    His  backwardness,  it  would  appear, 
I   was  the   effect  of  despair  more   than  of  wilful 
I  negligence.  11    He  had  been  placed  under  a  savage 
j  tutor,  named  Theaker  Wilder,  who  used  to  insult 
I   him  at  public  examinations,  and  to  treat  his  de- 
linquencies with  a  ferocity  that  broke  his  spirit. 
On  one  occasion  poor  Oliver  was  so  imprudent 
as  to  invite  a  company  of  young  people,  of  both 
sexes,  to  a  dance  and  supper  in  his  rooms ;  oa 
receiving  intelligence  of  which,  Theaker  grimly 
repaired  to  the  place  of  revelry,  belat>oured  him 
before  his  guests,  and  rudely  broke  up  the  assem- 
bly.    The  disgrace  of  this  inhuman   treatment 
drove  him   for  a  time  from  the  university.     He 
set   out   from    Dublin,   intending    to    sail    from 
Cork   for   some    other   country,    he   knew   not 

a  young  lady  of  the  name  of  Chaloner,  whom  he  marrie>l. 
Having  af.urwartl  conformed  to  tho  e.'<tal>Iish<'d  cliufh, 
he,  through  the  Intervst  of  his  wife's  family,  obtaini<d 
ecclesia'-tioU  preferment  in  the  diocese  of  Klphin.  Their 
lineal  descendant  was  the  benefactor  of  Uoldjimith. — [Ses 
I'RIOK.  vol.  1.  p.  51.] 

[J  Dut  of  nineteen  elected  on  the  occn.>ion.  his  name 
stands  serentecnili  on  the  list :  the  emolument  was  tritting 
being  no  more  than  about  ihirty  shillings  :  Imt  the  creilit 
something,  for  it  was  the  flrvt  distinction  he  had  obtained 
in  ills  college  c;ireer. — I'Kioii.  vol.  i.  p.  hT.) 

li  Mr.  I'rior  ilisioverol  several  notices  of  Ooldsmith  In 
the  t'olleio  books.  On  the  l»th  of  May,  17 1>,  lie  was  tumrd 
duton;  twice  \ie  Mm.  citntinneH  for  negiectiog  a  tireek  leo 
tare,  and  thrico  ooiMntmitd  for  diligence  iu  attending  it.] 

663 


664 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


whither;  but,  after  wandering  about  till  he 
was  reduced  to  such  famine,  that  he  thought 
a  handful  of  gray  peas,  which  a  girl  gave  him 
at  a  wake,  the  sweetest  repast  he  had  ever  tasted, 
he  returned  home  like  the  prodigal  son,  and 
matters  were  adjusted  for  his  being  received  again 
at  college. 

About  the  time  of  his  finally  leaving  the  uni- 
versity his  father  died.*  His  uncle  Contarine, 
from  whom  he  experienced  the  kindness  of  a 
father,  wished  him  to  have  taken  orders,  and 
Oliver  is  said  to  have  applied  for  them,  but  to 
have  been  rejected ;  though  for  what  reason  is 
not  sufficiently  known.f  He  then  accepted  the 
situation  of  private  tutor  in  a  gentleman's  family, 
and  retained  it  long  enough  to  save  about  30/., 
with  which  he  bought  a  tolerable  horse,  and  went 
forth  upon  his  adventures.J  At  the  end  of  six 
weeks  his  friends,  having  heard  nothing  of  him, 
concluded  that  he  had  left  the  kingdom,  when  he 
returned  to  his  mother's  house,  without  a  penny, 
upon  a  poor  little  horse,  which  he  called  Fiddle- 
back,  and  which  was  not  worth  more  than 
twenty  shillings.  The  account  which  he  gave  of 
himself  was,  that  he  had  been  at  Cork,  where  he 
had  sold  his  former  horse,  and  paid  his  passage 
to  America  ;  but  the  ship  happening  to  sail  whilst 
he  was  viewing  the  curiosities  of  the  city,  he  had 
just  money  enough  left  to  purchase  Fiddleback, 
and  to  reach  the  house  of  an  old  acquaintance  on 
the  road.  This  nominal  friend,  however,  had 
received  him  very  coldly ;  and,  in  order  to  evade 
his  application  for  pecuniary  relief,  had  advised 
him  to  sell  his  diminutive  steed,  and  promised 
him  another  in  its  place,  which  should  cost  him 
nothing  either  for  price  or  provender.  To  con- 
firm this  promise  he  pulled  out  an  oaken  staff 
from  beneath  his  bed.  Just  as  this  generous  offer 
had  been  made,  a  neighbouring  gentleman  came 
in,  and  invited  both  the  miser  and  Goldsmith  to 
dine  with  him.  Upon  a  short  acquaintance, 
Oliver  communicated  his  situation  to  the  stranger, 
and  was  enabled,  by  his  liberality,  to  proceed 
upon  his  journey.  This  was  his  story.  His 
mother,  it  may  be  supposed,  was  looking  rather 
gravely  upon  her  prudent  child,  who  had  such 
adventures  to  relate,  when  he  concluded  them  by 
saying,  "  and  now,  my  dear  mother,  having 
struggled  so  hard  to  come  home  to  you,  I  wonder 
that  you  are  not  more  rejoiced  to  see  me."  Mr. 
Contarine  next  resolved  to  send  him  to  the  Tem- 
ple; but  on  his  way  to  London  he  was  fleeced  of 
all  his  money  in  gaming,  and  returned  once  more 
to  his  mother's  house  in  disgrace  and  affliction. 
Again  was  his  good  uncle  reconciled  to  him,  and 
equipped  him  for  Edinburgh,  that  he  might  pur- 
sue the  study  of  medicine. 

[•  His  father  died  eiirlv  in  1747,  before  he  had  beoome 
an  exhibitioner  on  Smith's  foundiition.  On  the  27th  of 
February,  1749,  alter  a  n-sideuce  of  four  years,  he  was 
admitted  to  the  de.;ree  of  ba'helor  of  arts.] 

[t  By  the  account  of  liis  sister,  he  was  rejected  on  the 
plea  of  being  too  jouug;  whatever  was  the  cause  of  his 
rejection,  he  does  not  seem  to  liave  made  a  second  attempt. 
— Priipr.1 

[X  Mr.  Prior  says  ho  was  a  year  there ;  surely  ZOl.  was  a 
large  sum  to  save  iu  so  short  a  period.] 


On  his  arrival  at  Edinburgh,  in  the  autumn  of 
1752,  he  took  lodgings,  and  sallied  forth  to  take 
a  view  of  the  city  ;  but,  at  a  late  hour,  he  recol- 
lected that  he  had  omitted  to  inform  himself  of 
the  name  and  address  of  his  landlady  ;  and  would 
not  have  found  his  way  back,  if  he  had  not  for- 
tunately met  with  the  porter  who  had  carried 
his  luggage.  After  attending  two  winter  courses 
of  medical  lectures  at  Edinburgh,  he  was  per-, 
mitted,  by  his  uncle,  to  repair  to  Leyden,  for  the 
sake  of  finishing  his  studies,  when  his  departure 
was  accelerated  by  a  debt,  which  he  had  con- 
tracted by  becoming  security  for  an  acquaintance, 
and  from  the  arrest  attending  which,  he  was  only 
saved  by  the  interference  of  a  friend.  If  Ley- 
den, however,  was  his  object,  he  with  the  usual 
eccentricity  of  his  motions,  set  out  to  reach  it  by 
way  of  Bordeaux,  and  embarked  in  a  ship  which 
was  bound  thither  from  I^eith ;  but  which  was 
driven,  by  stress  of  weather,  into  Newcastle- 
upon-Tyne.  His  fellow-passengers  were  some 
Scotchmen,  who  had  been  employed  in  raising 
men  in  their  own  country  for  the  service  of  the 
king  of  France.  They  were  arrested,  by  orders 
from  government,  at  Newcastle;  and  Goldsmith, 
who  had  been  committed  to  prison  with  them, 
was  not  liberated  till  after  a  fortnight's  confine- 
ment. By  this  accident,  however,  he  was  even- 
tually saved  from  an  early  death.  This  vessel 
sailed  during  his  imprisonment,  and  was  wrecked 
at  the  mouth  of  the  Garonne,  where  every  soul 
on  board  perished. 

On  being  released,  he  took  shipping  for  Hol- 
land, and  arrived  at  Leyden,  where  he  continued 
about  a  twelvemonth,  and  studied  chemistry  and 
anatomy.  At  the  end  of  that  time,  having  ex- 
hausted his  last  farthing  at  the  gaming-table, 
and  expended  the  greater  part  of  a  supply,  which 
a  friend  lent  him,  in  purchasing  some  costly  Dutch 
flower-roots,  which  he  intended  for  a  present  to 
his  uncle,  he  set  out  to  make  the  tour  of  Europe 
on  foot,  unincumbered  at  lea.st  by  the  weight  of 
his  money.  The  manner  in  which  he  occasion- 
ally subsisted,  during  his  travels,  by  playing  his 
flute  among  the  peasantry,  and  by  disputing  at 
the  different  universities,  has  been  innumerable 
times  repeated.  In  the  last,  and  most  authentic 
account  of  his  life,§  the  circumstance  of  his 
having  ever  been  a  travelling  tutor,  is  called  iii 
question.  Assistance  from  his  uncle  must  have 
reached  him,  as  he  remained  for  six  months  at 
Padua,  after  having  traversed  parts  of  Flanders, 
France,  Germany  and  Switzerland,  in  the  last  of 
which  countries  he  wrote  the  first  sketch  of  his 
"  Traveller." 

His  uncle  having  died  while  he  was  in  Italy,  he 
was  obliged  to  travel  on  foot  through  France  to 

[J  Since  Mr.  Campbell  wrote,  the  Life  of  Goldsmith  has 
been  written  by  Mr.  I'rior  in  two  elaborate  octavo  volumes, 
full  of  new  fiicts  and  new  matter,  that  attest  what  un- 
wearied research  and  well-directed  dilligence  m.ay  achieve. 
But  Mr.  Prior,  like  .Mr.  Campbell,  has  given  an  undue  im- 
portance to  Goldsmith.  The  circumstance,  howe'^er,  to 
which  .Mr.  Campbell  alludes,  is  left  by  Pricr  in  th«  same 
obscurity.] 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


665 


England,  and  arrived  in  London  in  extreme  dis- 
tress.* He  was  for  a  short  time  usher  in  an 
academy,  and  v\  as  afterward  found  and  relieved, 
by  hii  old  friend  Dr.  Sleigh,  in  the  situation  of 
journeyman  to  a  chemistt  By  his  friend's  as- 
sistance he  was  enabled  to  take  lodgings  in  the 
city,  and  endeavoured  to  establish  himself  in 
medical  practice.  In  this  attempt  he  was  unsuc- 
cessful ;  but  through  the  interest  of  Dr.  Milner, 
a  dissenting  clergyman,  he  obtained  the  appoint- 
ment of  a  physician  to  one  of  the  factories  in 
India;  and,  in  order  to  defray  the  expense  of 
getting  thither,  prepared  to  publish,  by  subscrip- 
tion, his  "Enquiry  into  the  Present  State  of 
Polite  Literature  in  Europe."  For  some  un- 
known reason  his  appointment  to  India  was 
dropped  •,J  and  we  find  him,  in  April  1757, 
writing  in  Dr.  Griffiths'  Monthly  Review,  for  a 
salary,  and  his  board  and  lodging  in  the  proprie- 
tor's house.  Leaving  this  employment,  he  went 
into  private  lodgings,  and  finished  his  "  Enquiry 
into  the  State  of  Literature,"  which  was  pub- 
lished in  1759.  The  rest  of  his  history  from  this 
period  becomes  chiefly  that  of  his  well-known 
works.  His  principal  literary  employments,  pre- 
vious to  his  raising  himself  into  notice  by  his 
poetry,  were  conducting  the  Lady's  Magazine, 
writing  a  volume  of  essays,  called  "  the  Bee," 
"Letters  on  English  History,"  "Letters  of  a 
Citizen  of  the  World,"  and  the  "  Vicar  of  Wake- 
field." Boswell  has  related  the  afiecting  circum- 
stances in  which  Dr.  Johnson  found  poor  Gold- 
smith in  lodgings  at  Wine-otfice  court.  Fleet- 
street,  where  he  had  finished  the  Vicar  of  Wake- 
field, immured  by  bailitfs  from  without,  and 
threatened  with  expulsion  by  his  landlady  from 
within.  The  sale  of  the  novel  for  60/.  brought 
him  present  relief;  and  within  a  few  years  from 
that  time,  he  emerged  from  his  obscurity  to  the 
best  society  and  literary  distinction.  But  what- 
ever change  of  public  estimation  he  experienced, 
the  man  was  not  to  be  altered  ;  and  he  continued 
to  exhibit  a  personal  character  which  was  neither 
much  reformed  by  experience,  nor  dignified  by 
reputation.  It  is  but  too  well  known,  that  with 
all  his  original  and  refined  faculties,  he  was  often 
the  butt  of  witlings,  and  the  dupe  of  impostors. 
He  threw  away  his  money  at  the  gaming-table, 
and  might  also  be  said  to  be  a  losing  gambler  in 
conversation,  for  he  aimed  in  all  societies  at  being 
brilliant  and  argumentative;  but  generally  chose 
to  dispute  on  the  subjects  which  he  least  under- 
stood, and  contrived  to  forfeit  as  much  credit  for 
common  sense  as  could  be  got  rid  of  in  colloquial 
intercourse.  Alter  losing  his  appointment  to 
India,  he  applied  to  Lord  Bute  for  a  salary,  to  be 
enabled  to  travel  into  the  interior  of  .Asia.  The 
petition  was  neglected  because  he  was  then  un- 
known. The  same  boon,  however,  or  soujc 
adequate    provision,   might  have   been   obtained 

[«  t':arl\-  in  tht-  yoar  175'i.— Phiob.] 

It  Nami-d  .lacob,  iiiid  re.-idiiic  !it  the  corner  of  Monument 
or  Uell  Viird,  on  Fish  Street  Hill.— I'hwb.) 

[i  On  tlie  2l8t  of  Uercmlier,  17u><,  he  presented  himsw-'lf 
at  Surgeons  Hail,  London,  for  exiiuiinallon as  uu  hospitiil- 
mate ;  but  wan  found  not  qualified.    Air.  Prior,  who  dla- 


for  him  afterward,  when  he  was  recommended  to 
the  Earl  of  Northumberland,  at  that  time  lord- 
lieutenant  of  Ireland.  But  when  he  waited  on 
the  earl,  he  threw  away  his  prepared  complimentc 
on  his  lordship's  steward,  and  then  retrieved  the 
mistake  by  telling  the  nobleman,  for  whom  he 
had  meditated  a  courtly  speech,  that  he  had  nc 
confidence  in  the  patronage  of  the  great,  but 
would  rather  rely  upon  the  booksellers.  Ther* 
must  have  been  something,  however,  with  a\\ 
his  peculiarities,  still  endearing  in  his  personal 
character.  Burke  was  known  to  recall  his  me- 
mory with  tears  of  aflTection  in  his  eyes.  It  can- 
not be  helieve<i  that  the  better  genius  of  his 
writings  was  always  absent  from  his  conversa- 
tion. One  may  conceive  graces  of  his  spirit  to 
have  been  drawn  forth  by  Burke  or  Reynolds, 
which  neither  Johnson  nor  Garrick  had  the  sen- 
sibility to  appreciate. 

For  the  last  ten  years  of  his  life  he  lived  in  the 
Temple.  He  was  one  of  the  earliest  members 
of  the  Literary  Club.  At  the  institution  of  the 
Royal  Academy,  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  procured 
for  him  the  honorary  appointment  of  professor 
of  ancient  history.  Many  tributes,  l)oth  of  envy 
and  respect,  were  paid  to  bis  celebrity  ;  among 
the  latter,  an  address  is  preserved,  which  was 
sent  to  him  as  a  public  character,  by  the  since 
celebrated  Thomas  Paine.  Paine  was  at  that 
time  an  officer  of  excise,  and  was  the  principal 
promoter  of  an  application  to  parliament  for 
increasing  the  salaries  of  excisemen.  He  had 
written  a  pamphlet  on  the  suliject,  which  he 
sent  to  Goldsmith,  and  solicited  an  inter\-iew 
for  the  sake  of  interesting  him  farther  in  the 
schetne.  In  the  year  1770,  he  visited  France; 
but  there  is  nothing  in  his  correspondence  to 
authenticate  any  interesting  particulars  of  his 
journey. 

The  three  important  eras  of  his  literary  life 
were  those  of  his  appearance  as  a  novelist,  a 
poet,  and  a  dramatic  writer.  The  "  Vicar  of 
Wakefield"  was  finished  in  1766;  but  was  not 
printed  till  three  years  after,  when  his  "  Travel- 
ler," in  1764,  had  established  his  fame.§  The 
ballad  of  "  Edwin  and  Angelina,"  came  out  in 
the  following  year ;  and  in  1766  the  appearance 
of  his  "Good  JVatured  Man"  made  a  lK)ld  and 
hapi)y  chanite  in  the  reigning  fashion  of  comedy, 
by  substituting  merriment  for  insipid  scntimenL 
His  "  Deserted  Village"  ap|>eared  in  1770;  and 
his  second  comedy,  "  She  Stoops  to  Conquer," 
in  1773.  At  intervals  between  those  works  he 
wrote  his  "Roman  and  English  Histories."  he- 
sides  biographies  and  introductions  to  iKicks. 
These  were  all  executed  as  tasks  for  the  Iwok- 
sellers ;  but  with  a  grace  which  no  other  man 
could  give  to  task-work.  His  "History  of  the 
Earth  ami  Animated  iNature,"  was  the  last,  and 
most  amusing  of  these  pnise  undertakings.     In 

covered  tliln  lurious  &-t,  »upp'>M'«  that  hln  India  phy- 
sirianxhip  wa*  I<ki  exi>en>lve  an  oulfii  for  hin  piir»e.  and 
a*  a  111  t  re«.irt  ha<i  trii^d  10  piiM"  iu<  an  tio'pllnluinte.J 

\i  The  Vl<ar  of  Wakefield  wan  first  published  on  the  «tr 
of  Man  h,  1760.— Paioa.] 

2X 


566 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


the  mean  time  he  had  consumed  more  than  the 
gains  of  all  his  labours  by  imprudent  manage- 
ment, and  had  injured  his  health  by  occasional 
excesses  of  application.  His  debts  amounted  to 
4000/.  "  Was  ever  poet,'*  said  Dr.  Johnson, 
"so  trusted  before?"  To  retrieve  his  finances 
he  contracted  for  new  works  to  the  booksellers, 
engaged  to  write  comedies  for  both  the  theatres, 
and  projected  a  "  Universal  Dictionary  of  the 
Sciences."  But  his  labours  were  terminated  by 
a  death  not  wholly  unimputable  to  the  impru- 
dence which  had  pervaded  his  life.  In  a  fever, 
induced  by  strangury  and  distress  of  mind,  he 
made  use  of  Dr.  James's  powders  under  cir- 
cumstances which  he  was  warned  would  render 
them  dangerous.  The  symptoms  of  his  disease 
grew  immediately  more  alarming,  and  he  ex- 
pired at  the  end  of  a  few  days,  in  his  forty-sixth 
year. 

Goldsmith's  poetry  enjoys  a  calm  and  steady 
popularity.  It  inspires  us,  indeed,  with  no  ad- 
miration of  daring  design,  or  of  fertile  invention  ; 
but  it  presents,  within  its  narrow  limits,  a  dis- 
tinct and  unbroken  view  of  poetical  delightful- 
ness.  His  descriptions  and  sentiments  have  the 
pure  zest  of  nature.  He  is  refined  without  false 
delicacy,  and  correct  without  insipidity.  Perhaps 
there  is  an  intellectual  composure  in  his  manner, 
which  may,  in  some  passages,  be  said  to  approach 
to  the  reserved  and  prosaic;  but  he  unbends 
from  this  graver  strain  of  reflection  to  tender- 
ness, and  even  to  playfulness,  with  an  ease  and 
grace  almost  exclusively  his  own;  and  connects 
extensive  views  of  the  happiness  and  interests 
of  society,  with  pictures  of  life,  that  touch  the 
heart  by  their  familiarity.  His  language  is  cer- 
tainly simple,  though  it  is  not  cast  in  a  rugged 
or  careless  mould.  He  is  no  disciple  of  the  gaunt 
and  famished  school  of  simplicity.  Deliberately 
as  he  wrote,  he  cannot  be  accused  of  wanting 
natural  and  idiomatic  expression  ;  but  still  it  is 
select  and  refined  expression.  He  uses  the  or- 
naments which  must  always  distinguish  true 
poetry  from  prose  ;  and  when  he  adopts  collo- 
quial plainness,  it  is  with  the  utmost  care  and 
skill  to  avoid  a  vulgar  humanity.  There  is  more 
of  this  sustained  simplicity,  of  this  chaste  economy 
and  choice  of  words  in  Goldsmith,  than  in  any 
modern  poet,  or  perhaps  than  would  be  attainable 
or  desirable  as  a  standard  for  every  writer  of 
rhyme.  In  extensive  narrative  poems  such  a 
style  would  be  too  difficult.  There  is  a  noble 
propriety  even  in  the  careless  strength  of  great 
poems,  as  in  the  roughness  of  castle  walls;  and, 
generally  speaking,  where  there  is  a  long  course 
of  story,  or  observation  of  life  to  be  pursued, 
such  exquisite  touches  as  those  of  Goldsmith 
would  be  too  costly  materials  for  sustaining  it. 


•  TherB  i?  perhaps  no  couplet  in  English  rhyme  more 
perspiculou.''ly  oondensi'd  than  those  two  line-"  of  "The 
TrHveller,"  in  which  he  tle.-cribe.«  Ihe  once  fiatterin;;,  vain, 
»nJ  happy  character  of  tlie  French  : 

"  They  plea^,  are  plenscl.  they  give  to  iret  eRteem, 
Till,  seeming  blest,  they  giow  to  what  they  seem." 


But  let  us  not  imagine  that  the  serene  graces  of 
this  poet  were  not  admirably  adapted  to  his  sub- 
jects. His  poetry  is  not  that  of  impetuous,  but 
of  contemplative  sensibility  ;  of  a  spirit  breathing 
its  regrets  and  recollections,  in  a  tone  that  has  no 
dissonance  with  the  calm  of  philosophical  reflec- 
tion. He  takes  rather  elevated  speculative  views 
of  the  causes  of  good  and  evil  in  society ;  at  the 
same  time  the  objects  which  are  most  endeared 
to  his  imagination  are  those  of  familiar  and 
simple  interest ;  and  the  domestic  affections  may 
be  said  to  be  the  only  genii  of  his  romance.  The 
tendency  toward  abstracted  observation  in  his 
poetry  agrees  peculiarly  with  the  compendious 
form  of  expression  which  he  studied  ;*  whilst 
the  homefelt  joys,  on  which  his  fancy  loved  to 
repose,  required  at  once  the  chastest  and  sweetest 
colours  of  language  to  make  them  harmonize 
with  the  dignity  of  a  philosophical  poem.  His 
whole  manner  has  a  still  depth  of  feeling  and 
reflection,  which  gives  back  the  image  of  nature 
unruflled  and  minutely.  He  has  no  redundant 
thoughts  or  false  transports;  but  seems, on  every 
occasion,  to  have  weighed  the  impulse  to  which 
he  surrendered  himself.  Whatever  ardour  or 
casual  felicities  he  may  have  thus  sacrificed,  he 
gained  a  high  degree  of  purity  and  self-posses- 
sion. His  chaste  pathos  makes  him  an  insinuat- 
ing moralist,  and  throws  a  charm  of  Claude-like 
softness  over  his  descriptions  of  homely  objects 
that  would  seem  only  fit  to  be  the  subjects  of 
Dutch  painting.  But  his  quiet  enthusiasm  leads 
the  affections  to  humble  things  without  a  vulgar 
association ;  and  he  inspires  us  with  a  fondness 
to  trace  the  simplest  recollections  of  Auburn, 
till  we  count  the  furniture  of  its  ale-house  and 
listen  tot 

"  The  varnish 'd  clock,  that  tick'd  behind  the  door." 
He  betrays  so  little  effort  to  make  us  visionary 
by  the  usual  and  palpable  fictions  of  his  art ;  he 
keeps  apparently  so  close  to  realities,  and  draws 
certain  conclusions,  respecting  the  radical  in- 
terests of  man,  so  boldly  and  decidedly,  that  we 
pay  him  a  compliment;  not  always  extended  to 
the  tuneful  tribe,  that  of  judging  his  sentiments 
by  their  strict  and  logical  interpretation.  In 
thus  judging  him  by  the  test  of  his  philosophical 
spirit,  I  am  not  prepared  to  say  that  he  is  a 
purely  impartial  theorist.  He  advances  general 
positions  respecting  the  happiness  of  society, 
founded  on  limited  views  of  truth,  and  under  the 
bias  of  local  feelings.  He  contemplates  only  one 
side  of  the  question.  It  must  always  be  thus  in 
poetry.  Let  the  mind  be  ever  so  tranquilly  dis- 
posed to  reflection,  yet  if  it  retains  poetical  sen- 
sation, it  will  embraie  only  those  speculative 
opinions  that  fall  in  with  the  tone  of  the  imagi- 
nation.    Yet  I  am  not  disposed  to  consider  bis 


(t  Comp.ire  the  l.omelinea-es  of  rusticity  in  Gold-'mith 
with  tlio  e  in  B!o<>mni-ld  and  others,  and  i^ee  his  superio- 
rity in  unint.u  ive  art,  i:atunil  ele^'ance,  siraplirity,  and 
p  t)iof.  Mf  iill  our  couplet  writers  Uold  mith  bear."  un- 
qi<e»!ti  mubly  the  fiwe.«t  marks  of  labour ;  there  is  a  secret 
liappine!<8  lil  outull  be  wrote,  that  seems  to  l>iive  cost  nc 
I  trouble,  no  care  to  condense,  to  strengthen  ot  •etoacb.] 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


667 


principles  as  absuni,  or  his  representations  of  life 
as  the  mere  reveries  of  fancy. 

In  "The  Deserted  Village,"  he  is  an  advocate 
for  the  agricultural,  in  preference  to  the  commer- 
cial prosperity  of  a  nation  ;  and  he  pleads  for 
the  blessings  of  the  simpler  state,  not  with  the 
vague  predilection  for  the  country  which  is  com- 
mon to  poets,  but  with  an  earnestness  that  pro- 
fesses to  challenge  our  soberest  belief.  Between 
Rousseau's  celebrated  letter  on  the  influence  of 
the  sciences,  and  this  popular  poem,  it  will  not 
be  difficult  to  discover  some  resemblance  of  prin- 
ciples. They  arrive  at  the  same  conclusions 
against  luxury  :  the  one  from  contemplating  the 
.ruins  of  a  village,  and  the  other  from  reviewing 
the  downfall  of  empires.  But  the  English  poet 
is  more  moderate  in  bis  sentiments  than  the 
philosopher  of  Geneva;  he  neither  stretches  them 
to  such  obvious  paradox,  nor  involves  them  in  so 
many  details  of  sophistry  :  nor  does  he  blaspheme 
all  philosophy  and  knowledge  in  pronouncing  a 
malediction  on  luxury.  Rousseau  is  the  advocate 
of  savageness.  Goldsmith  only  of  simplicity. 
Still,  however,  his  theory  is  adverse  to  trade,  and 
wealth,  and  arts.  He  delineates  their  evils,  and 
disdains  their  vaunted  benefits.  This  is  certainly 
not  philosophical  neutrality;  but  a  neutral  balanc- 
ing of  arguments  would  have  frozen  the  spirit 
of  poetry.  We  must  consider  him  as  a  pleader 
on  that  side  of  the  question,  which  accorded  with 
the  predominant  state  of  his  heart;  and,  con- 
sidered in  that  light,  he  is  the  poetical  advocate 
of  many  truths.  He  revisits  a  spot  consecrated 
by  his  earliest  and  tenderest  recollections ;  he 
misses  the  bloomy  flush  of  life,  which  had  marked 
its  once  busy,  but  now  depopulated  scenes;  he 
beholds  the  inroads  of  monopolizing  wealth, 
which  had  driven  the  peasant  to  emigration  ;  and 
tracing  the  sources  of  the  evil  to  "  Trade's  proud 
empire,"  which  has  so  often  proved  a  transient 
glory,  and  an  enervating  good,  he  laments  the 
state  of  society,  "  where  wealth  accumulates  and 
men  decay."  Undoubtedly,  counter  views  of  the 
subject  might  have  presented  themselves,  both  to 
the  poet  and  philosopher.  The  imagination  of 
either  might  have  contemplated,  in  remote  per- 
spective, the  replenishing  of  empires  beyond  the 
deep,  and  the  diflfusion  of  civilized  existence,  as 
eventual  consolations  of  futurity,  for  the  present 
sufierings  of  emigration.  But  those  distant  and 
cold  calculations  of  optimism  would  have  been 
wholly  foreign  to  the  tone  and  subject  of  the 
poem.  It  was  meant  to  fix  our  patriotic  sym- 
pathy on  an  innocent  and  suffering  class  of  the 
community,  to  refresh  our  recollections  of  the 
simple  joys,  the  sacred  and  strong  local  attach- 
ments, and  all  the  manly  virtues  of  rustic  life. 
Of  such  virtues  the  very  remembrance  is  by  de- 
grees obliterated  in  the  breasts  of  a  commercial 
people.  It  was  meant  to  rebuke  the  luxurious 
tnd  selfish  spirit  of  opulence,  which,  imitating 


the  pomp  and  solitude  of  feudal  abodes,  without 
their  hospitality  and  protection,  surrounded  itself 
with  monotonous  pleasure  grounds,  which  indig- 
nantly "  spurned  the  cottage  from  the  green." 

On  the  subject  of  those  mis-named  improve* 
ments,  by  the  way,  in  which 

"  Along  the  lawn,  where  watter'd  hamlets  tom. 
Unwieldy  wealth  and  cumbroua  pomp  repooe,* 

the  possessors  themselves  of  those  places  have 
not  been  always  destitute  of  compunctions  simi- 
lar to  the  sentiments  of  the  poet  Mr.  Potter,  in 
his  '*  Observations  on  the  Poor  Laws,"  has  re- 
corded an  instance  of  it  "  When  the  late  Earl 
of  Leicester  was  complimented  upon  the  com- 
pletion of  his  great  design  at  Holkham,  he  re- 
plied, <  It  is  a  melancholy  thing  to  stand  alone  in 
one's  country.  I  look  round,  not  a  house  is  to 
be  seen  but  mine.  I  am  the  Giant  of  Giant 
Castle ;  and  have  eat  up  all  my  neighbours.'  " 

Although  Goldsmith  has  not  examined  all  the 
points  and  bearings  of  the  question  suggested  by 
the  changes  in  society  which  were  passing  before 
his  eyes,  he  has  strongly  and  afl'ectingly  pointed 
out  the  immediate  evils  with  which  those  changes 
were  pregnant  JNor  while  the  picture  of  Au- 
burn delights  the  fancy,  does  it  make  a  useless 
appeal  to  our  moral  sentiments.  It  may  be  well 
sometimes  that  society,  in  the  very  pride  and 
triumph  of  its  improvement,  should  be  taught  to 
pause  and  look  back  upon  its  former  steps:  to 
count  the  virtues  that  have  been  lost,  or  the  vic- 
tims that  have  been  sacrificed  by  its  changes. 
Whatever  may  be  the  calculations  of  the  political 
economist  as  to  ultimate  eflects,  the  circumstance 
of  agricultural  wealth  being  thrown  into  large 
masses,  and  of  the  small  farmer  exiled  from  his 
scanty  domain,  foreboded  a  baneful  influence  on 
the  independent  character  of  the  peasantry, 
which  it  is  by  no  means  clear  that  subsequent 
events  have  proved  to  be  either  slight  or 
imaginary. 

Pleasing  as  Goldsmith  is,  it  is  impossible  to 
ascribe  variety  to  his  poetical  character ;  and  Dr. 
Johnson  has  justly  remarked  something  of  an 
echoing  resemblance  of  tone  and  sentiment  be- 
tween "The  Traveller"  and  '<  Deserted  Village." 
But  the  latter  is  certainly  an  improvement  on  ita 
predecessor.  The  field  of  contemplation  ia 
"  The  Traveller,"  is  rather  desultory.  The  other 
poem  has  an  endearing  locality,  and  introduces 
us  to  beings  with  whom  the  imagination  con- 
tracts an  intimate  friendship.  Fiction  in  poetry 
is  not  the  reverse  of  truth,  but  her  sofl  and  en- 
chanted resemblani-e  ;  and  this  ideal  beauty  of 
nature  has  been  seldom  united  with  so  much 
sober  fidelity  as  in  the  groups  and  scenery  ol 
"The  Deserted  Village."* 

[*  Where  Is  the  poetry  of  which  one  half  in  good  ?  U 
It  the  Jiniad .'  U  It  Milton'a?  In  it  Drydi-n's?  In  it  anj 
one's  except  Pope's  and  Oold!<mith's,  of  which  aU  Ib  good. 
— BrauN's  Wurkt,  vol.  It.  p.  306.1 


668 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


THE  TRAVELLER;  OR,  A  PROSPECT  OF  SOCIETY. 

Remote,  unfriended,  melancholy,  slow, 
Or  by  the  lazy  Scheld,  or  wandering  Po ; 
Or  onward,  where  the  rude  Cerinthian  boor 
Against  the  houseless  stranger  shuts  the  door; 
Or  where  Campania's  plain  forsaken  lies, 
A  weary  waste  expanding  to  the  skies  ; 
Where'er  I  roam,  whatever  realms  to  see, 
My  heart  untravell'd  fondly  turns  to  thee; 
Still  to  my  Brother  turns,  with  ceaseless  pain. 
And  drags  at  each  remove  a  lengthening  chain. 

Eternal  blessings  crown  my  earliest  friend, 
And  round  his  dwelling  guardian  saints  attend; 
Bless'd  be  that  spot,  where  cheerful  guests  retire 
To  pause  from  toil,  and  trim  their  evening  fire ; 
Bless'd  that  abode,  where  want  and  pain  repair, 
And  every  stranger  finds  a  ready  chair; 
Bless'd  be  those  feasts  with  simple  plenty  crown'd, 
Where  all  the  ruddy  family  around 
Laugh  at  the  jests  or  pranks  that  never  fail, 
Or  sigh  with  pity  at  some  mournful  tale ; 
Or  press  the  bashful  stranger  to  his  food, 
And  learn  the  luxury  of  doing  good. 

But  me,  not  destined  such  delights  to  share, 
My  prime  of  life  in  wandering  spent  and  care: 
Impell'd  with  steps  unceasing,  to  pursue 
Some  fleeting  good,  that  mocks  me  with  the  view ; 
That,  like  the  circle  bounding  earth  and  skies, 
Allures  from  far,  yet,  as  I  follow,  flies  ; 
My  fortune  leads  to  traverse  realms  alone, 
And  find  no  spot  of  all  the  world  my  own. 

Even  now,  where  Alpine  solitudes  ascend, 
I  sit  me  down  a  pensive  hour  to  spend ; 
And,  placed  on  high  above  the  storm's  career, 
Look  downward  where  a  hundred  realms  appear: 
Lakes,  forests,  cities,  plains  extending  wide, 
The   pomp  of  kings,    the   shepherd's    humbler 
pride. 

When  thus  creation's  charms  around  combine, 
Amidst  the  store,  should  thankless  pride  repine  1 
Say,  should  the  philosophic  mind  disdain 
That  good  which  makes  each  humbler  bosom  vaini 
Let  school-taught  pride  dissemble  all  it  can, 
Those  little  things  are  great  to  little  man ; 
And  wiser  he  whose  sympathetic  mind 
Exults  in  all  the  good  of  all  mankind. 
Ye  glittering  towns,  with  wealth  and  splendour 

crown'd  ; 
Ye  fields,  where  summer  spreads  profusion  round; 
Ye  lakes,  whose  vessels  catch  the  busy  gale ; 
Ye  bending  swains,  that  dress  the  flowery  vale ; 
For  me  your  tributary  stores  combine  : 
Creation's  heir,  the  world,  the  world  is  mine. 
As  some  lone  miser,  visiting  his  store. 
Bends  at  his  treasure,  counts,  recounts  it  o'er ; 
Hoards  after  hoards  his  rising  raptures  fill, 
Yet  still  he  sighs,  for  hoards  are  wanting  still: 
Thus  to  my  breast  alternate  passions  rise. 
Pleased  with  each  good  that  Heaven  to    man 

supplies : 
Yet  oft  a  sigh  prevails,  and  sorrows  fall, 
To  see  the  hoard  of  human  bliss  so  small; 
And  oft  I  wish,  amidst  the  scene,  to  find 
Some  spot  to  real  happiness  consign'd. 


Wheremy  worn  soul,  each  wandering  hope  at  rest 
May  gather  bliss  to  see  my  fellows  blest. 

But  where  to  find  that  happiest  spot  below, 
Who  can  direct,  when  all  pretend  to  know  ] 
The  shuddering  tenant  of  the  frigid  zone 
Boldly  proclaims  that  happiest  spot  his  own; 
Extols  the  treasures  of  his  stormy  seas, 
And  his  long  nights  of  revelry  and  ease ; 
The  naked  negro,  panting  at  the  line, 
Boasts  of  his  golden  sands  and  palmy  wine, 
Basks  in  the  glare,  or  stems  the  tepid  wave. 
And  thanks  his  gods  for  all  the  good  they  gave. 
Such  is  the  patriot's  boast,  where'er  we  roam, 
His  first,  best  country,  ever  is  at  home. 
And  yet,  perhaps,  if  countries  we  compare, 
And  estimate  the  blessings  which  they  share. 
Though  patriots  flatter,  still  shall  wisdom  find 
An  equal  portion  dealt  to  all  mankind; 
As  different  good,  by  art  or  nature  given, 
To  different  nations  makes  their  blessings  even. 

Nature,  a  mother  kind  alike  to  all. 
Still  grants  her  bliss  at  labour's  earnest  call ; 
With  food  as  well  the  peasant  is  supplied 
On  Idra's  cliff  as  Arno's  shelvy  side ; 
And  though  the  rocky  crested  summits  frown. 
These  rocks,  by  custom,  turn  to  beds  of  down. 
From  art  more  various  are  the  blessings  sent ; 
Wealth,  commerce,  honour,  liberty,  content. 
Yet  these  each  other's  power  so  strong  contest, 
That  either  seems  destructive  of  the  rest 
Where  wealth  and  freedom  reign,  contentment 

fails ; 
And  honour  sinks  where  commerce  long  prevails. 
Hence  every  state  to  one  loved  blessing  prone, 
Conforms  and  models  life  to  that  alone. 
Each  to  the  fav'rite  happiness  attends, 
And  spurns  the  plan  that  aims  at  other's  ends ; 
Till  carried  to  excess  in  each  domain, 
This  fav'rite  good  begets  peculiar  pain. 

But  let  us  try  these  truths  with  closer  eyes. 
And  trace  them  through  the  prospect  as  it  lies: 
Here  for  a  while  my  proper  care's  resign'd. 
Here  let  me  sit  in  sorrow  for  mankind  ; 
Like  yon  neglected  shrub  at  random  cast. 
That  shades  the  steep,  and  sighs  at  every  blast. 

Far  to  the  right  where  Apennine  ascends. 
Bright  as  the  summer,  Italy  extends  ; 
Its  uplands  sloping  deck  the  mountain's  side, 
Woods  over  woods  in  gay  theatric  pride ; 
While  oft  some  temple's  mould'ring  tops  between. 
With  venerable  grandeur  mark  the  scene. 

Could  Nature's  bounty  satisfy  the  breast, 
The  sons  of  Italy  were  surely  blest. 
Whatever  fruits  in  diflferent  climes  were  found, 
That  proudly  rise,  or  humbly  court  the  ground; 
Whatever  blooms  in  torrid  tracts  appear. 
Whose  bright  succession  decks  the  varied  year; 
Whatever  sweets  salute  the  northern  sky 
With  vernal  lives,  that  blossom  but  to  die; 
These  here  disporting  own  the  kindred  soil, 
Nor  ask  luxuriance  from  the  planter's  toil; 
While  sea-born  gales  their  gelid  wings  expand 
To  winnow  fragrance  round  the  smiling  land. 

But  small  the  bliss  that  sense  alone  bestows. 
And  sensual  bliss  is  all  the  nation  knows. 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


569 


In  florid  beauty  groves  and  fields  appear, 

Man  seems  the  only  growth  that  dwindles  here. 

Contrasted  faults  through  all  his  manners  reign; 

Though  poor, luxurious;  though  submissive,  vain; 

Though  grave,  yet  trifling ;  zealous,  yet  untrue ; 

And  even  in  penance  planning  sins  anew. 

All  evils  here  contaminate  the  mind. 

That  opulence  departed  leaves  behind  ; 

For  wealth  was  theirs,  not  far  removed  the  date, 

When  commerce  proudly  flourish'd  through  the 

state; 
At  her  command  the  palace  learn 'd  to  rise. 
Again  the  long-fall'n  column  sought  the  skies; 
The  canvas  glow'd  beyond  even  nature  warm, 
The  pregnant  quarry  teem'd  with  human  form. 
Till,  more  unsteady  than  the  southern  gale, 
Commerce  on  other  shores  display'd  her  sail ; 
While  nought  remain'd  of  all  that  riches  gave, 
But  towns  unmann'd,  and  lords  without  a  slave: 
And  late  the  nation  found  with  fruitless  skill 
Its  former  strength  was  but  plethoric  ill. 

Yet,  still  the  loss  of  wealth  is  here  supplied 
By  arts,  the  splendid  wrecks  of  former  pride  ; 
From  these  the  feeble  heart  and  long-fallen  mind 
An  easy  compensation  seem  to  find. 
Here  may  be  seen,  in  bloodless  pomp  array'd, 
The  pasteboard  triumph  and  the  cavalcade; 
Processions   form'd  for  piety  and  love, 
A  mistress  or  a  saint  in  every  grove. 
By  sports  like  these  are  ail  their  cares  beguiled, 
The  sports  of  children  satisfy  the  child  ; 
Each  nobler  aim,  represt  by  long  control. 
Now  sinks  at  last,  or  feebly  mans  the  soul ; 
While  low  delights,  succeeding  fast  behind, 
In  happier  meanness  occupy  the  mind : 
As  in  those  domes,  where  Caesars  once  bore  sway, 
Defaced  by  time  and  tott'ring  in  decay. 
There  in  the  ruin,  heedless  of  the  dead. 
The  shelter-seeking  peasant  builds  his  shed ; 
And,  wondering  man  could  want  the  larger  pile. 
Exults,  and  owns  his  cottage  with  a  smile. 

My  soul,  turn  from  them  !  turn  we  to  survey 
Where  rougher  climes  a  nobler  race  display. 
Where  the  bleak  Swiss    their  stormy    mansion 

tread. 
And  force  a  churlish  soil  for  scanty  bread  ; 
No  product  here  the  barren  hills  atlbrd, 
But  man  and  steel,  the  soldier  and  his  sword. 
No  vernal  blooms  their  torpid  rocks  array. 
But  winter  lingering  chills  the  lap  of  May  ; 
No  zephyr  fondly  sues  the  mountain's  breast. 
But  meteors  glare,  and  stormy  glooms  invest. 

Yet  still,  even  here,  content  can  spread  a  charm, 
Redress  the  clime,  and  all  iu  rage  disarm. 
Though  poor  the  peasant's  hut,  his  feasts  though 

small. 
He  sees  his  little  lot  the  lot  of  all ; 
Sees  no  contiguous  palace  rear  its  head 
To  shame  the  meanness  of  his  humble  shed  ; 
No  costly  lord  the  sumptuous  banquet  deal 
To  make  him  loath  his  vegetable  meal ; 
But  calm,  and  bred  in  i^'norance  and  toil, 
Each  wish  contracting,  tits  him  to  the  soil. 
Cheerful  at  morn,  he  wakes  from  short  repose, 
Breathes  the  keen  air,  and  carols  as  he  goes ; 
72 


With  patient  angle  trolls  the  finny  deep. 
Or  drives  his  vent'rous  ploughshare  to  the  steep 
Or  seeks  theden  where  snow-tracks  mark  the  way 
And  drags  the  struggling  savage  into  day. 
At  night  returning,  every  labour  sped. 
He  sits  him  down  the  monarch  of  a  shed ; 
Smiles  by  his  cheerful  fire,  and  round  surveys 
His  children's  looks,  that  brighten  at  the  blaze; 
While  his  loved  partner,  lioastful  of  her  hoard. 
Displays  her  cleanly  platter  on  the  board  : 
And  haply  too  some  pilgrim,  thither  led, 
With  many  a  tale  repays  the  nightly  bed. 

Thus  every  good  his  native  wilds  impart 
Imprints  the  patriot  passion  on  his  heart ; 
And  even  those  ills,  that  round  his  mansion  rise, 
Enhance  the  bliss  his  scanty  fund  supplies. 
Dear  is  that  shed  to  which  his  soul  conforms. 
And  dear  that  hill  which  liils  him  to  the  storms; 
And  as  a  child,  when  scaring  sounds  molest. 
Clings  close  and  closer  to  the  mother's  breast, 
So  the  loud  torrent,  and  the  whirlwind's  roar. 
But  bind  him  to  his  native  mountains  more. 

Such  are  the  charms  to  barren  states  assign'd  ; 
Their  wants  but  few,  their  wishes  all  confined. 
Yet  let  them  only  share  the  praises  due, 
If  few  their  wants,  their  pleasures  are  but  few; 
For  every  want  that  stimulates  the  breast 
Becomes  a  source  of  pleasure  when  redrest 
Whence  from  such  lands  each  pleasing  science 

flies. 
That  first  excites  desire,  and  then  supplies ; 
Unknown  to  them,  when  sensual  pleasures  cloy, 
To  fill  the  languid  pause  with  finer  joy; 
Unknown  those  powers  that  raise  the  soul  to  flame. 
Catch  every  nerve,  and  vibrate  through  the  frame 
Their  level  life  is  but  a  mouldering  fire, 
Unquencb'd  by  want,  unfann'd  by  strong  desire ; 
Unfit  for  raptures,  or,  if  raptures  cheer 
On  some  high  festival  of  once  a  year. 
In  wild  excess  the  vulgar  breast  takes  fire. 
Till,  buried  in  debauch,  the  bliss  expire. 

But  not  their  joys  alone  thus  coarsely  flow: 
Their  morals,  like  their  pleasures,  are  but  low ; 
For,  as  refinement  stops,  from  sire  to  son 
Unalter'd,  unimproved  the  manners  run ; 
And  love's  and  friendship's  finely-pointed  dart 
Fall  blunted  from  each  indurated  heart; 
Some  sterner  virtues  o'er  the  mountain's  breast 
May  sit,  like  falcons  cowering  on  the  nest ; 
But  all  the  gentler  morals,  such  as  play 
Through  life's  more  cultured  walks,  and  charm 

the  way. 
These  far  dispersed  on  timorous  pinions  fly, 
To  sport  and  flutter  in  a  kinder  sky. 

To  kinder  skies,  where  gentler  manners  reign, 
I  turn :  and  France  displays  her  bright  domain. 
Gay  sprightly  land  of  mirth  and  social  ease. 
Pleased  with  thyself,  whom  all  the  world  can 

please. 
How  often  have  I  led  thy  sportive  choir. 
With  tuneless  pipe,  beside  the  murmuring  Loire? 
Where  shading  elms  along  the  margin  grew. 
And  freshen'd  from  the  wave  the  zephyr  flew; 
And  haply,  though  my  harsh  touch,  fault' ring  still, 
But  mock'd  alJ  tune,  and  marr'd  the  dancer's  skill . 
2x3 


670 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


Yet  would  the  village  praise  my  wondrous  power, 
And  dance  forgetful  of  the  noon-tide  hour. 
Alike  all  ages.     Dames  of  ancient  days 
Have  led  their  children  through  the  mirthful  maze, 
And  the  gay  grandsire,  skill'd  in  gestic  lore. 
Has  frisk'd  beneath  the  burden  of  threescore 

So  blest  a  life  these  thoughtless  realms  display, 
Thus  idly  busy  rolls  their  world- away: 
Theirs  are  those  arts  that  mind  to  mind  endear. 
For  honour  forms  the  social  temper  here. 
Honour,  that  praise  which  real  merit  gains. 
Or  e'en  imaginary  worth  obtains. 
Here  passes  current;  paid  from  hand  to  hand. 
It  shifts  in  splendid  traffic  round  the  land : 
From  courts  to  camps,  to  cottages  it  strays. 
And  all  are  taught  an  avarice  of  praise; 
They  please,  are  pleased,  they  give  to  get  esteem. 
Till,  seeming  blest,  they  grow  to  what  they  seem. 

But  while  this  softer  art  their  bliss  supplies, 
It  gives  their  follies  also  room  to  rise ; 
For  praise  too  dearly  loved,  or  warmly  sought, 
Enfeebles  all  internal  strength  of  thought. 
And  the  weak  soul,  within  itself  unblest, 
Leans  for  all  pleasure  on  another's  breast. 
Hence  ostentation  here,  with  tawdry  art. 
Pants  for  the  vulgar  praise  which  fools  impart ; 
Here  vanity  assumes  her  pert  grimace. 
And  trims  her  robes  of  frieze  with  copper  lace ; 
Here  beggar  pride  defrauds  her  daily  cheer. 
To  boast  one  splendid  banquet  once  a  year; 
The  mind  still  turns  where  shifting  fashion  draws. 
Nor  weighs  the  solid  worth  of  self-applause. 

To  men  of  other  minds  my  fancy  flies, 
Embosom'd  in  the  deep  where  Holland  lies. 
Methinks  her  patient  sons  before  me  stand. 
Where  the  broad  ocean  leans  against  the  land. 
And,  sedulous  to  stop  the  coming  tide. 
Lift  the  tall  rampire's  artificial  pride. 
Onward,  methinks,  and  diligently  slow, 
The  firm  connected  bulwark  seems  to  gfrow ; 
Spreads  its  long  arms  amidst  the  watery  roar, 
Scoops  out  an  empire,  and  usurps  the  shore. 
While  the  pent  ocean  rising  o'er  the  pile, 
Sees  an  amphibious  world  beneath  him  smile ; 
The  slow  canal,  the  yellow  blossom'd  vale, 
The  willow  tufted  bank,  the  gliding  sail, 
The  crowded  mart,  the  cultivated  plain, 
A  new  creation  rescued  from  his  reign. 

Thus,  while  around  the  wave-subjected  soil 
Impels  the  native  to  repeated  toil. 
Industrious  habits  in  each  bosom  reign, 
And  industry  begets  a  love  of  gain. 
Hence  all  the  good  firom  opulence  that  springs. 
With  all  those  ills  superfluous  treasure  brings, 
Are  here  display'd.     Their  much-loved  wealth 

imparts 
Convenience,  plenty,  elegance,  and  arts ; 
But  view  them  closer,  craft  and  fraud  appear, 
Even  liberty  itself  is  barter'd  here. 
At  gold's  superior  charms  all  freedom  flies, 
The  needy  sell  it,  and  the  rich  man  buys ; 
A  land  of  tyrants,  and  a  den  of  slaves. 
Here  wretches  seek  dishonourable  graves. 
And  calmly  bent,  to  servitude  conform. 
Dull  as  their  lakes  that  slumber  in  the  storm. 


Heavens  !  how  unlike  their  Belgic  sires  of  old ! 
Rough,  poor,  content,  ungovernably  bold  ; 
War  in  each  breast,  and  freedom  on  each  brow ; 
How  much  unlike  the  sons  of  Britain  now! 

Fired  at  the  sound,  my  genius  spreads  her  wing, 
And  flies  where  Britain  courts  the  western  spring; 
Where  lawns  extend  that  scorn  Arcadian  pride. 
And  brighter  streams  than  famed  Hydaspes  glide; 
There  all  around  the  gentlest  breezes  stray. 
There  gentle  music  melts  on  every  spray ; 
Creation's  mildest  charms  are  there  combined, 
Extremes  are  only  in  the  master's  mind. 
Stern  o'er  each  bosom  reason  holds  her  state. 
With  daring  aims  irregularly  great ; 
Pride  in  their  port,  defiance  in  their  eye, 
I  see  the  lords  of  humankind  pass  by  ; 
Intent  on  high  designs,  a  thoughtful  band, 
By  forms  unfashion'd,  fresh  from  nature's  hand; 
Fierce  in  their  native  hardiness  of  soul, 
True  to  imagined  right  above  controul, 
While  even  the  peasant  boasts  these  rights  to  scan, 
And  learns  to  venerate  himself  as  man.* 

Thine,  freedom,  thine  the  blessings  pictured 
here: 
Thine  are  those  charms  that  dazzle  and  endear ; 
Too  blest  indeed,  were  such  without  alloy  ; 
But  foster'd  even  by  freedom,  ills  annoy  ; 
That  independence  Britons  prize  too  high. 
Keeps  man  from  man,  and  breaks  the  social  tie  • 
The  self-dependent  lordlings  stand  alone, 
All  claims  that  bind  and  sweeten  life  unknown , 
Here  by  the  bonds  of  nature  feebly  held, 
Minds  combat  minds,  repelling  and  repell'd. 
Ferments  arise,  imprison'd  factions  roar, 
Represt  ambition  struggles  round  her  shore, 
Till  over-wrought,  the  general  system  feels 
Its  motion  stop,  or  frenzy  fire  the  wheels. 

Nor  this  the  worst.     As  Nature's  ties  decay, 
As  duty,  love,  and  honour  fail  to  sway, 
Fictitious  bonds,  the  bonds  of  wealth  and  law, 
Still  gather  strength,  and  force  unwilling  awe. 
Hence  all  obedience  bows  to  thee  alone. 
And  talent  sinks,  and  merit  weeps  unknown  ; 
Till  time  may  come,  when,  stripp'd  of  all  her 

charms. 
The  land  of  scholars,  and  the  nurse  of  arms. 
Where  noble  stems  transmit  the  patriot  flame. 
Where  kings  have  toil'd,  and  poets  wrote  for  fame, 
One  sink  of  level  avarice  shall  lie. 
And  scholars,  soldiers,  kings,  unhonour'd  die. 

Yet  think  not,  thus  when  Freedom's  ills  I  state 
I  mean  to  flatter  kings,  or  court  the  great ; 
Ye  powers  of  truth,  that  bid  my  soul  aspire, 
Far  from  my  bosom  drive  the  low  desire ! 
And  thou,  fair  Freedom,  taught  alike  to  feel 
The  rabble's  rage,  and  tyrant's  angry  steel ; 
Thou  transitory  flower,  alike  undone 
By  proud  contempt,  or  favour's  fostering  sun, 
Still  may  thy  blooms  the  changeful  clime  endure, 
I  only  would  repress  them  to  secure; 

[*  We  tiilked  of  Goldsmith's  Traveller,  of  whiih  Dr. 
Johnson  Fpoke  highly ;  and  while  I  was  belpin};  him  on 
with  his  gresit-ccat,  he  repealcdiy  quoted  from  it  the 
character  of  the  Brilifh  ua.ion:  whith  he  did  with  su-.h 
energy,  that  the  tears  started  in  his  eye. — }<oswell's  Jo^»<»- 
son,  Vol.  T.  p.  «5,  ed.  1835.] 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


671 


For  just  experience  tells  in  every  soil, 
That  those  who  think  must  govern  those  that  toil ; 
And  all  that  Freedom's  highest  aims  can  reach, 
Is  but  to  lay  proportion 'd  loads  on  each. 
Hence,  should  one  order  disproportion'd  grow, 
Its  double  weight  must  ruin  all  below. 

O  then  how  blind  to  all  that  truth  requires, 
Who  think  it  freedom  when  a  part  aspires! 
Calm  is  my  soul,  nor  apt  to  rise  in  arms, 
Except  when  fast  approaching  danger  warms: 
But  when  contending  chiefs  blockade  the  throne, 
Contracting  regal  power  to  stretch  their  own. 
When  I  behold  a  factious  band  agree 
To  call  it  freedom  when  themselves  are  free ; 
Each  wanton  judge  new  penal  statutes  draw, 
liaws  grind  the  poor,  and  rich  men  rule  the  law  ; 
The  wealth  of  climes,  where  savage  nations  roam. 
Pillaged  from  slaves  to  purchase  slaves  at  home ; 
Fear,  pity,  justice,  indignation  start. 
Tear  off  reserve,  and  bare  my  swelling  heart ; 
Till  half  a  patriot,  half  a  coward  grown, 
I  fly  from  petty  tyrants  to  the  throne. 

Yes,  brother,  curse  with  me  that  baleful  hour, 
When  first  ambition  struck  at  regal  power; 
And  thus  polluting  honour  in  its  source. 
Gave  wealth  to  sway  the  mind  with  double  force. 
Have  we  not  seen,  round  Briton's  peopled  shore. 
Her  useful  sons  exchanged  for  useless  ore  1 
Seen  all  her  triumphs  but  destruction  haste. 
Like  flaring  tapers  bright'ning  as  they  waste ; 
Seen  opulence,  her  grandeur  to  maintain. 
Lead  stern  depopulation  in  her  train. 
And  over  fields  where  scatter'd  hamlets  rose, 
In  barren  solitary  pomp  repose  1 
Have  we  not  seen,  at  pleasure's  lordly  call. 
The  smiling  long-frequented  village  fall ; 
Beheld  tlie  duteous  son,  the  sire  decay'd. 
The  modest  matron,  and  the  blushing  maid. 
Forced  from  their  homes,  a  melancholy  train. 
To  traverse  climes  beyond  the  western  main ; 
Where  wild  Oswego  spreads  her  swamps  around, 
And  Niagara  stuns  with  thund'ring  sound  1 
Even   now,  perhaps,  as   there  some  pilgrim 

strays  [ways ; 

Through  tangled  forests,  and  through  dangerous 
Where  beasts  with  man  divided  empire  claim. 
And  the  brown  Indian  marks  with   murd'rous 

aim; 
There,  while  above  the  giddy  tempest  flies, 
And  all  around  distressful  yells  arise. 
The  pensive  exile,  bending  with  his  woe. 
To  stop  too  fearful,  and  too  faint  to  go. 
Casts  a  long  look  where  England's  glories  shine. 
And  bids  his  bosom  sympathise  with  mine. 
Vain,  very  vain,  my  weary  search  to  find 
That  bliss  which  only  centres  in  the  mind  : 
Why  have  I  stray 'd,  from  pleasure  and  repose. 
To  seek  a  good  each  government  bestows  1 

(•  In  the  «>RepubHca  Ilunsarioa,"  there  is  an  aroonnt 
of  ft  desperate  rebollion  in  the  year  1514.  headed  by  two 
brothers  ot"  the  name  of  Zeck.  (Jeorire  nnd  l/uke,  when  it 
was  (4iielle<l  George,  not  Luke,  was  puiiinlietl  by  his  heiid 
boin):  enrii-cle-l  l^y  a  red  hot  iron  rrown. — Biiswki.l.] 

it  "The  Traveller"  appeared  in  Deceinl>er,  17tU,  and 
Wi!8  reviewed  in  tlie  Criiical  l.eview  f  >r  that  month  by 
Dr.  Johnson.  "Such  is  tlie  poem."  ho  oouiludes  his  ex- 
tracts by  saying, ''  on  which  we  now  congrutulate  the  i»ub- 


In  every  government,  though  terrors  reign. 
Though  tyrant  kings,  or  tyrant  laws  restrain, 
How  small  of  all  that  human  hearts  endure. 
That  part  which  laws  or  kings  can  cause  or  cure ! 
Still  to  ourselves  in  every  place  consign'd. 
Our  own  felicity  we  make  or  find : 
With  secret  course,  which  no  loud  storms  annoy 
Glides  the  smooth  current  of  domestic  joy. 
The  lifted  axe,  the  agonizing  wheel, 
Luke's*  iron  crown,  and  Damien's  bed  of  steel. 
To  men  remote  from  power  but  rarely  known. 
Leave  reason,  faith,  and  conscience,  all  our  own.'! 


THE  DESERTED  VILLAOB. 

Sweet  Auburn,  loveliest  village  of  the  plain, 
Where  health  and  plenty  cheer'd  the  labouring 

swain. 
Where  smiling  spring  its  earliest  visit  paid. 
And  parting  summer's  ling'ring  blooms  delay'd. 
Dear  lovely  bowers  of  innocence  and  ease. 
Seats  of  my  youth,  when  every  sport  could  please. 
How  often  have  I  loitered  o'er  thy  green. 
Where  humble  happiness  endear'd  each  scene ! 
How  often  have  I  paused  on  every  charm. 
The  shelter'd  cot,  the  cultivated  farm. 
The  never-failing  brook,  the  busy  mill,  [hill. 

The  decent  church  that  topp'd  the  neighb  ring 
The  hawthorn  bush,  with  seats  beneath  the  shade. 
For  talking  age  and  whisp'ring  lovers  made  !J 
How  often  have  I  bless'd  the  coming  day, 
When  toil  remitting  lent  its  turn  to  play. 
And  all  the  village  train,  from  labour  free, 
Led  up  their  sports  beneath  the  spreailing  tree, 
While  many  a  pastime  circled  in  the  shade, 
The  young  contending  as  the  old  survey'd ; 
And  many  a  gambol  frolick'd  o'er  the  ground, 
And  sleights  of  art  and  feats  of  strength  went 
And  still  as  each  repeated  pleasure  tired,  [round. 
Succeeding  sports  the  mirthful  band  inspired ; 
The  dancing  pair  that  simply  sought  renown. 
By  holding  out,  to  tire  each  other  down  ; 
The  swain  mistrustless  of  his  smutted  face. 
While  secret  laughter  titter'd  round  the  place; 
The  bashful  virgin's  side-long  looks  of  love. 
The    matron's   glance  that   would   those   looks 

reprove. 
These  were  thy  charms,  sweet  village !  sports  like 

these, 
With  sweet  succession,  taught  ev'n  toil  to  please. 
These  round  thy  bowers  their  cheerful  influence 

shed,  [fled. 

These  were  thy  charms — But  all  these  charms  are 

Sweet  smiling  village,  loveliest  of  the  lawn. 
Thy  sports  are  fled,  and  all  thy  charms  withdrawn ; 
Amidst  thy  bowers  the  tyrant's  hand  is  seen. 
And  desolation  saddens  all  thy  green: 

lie,  as  on  a  productioD  to  which.  Kiiice  the  death  of  Papa, 
it  will  not  be  ■  a>y  U  find  any  thing  equal.") 

[I  Lissoy,  near  Uiillvmahon,  where  the  poet's  brother, 
the  clort:vni«ii,  had  his  livlnic,  cluim"  the  honour  ivf  lieinf 
the  spot  "from  which  the  locrlllien  of  the  De.-ertcd  VillaKB 
are  derived.  Th.-  church  which  top*  the  neiglibouring 
hill,  the  mill,  and  the  bnok,  are  siill  |>ohited  out-'^B 
Walter  Scott,  Mite.  Workt,  vol.  lU.  p.  260.1 


572 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


One  only  master  grasps  the  whole  domain, 
And  half  a  tillage  stints  thy  smiling  plain; 
No  more  thy  glassy  brook  reflects  the  day, 
But,  choked  with  sedges,  works  its  weedy  way; 
Along  thy  glades,  a  solitary  guest. 
The  hollow-sounding  bittern  guards  its  nest; 
Amidst  thy  desert  walks  the  lapwing  flies. 
And  tires  their  echoes  with  unvaried  cries. 
Sunk  are  thy  bowers  in  shapeless  ruin  all. 
And  the  long  grass  o'ertops  the  mould'ring  wall, 
And,  trembling,  shrinking  from  the  spoiler's  hand, 
Far,  far  away,  thy  children  leave  the  land. 

Ill  fares  the  land,  to  hast'ning  ills  a  prey. 
Where  wealth  accumulates,  and  men  decay; 
Princes  and  lords  may  flourish,  or  may  fade : 
A  breath  can  make  them,  as  a  breath  has  made ; 
But  a  bold  peasantry,  their  country's  pride. 
When  once  destroy'd,  can  never  be  supplied. 

A  time  there  was,  ere  England's  griefs  began. 
When  every  rood  of  ground  maintain'd  its  man; 
For  him  light  labour  spread  her  wholesome  store, 
lust  gave  what  life  required,  but  gave  no  more: 
His  best  companions,  innocence  and  health, 
And  his  best  riches,  ignorance  of  wealth. 

But  times  are  alter'd  ;  trade's  unfeeling  train 
Usurp  the  land,  and  dispossess  the  swain  ; 
Along  the  lawn,  where  scatler'd  hamlets  rose. 
Unwieldy  wealth  and  cumb'rous  pomp  repose 
And  every  want  to  luxury  allied. 
And  every  pang  that  folly  pays  to  pride. 
Those  gentle  hours  that  plenty  bade  to  bloom, 
Those  calm  desires  that  ask'd  but  little  room. 
Those  healthful  sports  that  graced  the  peaceful 

scene. 
Lived  in  each  look,  and  brighten'd  all  the  green; 
These,  far  departing,  seek  a  kinder  shore. 
And  rural  mirth  and  manners  are  no  more. 

Sweet  Auburn !  parent  of  the  blissful  hour, 
Thy  glades  forlorn  confess  the  tyrant's  power. 
Here,  as  I  take  my  solitary  rounds. 
Amidst  thy  tangling  walks,  and  ruin'd  grounds, 
And,  many  a  year  elapsed,  return  to  view 
Where  once  the  cottage  stood,  the  hawthorn  grew, 
Remembrance  wakes  with  all  her  busy  train. 
Swells  at  my  breast,  and  turns  the  past  to  pain. 

In  all  my  wand'rings  round  this  world  of  care, 
In  all  my  griefs — and  God  has  given  my  share — 
I  still  had  hopes  my  latest  hours  to  crown. 
Amidst  these  humble  bowers  to  lay  me  down; 
To  husband  out  life's  taper  at  the  close. 
And  keep  the  flame  from  wasting  by  repose : 
I  still  had  hopes,  for  pride  attends  us  still. 
Amidst  the  swains  to  show  my  book-learn'd  skill, 
Around  my  fire  an  evening  group  to  draw, 
And  tell  of  all  I  felt,  and  all  I  saw ; 
And,  as  a  hare  whom  hounds  and  horns  pursue, 
Pants  to  the  place  from  whence  at  first  he  flew, 
I  still  had  hopes,  my  long  vexations  past. 
Here  to  return — and  die  at  home  at  last. 

O  blest  retirement,  friend  to  life's  decline. 
Retreats  from  care  that  never  must  be  mine. 
How  blest  is  he  who  crowns  in  shades  like  these 
\  youth  of  labour  with  an  age  of  ease ; 
Who  quits  a  world  where  strong  temptations  try, 
And,  since  'tis  hard  to  combat,  learns  to  fly ! 


For  him  no  wretches,  born  to  work  and  weep, 
Explore  the  mine,  or  tempt  the  dang'rous  deep; 
No  surly  porter  stands  in  guilty  state. 
To  spurn  imploring  famine  from  the  gate, 
But  on  he  moves  to  meet  his  latter  end, 
Angels  around  befriending  virtue's  friend; 
Sinks  to  the  grave  with  un perceived  decay, 
While  resignation  gently  slopes  the  way; 
And,  all  his  prospects  bright'ning  to  the  last. 
His  heaven  commences  ere  the  world  be  past  !* 
Sweet  was  the  sound,  when,  oft  at  ev'ning's  close, 
Up  yonder  hill  the  village  murmur  rose  ; 
There,  as  I  pass'd  with  careless  steps  and  slow, 
The  mingling  notes  came  soften'd  from  below; 
The  swain  responsive  as  the  milk-maid  sung. 
The  sober  herd  that  low'd  to  meet  their  young, 
The  noisy  geese  that  gabbled  o'er  the  pool. 
The  playful  children  just  let  loose  from  school. 
The  watchdog's  voice  that  bay'd  the  whisp'ring 

wind, 
And  the  loud  laugh  that  spoke  the  vacant  mind ; 
These  all  in  sweet  confusion  sought  the  shade. 
And  fill'd  each  pause  the  nightingale  had  made. 
But  now  the  sounds  of  population  fail. 
No  cheerful  murmurs  fluctuate  in  the  gale. 
No  busy  steps  the  grass-grown  footway  tread, 
But  all  the  bloomy  flush  of  life  is  fled. 
All  but  yon  widow'd,  solitary  thing. 
That  feebly  bends  beside  the  plashy  spring ; 
She,  wretched  matron !  forced,  in  age,  for  bread 
To  strip  the  brook  with  mantling  cresses  spread, 
To  pick  her  wint'ry  faggot  from  the  thorn, 
To  seek  her  nightly  shed,  and  weep  till  morn ; 
She  only  left  of  all  the  harmless  train. 
The  sad  historian  of  the  pensive  plain,    [smiled, 
Near  yonder  copse,   where  once   the   garden 
And  still  where  many  a  garden  flower  grows  wild; 
There,  where  a  few  torn  shrubs  the  place  disclose, 
The  village  preacher's  modest  mansion  rose. 
A  man  he  was  to  all  the  country  dear. 
And  passing  rich  with  forty  pounds  a  year; 
Remote  from  towns  he  ran  his  godly  race. 
Nor  e'er  had  changed,  nor  wish'd  to  change  his 

place ; 
Unskilful  he  to  fawn,  or  seek  for  power. 
By  doctrines  fashion'd  to  the  varying  hour; 
Far  other  aims  his  heart  had  learn'd  to  prize, 
More  bent  to  raise  the  wretched  than  to  rise. 
His  house  was  known  to  all  the  vagrant  train, 
He  chid  their  wand'rings,  but  relieved  their  pain; 
The  long-remember'd  beggar  was  his  guest, 
Whose  beard  descending  swept  his  aged  breast: 
The  ruin'd  spendthrift,  now  no  longer  proud. 
Claim  kindred  there,  and  had  his  claims  allow'd , 
The  broken  soldier,  kindly  bid  to  stay. 
Sat  by  his  fire,  and  talk'd  the  night  away 
Wept  o'er  his  wounds,  or  tales  of  sorrow  done, 
Shoulder'd    his  crutch,   and    show'd    how  fields 

were  won. 
Pleased  with  his  guests,  the  good  man  learn'd  to 

glow, 
And  quite  forgot  their  vices  in  their  woe ; 

[*  This  picture  of  resignation  gave  ri.«e  to  ReynoldK\s  Re- 
signation, an  attempt,  as  >^ir  Jo-hua  himself  calls  it,  to 
express  a  character  ia  "  The  Deserted  Village."] 


Careless  their  merits  or  their  faults  to  scan, 

His  pity  gave  ere  charity  began. 

Thus  to  relieve  the  wretched  was  his  pride, 

And  even  his  failings  lean'd  to  virtue's  side ; 

But  in  his  duty  prompt  at  every  call, 

He  vvatch'd  and  wept,  he  pray'd  and  felt  for  all. 

And,  as  a  bird  each  fond  endearment  tries. 

To  tempt  its  new  fledg'd  offspring  to  the  skies, 

He  tried  each  art,  reproved  each  dull  delay. 

Allured  to  brighter  worlds,  and  led  the  way. 

Beside  the  bed  where  parting  life  was  laid, 
And  sorrow,  guilt,  and  pain,  by  turns  dismay'd, 
The  reverend  champion  stood.     At  his  control 
Despair  and  anguish  fled  the  struggling  soul ; 
Comfort  came  down  the  trembling  wretch  to  raise. 
And  his  last  falt'ring  accents  whisper'd  praise. 

At  church,  with  meek  and  unaffected  grace, 
His  looks  adorn'd  the  venerable  place ; 
Truth  from  his  lips  prevail'd  with  double  sway. 
And  fools,  who  came  to  scoff,  remain'd  to  pray. 
The  service  past,  around  the  pious  man, 
With  ready  zeal,  each  honest  rustic  ran  : 
Even  children  follow'd  with  endearing  wile, 
And  pluck'd  his  gown,'  to  share  the  good   man's 

smile. 
His  ready  smile  a  parent's  warmth  exprest, 
Their  welfare  pleased  him,  and  their  cares  distrest; 
To  them  his  heart,  his  love,  his  griefs  were  given. 
But  all  his  serious  thoughts  had  rest  in  heaven. 
As  some  tall  cliff  that  lifts  its  awful  form. 
Swells  from  the  vale,  and  midway  leaves  the  storm. 
Though  round  its  breast  the  rolling  clouds  are 
Eternal  sunshine  settles  on  its  head.         [spread. 

Beside  yon  straggling  fence  that  skirts  tne  way, 
With  blossoni'd  furze  uprofitably  gay, 
I'here,  in  his  noisy  mansion,  skill'd  to  rule, 
The  village  master  taught  his  little  school ; 
A  man  severe  he  was,  and  stern  to  view, 
I  knew  him  well,  and  every  truant  knew ; 
Well  had  the  boding  tremblers  learn'd  to  trace 
The  day's  disasters  in  his  morning  face; 
Full  well  they  laugh'd,  with  counterfeited  glee, 
At  all  his  jokes,  for  many  a  joke  had  he; 
Full  well  the  busy  whisper  circling  round. 
Convey 'd  the  dismal  tidings  when  he  frown'd; 
Yet  he  was  kind,  or  if  severe  in  aught. 
The  love  he  bore  to  learning  was  in  fault ; 
The  village  all  declared  how  much  he  knew : 
'Twas  certain  he  could  write,  and  cypher  too; 
Lands  he  could  measure,  terms  and  tides  presage, 
And  even  the  story  ran  that  he  could  guage : 
In  arguing,  too,  the  parson  own'd  his  skill. 
For  even  though  vanquish'd,  he  could  argue  still ; 
While  words  of  learned  length,  and  thund'ring 

sound, 
Amazed  the  gazing  rustics  ranged  around, 
And  still  they  gazed,  and  still  the  wonder  grew, 
That  one  small  head  could  carry  all  he  knew. 
— But  past  is  all  his  fame.     The  very  spot. 
Where  many  a  time  he  triumph'd,  is  forgot. 

Near  yonder  thorn,  that  lifts  its  head  on  high. 
Where  once  the  sign-post  caught  the  passing  eye. 
Low  lies  that  house  where  nut-brown  draughts 

inspired, 
W^^'ire  gprav-beard  mirth,  and  smiling  toil  retired, 


Where  village  statesmen  talk'd  with  looks  pro- 

found, 
And  news  much  older  than  their  ale  went  round 
Imagination  fondly  stoops  to  trace 
The  parlour  splendours  of  that  festive  place ; 
The  white-wash'd  wall,  the  nicely  sanded  floor. 
The  varnish'd  clock  that  click'd  behind  the  door; 
The  chest  contrived  a  double  debt  to  pay, 
A  bed  by  night,  a  chest  of  drawers  by  day ; 
The  pictures  placed  for  ornament  and  use. 
The  Twelve  Good  Rules,  the  Royal  Game  of 

Goose ; 
The  hearth,  except  when  winter  chill'd  the  day. 
With  aspen  boughs,  and  flowers  and  fennel  gay, 
While  broken  tea-cups,  wisely  kept  for  show. 
Ranged  o'er  the  chimney,  glisten 'd  in  a  row. 

Vain  transitory  splendour  !  could  not  all 
Reprieve  the  tott'ring  mansion  from  its  fall ! 
Obscure  it  sinks,  nor  shall  it  more  impart 
An  hour's  importance  to  the  poor  man's  heart; 
Thither  no  more  the  peasant  shall  repair, 
To  sweet  oblivion  of  his  daily  care ; 
No  more  the  farmer's  news,  the  barber's  tale, 
No  more  the  woodman's  ballad  shall  prevail ; 
No  more  the  smith  his  dusky  brow  shall  clear. 
Relax  his  pond'rous  strength,  and  lean  to  hear ; 
The  host  himself  no  longer  shall  be  found 
Careful  to  see  the  mantling  bliss  go  round  ; 
Nor  the  coy  maid,  half  willing  to  be  prest. 
Shall  kiss  the  cup  to  pass  it  to  the  rest. 

Yes!  let  the  rich  deride,  the  proud  disdain, 
These  simple  blessings  of  the  lowly  train, 
To  me  more  dear,  congenial  to  my  heart, 
One  native  charm,  than  all  the  gloss  of  art ; 
Spontaneous  joys,  where  nature  has  its  play, 
The  soul  adopts,  and  owns  their  flrst-born  sway 
Lightly  they  frolic  o'er  the  vacant  mind, 
Unenvied,  unmolested,  unconfined. 
But  the  long  pomp,  the  midnight  masquerade. 
With  all  the  freaks  of  wanton  wealth  array 'd. 
In  these,  ere  triflers  half  their  wish  obtain. 
The  toiling  pleasure  sickens  into  pain ; 
And,  even  while  fashion's  brightest  arts  decoy, 
The  heart  distrusting  asks,  if  this  be  joy  1 

Ye  friends  to  truth,  ye  statesmen,  who  survey 
The  rich  man's  joy  increase,  the  poor's  decay, 
'Tis  yours  to  judge,  how  wide  the  limits  stand 
Between  a  splendid  and  a  happy  land. 
Proud  swells  the  tide  with  loads  of  freighted  ore, 
And  shouting  folly  hails  them  from  her  shore; 
Hoards  e'en  beyond  the  miser's  wish  abound. 
And  rich  men  flock  from  all  the  world  around. 
Yet  count  our  gains.     This  wealth  is  but  a  name 
That  leaves  our  useful  product  still  the  same. 
Not  so  the  loss.     The  man  of  wealth  and  pride 
Takes  up  a  space  that  many  poor  supplied; 
Space  for  his  lake,  his  park's  extende'd  bounds. 
Space  for  his  horses,  equipage  and  hounds; 
The  robe  that  wraps  his  limbs  in  silken  sloth 
Has  robb'd  the  neighbouring  fields  of  half  theii 

growth; 
His  seat,  where  solitary  sports  are  seen. 
Indignant  spurns  the  cottage  from  the  green ; 
Around  the  world  each  needful  product  flies, 
For  all  the  luxuries  the  world  supplies. 


574 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


While  thus  the  land,  adorn'd  for  pleasure  all, 
In  barren  splendour  feebly  waits  the  fall. 

As  some  fair  female,  unadorn'd  and  plain, 
Secure  to  please  while  youth  confirms  her  reign, 
Slights  every  borrow'd  charm  that  dress  supplies, 
Nor  shares  with  art  the  triumph  of  her  eyes: 
But  when  those  charms  are  past,  for  charms  are 
When  time  advances,  and  when  lovers  fail,  [frail, 
She  then  shines  forth,  solicitous  to  bless, 
In  all  the  glaring  impotence  of  dress. 
Thus  fares  the  land,  by  luxury  betray'd. 
In  nature's  simplest  charms  at  first  array'd, 
But  verging  to  decline,  its  splendours  rise, 
Its  vistas  strike,  its  palaces  surprise; 
While,  scourged  by  famine  from  the  smiling  land, 
The  mournful  peasant  leads  his  humble  band ; 
And  while  he  sinks,  without  one  arm  to  save, 
The  country  blooms — a  garden,  and  a  grave. 

Where  then,  ah  !   where  shall  poverty  reside, 
To  'scape  the  pressure  of  contiguous  pride  1 
If  to  some  comtnon's  fenceless  limits  stray'd, 
He  drives  his  flock  to  pick  the  scanty  blade. 
Those  fenceless  fields  the  sons  of  wealth  divide, 
And  even  the  bare-worn  common  is  denied. 

If  to  the  city  sped — What  waits  him  there  1 
To  see  profusion  that  he  must  not  share ; 
To  see  ten  thousand  baneful  arts  combined 
To  pamper  luxury,  and  thin  mankind ; 
To  see  each  joy  the  sons  of  pleasure  know 
Extorted  from  his  fellow-creature's  woe. 
Here,  while  the  courtier  glitters  in  brocade, 
There  the  pale  artist  plies  the  sickly  trade; 
Here,  while  the  proud  their  long-drawn  pomps 

display, 
There  the  black  gibbet  glooms  beside  the  way. 
The  dome  where  pleasure  holds  her  midnight  reign, 
Here,  richly  deck'd,  admits  the  gorgeous  train ; 
Tumultuous  grandeur  crowns  the  blazing  square. 
The  rattling  chariots  clash,  the  torches  glare. 
Sure  scenes  like  these  no  troubles  e'er  annoy ! 
Sure  these  denote  one  universal  joy  ! 
Are  these  thy  serious  thoughts  1 — Ah,  turn  thine 

eyes 
Where  the  poor  houseless  shiv'ring  female  lies. 
She  once,  perhaps,  in  village  plenty  bless'd. 
Has  wept  at  tales  of  innocence  distress'd  ; 
Her  modest  looks  the  cottage  might  adorn. 
Sweet  as  the  primrose  peeps  beneath  the  thorn: 
Now  lost  to  all ;  her  friends,  her  virtue  fled, 
Near  her  betrayer's  door  she  lays  her  head. 
And,  pinch'd  with  cold,  and  shrinking  from  the 

shower. 
With  heavy  heart  deplores  that  luckless  hour 
When  idly,  first  ambitious  of  the  town. 
She  left  her  wheel  and  robes  of  country  brown. 

Do  thine,  sweet   Auburn,  thine,   the  loveliest 
Do  thy  fair  tribes  participate  her  pain  1       [train. 
Even  now,  perhaps,  by  cold  and  hunger  led. 
At  proud  men's  doors  they  ask  a  little  bread  ! 

Ah,  no.     To  distant  climes  a  dreary  scene. 
Where  half  the  convex  world  intrudes  between, 
Through  torrid  tracts  with  fainting  steps  they  go. 
Where  wild  Altama*  murmurs  to  their  woe. 

[*  A  Hirer  in  Georgia,  North  America.] 


Far  different  there  from  all  that  charm'd  before. 
The  various  terrors  of  that  horrid  shore; 
Those  blazing  suns  that  (jart  a  downward  ray. 
And  fiercely  shed  intolerable  day  ; 
Those  matted  woods  where  birds  forget  to  sing. 
But  silent  bats  in  drowsy  clusters  cling ; 
Those   poisonous  fields,  with   rank   luxuriance 

crown'd. 
Where  the  dark  scorpion  gathers  death  around 
Where  at  each  step  the  stranger  fears  to  wake 
The  rattling  terrors  of  the  vengeful  snake ; 
Where  crouching  tigers  wait  their  hapless  prey. 
And  savage  men  more  murderous  still  than  they 
While  oft  in  whirls  the  mad  tornado  flies, 
Mingling  the  ravaged  landscape  with  the  skies. 
Far  different  these  from  every  former  scene. 
The  cooling  brook,  the  grassy  vested  green. 
The  breezy  covert  of  the  warbling  grove, 
That  only  shelter'd  thefts  of  harmless  love. 
Good    Heaven !    what   sorrows   gloom'd  that 

parting  day, 
That  call'd  them  from  their  native  walks  away ; 
When  the  poor  exiles,  every  pleasure  past. 
Hung  round  the  bowers,  and  fondly  look'd  their 

last, 
And  took  a  long  farewell,  and  wish'd  in  vain 
For  seats  like  these  beyond  the  western  main  ; 
And  shudd'ring  still  to  face  the  distant  deep, 
Return'd  and  wept,  and  still  return'd  to  weep. 
The  good  old  sire  the  first  prepared  to  go 
To  new-found  worlds,  and  wept  for  others'  woe ; 
But  for  himself,  in  conscious  virtue  brave. 
He  only  wish'd  for  worlds  beyond  the  grave. 
His  lovely  daughter,  lovelier  in  her  tears. 
The  fond  companion  of  his  helpless  years, 
Silent  went  next,  neglectful  of  her  charms. 
And  left  a  lover's  for  a  father's  arms. 
With  louder  plaints  the  mother  spoke  her  woes, 
And  bless'd  the  cot  where  every  pleasure  rose: 
And  kiss'd  her  thoughtless  babes  with  many  a 

tear. 
And  clasp'd  them  close,  in  sorrow  doubly  dear; 
Whilst  her  fond  husband  strove  to  lend  relief 
In  all  the  silent  manliness  of  grief. 

O  Luxury  !  thou  cursed  by  Heaven's  decree, 
How  ill  exchanged  are  things  like  these  for  thee  ! 
How  do  thy  potions,  with  insidious  joy, 
Diffuse  their  pleasures  only  to  destroy  ! 
Kingdoms  by  thee,  to  sickly  greatness  grown, 
Boa-st  of  a  florid  vigour  not  their  own. 
At   every  draught   more   large    and  large  they 

grow, 
A  bloated  mass  of  rank  unwieldy  woe; 
Till  sapp'd  their  strength,  and  every  part  unsound, 
Down,  down  they  sink,  and  spread  a  ruin  round. 

Even  now  the  devastation  is  begun. 
And  half  the  business  of  destruction  done ; 
Even  now,  methinks,  as  pondering  here  I  stand, 
I  see  the  rural  virtues  leave  the  land. 
Down  where  yon  anchoring  vessel  spreads  the  sail 
That  idly  waiting  flaps  with  every  gale. 
Downward  they  move,  a  melancholy  band, 
Pass  from  the  shore,  and  darken  all  the  strancL 
Contented  Toil,  and  hospitable  Care, 
And  kind  connubial  Tenderness  are  there ; 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


575 


And  Piety  with  wishes  placed  above. 
And  steady  Loyalty,  and  faithful  Love. 
And  thou  sweet  Poetry,  thou  loveliest  maid. 
Still  first  to  fly  where  sensual  joys  invade  ; 
Unfit  in  these  degenerate  times  of  shame 
To  catch  the  heart,  or  strike  for  honest  fame ; 
Dear  charming  nymph,  neglected  and  decried, 
My  shame  in  crowds,  my  solitary  pride; 
Thou  source  of  all  my  bliss,  and  all  my  woe. 
That  found'st  me  poor  at  first,  and  keep'st  me  so; 
Thou  guide,  by  which  the  nobler  arts  excel. 
Thou  nurse  of  every  virtue,  fare  thee  well ; 
Farewell,  and  oh  !  where'er  thy  voice  be  tried, 
On  Torno's  cliffs,  or  Pambaraarca's  side, 
Whether  where  equinoctial  fervours  glow, 
Or  winter  wraps  the  polar  world  in  snow, 
Still  let  thy  voice,  prevailing  over  time, 
Redress  the  rigours  of  the  inclement  clime ; 
Aid  slighted  truth  with  thy  persuasive  strain  ; 
Teach  erring  man  to  spurn  the  rage  of  gain ; 
Teach  him,  that  states  of  native  strength  possest. 
Though  very  poor,  may  still  be  very  blest; 
That  trade's  proud  empire  hastes  to  swift  decay, 
As  ocean  sweeps  the  labour'd  mole  away ; 
While  self-dependent  power  can  time  defy. 
As  rocks  resist  the  billows  and  the  sky.* 


THE  HAUNCH  OF  VENISON. 

A   POETICAI.  EPISTLE  TO  ROBERT  NOaENT  LORD  CLARE.f 

Thanks,  my  Lord,  for  your  venison,  for  finer  or 

fatter 
Never  ranged  in  a  forest,  or  smoked  in  a  platter ; 
The  haunch  was  a  picture  for  painters  to  study. 
The  fat  was  so  white,  and  the  lean  was  so  ruddy: 
Though  my  stomach  was  sharp,  I  could  scarce 

help  regretting 
To  spoil  such  a  delicate  picture  by  eating; 
I  had  thoughts,  in  my  chambers,  to  place  it  in 

view. 
To  be  shown  to  ray  friends  as  a  piece  of  virtu : 
As  in  some  Irish  houses,  where  things  are  so-so, 
One  gammon  of  bacon  hangs  up  for  a  show : 
But,  for  eating  a  rasher  of  what  they  take  pride  in, 
They'd  as  soon  think  of  eating  the  pan  it  is  fried  in. 
But  hold — let  me  pause — don't  I  hear  you  pro- 
nounce. 
This  tale  of  the  bacon  a  damnable  bounce ; 
Well !  suppose  it  a  bounce — sure  a  poet  may  try, 
By  a  bounce  now  and  then,  to  get  courage  to  fly. 
But,  my  lord,  it's  no  bounce  :  I  protest  in  my 
turn, 
Its  a  truth — and  your  lordship  may  ask  Mr.  Bum. 


r*  The  four  last  lines  were  supplied  by  Dr.  .Tohnson.] 
[t  The  luaUiug  idea  of  thin  poem  is  from  li(>i!eau'8  third 
Satire,  and  several  of  the  pusaajtes  are  from  the  same 
quarter.  The  truth  is  that  Uoldmiith,  with  his  many 
meriUi  aud  great  originality,  was  an  uiiftparing  plagiariftt. 
We  shall  iijStauce  here  one  of  his  thiiftn,  the  more  so  that 
it  is  unnoticed  l>y  Mr.  I'rior,  aud  in  as  yet  no  bc-lieve  un- 
Icnown.  "  l^ainting  and  Music,"  he  -iays  in  his  dedication 
of  The  Traveller,  '"at  first  rival  poetry, aud  at  leng'h  sup- 
plant her;  they  engross  all  that  favour  once  shown  to  her, 
and  thoiii^h  but  younger  sisters,  ^eize  u^>on  the  elder's 
birlh-ri|^l.t."    This  is  wholesale  from  Urydeu  : 

Our  arts  are  sisters  though  not  twins  in  birth ; 
For  fayn  ns  were  snug  iu  lUtcn's  happy  earth : 


To  go  on  with  my  tale — as  I  gazed  on  the  haunch, 
I   thought    of   a  friend    that    was    trusty  and 

staunch, 
So  I  cut  it,  and  sent  it  to  Reynolds  undrest. 
To  paint  it,  or  eat  it,  just  as  he  liked  l)e8t. 
Of  the  neck  and  the  breast  I  had  next  to  dispose ; 
'Twas  a  neck  and  a    breast    that    might    rival 

Monroe's ; 
But  in  parting  with  these  I  was  puzzled  again. 
With  the  how,  and  the  who,  and  the  where,  and 

the  when. 
There's  H— d.  and  C— y,  and  H— rth,  and  H— ff, 
I  think  they  love  venison — I  know  they  love  beef. 
There's  my  countryman  Higgins — Oh !  let  him 

alone 
For  making  a  blunder,  or  picking  a  bone. 
But  hang  it — to  poeU  who  seldom  can  eat, 
Your  very  good  mutton's  a  very  good  treat ; 
Such  dainties  to  them  their  health  it  might  hurt, 
It's  like  sending  them   ruffles,  when  wanting  a 

shirt.f 
While  thus  I  debated,  in  reverie  center'd. 
An  acquaintance,  a  fi-iend,  as  he  caJl'd  himself, 

enter'd ; 
An  under-bred,  fine  spoken  fellow  was  he, 
-4nd  he  smiled  as  he  look'd  at  the  venison  and  me. 
'«  What  have  we.  got  here  1 — why,  this  is  good 

eating ! 
Your  own  I  suppose — or  is  it  in  waiting !" 
«'  Why,  whose  should  it  be?"  cried  I  with  a  flounce, 
« I  get  these  things  often ;"  but  that  was  a  liounce ; 
"Some  lords,  my  acquaintance,  that  settle  the 

nation. 
Are  pleased  to  be  kind;  but  I  hate  ostentation." 
"  If  that  be  the  case  then,"  cried  he  very  gay, 
"  I'm  glad  I  have  taken  this  bouse  in  my  way. 
To-morrow  you  take  a  poor  dinner  with  me ; 
No  words — [  insist  on't — precisely  at  three  : 
We'll  have  Johnson,  and  Burke ;  all  the  wits  will 

be  there ; 
My  acquaintance  is  slight  or  I'd  ask  my  Lord  Clare. 
And,  now  that  I  think  on't,  as  I  am  a  sinner. 
We  wanted  this  venison  to  make  out  a  dinner ! 
What  say  you — a  pasty,  it  shall  and  it  must, 
And  my  wife,  little  Kitty,  is  famous  for  crust. 
Here,  porter — this  venison  with  me  to  Mile-end ; 
No   stirring,   I  beg,  my  dear   friend,  my  dear 

friend !" 
Thus  snatching  his  hat,  he  brushed  off  like  the 

wind. 
And  the  porter  and  eatables  follow'd  behind. 

Left  alone  to  reflect,  having  emptied  my  shelf, 
And  "  nobody  with  me  at  sea  but  myself:" 


But  oh.  the  painter  Muse,  though  last  In  place. 
Has  teiacd  the  blessing  first,  like  Jacob's  race. 

7b  .Sir  GidfTtji  KnfJlfr.] 
[X  This  was  an  old  cajring  wi'h  Oold^niith.  •'  Th«-  king," 
he  writes  to  his  brother,  "has  lnt<*ly  been  (leased  toniuKS 
me  Professor  of  Ancient  IIL-itory  in  a  lloyal  Anulcmy  ol 
Pnintin^.  whirh  he  has  just  established,  but  thi-re  is  nc« 
galitry  annexed:  and  I  bxik  it  ratlior  a<  n  compliment  to 
the  institution  than  any  beuefll  to  myself.  Honours  to  on* 
iu  my  sitiin'ion.  are  something  like  rutBes  to  one  that 
wtmU  a  shirt."  This  is  not  noticed  by  Mr.  Prior,  who  has 
trnceti  many  of  Uold«mitb's  thoughts  from  rente  to  prus* 
and  from  proae  to  varae.J 


Though  I  could  not  help  thinking  my  gentleman 

hasty, 
Yet  Johnson,  and  Burke,  and  a  good  venison  pasty, 
Were  things  that  I  never  disliked  in  ray  life, 
Though  clogg'd  with  a  coxcomb,  and  Kitty  his  wife. 
So  next  day  in  due  splendour  to  make  my  ap- 
proach, 
I  drove  to  his  door  in  my  own  hackney-coach. 
When  come  to  the  place  where  we  all  were  to 

dine, 
(A  chair-lumber'd  closet  just  twelve  feet  by  nine,) 
My  friend  bade  me  welcome,  but  struck  me  quite 

dumb, 
With  tidings  that  Johnson  and  Burke  would  not 

come ; 
"  For  I  knew  it,"  he  cried,  "  both  eternally  fail, 
The  one  with  his  speeches,  and  t'other  with 

Thrale : 
But  no  matter,  I'll  warrant  we'll  make  up  the 

party. 
With  two  full  as  clever,  and  ten  times  as  hearty. 
The  one  is  a  Scotchman,  the  other  a  Jew, 
They're  both  of  them  merry,  and  authors  like  you ; 
The  one  writes  the  Snarler,  the  other  the  Scourge ; 
Some  thinks  he  writes  Cinna — he  owns  to  Pa- 

nurge." 
While  thus  he  described  them  by  trade  and  by 

name. 
They  enter'd,  and  dinner  was  served  as  they  came. 

At  the  top  a  fried  liver  and  bacon  were  seen. 
At  the  bottom  was  tripe  in  a  swinging  tureen ; 
At  the  sides  there  were  spinnach  and  pudding 

made  hot ; 
In  the  middle  a  place  where  the  pasty — was  not. 
Now,  my  lord,  as  for  tripe  its  my  utter  aversion. 
And  your  bacon  I  hate  like  a  Turk  or  a  Persian ; 
So  there  I  sat  stuck,  like  a  horse  in  a  pound. 
While  the  bacon  and  liver  went  merrily  round  : 
But  what  vex'd  me  most,  was  that  d 'd  Scot- 

ish  rogue. 
With  his  long-winded  speeches,  his  smiles  and 

his  brogue;  [poison, 

A  nd,  "  Madam,"  quoth  he,  "  may  this  bit  be  my 


A  prettier  dinner  I  never  set  eyes  on  ; 
Pray  a  slice  of  your  liver,  though  may  I  be  curst, 
But  I've  eat  of  your  tripe  till  I'm  ready  to  burst." 
"  The  tripe,"  quoth  the  Jew,  with  his  chocolate 

cheek, 
"  I  could  dine  on  this  tripe  seven  days  in  a  week  : 
I  like  these  here  dinners  so  pretty  and  small; 
But  your  friend  there,  the  doctor,  eats  nothing 

at  all." 
"  O — ho  !"  quoth  my  friend,  "  he'll  come  on  in  a 

trice, 
He's  keeping  a  corner  for  something  that's  nice : 
There's  a  pasty" — "  A  pasty,"  repeated  the  Jew ; 
"  I  don't  care  if  I  keep  a  corner  for't  too." 
«  What  the  de'il,  mon,  a  pasty  !"  re-echoed  the 

Scot; 
"  Though  splitting,  I'll  still  keep  a  corner  for  that." 
"  We'll  all  keep  a  corner,"  the  lady  cried  out ; 
«  We'll  all  keep  a  corner,"  was  echoed  about. 
While  thus  we  resolved,  and  the  pasty  delay'd, 
With  looks  that  quite  petrified  enter'd  the  maid: 
A  visage  so  sad  and  so  pale  with  affright. 
Waked  Priam  in  drawing  his  curtains  by  night. 
But  we  quickly  found  out,  for  who  could  mistake 

her? 
That  she  came  with  some  terrible  news  from  the 

baker : 
And  so  it  fell  out,  for  that  negligent  sloven 
Had  shut  out  the  pasty  on  shutting  his  oven. 
Sad  Philomel  thus — but  let  similes  drop — 
And  now  that  I  think  on't,  the  story  may  stop. 
To  be  plain,  my  good  lord,  its  but  labour  mis- 
placed. 
To  send  such  good  verses  to  one  of  your  taste ; 
You've  got  an  odd  something — a  kind  of  discern- 
ing— 
A  relish — a  taste — sicken'd  over  by  learning  ; 
At  least,  it's  your  temper,  as  very  well  known, 
That  you  think  very  slightly  of  all  that's  your 

own: 
So,  perhaps,  in  your  habits  of  thinking  amiss, 
You  may  make  a  mistake,  and  think  slightly  of 
this. 


PAUL  WHITEHEAD. 


[Born,  1710.     Died,  1774.] 


Paul  Whitehead  was  the  son  of  a  tailor  in 
London ;  and,  after  a  slender  education,  was 
placed  as  an  apprentice  to  a  woollen-draper. 
He  afterward  went  to  the  Temple,  in  order  to 
study  law.  Several  years  of  his  life  (it  is  not 
quite  clear  at  what  period)  were  spent  in  the 
Fleet-prison,  owing  to  a  debt  which  he  foolishly 
contracted,  by  putting  his  name  to  a  joint  secu- 
rity for  3000/.  at  the  request  of  his  friend  Fleet- 
wood, the  theatrical  manager,  who  persuaded 
him  that  his  signature  was  a  mere  matter  of 
form.  How  he  obtained  his  liberation  we  are  not 
informed. 

In  the  year   1735  he  married  a  Miss  Anne 


Dyer,  with  whom  he  obtained  ten  thousand 
pounds.  She  was  homely  in  her  person,  and 
very  w^eak  in  intellect ;  but  Whitehead,  it  ap- 
pears, always  treated  her  with  respect  and  ten- 
derness. 

He  became,  in  the  same  year,  a  satirical 
rhymer  against  the  ministry  of  Walpole;  and 
having  published  his  "  State  Dunces,"  a  weak 
echo  of  the  manner  of  the  "  Dunciad,"  he  was 
patronized  by  the  opposition,  and  particularly  by 
Bubb  Doddington.  In  1739  he  published  the 
"  Manners,"  a  satire,  in  which  Mr.  Chalmers 
says,  that  he  attacks  every  thing  venerable  in 
the  constitution.     The  poem  is  not  worth  dis- 


WALTER  HARTE. 


577 


putmg  about ;  but  it  is  certainly  a  mere  personal 
lampoon,  and  no  attack  on  the  constitution.  For 
this  invective  he  was  summoned  to  appear  at 
the  bar  of  the  House  of  Lords,  but  concealed 
himself  for  a  time,  and  the  affair  was  dropped. 
The  threat  of  prosecuting  him,  it  was  suspected, 
was  meant  as  a  hint  to  Pope,  that  those  who 
satirised  the  great  might  bring  themselves  into 
danger;  and  Pope  (it  is  pretended)  became  more 
cautious.  There  would  seem,  however,  to  be 
nothing  very  terrific  in  the  example  of  a  prose- 
cution, that  must  have  been  dropped  either  from 
clemency  or  conscious  weakness.  The  ministerial 
journals  took  another  sort  of  revenge,  by  accus. 
ing  him  of  irreligion ;  and  the  evidence  which 
they  candidly  and  consistently  brought  to  sub- 
stantiate the  charge,  was  the  letter  of  a  student 
from  Cambridge,  who  had  been  himself  expelled 
from  the  university  for  atheism. 

In  1744  he  published  another  satire,  entitled 


the  "  Gymnasiad,"  on  the  most  renowned  boxers 
of  the  day.  It  had  at  least  the  merit  of  being 
harmless. 

By  the  interest  of  Lord  Despenser,  he  obuined 
a  place  under  government,  that  of  deputy  trea- 
surer of  the  chamber;  and  retiring  to  a  hand- 
some cottage,  which  he  purchased  at  Twickenham, 
he  lived  in  comfort  and  hospitality,  and  suffered 
his  small  satire  and  politics  to  be  equally  forgot- 
ten.    Churchill  attacked  him  in  a  couplet, — 

"  May  I  (can  worse  disgrace  on  manhood  fall  f) 
Be  bom  a  Whitehead,  and  baptized  a  Paul." 

But  though  a  libertine  like  Churchill,  he  seems 
not  to  have  been  the  worse  man  of  the  two.  Sir 
John  Hawkins  gives  him  the  character  of  being 
good-hearted,  even  to  simplicity ;  and  says,  that 
he  was  esteemed  at  Twickenham  for  his  kind 
ofRces,  and  for  composing  quarrels  among  his 
neighbours. 


HUNTING  SONG. 

The  sun  from  the  east  tips  the  mountains  with 

gold; 
The  meadows  all  spangled  with  dew-drops  behold ! 
Hear !  the  lark's  early  matin  proclaims  the  new 

day,  [delay. 

And  the  horn's  cheerful  summons  rebukes  our 

CHORUS. 

With  the  sports  of  the  field  there's  no  pleasure 

can  vie, 
While  jocund  we  follow  the  hounds  in  full  cry. 

Let  the  drudge  of  the  town  make  riches  his 

sport ; 
The  slave  of  the  state  hunt  the  smiles  of  the  court: 
No  care  and  ambition  our  pastime  annoy, 
But  innocence  still  give  a  zest  to  our  joy. 

With  the  sports,  &c. 


Mankind  are  all  hunters  in  various  degree ; 
The  priest  hunts  a  living — the  lawyer  a  fee, 
The  doctor  a  patient — the  courtier  a  place, 
Though  often,  like  us,  he's  flung  out  in  the  chase. 
With  the  sports,  &c. 

The  cit  hunts  a  plumb — while  the  soldier  hunts 
The  poet  a  dinner — the  patriot  a  name ;  [fame, 
And  the  practised  coquette,  though  she  seems  to 

refuse, 
In  spite  of  her  airs,  still  her  lover  pursues. 

With  the  sports,  &c 

Let  the  bold  and  the  busy  hunt  glory  and  wealth ; 
All  the  blessing  we  ask  is  the  blessing  of  health. 
With  hound  and  with  horn  through  the  woodlands 

to  roam. 
And,  when  tired  abroad,find  contentment  at  home 
With  the  sports,  &c 


WALTER  HARTE. 


CBorn,  aboDt  I70T.    Died,  1774.] 


Thb  father  of  this  writer  was  a  fellow  of 
Pembroke  college,  Oxford,  prebendary  of  Wells, 
and  vicar  of  St.  Mary's  at  Taunton,  in  Somer- 
setshire. When  Judge  Jefferies  came  to  the 
assizes  at  Taunton,  to  execute  vengeance  on  the 
sharers  of  Monmouth's  rebellion,  Mr.  Harte 
Waited  upon  him  in  private,  and  remonstrated 
against  his  severities.  The  judge  listened  to  him 
attentively,  though  he  had  never  seen  him  be- 
fore. It  was  not  in  Jefferies'  nature  to  practise 
humanity ;  hut,  in  this  solitary  instance,  he 
showed  a  respect  for  its  advocate ;  and  in  a  few 
months  advanced  the  vicar  to  a  prebendal  stall 
m  the  cathedral  of  Bristol.  At  the  Revolution 
ihe  aged  clergyman  resigned  his  preferments, 
73 


rather  than  take  the  oath  of  allegiance  to  King 
William ;  an  action  which  raises  our  esteem  of 
his  intercession  with  Jefferies,  while  it  adds  to  the 
unsalutary  examples  of  men  supporting  tyrants, 
who  have  had  the  virtue  to  hate  their  tyranny. 

The  accounts  that  are  preserved  of  his  son, 
the  poet,  are  not  very  minute  or  interesting. 
The  date  of  his  birth  has  not  even  been  settled. 
A  writer  in  the  Gentleman's  Magazine  fixes  it 
about  1707;  but  by  the  date  of  his  degrees  at 
the  university,  this  supposition  is  utterly  inad- 
missible ;  and  all  circumstances  considered,  it  is 
impossible  to  suppose  that  he  was  born  later  than 
1700.  He  was  educated  at  Marlborough  college, 
and  took  his  df^gree  of  master  of  trts  at  Oxfo>d, 
•i\ 


578 


WALTER  HARTE. 


in  1720.*  He  was  introduced  to  Pope  at  an 
early  period  of  his  life;  and,  in  return  for  the 
abundant  adulation  which  he  offered  to  that  poet, 
was  rewarded  with  his  encouragement,  and  even 
his  occasional  assistance  in  versification.  Yet, 
admirer  as  he  was  of  Pope,  his  manner  leans 
more  to  the  imitation  of  Dry  den.  In  1727  he 
published,  by  subscription,  a  volume  of  poems, 
which  he  dedicated  to  the  Earl  of  Peterborough, 
who,  as  the  author  acknowledges,  was  the  first 
patron  of  his  muse.  In  the  preface  it  is  boasted, 
that  the  poems  had  been  chiefly  written  under 
the  age  of  nineteen.  As  he  must  have  been 
several  years  turned  of  twenty,  when  he  made 
this  boast,  it  exposes  eith<:r  his  sense  or  veracity 
to  some  suspicion.  He  either  concealed  what 
improvements  he  had  made  in  the  poems,  or 
showed  a  bad  judgment  in  not  having  improved 
them. 

His  next  publications,  in  1730  and  1735,  were 
an  "Essay  on  Satire,"  and  another  on  "  Reason," 
to  both  of  which  Pope  is  supposed  to  have  con- 
tributed many  lines.  Two  sermons,  which  he 
printed,  were  so  popular  as  to  run  through  five 
editions.  He  therefore  rose,  with  some  degree 
of  clerical  reputation,  to  be  principal  of  St.  Mary 
Hall,  Oxford ;  and  was  so  much  esteemed,  that 
Lord  Lyttelton  recommended  him  to  the  Earl 
of  Chesterfield,  as  the  most  proper  tutor  and 
travelling  companion  to  his  son.  Harte  had, 
indeed,  every  requisite  for  the  preceptorship  of 
Mr.  Stanhope,  that  a  Grsevius  or  Gronovius  could 
have  possessed ;  but  none  of  those  for  which  we 
should  have  supposed  his  father  to  have  been 
most  anxious.  He  was  profoundly  learned,  but 
ignorant  of  the  world,  and  awkward  in  his  person 
and  address.  His  pupil  and  he,  however,  after 
having  travelled  together  for  four  years,  parted 
with  mutual  regret ;  and  Lord  Chesterfield 
showed  his  regard  for  Harte  by  procuring  for 
him  a  canonry  of  Windsor. 

During  his  connection  with  Lord  Peterborough, 
that  nobleman  had  frequently  recommended  to 
him  to  write  the  life  of  Gustavus  Adolphus.  For 
this  historical  work  he  collected,  during  his 
travels,  much  authentic  and  original  information. 
It  employed  him  for  many  years,  and  was  pub- 
lished in  1759  ;  but  either  from  a  vicious  taste, 
or  from  his  having  studied  the  idioms  of  foreign 
languages  till  he  had  forgotten  those  of  his  own, 
he  wrote  his  history  in  a  style  so  obscure  and 
uncouth,  that  its  merits,  as  a  work  of  research, 
were  overlooked,  and  its  reception  from  the  pub- 
lic was  cold  and  mortifying.  Lord  Chesterfield, 
in  speaking  of  its  being  translated  into  German, 
piously  wishes  "  that  its  author  had  translated  it 


[*  This  according  to  Mr.  Croker's  showing,  (Bostoell,  vol. 
1.  p.  3V")  is  not  the  case.  The  Walter  Harte  who  took  his 
aegree  of  A.M.  at  Pembroke  Collepe,  Oxford,  in  1720,  was 
not  the  poet;  for  he  was  of  St.  Mary's  Hall,  and  made 
A.M.  on  the  2l8t  January  1730.  This  one  fact  removes 
Mr.  Campbell's  after  difficulties.] 

"  "        "  'ty  Croker,  vol.  iv.  p.  449.] 

Life  of  Qustavug  Adolphus,  Mr.  Chalmers 

very  unfortunate  publication.    Hume's 

Elouse  of  Tudor  came  out  the  same  week,  and  Uohertson's 


BIT.  uampoeii  8  ai 
[t  Boswell  by  0 
h  "  Harte'B  Lifi 

*A!i\»  US,  was  'a 


into  English ;  as  it  was  full  of  Germanisms, 
Latinisms,  and  all  isms  but  Anglicisms."  All  the 
time,  poor  Harte  thought  lie  was  writing  a  style 
less  laboured  and  ornate  than  that  of  his  cotem- 
poraries ;  and  when  George  Hawkins,  the  book- 
seller, objected  to  some  of  his  most  violent  phrases, 
he  used  to  say,  "George,  that  is  what  we  call 
writing."  This  infatuation  is  the  more  surprising, 
that  his  Sermons,  already  mentioned,  are  marked 
by  no  such  affectation  of  manner ;  and  he  pub- 
lished in  1764  "Essays  on  Husbandry,"  which 
are  said  to  be  remarkable  for  their  elegance  and 
perspicuity. 

Dr. Johnson,  according  to  Boswell,  said,  "that 
Harte  was  excessively  vain:  that  he  left  London 
on  the  day  his  '  Life  of  Gustavus'  was  published, 
to  avoid  the  great  praise  he  was  to  receive  ;  but 
Robertson's  '  History  of  Scotland'  having  come 
out  the  same  day,  he  was  ashamed  to  return  to 
the  scene  of  his  mortification.""|"  This  sarcastic 
anecdote  comes  in  the  suspicious  company  of  a 
blunder  as  to  dates,  for  Robertson's  "  History  of 
Scotland"  was  published  a  month  after  [before?] 
Harte's  "  Life  of  Gustavus ;"  and  it  is  besides 
rather-an  odd  proof  of  a  man's  vanity,  that  he 
should  have  run  away  from  expected  compli- 
ments.J 

l"he  failure  of  his  historical  work  is  alleged  to 
have  mortified  him  so  deeply,  as  to  have  affected 
his  health.  All  the  evidence  of  this,  however,  is 
deduced  from  some  expressions  in  his  letters,  in 
which  he  complains  of  fi-equent  indisposition. 
His  biographers,  first  of  all  take  it  for  granted, 
that  a  man  of  threescore  could  not  possibly  be 
indisposed  from  any  other  cause  than  from  read- 
ing harsh  reviews  of  his  "Life  of  Gustavus;" 
and  then,  very  consistently,  show  the  folly  of  his 
being  grieved  at  the  fate  of  his  history,  by  proving 
that  his  work  was  reviewed,  on  the  whole,  rather 
in  a  friendly  and  laudatory  manner.  Harte, 
however,  was  so  far  from  being  a  martyr,  either 
to  the  justice  or  injustice  of  criticism,  that  he 
prepared  a  second  edition  of  the  "  Life  of  Gusta- 
vus" for  the  press ;  and  announced,  in  a  note, 
that  he  had  finished  the  "  History  of  the  thirty 
Years  War  in  Germany."  His  servant  Dore, 
afterward  an  innkeeper  at  Bath,  got  possession 
of  his  MSS.  and  this  work  is  supposed  to  be 
irrecoverably  lost.  In  the  mean  time,  he  was 
struck  with  a  palsy  in  1766,  which  attacked  him 
again  in  1769,  and  put  a  period  to  his  hfe  five 
years  after.  At  the  time  of  his  death  he  was 
vicar  of  St.  Austel  and  Blazy  in  Cornwall. 

His  poetry  is  little  read ;  and  I  am  aware  of 
hazarding  the  appearance  of  no  great  elegance 
of  taste,  in  professing  myself  amused  and   in- 


History  of  Scotland  only  a  month  before ;  and  after  pe- 
rusing these,  poor  Harte's  style  could  not  certainly  be 
endured.'  Mr.  Chalmers  perhaps  may  require  to  be  told 
that  industry  in  collecting,  examuiing.  and  arranging  the 
materials  of  history,  and  tidelity  in  using  them,  are  the 
first  qualities  of  an  historian :  that  in  those  qualities 
Harte  has  not  been  surpassed ;  that  in  the  opinion  of  mili- 
tary men  Harte's  is  the  best  military  histc/ry  in  our  lan- 
guage, and  that  it  is  rising  and  will  continue  to  rise  in 
repute." — Socihet,  <iuar.  Jfeu.  vol.  xi.  p.  497.] 


WALTER  HARTE. 


679 


terested  by  several  parte  of  it.  particularly  by  his 
*  Amaranth."  In  spite  of  pedantry  and  gjo- 
tesqueness,  he  appears,  in  numerous  passages, 
to  have  condensed  the  reflection  and  information 
of  no  ordinary  mind.     If  the  reader  dislikes  his 


story  of  «  Eulogius,"  I  have  only  to  inform  him, 
that  I  have  taken  some  pains  to  prevent  iu  being 
more  prolix  than  is  absolutely  necessary,  by  the 
mechanical  reduction  of  its  superfluities. 


EUIiOQlUS :  OR,  THB  CHARITABLK  MASON. 

FROM  THE  GREEK  OF  PAULU8  8TLL0OU8. 

In  ancient  times  scarce  talk'd  of,  and  less  known, 
When  pious  Justin  fill'd  the  eastern  throne, 
In  a  small  dorp,  till  then  for  nothing  famed, 
And  by  the  neighbouring  swains  Thebais  named, 
Eulogius  lived :  an  humble  mason  he  ; 
In  nothing  rich  but  virtuous  poverty. 
From  noise  and  riot  he  devoutly  kept, 
Sigh'd  with  the  sick,  and  with  the  mourner  wept; 
Half  his  earn'd  pittance  to  poor  neighbours  went; 
They  had  his  alms  and  he  had  his  content. 
Still  from  his  little  he  could  something  spare 
To  feed  the  hungry,  and  to  clothe  the  bare. 
He  gave,  whilst  aught   he    had,  and    knew  no 

bounds ; 
The  poor  man's  drachms  stood  for  rich  men's 

pounds; 
He  learnt  with  patience,  and  with  meekness  taught. 
Hie  life  was  but  the  comment  of  his  thought 
*  *  *  * 

On  the  south  aspect  of  a  sloping  hill, 
Whose  skirts  meandering  Penus  washes  still, 
Our  pious  labourer  pass'd  his  youthful  days 
In  peace  and  charity,  in  prayer  and  praise. 
No  theatres  of  oaks  around  him  rise. 
Whose  roots  earth's  centre  touch,  whose  head 

the  skies ; 
No  stately  larch-tree  there  expands  a  shade 
O'er  half  a  rood  of  Larrissdan  glade  : 
No  lofty  poplars  catch  the  murmuring  breeze. 
Which  loitering  whispers  on  the  cloud-capp'd  trees; 
Such  imagery  of  greatness  ill  became 
A  nameless  dwelling,  and  an  unknown  name ! 
Instead  of  forest-monarchs,  and  their  train. 
The  unambitious  rose  bedeck'd  the  plain  ; 
On  skirting  heights  thick  stood  the  clustering  vine, 
And  here  and  there  the  sweet-leaved  eglantine; 
One  lilac  only,  with  a  statelier  gn'^^^c. 
Presumed  to  claim  the  oak's  and  cedar's  place. 
And,  looking  round  him  with  a  monarch's  care, 
Spread  his  exalted  boughs  to  wave  in  air. 

This  spot,  for  dwelling  fit,  Eulogius  chose. 
And  in  a  month  a  decent  homestall  rose, 
Something  between  a  cottage  and  a  cell — 
Yet  virtue  here  could  sleep,  and  peace  could  dwell. 
From  living  stone  (but  not  of  Parian  rocks,) 
He  chipp'd  his  pavement,  and   be  squared  his 

blocks : 
And  then,  without  the  aid  of  neighbours'  art, 
Perform'd  the  carpenter's  and  glazier's  part. 
The  site  was  neither  gpranted  him  nor  giv'n ; 
'Twas  nature's ;    and   the    ground-rent  due   to 

heav'n. 
Wife  he  had  none :  nor  had  he  love  to  spare ; 
\n  aged  mother  wanted  all  bis  care. 


They  thank'd  their  Maker  for  a  pittance  sent, 
Supp'd  on  a  turnip,  slept  upon  content. 

Four  rooms,  above,  below,  this  mansion  graced. 
With  white-wash  deck'd,  and  river-sand  o'ercast : 
The  first,  (forgive  my  verse  if  too  diffuse,) 
Perform'd  the  kitchen's  and  the  parlour's  use ; 
The  second,  better  bolted  and  immured. 
From  wolves  his  out-door  family  secured : 
(For  he  had  twice  three  kids,  besides  their  dams ; 
A  cow,  a  spaniel,  and  two  fav'rite  lambs:) 
A  third,  with  herbs  perfumed,  and  rushes  spread, 
Held,  for  his  mother's  use,  a  feather'd  l>ed : 
Two  moss-mattresses  in  the  fourth  were  shown ; 
One  for  himself,  for  friends  and  pilgrims  one. 

No  flesh  fVom  market-towns  our  peasant  sought: 
He  rear'd  his  frugal  meat,  but  never  bought: 
A  kid  sometimes  for  festivals  he  slew ; 
The  choicer  part  was  his  sick  neighbours'  due : 
Two  bacon-flitches  made  his  Sunday's  cheer. 
Some  the  poor  had,  and  some  out-lived  the  year : 
For  roots  and  herbage,  (raised  at  hours  to  spare,) 
With  humble  milk,  composed  his  usual  fare. 
(The  poor  man   then  was  rich,  and  lived  with 

glee; 
Each  barley-head  untax'd,  and  daylight  free :) 
All  had  a  part  in  all  the  rest  could  spare. 
The  common  water,  and  the  common  air. 

Meanwhile   God's   blessings   made   Eulogioa 
thrive, 
The  happiest,  most  contented  man  alive. 
His  conscience  cheer'd  him  with  a  life  well  spent, 
His  prudence  a  superfluous  something  lent. 
Which  made  the  poor  who  took,  and  poor  who 

gave,  content. 
Alternate  were  his  labours  and  his  rest, 
For  ever  blessing,  and  for  ever  blest. 

Euseliius,  hermit  of  a  neighb'ring  cell. 
His  brother  Chri.stian  mark'd,  and  knew  him  well: 
With  zeal  unenvying,  and  with  transport  fired. 
Beheld  him,  praised  him,  loved  him,  and  admired. 

"  Then  hear  me,  gracious  Heaven,  and  grant  my 
prayer ; 
Make  yonder  man  the  fav'rite  of  thy  care : 
Nourish  the  plant  with  thy  ceb-stial  dew, 
Like  manna,  let  it  fall,  and  still  be  new : 
Expand  the  blossoms  of  his  gen'rous  mind. 
Till  the  rich  odour  reaches  half  mankind. 
Then  may  his  soul  its  free-born  range  enjoy, 
Give  deed  to  will,  and  every  power  employ." 

The  hermit's  prayer  permitted,  not  approved ; 
Soon  in  a  higher  sphere  Eulogius  moved. 

One  day,  in  turning  some  uncultured  ground, 
(In  hopes  a  freestone  quarry  might  be  found,) 
His  mattock  met  resisiancc,  and  l>ehold 
A  casket  burst,  with  di'moiids  fill'd,  and  gold. 
He  cramm'd  his  pockets  with  the  precious  store. 
And  every  night  review'd  it  o'er  and  o'er; 


580 


WALTER  HARTE. 


Till  a  gay  conscious  pride,  unknown  as  yet, 
Touch'd  a  vain  heart,  and  taught  it  to  forget: 
And  what  still  more  his  stagg'ring  virtue  tried, 
His  mother,  tut'ress  of  that  virtue,  died. 

A  neigb'ring  matron,  not  unknown  to  fame, 
(Historians  give  her  Teraminta's  name,) 
The  parent  of  the  needy  and  distress'd,      [blest: 
With  large  demesnes   and   well   saved   treasure 
(For,  like  th'  Egyptian  prince,  she  hoarded  store 
To  feed  at  periodic  dearths  the  poor:) 
This  matron,  whiten'd  with  good  works  and  age, 
Approach'd  the  sabbath  of  her  pilgrimage ; 
Her  spirit  to  himself  th'  Almighty  drew; — 
Breath'd  on  th'  alembic,  and  exhaled  the  dew. 
In  souls  prepared,  the  passage  is  a  breath 
From  time  t'  eternity,  from  life  to  death. 
But  first,  to  make  the  poor  her  future  care, 
She  left  the  good  Eulogius  for  her  heir. 

Who  but  Eulogius  now  exults  for  joy  1 
New  thoughts,  new  hopes,  new  views  his  mind 

employ. 
Pride  push'd  forth  buds  at  every  branching  shoot, 
And  virtue  shrunk  almost  beneath  the  root. 
High  raised  on  Fortune's  hill,  new  Alps  he  spies, 
O'ershoots  the  valley  which  beneath  him  lies, 
Forgets  the  depths  between,  and  travels  with  his 

The  tempter  saw  the  danger  in  a  trice,  [eyes. 
(For  the  man  slidder'd  upon  Fortune's  ice :) 
And,  having  found  a  corpse,  half  dead,  half  warm, 
Revived  it,  and  assumed  a  courtier's  form ; 
Swift  to  Thebais  urged  his  airy  flight ; 
And  measured  half  the  globe  in  half  a  night. 

Libanius-like,*  he  play'd  the  sophist's  part. 
And  by  soft  marches  stole  upon  the  heart : 
Maintain'd  that  station  gave  new  birth  to  sense, 
And  call'd  forth  manners,  courage,  eloquence: 
Then  touch'd  with  sprightly  dashes  here  and  there, 
(Correctly  strong,  yet  seeming  void  of  care,) 
The  master-topic,  which  may  most  men  move. 
The  charms  of  beauty  and  the  joys  of  love  ! 
Eulogius  falter'd  at  the  first  alarms. 
And  soon  the  'wakened  passions  buzz'd  to  arms ; 
Nature  the  clam'rous  bell  of  discord  rung, 
And  vices  from  dark  caverns  swift  upsprung. 
So,  when  hell's  monarch  did  his  summons  make, 
The  slumb'ring  demons  started  from  the  lake. 

And  now,  the  treasure  found,  and  matron's 
store. 
Sought  other  objects  than  the  tatter'd  poor ; 
Part  to  humiliated  Apicius  went, 
A  part  to  gaming  confessors  was  lent, 
And  part,  oh  virtuous  Thais,  paid  thy  rent. 
Poor  folks  have  leisure  hours  to  fast  and  pray; 
Our  rich  man's  business  lay  another  way  : 
No  farther  intercourse  with  heaven  had  he. 
But  left  good  works  to  men  of  low  degree : 
Warm  as  himself  pronounced  each  ragged  man, 
\nd  bade  distress  to  prosper  as  it  can  : 
Till,  grown  obdurate  by  mere  dint  of  time, 
He  deem'd  all  poor  men  rogues,  and  want  a  crime, 

Fame,  not  contented  with  her  broad  highway. 
Delights,  for  change,  through  private  paths  to 
stray ; 


*  A  famous  Greek  rhetorician  in  the  fourth  century, 
irbose  orations  are  still  extant. 


And,  wand'ring  to  the  hermit's  distant  cell, 
Vouchsafed  Eulogius'  history  to  tell. 

At  night  a  dream  confirm'd  the  hermit  more; 
He  'spied  his  friend  on  beds  of  roses  laid : 
Round  him  a  crowd  of  threat'ning  furies  stands. 
With  instruments  of  vengeance  in  their  hands. 

He  waked  aghast:  he  tore  his  hair. 
And  rent  his  sackcloth  garments  in  despair; 
Walk'd  to  Constantinople,  and  inquired 
Of  all  he  met ;  at  length  the  house  desired 
By  chance  he  found,  but  no  admission  gain'd ; 
A  Thracian  slave  the  porter's  place  maintain'd, 
(Sworn  foe  to  thread-bare  suppliants,)  and  witli 

pride 
His  master's  presence,  nay,  his  name  denied. 

There  walk'd  Eusebius  at  the  dawn  of  light, 
There  walk'd  at  noon,  and  there  he  walk'd  at  night. 
In  vain. — At  length,  by  Providence's  care. 
He  found  the  door  unclosed,  nor  servants  near. 
He  enter'd,  and  through  several  rooms  of  state 
Pass'd  gently ;  in  the  last  Eulogius  sat. 
Old  man,  good  morrow,  the  gay  courtier  cried ; 
God  give  you  grace,  my  son,  the  sire  replied: 
And  then,  in  terms  as  moving  and  as  strong. 
As  clear  as  ever  fell  from  angel's  tongue. 
Besought,  reproved,  exhorted,  and  condemn'd : 
Eulogius  knew  him,  and,  though  known,  con 
temn'd. 

The  hermit  then  assumed  a  bolder  tone ; 
His  rage  was  kindled,  and  his  patience  gone. 
Without  respect  to  titles  or  to  place, 
I  call  thee  (adds  he)  miscreant  to  thy  face. 
My  prayers  drew  down  heaven's  bounty  oi«  thy 

head, 
And  in  an  evil  hour  my  wishes  sped. 
Ingratitude's  black  curse  thy  steps  attend. 
Monster  to  God,  and  faithless  jto  thy  friend  ! 
*  *  *  The  hermit  went 

Back  to  Thebais  full  of  discontent ; 
Saw  his  once  impious  rashness  more  and  more, 
And,  victim  to  convinced  contrition,  bore 
With  Christian  thankfulness  the  marks  he  wore. 
And  then  on  bended  knees  with  tears  and  sighs. 
He  thus  invoked  the  Ruler  of  the  skies: 
«  My  late  request,  all -gracious  Power,  forgive  ! 
And — that  yon  miscreant  may  repent,  and  live. 
Give  him  that  poverty  which  suits  him  best. 
And  leave  disgrace  and  grief  to  work  the  rest." 

So  pray'd  the  hermit,  and  with  reason  pray'd. — 
Some  plants  the  sunshine  ask,  and  some  the  shade. 
At  night  the  nure-trees  spread,  but  check  tbeii 

bloom 
At  morn,  and  lose  their  verdure  and  perfume. 
The  virtues  of  most  men  will  only  blow. 
Like  coy  auriculas,  in  Alpine  snow : 
Transplant  them  to  the  equinoctial  line. 
Their  vigour  sickens  and  their  tints  decline. 

Meanwhile  Eulogius,  unabash'd  and  gay, 
Pursued  his  courtly  track  without  dismay : 
Remorse  was   hoodwink'd,  conscience    charm'd 

away ; 
Reason  the  felon  of  herself  was  made. 
And  nature's  substance  hid  by  nature's  shade ! 

Our  fine  man,  now  completed,  quickly  found 
Congenial  friends  in  Asiatic  ground. 


The  advent'rous  pilot  in  a  single  year 
Learn'd  his  state  cock-boat  dext'rously  to  steer. 
By  other  arts  he  learns  the  knack  to  thrive ; 
The  most  obsequious  parasite  aUve  : 
Chameleon  of  the  court,  and  country  too ; 
Pays  Caesar's  tax,  but  gives  the  mob  their  due; 
And  makes  it,  in  his  conscience,  the  same  thing 
To  crown  a  tribune,  or  behead  a  king. 

On  less  important  days,  he  pass'd  his  time 
In  virtuoso-ship,  and  crambo-rhyme  : 
In  gaming,  jobbing,  fiddling,  painting,  drinking, 
And  every  art  of  using  time,  but  thinking. 
He  gives  the  dinners  of  each  upstart  man, 
As  costly,  and  luxurious,  as  he  can  ; 
Then  weds  an  heiress  of  suburbian  mold, 
Ugly  as  apes,  but  well  endow'd  with  gold ; 
There  fortune  gave  him  his  full  doze  of  strife, 
A  scolding  woman,  and  a  jealous  wife ! 

T'  increase  this  load,  some  sycophant  report 
Destroy'd  his  int'rest  and  good  grace  at  court. 
At  this  one  stroke  the  man  look'd  dead  in  law : 
His  flatt'rers  scamper,  and  his  friends  withdraw. 

And  now  (to  shorten  my  disastrous  tale) 
Storms  of  affronts  pour'd  in  as  thick  as  hail. 
Each  scheme  for  safety  mischievously  sped, 
And  the  drawn  sword  hung  o'er  him  by  a  thread. 
Child  he  had  none.     His  wife  with  sorrow  died ; 
Few  women  can  survive  the  loss  of  pride. 

The  Demon  having  tempted  Eulogius  to  engage  in  rebel- 
lion again.^t  his  Prince,  be  is  cast  into  prison. 

Here,  were  it  not  too  long,  I  might  declare 
The  motives  and  successes  of  the  war ; 
The  prowess  of  the  knights,  their  martial  deeds. 
Their  swords,  their  shields,  their  surcoats,  and 
Till  Belisarius  at  a  single  blow        [their  steeds ; 
Suppress'd  the  faction  and  repell'd  the  foe. 
By  a  quick  death  the  traitors  he  relieved ; 
Condemn'd,  if  taken ;  famish'd,  if  reprieved. 

Now  see  Eulogius  (who  had  all  betray'd 
Whate'er  he  knew)  in  loathsome  dungeon  laid: 
A  pris'ner,  first  of  war,  and  then  of  state: 
Rebel  and  traitor  ask  a  double  fate  ! 
But  good  Justinian,  whose  exalted  mind, 
(In  spite  of  what  Pirasmus  urged,)  inclined 
To  mercy,  soon  the  forfeit-life  forgave. 
And  freed  it  from  the  shackles  of  a  slave. 
Then  spoke  with  mild,  but  in  majestic  strain, 
Repent,  and  haste  thee  to  Larissa's  plain. 
Or  wander  through  the  world,  another  Cain. 
Thy  lands  and  goods  shall  be  the  [M>or  man's  lot. 
Or  feed  the  orphans  you've  so  long  forgot. 

Forsaken,  helpless,  recognised  by  none 
Proscribed  Eulogius  left  the  unprosp'rous  town : 
For  succour  at  a  thousand  doors  he  knock'd  ; 
Each  heart  was   harden'd,  and  each  door  was 

lock'd. 
A  pilgrim's  staff  he  bore,  of  humble  thorn ; 
Pervious  to  winds  his  coat,  and  sadly  torn: 
Shoes  be  had  none :  a  beggar  gave  a  pair. 
Who  saw  feet  poorer  than  his  own,  and  bare. 
He  drank  the  stream,  on  dewberries  he  fed, 
And  wildings  harsh  supplied  the  place  of  bread; 
Thus  homeward  urged  his  soUtary  way  ; 
(Four  vears  be  had  been  absent  to  a  day.) 


Fame  through  Tbebais  his  arrival  spread. 
Half  his  old  friends  reproach'd  him,  and  half  fled 
Of  help  and  common  countenance  bereft. 
No  creature  own'd  him,  but  a  dog  he  left. 
Compunction  touch'd  his  soul,  and,  wiser  made 
By  bitter  suff'rings  he  resumed  his  trade : 
Thank'd  Heaven  for  want  of  power  and  want  of 

pelf, 
That  he  had  lost  the  world  and  found  himselfl 
Conscience  and  charity  revived  their  part, 
And  true  humihty  enrich'd  the  heart. 
While  grace  celestial,  with  enlivening  ray 
Beam'd  forth,  to  gild  the  evening  of  his  day. 
His  neighbours  mark'd  the  change,  and  each  man 

strove 
By  slow  degrees  t'  applaud  him,  and  to  love. 
So  Peter,  when  his  tim'rous  guilt  was  o'er. 
Emerged  and  stood  twice  firmer  than  before. 


CONTENTMENT,  INDUSTRY,  AND  AOQUIESCENCB 
UNDEB  TIIE  DIVINE  WILL. 


Why  dwells  my  unofTended  eye 
On  yon  blank  desert's  trackless  waste ; 
All  dreary  earth,  or  cheerless  sky. 
Like  ocean  wild,  and  bleak,  and  vast  1 
There  Lysidor's  enamour'd  reed 
Ne'er  taught  the  plains  Eudosia's  praise; 
There  herds  were  rarely  known  to  feed. 
Or  birds  to  sing,  or  flocks  to  graze. 
Yes  does  my  soul  complacence  find ; 
All,  all  from  thee. 
Supremely  gracious  Deity, 
Corrector  of  the  mind ! 


Tremble,  and  yonder  Alp  behold. 
Where  half  dead  nature  gasps  below 
Victim  of  everlasting  cold, 
Entomb'd  alive  in  endless  snow. 
The  northern  side  is  horror  all ; 
Against  the  southern  Phoebus  plays ; 
In  vain  th'  innoxious  glimm'rings  fall, 
I'he  frost  outlives,  ouuhines  the  rays. 
Yet  consolation  still  I  find ; 
And  all  from  thee, 
Supremely  gracious  Deity, 
Corrector  of  the  mind ! 


For  nature  rarely  form'd  a  soil 
Where  diligence  subsistence  wants : 
Exert  but  care,  nor  spare  the  toil. 
And  all  beyond,  th'  Almighty  grants. 
Each  earth  at  length  to  culture  yields, 
Each  earth  iu  own  manure  contains; 
'i'hus  the  Corycian  nurst  his  fields. 
Heaven  gave  th'  increase,  and  he  the  pains 
Th'  industrious  peace  and  p^^aty  find; 
All  due  to  thee, 
Supremely  gracious  Deity, 
Composer  of  the  mind  ! 


582                                                              ANONYMOUS. 

Scipio  sought  virtue  in  his  prime, 

Heart's-ease,  and  meadow-sweet  adorn 

And,  having  early  gain'd  the  prize, 

The  brow,  from  civic  garlands  eased. 

Stole  from  th'  ungrateful  world  in  time. 

Fortune,  however  poor,  was  kind 

Contended  to  be-  low  and  wise  ? 

All,  all  from  thee, 

He  served  the  state  with  zeal  and  force. 

Supremely  gracious  Deity, 

And  then  with  dignity  retired ; 

Corrector  of  the  mind ! 

Dismounting  fiom  th'  unruly  horse, 

To  rule  himself,  as  sense  required, 

Thus  Charles,  with  justice  styled  the  great 

Without  a  sigli,  he  pow'r  resign'd. 

For  valour,  piety,  and  laws. 

All,  all  from  thee, 

Resign'd  two  empires  to  retreat. 

Supremely  gracious  Deity, 

And  from  a  throne  to  shades  withdraws , 

Corrector  of  the  mind  ! 

In  vain  (to  sooth  a  monarch's  pride,) 

His  yoke  the  willing  Persian  bore  : 

When  Diocletian  sought  repose, 

In  vain  the  Saracen  complied, 

Cloy'd  and  fatigued  with  nauseous  pow'r, 

And  fierce  Northumbrians  stain'd  with  gore. 

He  left  his  empire  to  his  foes, 

One  Gallic  farm  his  cares  confined ; 

For  fools  t'  admire,  and  rogues  devour : 

And  all  from  thee, 

Rich  in  his  poverty,  he  bought 

Supremely  gracious  Deity, 

Retirement's  innocence  and  health, 

Composer  of  the  mind ! 

With  his  own  hands  the  monarch  wrought, 

And  changed  a  throne  for  Ceres'  wealth. 

Observant  of  th'  almighty  will. 

Toil  soothed  his  cares,  his  blood  refined 

Prescient  in  faith,  and  pleased  with  toil, 

And  all  from  thee, 

Abram  Chaldea  left,  to  till 

Supremely  gracious  Deity, 

The  moss-grown  Haram's  flinty  soil ; 

Composer  of  the  mind  ! 

Hydras  of  thorns  absorb'd  his  gain, 

The  commonwealth  of  weeds  rebelPd, 

He,  who  had  ruled  the  world,  exchanged 

But  labour  tamed  th'  ungrateful  plain. 

His  sceptre  for  the  peasant's  spade. 

And  famine  was  by  art  repell'd ; 

Postponing  (as  through  groves  he  ranged,) 

Patience  made  churlish  nature  kind. 

Court  splendour  to  the  rural  shade- 

All,  all  from  thee, 

Child  of  his  hand,  th'  engrafted  thorn 

Supremely  gracious  Deity, 

More  than  the  victor  laurel  pleased  : 

Corrector  of  the  mind ! 

ANOm 

rMOUS. 

FROM  THE  ANNUAL 

lEGISTEB  FOB  1774. 

VERSES, 

What  though  to  deck  this  roof  no  arts  combine, 

Such  forms  as  rival  every  fair  but  mine ; 

No  nodding  plumes,  our  humble  couch  above. 

Proclaim  each  triumph  of  unbounded  love; 

Copied  from  the  window  of  an  obscure  lodging-house  in 
the  neighbourhood  of  London. 

Stbanger!   whoe'er  thou  art,  whose  restless 

No  silver  lamp  with  sculptured  Cupids  gay. 

mind. 

O'er  yielding  beauty  pours  its  midnight  ray ; 

Like  me  within  these  walls  is  cribb'd,  confined ; 

Yet  Fanny's  charms  could  Time's  slow  flight 

Learn  how  each  want  that  heaves  our  mutual  sigh 

beguile. 

A  woman's  soft  solicitudes  supply. 

Soothe    every   care,    and   make   each   dungeon 

From  her  white  breast  retreat  all  rude  alarms, 

smile : 

Or  fly  the  magic  circle  of  her  arms  ; 

In  her,  what  kings,  what  saints  have  wish'd,  ia 

While  souls  exchanged  alternate  grace  acquire, 

given, 

\nd  passions  catch  from  passions  glorious  fire : 

Her  heart  is  empire,  and  her  love  is  heaven. 

EDWARD  LOVIBOND. 


[Boni,- 


Dled,  1775.] 


Edward  Lovibokd  was  a  gentleman  of  fortune, 
who  lived  at  Hampton,  in  Middlesex,  where  he 
chiefly  amused  himself  with  the  occupations  of 
rural  economy.  According  to  the  information 
of  Mr.  Chalmers,  he  was  a  director  of  the  East 


India  Company.  He  assisted  Moore  in  his  pe- 
riodical paper  called  the  "  World,"  to  which  bfl 
contributed  "  The  Tears  of  Old  May-Day,"  and 
four  other  papers. 


THE  TEARS  OF  OLD  MAY-DAY. 

WSITTEN  ON   THE  REFORHATIOX  OF  THE  CALENDAR  D(  1754 

Led  by  the  jocund  train  of  vernal  hours 
And  vernal  airs,  up  rose  the  gentle  May; 

Blushing  she  rose,  and  blushing  rose  the  flow'rs 
That  sprung  spontaneous  in  her  genial  ray. 

Her  locks  with  heaven's  ambrosial  dews  were 
bright, 

And  am'rous  zephyrs  flutter'd  on  her  breast : 
With  every  shilling  gleam  of  morning  light, 

The  colours  shifted  of  her  rainbow  vest. 

Imperial  ensigns  graced  her  smiling  form, 
A  golden  key  and  golden  wand  she  bore ; 

This  charms  to  peace  each  sullen  eastern  storm, 
And  that  unlocks  the  summer's  copious  store. 

Onward  in  conscious  majesty  she  came, 
The  grateful  honours  of  mankind  to  taste: 

To  gather  fairest  wreaths  of  future  fame. 

And  blend  fresh  triumphs  with  her  glories  past 

Vain  hope !  no  more  in  choral  bands  unite 
Her  virgin  vot'ries,  and  at  early  dawn, 

Sacred  to  May  and  love's  mysterious  rite,  [lawn. 
Brush  the  light  dew-drops  from  the  spangled 

To  her  no  more  Augusta's  wealthy  pride 
Pours  the  full  tribute  from  Potosi's  mine : 

Nor  fresh-blown  garlands  village  maids  provide, 
A  purer  ofT'ring  at  her  rustic  shrine. 

No  more  the  Maypole's  verdant  height  around 
To  valour's  games  th'  ambitiousyouth  advance ; 

No  merry  bells  and  tabor's  sprightlier  sound 
Wake  the  loud  carol,  and  the  sportive  dance. 

Sudden  in  pensive  sadness  droop'd  her  head. 
Faint  on  her  cheeks  the  blushing  crimson  died — 

«  Oh  !  chaste  victorious  triumphs,  whither  fled  ? 
My  maiden  honours,  whither  gone  1"  she  cried. 

Ah  !  once  to  fame  and  bright  dominion  born. 
The  earth  and  smiling  ocean  saw  me  rise. 

With  time  coeval  and  the  star  of  morn. 
The  first,  the  fairest  daughter  of  the  skies. 

Then,  when  at  heaven's  prolific  mandate  sprung 
The  radiant  beam  of  new-created  day. 

Celestial  harps,  to  airs  of  triumph  strung, 

Hail'd  the  glad  dawn,  and  angela  call'd  me  May. 


Space  in  her  empty  regions  heard  the  sound. 
And  hills,  and  dales,  and  rocks,   and   valleys 

The  sun  exulted  in  his  glorious  round,      [rung; 
And  shouting  planets  in  their  courses  sung. 

For  ever  then  I  led  the  constant  year ; 

Saw  youth,  and  joy,  and  love's  enchanting  wiles, 
Saw  the  mild  graces  in  my  train  appear. 

And  infant  beauty  brighten  in  my  smiles. 

No  Winter  frown'd.     In  sweet  embrace  allied, 
Three  sister  seasons  danced  th'  eternal  green  ; 

And  Spring's  retiring  soilness  gently  vied  [mien. 
With  Autumn's  blush,  and    Summer's   lofly 

Too  soon,  when  man  profaned  the  blessings  given. 
And  vengeance  arm'd  to  blot  a  guilty  age, 

With  bright  Astrea  to  my  native  heaven 
I  fied,  and  flying  saw  the  deluge  rage ; 

Saw  bursting  clouds  eclipse  the  noontide  beams. 
While  sounding  billows  from   the  mountain* 
roU'd, 
With  bitter  waves  polluting  all  my  streams. 
My  nectar'd  streams,  that  flow'd  on  sands  of 
gold. 

Then  vanish'd  many  a  sea-girt  isle  and  grove. 
Their  forests  floating  on  the  wat'ry  plain  : 

Then,  famed  for  arts  and  laws  derived  from  Jovc^ 
My  Atalantis  sunk  beneath  the  main. 

No  longer  bloom'd  primeval  Eden's  bow'rs. 
Nor  guardian  dragons  watch'd  th'  Hesperian 
steep : 

With  all  their  fountains,  fragrant  fruits  and  flow'rs, 
Torn  from  the  continent  to  glut  the  deep. 

No  more  to  dwell  in  sylvan  scwies  I  deign'd. 
Yet  ofl  descending  to  the  languid  earth. 

With  quick'nmg  powers  the  fainting  mass  sus- 
tain'd. 
And  waked  her  slumb'ring  atoms  into  birth. 

And  cv'ry  echo  taught  my  raptured  name, 
And  ev'ry  virgin  breath'd  her  am'rous  vows. 

And  precious  wreaths  of  rich  immortal  fame, 
Shower'd  by  the  Muses,  crown'd  by  lofty  brows. 

But  chief  in  Europe,  and  in  Europe's  pride. 
My  Albion's  favour'd  realms,  I  rose  adored; 

And  pour'd  my  wealth,  to  other  climes  denied; 
From  Amalthea's  horn  with  plenty  stored. 

688 


684 


FRANCIS  FAWKES. 


Ah  me !  for  now  a  younger  rival  claims 
My  ravish'd  honours,  and  to  her  belong 

My  choral  dances,  and  victorious  games, 
To  her  my  garlands  and  triumphal  song. 

Oh  say  what  yet  untasted  beauties  flow. 
What  purer  joys  await  her  gentler  reign  1 

Do  lilies  fairer,  vi'lets  sweeter  blow  1 
And  warbles  Philomel  a  softer  strain  1 

Do  morning  suns  in  ruddier  glory  rise  ? 

Does  ev'ning  fan  her  with  serener  gales  1 
Do  clouds  drop  fatness  from  the  wealthier  skies, 

Or  wantons  plenty  in  her  happier  vales  1 

Ah !  no  :  the  blunted  beams  of  dawning  light 
Skirt  the  pale  orient  with  uncertain  day  ; 

And  Cynthia,  riding  on  the  car  of  night. 
Through  clouds  embattled  faintly  wings  her  way. 

Pale,  immature,  the  blighted  verdure  springs, 
Nor  mounting  juices  feed  the  swelling  flower ; 

Mute  all  the  groves,  nor  Philomela  sings 
When  silence  listens  at  the  midnight  hour. 

Nor  wonder,  man,  that  nature's  bashful  face. 
And  op'ning  charms  her  rude  embraces  fear : 

Is  she  not  sprung  from  April's  wayward  race. 
The  sickly  daughter  of  th'  unripen'd  year  1 

With  show'rs  and  sunshine  in  her  fickle  eyes, 
With   hollow  smiles   proclaiming  treach'rous 
peace. 

With  blushes,  harb'ring,  in  their  thin  disguise, 
The  blasts  that  riot  on  the  Spring's  increase  1 


Is  this  the  fair  invested  with  my  spoil 

By  Europe's  laws,  and  senates'  stern  command? 

Ungen'rous  Europe !  let  me  fly  thy  soil. 
And  waft  my  treasures  to  a  grateful  land  ; 

Again  revive,  on  Asia's  drooping  shore. 

My  Daphne's  grpves,  or  Lycia's  ancient  plain ; 

Again  to  Afric's  sultry  sands  restore 

Embow'ring  shades,  and  Lybian  Ammon'sfane. 

Or  haste  to  northern  Zembla's  savage  coast, 
There  hush  to  silence  elemental  strife ; 

Brood  o'er  the  regions  of  eternal  frost, 

And  swell  her  barren  womb  with  heat  and  life. 

Then  Britain — Here  she  ceased.  Indignant  grief, 
And  parting  pangs,  her  falt'ring  tongue  sup- 
press'd : 

Vail'd  ki  an  amber  cloud  she  sought  relief. 
And  tears  and  silent  anguish  told  the  rest 


SONG  TO  »  *  *  * 
What  !  bid  me  seek  another  fair 

In  untried  paths  of  female  wiles  t 
And  posies  weave  of  other  hair, 

And  bask  secure  in  other  smiles  1 
Thy  friendly  stars  no  longer  prize. 
And  light  my  course  by  other  eyes  1 

Ah  no  ! — my  dying  lips  shall  close, 
Unalter'd  love,  as  faith,  professing; 

Nor  praising  him  who  life  bestows, 
Forget  who  makes  that  gift  a  blessing. 

My  last  address  to  Heaven  is  due  ; 

The  last  but  one  is  all — to  you. 


FRANCIS  FAWKES. 


[Born,  1721.    Died,  1777.] 


Francis  Fawkes  made  translations  from  some 
of  the  minor  Greek  poets  (viz.  Anacreon,  Sappho, 
Bion,  and  Moschus,  Mnssus,  Theocritus,  and 
ApoUonius,)  and  modernized  the  description  of 
«  May  and  Winter,"  from  Gawain  Douglas.  He 
was  born  in  Yorkshire,  studied  at  Cambridge, 
was  curate  of  Croydon,  in  Surrey,  where  he  ob- 


tained the  friendship  of  Archbishop  Herring,  and 
by  him  was  collated  to  the  vicarage  of  Orpington, 
in  Kent.  By  the  favour  of  Dr.  Pluroptre,  he 
exchanged  this  vicarage  for  the  rectory  of  Hayes, 
and  was  finally  made  chaplain  to  the  Princess  of 
Wales.  He  was  the  friend  of  Johnson,  and 
W^arton ;  a  learned  and  a  jovial  parson. 


THE  BROWN  JUG. 

Dear  Tom,  this  brown  jug  that  now  foams  with 

mild  ale, 
(In  which  I  will  drink  to  sweet  Nan  of  the  Vale,) 
Was  once  Toby  Fillpot,  a  thirsty  old  soul 
As  e'er  drank  a  bottle,  or  fathom'd  a  bowl ; 
In  boosing  about  'twas  his  praise  to  excel. 
And  among  jolly  topers  he  bore  off  the  bell. 

It  chanced  as  in  dog-days  he  sat  at  his  ease 
In    his    flower-woven    arbour   as   gay   as    you 
please, 


With  a  friend  and  a  pipe  puffing  sorrows  away 
And  with  honest  old  stingo  was  soaking  his  clay 
His  breath-doors  of  life  on  a  sudden  were  shut. 
And  he  died  full  as  big  as  a  Dorchester  butt. 

His  body,  when  long  in  the  ground  it  had  lain. 

And  time  into  clay  had  resolved  it  again, 

A  potter  found  out  in  its  covert  so  snug 

And  with  part  of  fat  Toby  he  form'd  this  brovni 

jug. 
Now  sacred  to  friendship,  and  mirth,  and  mild  ale. 
So  here's  to  my  lovely  sweet  Nan  of  the  Yale 


ANONYMOUS. 


THE  OLD  BACHELOR. 

AFTER  THE  MANXEB  OF  SPKX8ER. 

In  Phoebus'  region  while  some  bards  there  be 

That  sing  of  battles,  and  the  trumpet's  roar ; 
Yet  these,  I  ween,  more  powerful  bards  than  me, 

Above  my  ken.  on  eagle  pinions  soar ! 
Haply  a  scene  of  meaner  view  to  scan. 

Beneath  their  laurel'd  praise  my  verse  may  give, 
To  trace  the  features  of  unnoticed  man ; 

Deeds,  else  forgotten,  in  the  verse  may  live ! 
Her  lore,  mayhap,  instructive  sense  may  teach. 
From  weeds  of  humbler  growth  within  my  lowly 
reach. 

A  wight  there  was,  who  single  and  alone 

Had  crept  from  vigorous  youth  to  waning  age, 
Nor  e'er  was  worth,  nor  e'er  was  beauty  known 

His  heart  to  captive,  or  his  thought  engage : 
Some  feeble  joyaunce,  though  his  conscious  mind 

Might  female  worth  or  beauty  give  to  wear, 
Yet  to  the  nobler  sex  he  held  confined 

The  genuine  graces  of  the  soul  sincere. 
And  well  could  show  with  saw  or  proverb  quaint 
All  semblance  woman's  soul,  and  all  her  beauty 
paint. 

In  plain  attire  this  wight  apparell'd  was, 

(For  much  he  conn'd  of  frugal  lore  and  knew) 
Nor,  till  some  day  of  larger  note  might  cause, 

From  iron-bound  chest  his  better  garb  he  drew: 
But  when  the  Sabbath-day  might  challenge  more. 

Or  feast,  or  birth-day,  should  it  chance  to  be, 
A  glossy  suit  devoid  of  stain  he  wore. 

And  gold  his  buttons  glanced  so  fair  to  see. 
Gold  clasp'd  his  shoon,  by  maiden   brush'd  so 
sheen. 
And  his  rough  beard  he  shaved,  and  donn'd  bis 
linen  clean. 

But  in  his  common  garb  a  coat  he  wore, 

A  faithful  coat  that  long  its  lord  had  known. 
That  once  was  black,  but  now   was  black  no 

Attinged  by  various  colours  not  its  own.  [more, 
AH  from  his  nostrils  wa^  the  front  imbrown'd. 

And  down  the  back  ran  many  a  greasy  line, 
While,  here  and  there,  his  social  moments  own'd 

The  generous  signet  of  the  purple  wine. 
Brown  o'er  the  bent  of  eld  his  wig  appear'd, 
Like  fox's  trailing  tail  by  hunters  sore  alfeir'd. 

One  only  maid  he  had,  like  turtle  true, 

But  not  like  turtle  gentle,  soft,  and  kind ; 
For  many  a  time  her  tongue  bewray'd  the  shrew, 
\nd  in  meet  words  unpack'd  her  peevish  mind. 
Ne  form'd  was  she  to  raise  the  soft  desire, 

'i'hat  stirs  the  tingling  blood  in  youthful  vein, 
Ne  form'd  was  she  to  light  the  tender  fire. 

By  many  a  bard  is  sung  in  many  a  strain : 
H^ok'd  was  her  nose,  and  countless  wrinkles  told 
What  no  man  durst  to  her,  I  ween,  that  she 
was  old. 

74 


When  the  clock  told  the  wonted  hour  wa«  come 
When  from  his  nightly  cups  the  wight  with- 
drew, 
Right  patient  would  she  watch  his  wending  home. 
His  feet  she  heard,  and  soon  the  bolt  she  drew. 
If  long  his  time  was  past,  and  leaden  sleep 
O'er  iier  tired  eye-lids  'gan  bis  reign  to  stretch, 
Oft  would  she  curse  that  men  such  hours  should 

keep. 
And  many  a  saw  'gainst  drunkenneas  would 
preach ; 
Haply  if  potent  gin  had  arm'd  her  tongue. 
All  on  the  reeling  wight  a  thundering  peal  she 
rung. 

For  though  the  blooming  queen  of  Cyprus*  isle 
O'er  her  cold  bosom  long  had  ceased  to  reign. 
On  that  cold  bosom  still  could  Bacchus  smile. 

Such  beverage  to  own  if  Bacchus  deign  : 
For  wine  she  prized  not  much,  for  stronger  drink 

Its  medicine,  oft  a  cholic-pain  will  call, 
And  for  the  medicine's  sake,  might  envy  think, 

Oft  would  a  cholic-pain  her  bowels  enthral; 
Yet  much  the  proffer  did  she  loath  and  say 
No  dram  might  maiden  taste,  and  often  anawer'd 
nay. 

So  as  in  single  animals  he  joy'd. 

One  cat,  and  eke  one  dog,  his  bounty  fed  ; 
The  first  the  cate-devouring  mice  destroy'd. 

Thieves  heard  the  last,  and  from  his  threshold 
All  in  the  sun-beams  bask'd  the  lazy  cat,  [fled: 
Her  mottled  length  in  couchant  posture  laid ; 
On  one  accustom'd  chair  while  Ponipey  sat, 
And   loud   he  bark'd  should    Puss   his    right 
invade. 
The  human  pair  oft  mark'd  them  as  they  lay, 
And  haply  sometimes  thought  like  cat  and  dog 
were  they. 

A  room  he  had  that  faced  the  southern  ray, 

Where  oft  he  walk'd  to  set  his  thoughts  in  tune, 
Pensive  he  paced  its  length  an  hour  or  tway, 

All  to  tlie  music  of  his  creeking  shoon. 
And  at  the  end  a  darkling  closet  stood. 

Where  books  he  kept  of  old  research  and  new, 
In  seemly  order  ranged  on  shelves  of  wood. 

And  rusty  nails  and  phials  not  a  few ; 
Thilk  place  a  wooden  box  beseemcth  well,  [tell. 
And  papers  squared  and  trimm'd  for  use  unmeet  to 

For  still  in  form  he  placed  his  chief  delight. 

Nor  lightly  broke  his  old  accustom'd  rule. 
And  much  untourteous  would  he  hold  the  wight 

That  e'er  displaced  a  table,  chair,  or  stool ; 
And  oft  in  meet  array  their  ranks  he  placed. 

And  oft  with  careful  eye  their  ranks  review'd. 
For  novel  forms,  though  much  those  forms  had 

Himself  and  maiden-minister  eschcw'd:  [graced, 
One  path  be  trod,  nor  ever  would  decline 
A  hair's  unmeasured  breadth  from  oft' the  even  line. 

685 


586 


JOHN  ARMSTRONG. 


A  Club  select  there  was,  where  various  talk 

On  various  chapters  pass'd  the  ling'ring  hour, 
And  thither  oft  he  bent  his  evening  walk, 
And   warm'd   to  mirth  by  wine's  enlivening 
pow'r. 
And  oft  on  politics  the  preachments  ran. 

If  a  pipe  lent  its  thought-begetting  fume: 
And  oft  important  matters  would  they  scan, 

And  deep  in  council  fix  a  nation's  doom ; 
And  oft  they  chuckled  loud  at  jest  or  jeer. 
Or  bawdy  tale  the  most,  thilk  much  they  loved 
to  hear. 

For  men  like  him  they  were  of  like  consort, 
Thilk  much  the  honest  muse  must  needs  con- 
demn, 
Who  made  of  women's  wiles  their  wanton  sport, 
And  bless'd  their  stars  that  kept  the  curse  from 
them  ! 
■No  honest  love  they  knew,  no  melting  smile 
That  shoots  the  transports  to  the  throbbing 
heart ! 
Thilk  knew  they  not  but  in  a  harlot's  guile 

Lascivious  smiling  through  the  mask  of  art : 
And  so  of  women  deem'd  they  as  they  knew, 
And  from  a  Demon's  traits  an  Angel's  picture 
drew. 


But  most  abhorr'd  they  Hymeneal  rites, 

And  boasted  oft  the  freedom  of  their  fate  : 
Nor  'vail'd,  as  they  opined,  its  best  delytes 

Those  ills  to  balance  that  on  wedlock  wait ; 
And  often  would  they  tell  of  hen-peck'd  fool 

Snubb'd  by  the  hard  behest  of  sour-eyed  dame. 
And  vow'd  no  tongue-arm'd  woman's  freakish 
rule 
Their  mirth  should  quail,  or  damp  their  gener- 
ous flame : 
Then    pledged   their   hands,  and   toss'd    their 
bumpers  o'er. 
And  lo!  Bacchus !  sung,  andown'd  no  other  pow'r. 

If  e'er  a  doubt  of  softer  kind  arose 

Within  some  breast  of  less  obdurate  frame, 
Lo !  where  its  hideous  form  a  Phantom  shows 

Full  in  his  view,  and  Cuckold  is  its  name. 
Him  Scorn  attended  with  a  glance  askew. 

And  Scorpion  Shame  for  delicts  not  his  own, 
Her  painted  bubbles  while  Suspicion  blew, 
And    vex'd   the   region    round    the    Cupid's 
throne : 
"  Far  be  from  us,"  they  cried,  "  the  treach'rous 
bane, 
"  Far  be  the  dimply  guile,  and  far  the  flowery 
chain !" 


JOHN  ARMSTRONG. 


CBorn,  1709.     Died,  1778.] 


John  Armstrong  was  born  in  Roxburghshire, 
in  the  parish  of  Castleton,  of  which  his  father 
was  the  clergyman.  He  completed  his  education, 
and  took  a  medical  degree,  at  the  university  of 
Edinburgh,  with  much  reputation,  in  the  year 
1732.  Amidst  his  scientific  pursuits,  he  also 
cultivated  literature  and  poetry.  One  of  his 
earliest  productions  in  verse,  was  an  "  Imitation 
of  the  Style  of  Shakspere,"  which  received  the 
approbation  of  the  poets  Young  and  Thomson ; 
although  humbler  judges  will  perhaps  be  at  a  loss 
to  perceive  in  it  any  striking  likeness  to  his  great 
original.  Two  other  sketches,  also  purporting 
to  be  imitations  of  Shakspere,  are  found  among 
his  works.  They  are  the  fragments  of  an  un- 
finished tragedy.  One  of  them,  the  "  Dream  of 
Progiie,"  is  not  unpleasing.  In  the  other,  he  be- 
gins the  description  of  a  storm  by  saying,  that 

"  Tilt  sun  went  down  in  turalh,  Vie  skies /oam'd  brass." 

It  is  uncertain  in  what  year  he  came  to  Lon- 
don ;  but  in  1735  he  published  an  anonymous 
pamphlet,  severely  ridiculing  the  quackery  of 
untaught  practitioners.  He  dedicated  this  per- 
formance to  Joshua  Ward,  John  Moore,  and 
others,  whom  he  styles  "  the  Antacademic  phi- 
osophers,  and  the  generous  despisers  of  the 
schools."  As  a  physician  he  never  obtained  ex- 
tensive practice.  This  he  himself  imputed  to  his 
contempt  of  the  little  artifices,  which,  he  alleges, 


were  necessary  to  popularity :  by  others,  the 
failure  was  ascribed  to  his  indolence  and  literary 
avocations;  and  there  was  probably  truth  in  both 
accounts.  A  disgraceful  poem,  entitled,  "  The 
CEconomy  of  Love,"  which  he  published  after 
coming  to  London,  might  have  also  had  its  share 
in  impeding  his  professional  career.  He  cor- 
rected the  nefarious  production,  at  a  later  period 
of  his  life,  betraying  at  once  a  consciousness  of 
its  impurity,  and  a  hankering  after  its  reputation. 
So  unflatteriufi;  were  his  prospects,  after  several 
years  residence  in  the  metropolis,  that  he  ap- 
plied (it  would  seem  without  success)  to  be  put 
on  the  medical  staff  of  the  forces,  then  going 
out  to  the  West  Indies.  His  "  Art  of  Preserving 
Health"  appeared  in  1744,  and  justly  fixed  his 
poetical  regulation.  In  1746  he  was  appointed 
physician  to  the  hospital  for  sick  soldiers,  behind 
Buckingham  House.  In  1751  he  published  his 
poem  on  "  Benevolence ;"  in  1753  his  "Epistle 
on  Taste;"  and  in  1758  his  prose  "  Sketches  by 
Launcelot  Temple."  Certainly  none  of  these 
productions  exalted  the  literary  character  which 
he  had  raised  to  himself  by  his  "Art  of  Pre- 
serving Health."  The  poems  «  Taste"  and  "Be- 
nevolence" are  very  insipid.  His  "  Sketches" 
have  been  censured  more  than  they  seem  to  de- 
serve for  "oaths  and  exclamations,*  and  for  a 

*  Chalmers's  Biographical  Dictionary. 


I 


JOHN  ARMSTRONG. 


687 


constant  struggle  to  say  smart  things."  They 
contain  indeed  some  expressions  which  might  be 
wished  away,  but  these  are  very  few  in  number ; 
and  several  of  his  essays  are  plain  and  sensible, 
without  any  effort  at  humour. 

In  1760  he  was  appointed  physician  to  the 
forces  that  went  over  to  Germany.  It  is-  at  this 
era  of  his  life  that  we  should  expect  its  history 
to  be  the  most  amusing,  and  to  have  furnished 
the  most  important  relics  of  observation,  from  his 
having  visited  a  foreign  country  which  was  the 
scene  of  war,  and  where  he  was  placed,  by  his 
situation,  in  the  midst  of  interesting  events.  It 
may  be  pleasing  to  follow  heroes  into  retirement ; 
but  we  are  also  fond  of  seeing  men  of  literary 
genius  amidst  the  action  and  business  of  life. 
Of  Dr.  Armstrong  in  Germany,  however,  we 
have  no  other  information  than  what  is  afibrded 
by  his  epistle  to  Wilkes,  entitled  "  Day,"  which 
is  by  no  means  a  bright  production,  and  chiefly 
devoted  to  subjects  of  eating.  With  Wilkes  he 
was,  at  that  time,  on  terms  of  friendship ;  but 
their  cordiality  was  afterward  dissolved  by  poli- 
tics. Churchill  took  a  share  in  the  quarrel,  and 
denounced  our  author  as  a  monster  of  ingratitude 
toward  Wilkes,  who  had  been  his  benefactor ; 
and  Wilkes,  by  subsequently  attacking  Armstrong 
in  the  Daily  Advertiser,  showed  that  he  did  not 
disapprove  of  the  satirist's  reproaches.  To  such 
personalities  Armstrong  might  have  replied  in 
the  words  of  Prior, 

"To  John  I  owed  great  obligation, 

But  Joha  unhappily  thought  fit 
To  publLih  it  to  all  the  nation; 
Sure  John  and  I  are  more  than  quit." 

But  though  his  temper  was  none  of  the  mildest, 
he  had  the  candour  to  speak  with  gratitude  of 
Wilkes's  former  kindness,  and  acknowledged 
that  he  was  indebted  to  him  for  his  appointment 
in  the  army. 

After  the  peace  he  returned  to  London,  where 
his  practice,  as  well  as  acquaintance,  was  con- 
fined to  a  small  circle  of  friends ;  but  among 
whom  he  was  esteemed  as  a  man  of  genius. 
From  the  originality  of  his  mind,  as  well  as  from 
his  reading,  and  more  than  ordinary  taste  in  the 
fine  arts,  his  conversation  is  said  to  have  been 
richly  entertaining.  Yet  if  the  character  which 
is  supposed  to  apply  to  him  in  the  "  Castle  of 
Indolence"t  describes  him  justly,  his  colloquial 
delightfulness  roust  have  been  intermittent.  In 
1770  he  published  a  collection  of  his  Miscella- 
nies, containing  a  new  prose  piece,  "  The  Uni- 
versal Almanack,"  and  "  The  Forced  Marriage," 
a  tragedy  which  had  been  offered  to  Garrick,  but 
refused.  The  whole  was  ushered  in  by  a  preface, 
full  of  arrogant  defiance  to  public  opinion.  »  He 
had  never  courted  the  public,"  he  said,  <'  and  if 
it  was  true  what  he  had  been  told,  that  the  best 
judges  were  on  his  side,  he  desired  no  more  in 

*  Armstrong's  character  is  said  to  have  been  painted  in 
the  iitauia  of  the  ''Castle  of  Induleiice''  beginning 
"  With  him  was  sometimes  joined  in  silent  walk 
(ProfounUly  silent,  for  they  never  spoke) 
Que  shyer  still,  who  quite  detested  talk,"  &o. 

See  ante,  p.  450. 


the  article  of  fame  as  a  writer."  There  was  a 
good  deal  of  matter  in  this  collection,  that  ought 
to  have  rendered  its  author  more  modest.  The 
«  Universal  Almanack"  is  a  wretched  production, 
to  which  the  objections  of  his  propensity  to 
swearing,  and  abortive  efforts  at  humour,  apply 
more  justly  than  to  his  •< Sketches;"  and  his 
tragedy  the  "Forced  Marriage,"  is  a  mortuum 
caput  of  insipidity.  In  the  following  year  he 
visited  France  and  Italy,  and  published  a  short, 
but  splenetic  account  of  his  tour,  under  his  old 
assumed  name  of  Launcelot  Temple.  His  last 
production  was  a  volume  of  "  Professional  Es- 
says," in  which  he  took  more  trouble  to  abuse 
quacks  than  became  his  dignity,  and  showed 
himself  a  man  to  whom  the  relish  of  life  was  not 
improving,  as  its  feast  drew  toward  a  close.  He 
died  in  September,  1779,  of  a  hurt,  which  he  ac- 
cidentally received  in  stepping  out  of  a  carriage ; 
and,  to  the  no  small  surprise  of  his  friends,  left 
behind  him  more  than  3000/.,  saved  out  of  a  very 
moderate  income,  arising  principally  fi-om  his 
half-pay. 

His  '<  Art  of  Preserving  Health"  is  the  most 
successful  attempt,  in  our  language,  to  incorpo- 
rate material  science  with  poetry.  Its  subject 
had  the  advantage  of  being  generally  interesting ; 
for  there  are  few  things  that  we  shall  be  more 
willing  to  learn,  either  in  prose  or  verse,  than  the 
means  of  preserving  the  outward  bulwark  of  all 
other  blessings.  At  the  same  time,  the  difficulty 
of  poetically  treating  a  subject,  which  presented 
disease  in  all  its  associations,  is  one  of  the  most 
just  and  ordinary  topics  of  his  praise.  Of  the 
triumphs  of  poetry  over  such  difficulty,  he  had 
no  doubt  high  precedents,  to  show  that  strong 
and  true  delineations  of  physical  evil  are  not 
without  an  attraction  of  fearful  interest  and  cu- 
riosity to  the  human  mind;  and  that  the  enjoy- 
ment, which  the  fancy  derives  from  conceptions 
of  the  bloom  and  beauty  of  healthful  nature, 
may  be  heightened,  by  contrasting  them  with  the 
opposite  pictures  of  her  mortality  and  decay. 
Milton  had  turned  disease  itself  into  a  subject  of 
sublimity,  in  the  vision  of  Adam,  with  that  in- 
tensity of  the  fire  of  genius,  which  converts 
whatever  materials  it  meets  with  into  its  aliment: 
and  Armstrong,  though  his  powers  were  not 
Miltonic,  had  the  courage  to  attempt  what  would 
have  repelled  a  more  timid  taste.  His  Muse 
might  be  said  to  show  a  professional  intrepidity 
in  choosing  the  subject ;  and,  like  the  physician 
who  braves  contagion,  (if  allowed  to  prolong  the 
simile,)  we  may  add,  that  she  escaped,  on  the 
whole,  with  little  injury  from  the  trial.  By  the 
title  of  the  poem,  the  author  judiciously  gave  iiis 
theme  a  moral  as  well  as  a  medical  interest.  He 
makes  the  influence  of  the  passions  an  entire 
part  of  it.  By  professing  to  describe  only  how 
health  is  to  be  preserved,  and  not  how  it  is  to  be 
restored,  he  avoids  the  unmanageable  horrors  of 
clinical  detail ;  and  tliough  he  paints  the  disease 
wisely  spares  us  its  pharmaceutical  treatineiiu 
His  course  through  the  poem  is  sustained  with 
lucid  management  and  propriety.     What  is  ex- 


688 


JOHN  ARMSTRONG. 


plained  of  the  animal  oeconomy  is  obscured  by 
no  pedantic  jargon,  but  made  distinct,  and,  to  a 
certain  degree,  picturesque  to  the  conception. 
We  need  not  indeed  be  reminded  how  small  a 
portion  of  science  can  be  communicated  in  poetry; 
but  the  practical  maxims  of  science,  which  the 
Muse  has  stamped  with  imagery  and  attuned  to 
harmony,  have  so  far  an  advantage  over  those 
which  are  delivered  in  prose,  that  they  become 
more  agreeable  and  permanent  acquisitions  of  the 
memory.  If  the  didactic  path  of  his  poetry  is, 
from  its  nature,  rather  level,  he  rises  above  it,  on 
several  occasions,  with  a  considerable  strength  of 
poetical  feeling.  Thus,  in  recommending  the 
vicinity  of  woods  around  a  dwelling,  that  may 
shelter  us  from  the  winds,  whilst  it  enables  us  to 
hear  their  music,  he  introduces  the  following 
pleasing  lines : 

"  Oh!  when  the  growling  winds  contend,  and  all 
The  sounding  forest  fluctuates  in  the  storm ; 
To  sink  in  warm  repose,  and  hear  the  din 
Howl  o'er  the  steady  battlements,  delights 
Above  the  luxury  of  vulgar  sleep." 

In  treating  of  diet  he  seems  to  have  felt  the 
full  difficulty  of  an  humble  subject,  and  to  have 
sought  to  relieve  his  precepts  and  physiological 
descriptions,  with  all  the  wealth  of  allusion  and 
imagery  which  his  fancy  could  introduce.  The 
appearance  of  a  forced  effort  is  not  wholly  avoid- 
ed, even  where  he  aims  at  superior  strains,  in 
order  to  garnish  the  meaner  topics,  as  when  he 
solemnly  addresses  the  Naiads  of  all  the  rivers  in 
the  world,  in  rehearsing  the  praises  of  a  cup  of 
water.  But  he  closes  the  book  in  a  strain  of 
genuine  dignity.  After  contemplating  the  effects 
of  Time  on  the  human  body,  his  view  of  its  in- 
fluence dilates,  with  easy  and  majestic  extension, 
to  the  universal  structure  of  nature  ;  and  he  rises 
from  great  to  greater  objects  with  a  climax  of 
sublimity. 

"  What  does  not  fade  ?  the  tower  that  long  had  stood 
The  crush  of  thunder  and  the  warring  winds, 
Shook  by  the  slow,  but  sure  destroyer,  Time, 
Now  hangs  in  doubtful  ruins  o'er  its  base 
And  flinty  pyramids,  and  walls  of  brass. 


Descend :  the  Babylonian  spires  are  sunk ; 
Achftia,  Rome,  and  Egypt,  moulder  down. 
Time  shakes  the  stable  tyranny  of  thrones, 
And  tottering  empires  crush  by  their  own  weight. 
This  huge  rotundity  we  tread  grows  old ; 
And  all  those  worlds  that  roll  around  the  sun, 
The  sun  himself  shall  die." 

He  may,  in  some  points,  be  compared  advan- 
tageously with  the  best  blank  verse  writers  of  the 
age  ;  and  he  will  be  found  free  from  their  most 
striking  defects.  He  has  not  the  ambition  of 
Akenside,  nor  the  verbosity  of  Thomson.  On 
the  other  hand,  shall  we  say  that  he  is  equal  in 
genius  to  either  of  those  poets  ?  Certainly,  his 
originality  is  nothing  like  Thomson's  ;  and  tht 
rapture  of  his  heroic  sentiments  is  unequal  to 
that  of  the  author  of  the  "  Pleasures  of  Imagi- 
nation." '  For,  in  spite  of  the  too  frequently 
false  pomp  of  Akenside,  we  still  feel,  that  he  has 
a  devoted  moral  impulse,  not  to  be  mistaken  for 
the  cant  of  morality,  a  zeal  in  the  worship  of 
Virtue,  which  places  her  image  in  a  high  and 
hallowed  light.  Neither  has  his  versification  the 
nervous  harmony  of  Akenside's,  for  his  habit  of 
pausing  almost  uniformly  at  the  close  of  the  line, 
gives  an  air  of  formality  to  his  numbers.  His 
vein  has  less  mixture  than  Thomson's ;  but  its 
ore  is  not  so  fine.  Sometimes  we  find  him  try- 
ing his  strength  with  that  author,  in  the  same 
walk  of  description,  where,  though  correct  and 
concise,  he  falls  beneath  the  poet  of  "  The  Sea- 
sons" in  rich  and  graphic  observation.  He  also 
contributed  to  «  The  Castle  of  Indolence"  some 
stanzas,  describing  the  diseases  arising  from  sloth, 
which  form  rather  an  useful  back-ground  to  the 
luxuriant  picture  of  the  Castle,  than  a  prominent 
part  of  its  enchantment.* 

On  the  whole,  he  is  likely  to  be  remembered 
as  a  poet  of  judicious  thoughts  and  correct  ex- 
pression; and,  as  far  as  the  rarely  successful  ap- 
plication of  verse  to  subjects  of  science  can  be 
admired,  an  additional  merit  must  be  ascribed  to 
the  hand  which  has  reared  poetical  flowers  on  the 
dry  and  difficult  ground  of  philosophy. 


FROM  "THE  ART  OF  PRKSERVINQ  HEALTH." 

BOOK  I.  ENTITLED  "  AIE." 

Opening  of  the  Poem  in  an  Invocation  to  Hygoia. 

D.\UGHTEK  of  PjDon,  queen  of  every  joy, 
Hygeia;  whose  indulgent  smile  sustains 
The  various  race  luxuriant  nature  pours, 
And  on  th'  immortal  essences  bestows 
Immortal  youth  ;  auspicious,  O  descend  ! 
Thou  cheerful  guardian  of  the  rolling  year. 
Whether  thou  wanton'st  on  the  western  gale, 
Or  shakest  the  rigid  pinions  of  the  north, 
Diflusest  life  and  vigour  through  the  tracts 
Of  air,  through  earth,  and  ocean's  deep  domain. 
When  through  the  blue  serenity  of  heaven 
Thy  power  approaches,  all  the  wasteful  host 
Of  Pain  and  Sickness,  squalid  and  deform'd, 
0>nfounded  sink  into  the  loathsome  gloom, 


Where  in  deep  Erebus  involved,  the  Fiends 
Grow  more  profane.     Whatever  shapes  of  death. 
Shook  from  the  hideous  chambers  of  the  globe, 
Swarm  through  the  shuddering  air :  whatever 

plagues 
Or  meagre  famine  breeds,  or  with  slow  wings 
Rise  from  the  putrid  wat'ry  element. 
The  damp  waste  forest,  motionless  and  rank, 
That  smothers  earth,  and  all  the  breathless  winds, 
Or  the  vile  carnage  of  th'  inhuman  field ; 
Whatever  baneful  breathes  the  rotten  south ; 
Whatever  ills  th'  extremes  or  sudden  change 
Of  cold  and  hot,  or  moist  and  dry  produce  • 
They  fly  thy  pure  effulgence :  they  and  all 
The  secret  poisons  of  avenging  Heaven, 
And  all  the  pale  tribes  halting  in  the  train 


*  See  ante.  p.  460 


JOHN  ARMSTRONG. 


589 


Of  Vice  and  heedless  Pleasure :  or  if  aught 
The  comet's  glare  amid  the  burning  sky, 
Mournful  eclipse,  or  planets  ill-combined, 
Portend  disastrous  to  the  vital  world  ; 
Thy  salutary  power  averts  their  rage. 
Averts  the  general  bane :  and  but  for  thee 
Nature  would  sicken,  nature  soon  would  die. 


FROM  THE  SAME. 

Choice  of  a  rural  situation,  and  allegorical  picture  of  the 
Quartan  Ague. 

Ye  who  amid  this  feverish  world  would  wear 
A  body  free  of  pain,  of  cares  a  mind  ; 
Fly  the  rank  city,  shun  its  turbid  air ; 
Breathe  not  the  chaos  of  eternal  smoke 
And  volatile  corruption,  from  the  dead, 
The  dying,  sickning,  and  the  living  world 
Exhaled,  to  sully  heaven's  transparent  dome 
"With  dim  mortality.     It  is  not  air 
That  from  a  thousand  lungs  reeks  back  to  thine, 
Sated  with  exhalations  rank  and  fell. 
The  spoil  of  dunghills,  and  the  putrid  thaw 
Of  nature ;  when  from  shape  and  texture  she 
Relapses  into  fighting  elements  : 
It  is  not  air,  but  floats  a  nauseous  mass 
Of  all  obscene,  corrupt  offensive  things. 
Much  moisture  hurts;  but  here  a  sordid  bath, 
With  oily  rancour  fraught,  relaxes  more 
The  solid  frame  than  simple  moisture  can. 
Besides,  immured  in  many  a  sullen  bay 
That  never  felt  the  freshness  of  the  breeze, 
This  slumb'ring  deep  remains,  and  ranker  grows 
With  sickly  rest :  and  (though  the  lungs  abhor 
To  drink  the  dun  fuliginous  abyss) 
Did  not  the  acid  vigour  of  the  mine, 
Roll'd  from  so  many  thundering  chimneys,  tame 
The  putrid  steams  that  overswarm  the  sky  ; 
This  caustic  venom  would  perhaps  corrode 
Those  tender  cells  that  draw  the  vital  air. 
In  vain  with  all  the  unctuous  rills  bedew'd ; 
Or  by  the  drunken  venous  tubes,  that  yawn 
In  countless  pores  o'er  all  the  pervious  skin, 
Imbibed,  would  poison  the  balsamic  blood, 
And  rouse  the  heart  to  every  fever's  rage. 

While  yet  you  breathe,  away ;  the  rural  wilds 
Invite  ;  the  mountains  call  you,  and  the  vales ; 
The  woods,  the  streams,  and  each  ambrosial  breeze 
That  fans  the  ever-undulating  sky  ;    • 
A  kindly  sky  !  whose  fost'ring  power  regales 
Man,  beast,  and  all  the  vegetable  reign. 
Find  them  some  woodland  scene  where  nature 

smiles 
Benign,  where  all  her  honest  children  thrive. 
To  us  there  wants  not  many  a  happy  seat ! 
Look  round  the  smiling  land,  such  numbers  rise 
We  hardly  fix,  bewilder'd  in  our  choice. 
See  where  enthroned  in  adamantine  state, 
Proud  of  her  bards,  imperial  Windsor  sits ; 
Where  choose  thy, seat  in  some  aspiring  grove 
Fast  by  the  slowly-winding  Thames ;  or  where 
Broader  she  laves  fair  Richmond's  green  retreats, 
(Richmond  that  sees  an  hundred  villas  rise 
Rural  or  gay.)    Oh  !  from  the  summer's  rage 
Oh  I  wrap  me  in  the  friendly  gloom  that  hides 


Umbrageous  Ham  ! — But  if  the  busy  town 
Attract  thee  still  to  toil  for  power  or  gold, 
Sweetly  thou  may'st  thy  vacant  hours  possess 
In  Hampstead,  courted  by  the  western  wind ; 
Or  Greenwich,  waving  o'er  the  winding  flood ; 
Or  lose  the  world  amid  the  sylvan  wilds 
Of  Dulwich,  yet  by  barbarous  arts  unspoil'd. 
Green  rise  the  Kentish  hills  in  cheerful  air ; 
But  on  the  marshy  plains  that  Lincoln  spreads 
Build  not,  nor  rest  too  long  thy  wandering  feet 
For  on  a  rustic  throne  of  dewy  turf. 
With  baneful  fogs  her  aching  temples  bound, 
Quartana  there  presides ;  a  meagre  fiend 
Begot  by  Eurus,  when  his  brutal  force 
Compress'd  the  slothful  Naiad  of  the  Fens. 
From  such  a  mixture  sprung,  this  fitful  pest 
With  fev'rish  blasts  subdues  the  sick'ning  land : 
Cold  tremors  come,  with  mighty  love  of  rest. 
Convulsive  yawnings,  lassitude,  and  pains 
That  sting  the  burden'd  brows,  fatigue  the  loins. 
And  rack  the  joints,  and  every  torpid  limb; 
Then  parting  heat  succeeds,  till  copious  sweats 
O'erflow:  a  short  relief  from  former  ills. 
Beneath  repeated  shocks  the  wretches  pine ; 
The  vigour  sinks,  the  habit  melts  away  : 
The  cheerful,  pure,  and  animated  bloom 
Dies  from  the  face,  with  squalid  atrophy 
Devour'd  in  sallow  melancholy  clad. 
And  oft  the  sorceress,  in  her  sated  wrath, 
Resigns  them  to  the  furies  of  her  train : 
The  bloated  Hydrops,  and  the  yellow  fiend 
Tinged  with  her  own  accumulated  gall. 


FROM  THE  SAME. 
Recommendation  of  a  High  Situation  on  the  Se»«oa8t. 

Meantime,  the  moist  malignity  to  shun 
Of  burthen'd  skies ;  mark  where  the  dry  cham 

paign 
Swells  into  cheerful  hills :  where  maijoram 
And  thyme,  the  love  of  bees,  perfume  the  air; 
And  where  the  cynorrhodon  with  the  rose 
For  fragrance  vies ;  for  in  the  thirsty  soil 
Most  fragrant  breathe  the  aromatic  tribes. 
There  bid  thy  roofs  high  on  the  basking  ste«p 
Ascend,  there  light  thy  hospitable  fires. 
And  let  them  see  the  winter  morn  arise. 
The  summer  evening  blushing  in  the  west : 
While  with  umbrageous  oaks  the  ridge  behind 
O'erhung,  defends  you  from  the  blust'ring  north, 
And  bleak  affliction  of  the  peevish  east. 
Oh  !  when  the  growling  winds  contend,  and  all 
The  sounding  forest  fluctuates  in  the  storm  ; 
To  sink  in  warm  repose,  and  hear  the  din 
Howl  o'er  the  steady  battlements,  delights 
Above  the  luxury  of  vulgar  sleep. 
The  murmuring  rivulet,  and  the  hoarser  strain 
Of  waters  rushing  o'er  the  slippery  rocks, 
Will  nightly  lull  you  to  ambrosial  rest. 
To  please  the  fancy  is  no  trifling  good. 
Where  health  is  studied ;  for  whatever  moves 
The  mind  with  calm  delight,  promotes  the  just 
And  natural  movements  of  th'  harmonious  frame. 
Besides,  the  sportive  brook  for  ever  shakes 
22 


690 


RICHARDSON. 


The  trembling  air ;  that  floats  from  hill  to  hill, 
From  vale  to  mountain,  with  insessant  change 
Of  purest  element,  refreshing  still 
Your  airy  seat,  and  uninfected  gods. 
Chiefly  for  this  I  praise  the  man  who  builds 
High  on  the  breezy  ridge,  whose  lofty  sides 
Th'  ethereal  deep  with  endless  billows  chafes, 
His  purer  mansion  nor  contagious  years 
Shall  reach,  nor  deadly  putrid  airs  annoy. 


FROM  BOOK  n.    ENTITLED  "DIET." 
Address  to  the  Naiads. 
Now  come,  ye  Naiads,  to  the  fountains  lead ; 
Now  let  me  wander  through  your  gelid  reign. 
I  bum  to  view  th'  enthusiastic  wilds 
By  mortal  else  untrod.     I  hear  the  din 
Of  waters  thund'ring  o'er  the  ruin'd  cliffs. 
With  holy  reverence  I  approach  the  rocks  [song. 
Whence  glide  the  streams  renown'd  in  ancient 
Here  from  the  desert  down  the  rumbling  steep 
First  springs  the  Nile ;  here  bursts  the  sounding 
In  angry  waves;  Euphrates  hence  devolves  [Po 
A  mighty  flood  to  water  half  the  east; 
And  there  in  gothic  solitude  reclined, 
The  cheerless  Tanais  pours  his  hoary  urn. 
What  solemn  twilight!   what  stupendous  shades 
Enwrap  these  infant  floods !  through  every  nerve 
A  sacred  horror  thrills,  a  pleasing  fear 
Glides  o'er  my  frame.    The  forest  deepens  round  ; 
And  more  gigantic  still  th'  impending  trees 
Stretch  their  extravagant  arms  athwart  the  gloom. 
Are  these  the  confines  of  some  fairy  world  1 


A  land  of  genii  1  Say.  beyond  these  wilds 
What  unknown  nations?     If  indeed  beyond 
Aught  habitable  lies.     And  whither  leads. 
To  what  strange  regions,  or  of  bliss  or  pain. 
That  subterraneous  way  1    Propitious  maids 
Conduct  me,  while  with  fearful  steps  I  tread 
This  trembling  ground.    The  task  remains  to  sing 
Your  gifls,  (so  Pseon,  so  the  powers  of  health 
Command,)  to  praise  your  crystal  element: 
The  chief  ingredient  in  heaven's  various  works  • 
Whose  flexile  genius  sparkles  in  the  gem, 
Grows  firm  in  oak,  and  fugitive  in  wine  ; 
The  vehicle,  the  source,  of  nutriment 
And  life,  to  all  that  vegetate  or  live. 

O  comfortable  streams !  with  eager  lips 
And  trembling  hand  the  languid  thirsty  quaff 
New  life  in  you  ;  fresh  vigour  fills  their  veins. 
No  warmer  cups  the  rural  ages  knew ; 
None  warmer  sought  the  sires  of  human  kind. 
Happy  in  temperate  peace  !  their  equal  days 
Felt  not  th'  alternate  fits  of  feverish  mirth. 
And  sick  dejection.     Still  serene  and  pleased. 
They  knew  no  pains  but  what  the  tender  soul 
With  pleasure  yields  to,  and  would  ne'er  forget. 
Blest  with  divine  immunity  from  ails. 
Long  centuries  they  lived  ;  their  only  fate 
Was  ripe  old  age,  and  rather  sleep  than  death. 
Oh  !  could  those  worthies  from  the  world  of  gods 
Return  to  visit  their  degenerate  sons, 
How  would  they  scorn  the  joys  of  modern  time, 
With  all  our  art  and  toil  improved  to  pain  ! 
Too  happy  they  !  but  wealth  brought  luxury, 
And  luxury  on  sloth  begot  disease. 


RICHARDSON, 


OP  queen's  coixege,  oxford. 


ODE  TO  A  SINGING-BIRD. 

O  THOU  that  glad'st  my  lonesome  hours. 

With  many  a  wildly  warbled  song. 
When  Melancholy  round  me  lowers, 

And  drives  her  sullen  storms  along; 

When  fell  adversity  prepares 
To  lead  her  delegated  train. 
Pale  Sickness,  Want,  Remorse,  and  Pain, 

With  all  her  host  of  carking  cares — 
The  fiends  ordain'd  to  tame  the  human  soul. 
And  give  the  humbled  heart  to  sympathy's  control ; 

Sweet  soother  of  my  mis'ry,  say, 

Why  dost  thou  clap  thy  joyous  wing? 
Why  dost  thou  pour  that  artless  lay  ? 
Horw  canst  thou,  little  prisoner,  sing? 

Hast  thou  not  cause  to  grieve 
That  man.  unpitying  man  !  has  rent 
From  thee  the  boon  which  Nature  meant 
Thou  should'st  as  well  as  he,  receive — 
The  power  to  woo  thy  partner  in  the  grove. 
To  build  where  instinct  points,  where  chance  di- 
rects to  rove  ? 


Perchance,  unconscious  of  thy  fate. 

And  to  the  woes  pf  bondage  blind, 
Thou  never  long'st  to  join  thy  mate, 
Nor  wishest  to  be  unconfined ; 

Then  how  relentless  he. 
And  fit  for  every  foul  offence. 
Who  could  bereave  such  innocence 
Of  life'?  best  blessing.  Liberty  ! 
Who  lured  thee,  guileful,  to  his  treacherous 
snare, 
To  live  a  tuneful  slave,  and  dissipate  his  care ! 

But  why  for  thee  this  fond  complaint? 

^bove  thy  master  thou  art  blest: 
Art  thou  not  free  ? — Yes :  calm  Content 
With  olive  sceptre  sways  thy  breast: 

Then  deign  with  me  to  live ; 
The  falcon  with  insatiate  maw. 
With  hooked  bill  and  griping  claw. 
Shall  ne'er  thy  destiny  contrive  ; 
And  every  tabby  foe  shall  mew  in  vain. 
While  pensively  demure  she  hears  thy  melting 
strain. 


Nor  shall  the  fiend,  fell  Famine,  dare 

Thy  wiry  tenement  assail ; 
These,  these  shall  be  my  constant  care, 
The  limpid  fount,  and  temperate  meal ; 

And  when  the  blooming  Spring 
In  chequer'd  livery  robes  the  fields. 
The  fairest  flow'rets  Nature  yields 
To  thee  officious  will  I  bring; 
A  garland  rich  thy  dwelling  shall  entwine, 
And  Flora's  freshest  gifts,  thrice  happy  bird,  be 
thine  t 

From  dear  Oblivion's  gloomy  cave 

The  powerful  Muse  shall  wrest  thy  name, 

And  bid  thee  live  beyond  the  grave — 
This  meed  she  knows  thy  merits  claim ; 
She  knows  thy  liberal  heart 


Is  ever  ready  to  dispense 
The  tide  of  bland  benevolence, 
And  melody's  soft  aid  impart; 
Is  ready  still  to  prompt  the  magic  lay, 
Which  hushes  all  our  griefs,  and  charms  our  paini 
away. 

Erewhile  when,  brooding  o'er  my  soul, 

Frown'd  the  black  demons  of  despair, 
Did  not  thy  voice  that  power  control, 
And  oft  suppress  the  rising  tear  1 

If  Fortune  should  be  kind. 
If  e'er  with  aflSuence  I'm  blest, 
I'll  often  seek  some  friend  distrest. 

And  when  the  weeping  wretch  I  find, 
Then,  tuneful  moralist,  I'll  copy  thee. 
And  solace  all  his  woes  with  social  sympathy. 


JOHN  LANGHORNE. 


CBorn,  17S5.    Died,  1779.J 


John  Lanohorne  was  the  son  of  a  beneficed 
clergyman  in  Lincolnshire.  He  was  born  at 
Kirkby  Steven,  in  Westmoreland.  His  father 
dying  when  he  was  only  four  years  old,  the  charge 
of  giving  him  his  earliest  instruction  devolved 
upon  his  mother,  and  she  fulfilled  the  task  with 
so  much  tenderness  and  care,  as  to  leave  an  in- 
delible impression  of  gratitude  upon  his  memory. 
He  recorded  the  virtues  of  this  parent  on  her  tomb, 
as  well  as  in  an  aflfectionate  rnonody.  Having 
finished  his  classical  education  at  the  school  of 
Appleby,  in  his  eighteenth  year,  he  engaged  him- 
self as  a  private  tutor  in  a  family  near  Rippon. 
His  next  employment  was  that  of  assistant  to 
the  free-school  of  Wakefield.  While  in  that 
situation  he  took  deacon's  orders ;  and,  though 
he  was  still  very  young,  gave  indications  of  po- 
pular attraction  as  a  preacher.  He  soon  afterward 
went  as  a  preceptor  into  the  family  of  Mr.  Cra- 
croft,  of  Hackthorn,  where  he  remained  for  a 
couple  of  years,  and  during  that  time  entered  his 
name  at  Clare-hall,  Cambridge,  though  he  never 
resiiled  at  his  college,  and  consequently  never 
obtained  any  degree.  He  had  at  Hackthorn  a 
numerous  charge  of  pupils,  and  as  he  has  not 
been  accused  of  neglecting  them,  his  time  must 
have  been  pretty  well  occupied  in  tuition ;  but 
he  found  leisure  enough  to  write  and  publish  a 
great  many  pieces  of  verse,  and  to  devote  so 
much  of  his  attention  to  a  fair  daughter  of  the 
family.  Miss  Anne  Cracroft,  as  to  obtain  the 
young  lady's  partiality,  and  ultimately  her  htmd. 
He  had  given  her  some  instructions  in  the  Italian, 
and  probably  trusting  that  she  was  sufficiently  a 
convert  to  the  sentiment  of  that  language,  which 
pronounces  that  "  all  -time  is  lost  which  is  not 
spent  in  love,"  he  proposed  immediate  marriage 
to  her.  She  had  the  prudence,  however,  though 
secretly  attached  to  him,  to  give  him  a  firm  re- 
fusal for  the  present ;  and  our  poet,  struck  with 


despondency  at  the  disappointment,  felt  it  neces- 
sary to  quit  the  scene  and  accepted  of  a  curacy 
in  the  parish  of  Dagenham.  The  cares  of  love, 
it  appeared,  had  no  bad  effect  on  his  diligence  as 
an  author.  He  allayed  his  despair  by  an  appo- 
site ode  to  Hope;  and  continued  to  pour  out 
numerous  productions  in  verse  and  prose,  with 
that  florid  facility  which  always  distinguished  his 
pen.  Among  these,  his  "Letters  of  Theodosius 
and  Constantia"  made  him,  perhaps,  best  known 
as  a  prose  writer.  His  "  Letters  on  Religious 
Retirement"  were  dedicated  to  Bishop  Warbur- 
ton,  who  returneii  him  a  most  encouraging  letter 
on  his  just  sentiments  in  matters  of  religion  ; 
and,  what  was  coming  nearer  to  the  author's 
purpose,  took  an  interest  in  his  worldly  concerns. 
He  was  much  less  fortunate  in  addressing  a 
poem,  entitled  "  The  Viceroy."  to  the  Earl  of 
Halifax,  who  was  then  lord-lieutenant  of  Ireland. 
This  heartless  piece  of  adulation  was  written 
with  the  view  of  obtaining  his  lordship's  patron- 
age ;  but  the  viceroy  was  either  too  busy,  or  too 
insensible  to  praise,  to  take  any  notice  of  Laiig- 
horne.  In  his  poetry  of  this  period,  we  find  his 
"  Visions  of  Fancy  ;"  his  first  part  of  the  »  En- 
largement of  the  Mind ;"  and  his  pastoral  "Valour 
and  Genius,"  written  in  answer  to  Churchill's 
"  Prophecy  of  Famine."  In  consequence  of  the 
gratitude  of  the  Scotch  for  this  last  poem,  he 
was  presented  with  the  diploma  of  doctor  in  di- 
vinity by  the  university  of  Edinburgh.  His 
profession  and  religious  writings  gave  an  appear- 
ance of  propriety  to  this  compliment,  which 
otherwise  would  not  have  been  discoverable,  frcm 
any  striking  connection  of  ideas  between  a  doc- 
torship  of  divinity  and  an  eclogue  on  Valour 
and  Genius. 

He  came  to  reside  permanently  in  London  in 
1764,  having  obtained  the  curacy  and  lecture* 
ship  of  St.  John's  Clerkenwell.     Being  soon  aftei^ 


692 


JOHN  LANGHORNE. 


ward  called  to  be  assistant-preacher  at  Lincoln's- 
mn  chapel,  he  had  there  to  preach  before  an 
audience,  which  comprehended  a  much  greater 
number  of  learned  and  intelligent  persons  than 
are  collected  in  ordinary  congregations;  and  his 
pulpit  oratory  was  put  to,  what  is  commonly 
reckoned,  a  severe  test  It  proved  to  be  also  an 
honourable  test.  He  continued  in  Ijondon  for 
many  years,  with  the  reputation  of  a  popular 
preacher  and  a  ready  writer.  His  productions 
in  prose,  besides  those  already  named,  were  his 
"Sermons,"  "Effusions  of  Fancy  and  Friend- 
ship," "  Frederick  and  Pharamond,  or  the  Con- 
solations of  Human  Life,"  "  Letters  between  St. 
Evremond  and  Waller,"  "  A  Translation  of  Plu- 
tarch's Lives,"  written  in  conjunction  with  his 
brother,  which  might  be  reckoned  a  real  service 
to  the  bulk  of  the  reading  community,*  "  Me- 
moirs of  Collins,"  and  "  A  Translation  of  Deni-  . 
na's  Dissertation  on  the  Ancient  Republics  of 
Italy."  He  also  wrote  for  several  years  in  the 
Monthly  Review.  An  attempt  which  he  made 
in  tragedy,  entitled  "  The  Fatal  Prophecy," 
proved  completely  unsuccessful ;  and  he  so  far 
acquiesced  in  the  public  decision,  as  never  to 
print  it  more  than  once.  In  an  humbler  walk  of 
poetry  he  composed  "  The  Country  Justice,"  and 
the  "  Fables  of  Flora."  The  Fables  are  very 
garish.  The  Country  Justice  was  written  from 
observations  on  the  miseries  of  the  poor,  which 
came  home  to  his  own  heart ;  and  it  has,  at  least, 
the  merit  of  drawing  our  attention  to  the  sub- 
stantial interests  of  humanity. 

In  1767,  after  a  courtship  of  several  years,  he 
obtained  Miss  Cracroft  in  marriage,  having  cor- 
responded with  her  from  the  time  he  had  left  her 
father's  house  ;  and  her  family  procured  for  him 
the  living  of  Blagden,  in  Somersetshire  ;  but  his 
domestic  happiness  with  her  was  of  short  con- 
tinuance, as  she  died  of  her  first  child — the  son 
who  lived  to  publish  Dr.  Langhorne's  works. 

In  1772  he  married  another  lady  of  the  name 
of  Thomson,  the  daughter  of  a  country  gentle- 
man, near  Brough,  in  Westmoreland :  and  shortly 
after  their  marriage,  he  made  a  tour  with  his 
bride  through  some  part  of  France  and  Flanders. 
At  the  end  of  a  few  years  he  had  the  misfortune 
to  lose  her,  by  the  same  fatal  cause  which  had 
deprived  him  of  his  former  partner.  Otherwise 
his  prosperity  increased.     In   1777  he  was  pro- 


moted to  a  prebend  in  the  cathedral  of  Wells; 
and  in  the  same  year  was  enabled  to  extend  his 
practical  usefulness  and  humanity  by  being  put 
in  the  commission  of  the  peace,  in  his  own  parish 
of  Blagden.  From  his  insight  into  the  abuses 
of  parochial  oflice,  he  was  led  at  this  time  to 
compose  the  poem  of  "  The  Country  Justice," 
already  mentioned.  The  tale  of  "  Owen  of 
Carron"  was  the  last  of  his  works.  It  will  not 
be  much  to  the  advantage  of  this  story  to  com- 
pare it  with  the  simple  and  affecting  ballad  of 
"  Gill  Morrice,"  from  which  it  was  drawn.  Yet 
having  read  "Owen  of  Carron"  with  delight 
when  I  was  a  boy,  I  am  still  so  far  a  slave  to 
early  associations  as  to  retain  some  preililection 
for  it. 

The  particular  cause  of  Dr.  Langhorne's  death, 
at  the  age  of  forty-four,  is  not  mentioned  by  his 
biographers,  further  than  by  a  surmise  that  it  was 
accelerated  by  intemperance.  From  the  general 
decency  of  his  character,  it  may  be  presumed 
that  his  indulgencies  were  neither  gross  nor  no- 
torious, though  habits  short  of  such  excess  might 
undermine  his  constitution. 

It  is  but  a  cheerless  task  of  criticism,  to  pass 
with  a  cold  look  and  irreverent  step,  over  the 
literary  memories  of  men,  who,  though  they  may 
rank  low  in  the  roll  of  absolute  genius,  have  yet 
possessed  refinement,  information,  and  powers  of 
amusement,  above  the  level  of  their  species,  and 
such  as  would  interest  and  attach  us  in  private 
life.  Of  this  description  was  Langhorne ;  an 
elegant  scholar,  and  an  amiable  man.  He  gave 
delight  to  thousands,  from  the  press  and  the  pul- 
pit ;  and  had  sufficient  attraction,  in  his  day,  to 
sustain  his  spirit  and  credit  as  a  writer,  in  the 
face  of  even  Churchill's  envenomed  satire.  Yet, 
as  a  prose  writer,  it  is  impossible  to  deny  that  his 
rapidity  was  the  effect  of  lightness  more  than 
vigour ;  and,  as  a  poet,  there  is  no  ascribing  to 
him  either  fervour  or  simplicity.  His  Muse  is 
elegantly  languid.  She  is  a  fine  lady,  whose 
complexion  is  rather  indebted  to  art  than  to  the 
healthful  bloom  of  nature.  It  would  be  unfair 
not  to  except  from  this  observation  several  plain 
and  manly  sentiments,  which  are  expressed  in 
his  poem  "  On  the  Enlargement  of  the  Mind." 
and  some  passages  in  his  "Country  Justice," 
which  are  written  with  genuine  feeling. 


FROM  "THE  COUNTRY  JUSTICE." 

PART  I. 

Duties  of  a  Country  Justice — The  venerable  mansions  of 
anrieut  jMa>:istrates  contrasted  with  the  fopperies  of 
modern  architecture — Appeal  in  behalf  of  Vagrants. 

The  social  laws  from  insult  to  protect, 
To  cherish  peace,  to  cultivate  respect; 
The  rich  from  wanton  cruelty  restrain, 
To  smooth  the  bed  of  penury  and  pain ; 


*  The  translation  of  Plutarch  has  been  since  corrected 
and  improved  by  Mr.  Wrangham. 


The  hapless  vagrant  to  his  rest  restore. 
The  maze  of  fraud,  the  haunts  of  theft  explore 
The  thoughtless  maiden,  when  subdued  by  art, 
To  aid,  and  bring  her  rover  to  her  heart ; 
Wild  riot's  voice  with  dignity  to  quell, 
Forbid  unpeaceful  passions  to  rebell, 
Wrest  from  revenge  the  meditated  harm. 
For  this  fair  Justice  raised  her  sacred  arm  ; 
For  this  the  rural  magistrate,  of  yore. 
Thy  honours,  Edward,  to  his  mansion  bore. 

Oft,  where  old  Air  in  conscious  glory  sails, 
On  silver  waves  that  flow  through  smiling  vales 


JOHN  LANGHORNE. 


593 


In  Harewood's  groves,  where  long  my  youth  was 

laid, 
(Jnseen  beneath  their  ancient  world  of  shade; 
With  many  a  group  of  antique  columns  crown'd 
In  Gothic  guise  such  mansion  have  I  found. 

Nor  lightly  deem,  ye  apes  of  modern  race, 
Ye  cits  that  sore  bedizen  nature's  face, 
Of  the  more  manly  structures  here  ye  view : 
They  rose  for  greatness  that  ye  never  knew ! 
Ye  reptile  cits,  that  oft  have  moved  my  spleen 
With  Venus  and  the  Graces  on  your  green  ! 
Let  Plutus,  growling  o'er  his  ill-got  wealth. 
Let  Mercury,  the  thriving  god  of  stealth, 
The  shopman,  Janus,  with  his  double  looks. 
Rise  on  your  mounts,  and  perch  upon  your  books ! 
But  spare  my  Venus,  spare  each  sister  Grace, 
Ye  cits,  that  sore  bedizen  nature's  face  ! 

Ye  royal  architects,  whose  antic  taste 
Would  lay  the  realms  of  sense  and  nature  waste; 
Forgot,  whenever  from  her  steps  ye  stray, 
That  folly  only  points  each  other  way  ; 
Here,  though  your  eye  no  courtly  creature  sees. 
Snakes  on  the  ground,  or  monkeys  in  the  trees; 
Yet  let  not  too  severe  a  censure  fall 
In  the  plain  precincts  of  the  ancient  hall. 

For  though  no  sight  your  childish  fancy  meets, 
3f  Thibet's  dogs,  or  China's  paroquets  ; 
Though  apes,  asps,  lizards,  things  without  a  tail, 
And  all  the  tribes  of  foreign  monsters  fail ; 
Here  shall  ye  sigh  to  see,  with  rust  o'ergrown. 
The  iron  griffin  and  the  sphinx  of  stone; 
And  mourn,  neglected  in  their  waste  abodes. 
Fire-breathing  drakes,  and  water-spouting  gods. 

Long  have  these  mighty  monsters  known  dis- 
grace. 
Yet  still  some  trophies  hold  their  ancient  place ; 
Where,  round  the  hall,  the  oak's  high  surbase  rears. 
The  field-day  triumphs  of  two  hundred  years. 

Th'  enormous  antlers  here  recall  the  day 
That  saw  the  forest  monarch  forced  away  ; 
Who,  many  a  flood,  and  many  a  mountain  pass'd, 
Not  finding  those,  nor  deeming  these  the  last. 
O'er  floods,  o'er  mountains  yet  prepared  to  fly, 
Long  ere  the  death-drop  lill'd  his  failing  eye ! 

Here  famed  for  cunning,  and  in  crimes  grown 
Hangs  his  gray  brush,  the  felon  of  the  fold,  [old. 
Oft  as  the  rent-feast  swells  the  midnight  cheer. 
The  maudlin  farmer  kens  him  o'er  his  beer. 
And  tells  his  old,  traditionary  tale. 
Though  known  to  ev'ry  tenant  of  the  vale. 

Here,  where  of  old  the  festal  ox  has  fed, 
Mark'd  with  his  weight,  the  mighty  horns  are 

spread ! 
Some  ox,  0  Marshall,  for  a  board  like  thine, 
Where  the  vast  master  with  the  vast  sirloin 
Vied  in  round  magnitude — Respect  I  bear 
To  thee,  though  oft  the  ruin  of  the  chair. 


[•  This  parage,  beautiful  in  itself,  has  an  associated 
Interest  beyond  its  beauty.  "  The  only  thing  1  remember," 
gnys  Sir  Walter  Scolt,  "  which  was  remarkiible  in  Bums' 
manner,  was  the  effect  produced  upon  him  by  a  print  of 
Bunbur)''g  representing  a  soldier  lyini^duud  on  the  snow; 
hU  dog  sitting  in  misery  on  one  side, — on  the  other,  his 
widow,  with  a  child  in  her  arms.  These  lines  were  written 
beneath : 

Cold  on  Uanadian  hilU,  or  Minden'8  plain,  Ac 
76 


These,  and  such  antique  tokens  that  record 
The  manly  spirit,  and  the  bounteous  board, 
Me  more  delight  than  all  the  gewgaw  train, 
The  whims  and  zigzags  of  a  modern  brain, 
More  than  all  Asia's  marmosets  to  view. 
Grin,  frisk,  and  water  in  the  walks  of  Kew. 

Through  these  fair  valleys,  stranger,  hast  thou 
stray'd, 
By  any  chance,  to  visit  Harewood's  shade. 
And  seen  with  honest,  antiquated  air. 
In  the  phiin  hall  the  magistratial  chair? 
There  Herbert  sat — The  love  of  human  kind. 
Pure  light  of  truth,  and  temperance  of  mind. 
In  the  free  eye  the  featured  soul  display'd. 
Honour's  strong  beam,  and  Mercy's  melting  shade. 
Justice,  that,  in  the  rigid  paths  of  law, 
Would  still  some  drops  from  Pity's  fountain  drafv, 
Bend  o'er  her  urn  with  many  a  gen'rous  fear, 
Ere  his  firm  zeal  should  force  one  orphan's  tear 
Fair  equity,  and  reason  scorning  art. 
And  all  the  sober  virtues  of  the  heart — 
These  sat  with  Herbert,  these  shall  best  avail 
Where  statutes  order,  or  where  statutes  fail. 

Be  this,  ye  rural  magistrates,  your  plan : 
Firm  be  your  justice,  but  be  friends  to  man. 

He  whom  the  mighty  master  of  this  ball 
We  fondly  deem,  or  farcically  call. 
To  own  the  patriarch's  truth,  however  loth. 
Holds  but  a  mansion  crush'd  before  the  moth. 

Frail  in  his  genius,  in  his  heart  too  frail. 
Born  but  to  err,  and  erring  to  bewail, 
Shalt  thou  his  faults  with  eye  severe  explore, 
And  give  to  life  one  human  weakness  more? 

Still  mark  if  vice  or  nature  prompts  the  deed 
Still  mark  the  strong  temptation  and  the  need 
On  pressing  want,  on  famine's  powerful  call, 
At  least  more  lenient  let  thy  justice  fall. 

For  him,  who,  lost  to  ev'ry  hope  of  life. 
Has  long  with  fortune  held  unequal  strife. 
Known  to  no  human  love,  no  human  care, 
The  friendless,  homeless  object  of  despair ; 
For  the  poor  vagrant  feel,  while  he  complains, 
Nor  from  sad  freedom  send  to  sadder  chains.    <■ 
Alike,  if  folly  or  misfortune  brought 
Those  last  of  woes  his  evil  days  have  wrought ; 
Believe  with  social  mercy  and  with  me. 
Folly's  misfortune  in  the  first  degree. 

Perhaps  on  some  inhospitable  shore 
The  houseless  wretch  a  widow'd  parent  bore ; 
Who  then,  no  more  by  golden  prospects  led. 
Of  the  poor  Indian  begg'd  a  leafy  bed. 
Cold  on  Canadian  hills,  or  Minden's  plain, 
Perhaps  that  parent  mourn'd  her  soldier  slain ; 
Bent  o'er  her  babe,  her  eye  dissolved  in  dew. 
The  big  drops  mingling  with  the  milk  he  drew. 
Gave  the  sad  presage  of  his  future  years, 
The  child  of  misery,  baptized  in  tears  !^ 


Bams  seemed  much  affected  by  the  print,  or  rather  tb« 
ideas  which  it  8U);j^e!<tcd  to  his  mind.  lie  actually  shed 
tears.  He  a.oked  who!<e  the  lines  were,  and  it  chanced 
that  nobody  but  myself  remembered  that  they  occur  in  a 
half-fir^utceu  poem  of  Lanii^horne's.  called  by  the  unpro- 
mi.«iug  title  of  The  Justice  of  I'eace.  I  whimpered  my 
information  to  a  friend  present,  who  mentioned  it  to 
Burns,  who  rewarded  me  with  a  look  and  a  word,  which 
though  of  mere  ciyility,  I  then  received,  and  still  r<tollect 
2l2 


594 


JOHN  LANGHORNE. 


GIPSIES, 

FROM  TH£  SAME. 

The  gipsy-race  my  pity  rarely  move; 
Yet  their  strong  thirst  of  liberty  I  love. 
Not  Wilkes,  our  Freedom's  holy  martyr,  more; 
Nor  his  firm  phalanx  of  the  common  shore. 

For  this  in  Norwood's  patrimonial  groves 
The  tawny  father  with  his  offspring  roves ; 
When  summer  suns  lead  slow  the  sultry  day, 
In  mossy  caves,  where  welling  waters  play, 
Fann'd  by  each  gale  that  cools  the  fervid  sky, 
With  this  in  ragged  luxury  they  lie. 
Oft  at  the  sun  the  dusky  elfins  strain 
The  sable  eye,  then  snugging,  sleep  again ; 
Oft  as  the  dews  of  cooler  evening  fall, 
For  their  prophetic  mother's  mantle  call. 

Far  other  cares  that  waud'ring  mother  wait, 
The  mouth,  and  oft  the  minister  of  fate ! 
From  her  to  hear,  in  evening's  friendly  shade, 
Of  future  fortune,  flies  the  village-maid, 
Draws  her  long-hoarded  copper  from  its  hold, 
And  rusty  halfpence  purchase  hopes  of  gold. 

But,  ah  !  ye  maids,  beware  the  gipsy's  lures ! 
She  opens  not  the  womb  of  time,  but  yours. 
Oft  has  her  hands  the  hapless  Marian  wrung, 
Marian,  whom  Gay  in  sweetest  strains  has  sung ! 
The  parson's  maid — sore  cause  had  she  to  rue 
The  gipsy's  tongue ;  the  parson's  daughter  too. 
Long  had  that  anxious  daughter  sigh'd  to  know 
What  Vellum's  sprucy  clerk,  the  valley's  beau. 
Meant  by  those  glances  which  at  church  he  stole. 
Her  father  nodding  to  the  psalm's  slow  drawl ; 
Long  had  she  sigh'd  ;  at  length  a  prophet  came. 
By  many  a  sure  prediction  known  to  fame, 
To  Marian  known,  and  all  she  told,  for  true : 
She  knew  the  future,  lor  the  past  she  knew. 


PROM  THE  SAME. 


PART  n. 


Appeal  for  the  industrious  Poor — Rapacity  of  Clerks  and 
Overseers — Scene  of  actual  misery,  which  the  Author 
had  witnessed. 

But  still,  forgot  the  grandeur  of  thy  reign, 
Descend  to  duties  meaner  crowns  disdain  ; 
That  worst  excrescency  of  power  forego, 
That  pride  of  kings,  humanity's  first  foe. 

Let  age  no  longer  toil  with  feeble  strife, 
Worn  by  long  service  in  the  war  of  life ; 
Nor  leave  the  head,  that  time  hath  whiten'd,bare 
To  the  rude  insults  of  the  searching  air ; 
Nor  bid  the  knee,  by  labour  harden'd,  bend. 
Oh  thou,  the  poor  man's  hope,  the  poor  man's 
friend; 

If,  when  from  heaven  severer  seasons  fall. 
Fled  from  the  frozen  roof  and  mouldering  wall. 


with  very  great  pleasure."— ZoctAart'j  Life,  of  Bums,  8to. 
ed.  p.  151. 

Burns  it  is  said  foretold  the  future  feme  of  Scott :  "  That 
hoy  will  be  heard  of  yet :" 

'Tis  certainly  mysterious  that  the  name 
Of  prophets  and  of  poets  is  the  same.] 


Each  face  the  picture  of  a  winter  day. 
More  strong  than  Teniers'  pencil  could  portray ; 
If  then  to  thee  resort  the  shivering  train, 
Of  cruel  days,  and  cruel  man  complain. 
Say  to  thy  heart,  (remembering  him  who  said,) 
"These   people   come   from    far,   and   have   no 
bread." 

Nor  leave  thy  venal  clerk  empower'd  to  hear ; 
The  voice  of  want  is  sacred  to  thy  ear. 
He,  where  no  fees  his  sordid  pen  invite. 
Sports  with  their  tears,  too  indolent  to  write ; 
Like  the  fed  monkey  in  the  fable,  vain 
To  hear  more  helpless  animals  complain. 

But  chief  thy  notice  shall  one  monster  claim , 
A  monster  furnish'd  with  a  human  frame, 
The  parish-officer !  though  verse  disdain 
Terms  that  deform  the  splendour  of  the  strain ; 
It  stoops  to  bid  thee  bend  the  brow  severe 
On  the  sly,  pilfering,  cruel,  overseer ; 
The  shuffling  farmer,  faithful  to  no  trust. 
Ruthless  as  rocks,  insatiate  as  the  dust ! 

When  the  poor  hind,  with  length  of  years  de- 
Leans  feebly  on  his  once-subduing  spade,  [cay'd, 
Forgot  the  service  of  his  abler  days. 
His  profitable  toil,  and  honest  praise, 
Shall  this  low  wretch  abridge  his  scanty  bread, 
This  slave,  whose  board  his  former  labours  spread  ? 

When  harvest's  burning  suns  and  sickening  air 
From  labour's  unbraced  hand  the  grasp'd  hook 
Where  shall  the  helpless  family  be  fed,        [tear, 
That  vainly  languish  for  a  father's  bread  ? 
See  the  pale  mother,  sunk  with  grief  and  care, 
T(ithe  proud  farmer  fearfully  repair; 
Soon  to  be  sent  with  insolence  away, 
Referr'd  to  vestries,  and  a  distant  day  ! 
Referr'd — to  perish  ! — Is  my  verse  severe  1 
Unfriendly  to  the  human  character  1 
Ah  !  to  this  sigh  of  sad  experience  trust : 
The  truth  is  rigid,  but  the  tale  is  just. 

If  in  thy  courts  this  caitiff  wretch  appear, 
Think  not  that  patience  were  a  virtue  here. 
His  low-born  pride  with  honest  rage  control ; 
Smite  his  hard  heart,  and  shake  his  reptile  soul. 

But,  hapless  !  oft  through  fear  of  future  woe, 
And  certain  vengeance  of  th'  insulting  foe. 
Oft,  ere  to  thee  the  poor  prefer  their  prayer, 
The  last  extremes  of  penury  they  bear. 

Wouldst  thou  then   raise   thy  patriot   ofiice 
higher. 
To  something  more  than  magistrate  aspire  1 
And,  left  each  poorer,  pettier  chase  behind. 
Step  nobly  forth,  the  friend  of  human  kind] 
The  game  I  start  courageously  pursue ! 
Adieu  to  fear!  to  insolence  adieu  ! 
And  first  we'll  range  this  mountain's  stormy  side. 
Where  the  rude  winds  the  shepherd's  roof  deride. 
As  meet  no  more  the  wintry  blast  to  bear. 
And  all  the  wild  hostilities  of  air. 
— That  roof  have  I  remember'd  many  a  year ; 
It  once  gave  refuge  to  a  hunted  deer — 
Here,  in  those  days,  we  found  an  aged  pair; 
But  time  untenants — hah !  what  seest  thou  there ' 
"Horror!  by  Heaven,  extended  m  a  bed 
Of  naked  fern,  two  human  creatures  dead ! 


JOHN  LANGHORNE. 


595 


Embracing  as  alive ! — ah,  no  ! — no  life ! 
•>M,  breathless!" 

'Tis  the  shepherd  and  his  wife. 
I  knew  the  scene,  and  brought  thee  to  behold 
♦V'hat  speaks  more  strongly  than  the  story  told. 
They  died  through  want — 

"  By  every  power  I  swear, 
If  the  wretch  treads  the  earth,  or  breathes  the  air, 
Through  whose  default  of  duty,  or  design. 
These  victims  fell,  he  dies." 

They  fell  by  thine. 
«  Infernal ! — Mine ! — by—" 

Swear  on  no  pretence : 
A  swearing  justice  wants  both  grace  and  sense. 


FKOM  THE  SAME. 
K  case  where  Mercy  should  have  mitignted  Justice. 

Usnumber'd  objects  ask  thy  honest  care. 
Beside  the  orphan's  tear,  the  widow's  prayer: 
Far  as  thy  power  can  save,  thy  bounty  bless, 
Unnumber'd  evils  call  for  thy  redress. 

Seest  thou  afar  yon  solitary  thorn. 
Whose  aged  limbs  the  heath's  wild  winds  have 

torn? 
While  yet  to  cheer  the  homeward  shepherd's  eye, 
A  few  seem  straggling  in  the  evening  sky  ! 
Not  many  suns  have  hasten'd  down  the  day, 
Or   blushing   moons   immersed   in    clouds  their 

way. 
Since  there,  a  scene  that  stain'd    their   sacred 

light. 
With  horror  stopp'd  a  felon  in  his  flight ; 
A  babe  just  born  that  signs  of  life  exprest. 
Lay  naked  o'er  the  mother's  lifeless  breast. 
The  pitying  robber,  conscious  that,  pursued. 
He  had  no  time  to  waste,  yet  stood  and  view'd; 
To  the  next  cot  the  trembling  infant  bore, 
And  gave  a  part  of  what  he  stole  before ; 
Nor  known  to  him  the  wretches  were,  nor  dear. 
He  felt  as  man,  and  dropp'd  a  human  tear. 

Far  other  treatment  she  who  breathless  lay 
Found  from  a  viler  animal  of  prey. 

Worn  with  long  toil  on  many  a  painful  road. 
That  toil  increased  by  nature's  growing  load, 
When  evening  brought  the  friendly  hour  of  rest, 
And  all  the  mother  throng'd  about  her  breast, 
The  ruffian  officer  opposed  her  stay. 
And,  cruel,  bore  her  in  her  pangs  away. 
So  far  beyond  the  town's  last  limits  drove. 
That  to  return  were  hopeless,  had  she  strove, 
Abandoii'd  there — with  famine,  pain  and  cold. 
And  anguish,  she  expired — the  rest  I've  told. 

"Now   let  me  swear.    For  by  my  soul's  last 
sigh, 
That  thief  shall  live,  that  overseer  shall  die." 

Too  late ! — his  life  the  generous  robber  paid, 
Lost  by  that  pity  which  his  steps  delay'd ! 
No  soul-discerning  Mansfield  sat  to  hear. 
No  Hertford  bore  his  prayer  to  mercy's  ear; 
No  liberal  justice  first  assign'd  the  gaol, 
C  r  urged,   as  Camplin  would  have   urged  bis 
tale. 


OWEN  OF  CARRON. 


On  Carron's  side  the  primrose  pale. 
Why  does  it  wear  a  purple  hue  ! 

Ye  maidens  fair  of  Marlivale, 

Why  stream  your  eyes  with  pity's  dew  ? 

'Tis  all  with  gentle  Owen's  blood 

That  purple  grows  the  primrose  pale; 

That  pity  pours  the  tender  flood 
From  each  fair  eye  in  Marhvaie. 

The  evening  star  sat  in  his  eye. 

The  sun  his  golden  tresses  gave. 
The  north's  pure  morn  her  orient  dye. 
To  him  who  rests  in  yonder  grave! 

Beneath  no  high,  historic  stone. 
Though  nobly  born,  is  Owen  laid ; 

Stretch'd  on  the  greenwood's  lap  alone. 
He  sleeps  beneath  the  waving  shade. 

There  many  a  flowery  race  hath  sprung, 
And  fled  l)efore  the  mountain  gale. 

Since  first  his  simple  dirge  he  sung ; 
Ye  maidens  fair  of  Marlivale ! 

Yet  still,  when  May  with  fragrant  feet 
Hath  wander'd  o'er  your  meads  of  g^ld, 

That  dirge  I  hear  so  simply  sweet 
Far  ecbo'd  from  each  evening  fold. 


'Twas  in  the  pride  of  William's  day, 
When  Scotland's  honours  flourish'd  still, 

That  Moray's  earl,  with  mighty  sway. 
Bare  rule  o'er  many  a  Highland  hill 

And  far  for  him  their  fruitful  store 
The  fairer  plains  of  Carron  spread ; 

In  fortune  rich,  in  offspring  poor. 
An  only  daughter  crown'd  his  bed. 

Oh !  write  not  poor — the  wealth  that  flows 
In  waves  of  gold  round  India's  throne. 

All  in  her  shining  breast  that  glows. 

To  Ellen's  charms,  were  earth  and  stone. 

For  her  the  youth  of  Scotland  sigh'd. 
The  Frenchman  gay,  the  Spaniard  grave, 

And  smoother  Italy  applied. 

And  many  an  English  baron  brave. 

In  vain  by  foreign  arts  assail'd. 

No  foreign  loves  her  breast  beguile ; 

And  England's  honest  valour  faii'd. 
Paid  with  a  cold,  but  courteous  smile. 

"  Ah !  woe  to  thee,  young  Nithisdale, 
That  o'er  thy  cheek  those  roses  stray'd. 

Thy  breath,  the  violet  of  the  vale. 
Thy  voice,  the  music  of  the  shade. 

"  Ah!  woe  to  thee,  that  Ellen's  love 
Alone  to  thy  soft  tale  would  yield  ! 

For  soon  those  gentle  arms  shall  provp 
The  conflict  of  a  ruder  field." 


696 


JOHN  LANGHORNE. 


'Twas  thus  a  wayward  sister  spoke, 
And  cast  a  rueful  glance  behind, 

As  from  her  dim  wood-glen  she  broke, 
And  mounted  on  the  moaning  wind. 

She  spoke  and  vanish'd — more  unmoved 
Than  Moray's  rocks,  when  storms  invest, 

The  valiant  youth  by  Ellen  loved, 
With  aught  that  fear  or  fate  suggest. 

For  love,  methinks,  hath  power  to  raise 
The  soul  beyond  a  vulgar  state; 

Th'  unconquer'd  banners  he  displays 
Control  our  fears  and  fix  our  fate. 


'Twas  when,  on  summer's  softest  eve, 
Of  clouds  that  wander'd  west  away, 

Twilight  with  gentle  hand  did  weave 
Her  fairy  robe  of  night  and  day; 

When  all  the  mountain  gales  were  still. 
And  the  waves  slept  against  the  shore, 

And  the  sun,  sunk  beneath  the  hill, 
Left  his  last  smile  on  Lammermore ; 

Led  by  those  waking  dreams  of  thought 
That  warm  the  young  unpractised  breast, 

Her  wonted  bower  sweet  Ellen  sought. 

And  Carron  murmur'd  near,  and   sooth'd 
her  into  rest. 


There  is  some  kind  and  courtly  sprite 
That  o'er  the  realm  of  fancy  reigns. 

Throws  sunshine  on  the  mask  of  night, 
And  smiles  at  slumber's  powerless  chains; 

'Tis  told,  and  I  believe  the  tale. 

At  this  soft  hour  that  sprite  was  there. 

And  spread  with  fairer  flowers  the  vale. 
And  fill'd  with  sweeter  sounds  the  air. 

A  bower  he  framed  (for  he  could  frame 
What  long  might  weary  mortal  wight: 

Swift  as  the  lightning's  rapid  flame 
Darts  on  the  unsuspecting  sight.) 

Such  bower  he  framed  with  magic  hand. 
As  well  that  wizard  bard  hath  wove, 

In  scenes  where  fair  Armida's  wand 
Waved  all  the  witcheries  of  love: 

Yet  was  it  wrought  in  simple  show ; 

Nor  Indian  mines  nor  orient  shores 
Had  lent  their  glories  here  to  glow. 

Or  yielded  here  their  shining  stores. 

All  round  a  poplar's  trembling  arms 

The  wild  rose  wound  her  damask  flower ; 

The  woodbine  lent  her  spicy  charms, 
Tbat  loves  to  weave  the  lover's  bower. 

The  Ash,  that  courts  the  mouniam-air 
ill  all  her  painted  blooms  array'd, 

The  wilding's  blossom  blushing  fair, 
•vonibin«"d  to  form  the  flowery  shade. 


With  thyme  that  loves  the  brown  hill's  breast, 
The  cowslip's  sweet,  reclining  head. 

The  violet  of  sky-woven  vest. 

Was  all  the  fairy  ground  bespread. 

But  who  is  he,  whose  locks  so  fair 
Adown  his  manly  shoulders  flow  ? 

Beside  him  lies  the  hunter's  spear. 
Beside  him  sleeps  the  warrior's  bow. 

He  bends  to  Ellen — (gentle  sprite ! 

Thy  sweet  seductive  arts  forbear) 
He  courts  her  arms  with  fond  delight, 

And  instant  vanishes  in  air. 


Hast  thou  not  found  at  early  dawn 

Some  soft  ideas  melt  away. 
If  o'er  sweet  vale,  or  flow'ry  lawn, 

The  sprite  of  dreams  hath  bid  thee  stray  ' 

Hast  thou  not  some  fair  object  seen, 
And,  when  the  fleeting  form  was  past, 

Still  on  thy  memory  found  its  mien, 
And  felt  the  fond  idea  last! 

Thou  hast — and  oft  the  pictured  view, 
Seen  in  some  vision  counted  vain. 

Has  struck  thy  wond'ring  eye  anew. 
And  brought  the  long-lost  dream  again. 

With  warrior-bow,  with  hunter's  spear. 

With  locks  adown  his  shoulder  spread, 
Young  Nithisdale  is  ranging  near — 
He's  ranging  near  yon  mountain's  head. 

Scarce  had  one  pale  moon  pass'd  away. 
And  fill'd  her  silver  urn  again. 

When  in  the  devious  ch.ase  to  stray, 
Afar  from  all  his  woodland  train, 

To  Carron's  banks  his  fate  consign'd; 

And,  all  to  shun  the  fervid  hour. 
He  sought  some  friendly  shade  to  find. 

And  found  the  visionary  bower. 


Led  by  the  golden  star  6f  love, 

Sweet  Ellen  took  her  wonted  way, 

And  in  the  deep  defending  grove 
Sought  refuge  from  the  fervid  day — 

Oh ! — who  is  he  whose  ringlets  fair 
Disorder'd  o'er  his  green  vest  flow, 

Reclined  to  rest — whose  sunny  hair 

Half  hides  the  fair  cheek's  ardent  glow  ? 

'Tis  he,  that  sprite's  illusive  guest, 

(Ah  me  !  that  sprites  can  fate  control !) 

That  lives  still  imaged  on  her  breast. 
That  lives  still  pictured  in  her  soul. 

As  when  some  gentle  spirit  fled 
From  earth  to  breathe  Elysian  air. 

And,  in  the  train  whom  we  call  dead. 
Perceives  its  long-foved  partner  there* 


JOHN  LANGHORNE. 


697 


Soft,  sudden  pleasure  rushes  o'er, 

Resistless,  o'er  its  airy  frame, 
To  find  its  future  fate  restore 

The  object  of  its  former  flame : 

So  Ellen  stood — less  power  to  move 

Had  he,  who,  bound  in  slumber's  chain, 

Seem'd  hap'ly  o'er  his  hills  to  rove, 
And  wind  his  woodland  chase  again. 

She  stood,  but  trembled — mingled  fear, 
And  fond  delight,  and  melting  love, 

Seized  all  her  soul ;  she  came  not  near, 
She  came  not  near  that  fatal  grove. 

She  strives  to  fly — from  wizard's  wand 
As  well  might  powerless  captive  fly — 

The  new-cropt  flower  falls  from  her  hand — 
Ah !  fall  not  with  that  flower  to  die  ! 


Hast  thou  not  seen  some  azure  gleam 
Smile  in  the  morning's  orient  eye. 

And  skirt  the  reddening  cloud's  soft  beam 
What  time  the  sun  was  hasting  nigh  ? 

Thou  hast — and  thou  canst  fancy  well 
As  any  Muse  that  meets  thine  ear. 

The  soul-set  eye  of  Nithisdale, 

When,  waked,  it  flx'd  on  Ellen  near. 

Silent  they  gazed — that  silence  broke; 

"  Hail,  goddess  of  these  groves,  (he  cried,) 
Oh  let  me  wear  thy  gentle  yoke  ! 

Oh  let  me  in  thy  service  bide  ! 

"  For  thee  I II  climb  the  mountains  steep. 
Unwearied  chase  the  destined  prey  ; 

For  thee  I'll  pierce  the  wild  wood  deep. 
And  part  the  sprays  that  vex  thy  way. 

"  For  thee" — "O  stranger,  cease,"  she  said. 
And  swift  away,  like  Daphne,  flew ; 

But  Daphne's  flight  was  not  delay'd^ 
By  aught  that  to  her  bosom  grew. 


Twas  Atalanta's  golden  fruit, 

The  fond  ideal  that  confined 
Fair  Ellen's  steps,  and  bless'd  his  suit. 

Who  was  not  far,  not  far  behind. 

O  love !  within  those  golden  vales. 

Those  genial  airs  where  thou  wast  bom, 

Where  nature,  listening  thy  soft  tales, 
Leans  on  the  rosy  breast  of  morn  ; 

Where  the  sweet  smiles,  the  graces  dwell. 
And  tender  sighs  the  heart  remove, 

In  silent  eloquence  to  tell 

Tliy  tale,  O  soul-suMuing  love  ! 

Ah  !  wherefore  should  grim  rage  be  nigh. 
And  dark  distrust,  with  changeful  fac«. 

And  jealousy's  reverted  eye 

Be  near  thy  fair,  thy  favour'd  place  1 


Earl  Barnard  was  of  high  degree, 
And  lord  of  many  a  lowland  hind  ; 

And  long  for  Ellen  love  had  he, — 
Had  love,  but  not  of  gentle  kind. 

From  Moray's  halls  her  absent  hour 
He  watch'd  with  all  a  miser's  care ; 

The  wide  domain,  the  princely  dower. 
Made  Ellen  more  than  Ellen  fair. 

Ah  wretch  !  to  think  the  liberal  soul 
May  thus  with  fair  aflTection  part ! 

Though  Lothian's  vales  thy  sway  control, 
Know,  Lothian  is  not  worth  one  heart. 

Studious  he  marks  her  absent  hour, 
And,  winding  far  where  Carron  flows, 

Sudden  he  sees  the  fated  bower, 

And  red  rage  on  his  dark  brow  glows. 

For  who  is  he  ? — 'Tis  Nithisdale ! 

And  that  fair  form  with  arm  reclined 
On  his? — 'Tis  Ellen  of  the  vale: 

'Tis  she  (0  powers  of  vengeance!)  kind. 

Should  he  that  vengeance  swift  pursue  1 
No — that  would  all  his  hopes  destroy ; 

Moray  would  vanish  from  his  view, 
And  rob  him  of  a  miser's  joy. 

Unseen  to  Moray's  halls  he  hies — 

He  calls  his  slaves,  his  ruflian  band, 
And,  "  Haste  to  yonder  groves,"  he  cries, 
«<  And  ambush'd  lie  by  Carron 's  strand. 

"  What  time  ye  mark  from  bower  or  glen 

A  gentle  lady  take  her  way. 
To  distance  due,  and  far  from  ken, 

Allow  her  length  of  time  to  stray. 

"Then  ransack  straight  that  range  of  groves-^ 
With  hunter's  spear,  and  vest  of  green. 

If  chance  a  rosy  stripling  roves. 

Ye  well  can  aim  your  arrows  keen." 

And  now  the  ruffian  slaves  are  nigh, 
And  Ellen  takes  her  homeward  way: 

Though  stay'd  by  many  a  tender  sigh. 
She  can  no  longer,  longer  stay. 

Pensive,  against  yon  poplar  pale 
The  lover  leans  his  gentle  heart. 

Revolving  many  a  tender  tale. 

And  wond'ring  still  how  they  could  part. 

Three  arrows  pierced  the  desert  air, 
.Ere  yet  his  tender  dreams  depart; 
And  one  struck  deep  his  forehead  fair, 
And  one  went  through  his  gentle  heart 

Love's  waking  dream  is  lost  in  sleep — 
He  lies  beneath  yon  poplar  pale ; 

Ah  !  could  we  marvel  ye  should  weep 
Ye  maidens  fair  of  Marlivale! 


598 


JOHN  LANGHORNE. 


When  all  the  mountain  gales  were  still, 
And  the  wave  slept  against  the  shore, 

And  the  sun  sunk  beneath  the  hill, 
Left  his  last  smile  on  Lammermore ; 

Sweet  Ellen  takes  her  wonted  way 
Along  the  fairy-featured  vale  : 

Bright  o'er  his  wave  does  Carron  play. 
And  soon  she'll  meet  her  Nithisdale. 

She'll  meet  him  soon — for,  at  her  sight, 
Swift  as  the  mountain  deer  he  sped ; 

The  evening  shades  will  sink  in  night — 
Where  art  thou,  loitering  lover,  fled  1 

Oh !  she  will  chide  thy  trifling  stay, 
E'en  now  the  soft  reproach  she  frames: 

"  Can  lovers  brook  such  long  delay  1 
Lovers  that  boast  of  ardent  flames !" 

He  comes  not — weary  with  the  chase. 
Soft  slumber  o'er  his  eyelids  throws 

Her  vail — we'll  steal  one  dear  embrace. 
We'll  gently  steal  on  bis  repose. 

This  is  the  bower — we'll  softly  tread — 
He  sleeps  beneath  yon  poplar  pale — 

Lover,  if  e'er  thy  heart  has  bled. 
Thy  heart  will  far  forego  my  tale ! 


Ellen  is  not  in  princely  bower, 

She's  not  in  Moray's  splendid  train; 

Their  mistress  dear  at  midnight  hour. 
Her  weeping  maidens  seek  in  vain. 

Her  pillow  swells  not  deep  with  down ; 

For  her  no  balms  their  sweets  exhale  : 
Her  limbs  are  on  the  pale  turf  thrown, 

Press'd  by  her  lovely  cheek  as  pale. 

On  that  fair  cheek,  that  flowing  hair. 
The  broom  its  yellow  leaf  hath  shed, 

And  the  chill  mountain's  early  air 

Blows  wildly  o'er  her  beauteous  head. 

As  the  soft  star  of  orient  day, 

When  clouds  involve  his  rosy  light, 

Darts  through  the  gloom  a  transient  ray, 
And  leaves  the  world  once  more  to  night ; 

Returning  life  illumes  her  eye. 

And  slow  its  languid  orb  unfolds, — • 

What  are  those  bloody  arrows  nigh  1 
Sure,  bloody  arrows  she  beholds ! 

What  was  that  form  so  ghastly  pale, 
That  low  beneath  the  poplar  layl — 

'Twas  some  poor  youth — '"Ah,  Nithisdale  !" 
She  said,  and  silent  sunk  away. 


The  morn  is  on  the  mountains  spread, 
The  woodlark  trills  his  liquid  strain — 

Can  morn's  sweet  music  rouse  the  dead] 
Give  the  set  eye  its  soul  again  1 


A  shepherd  of  that  gentler  mind 
Which  nature  not  profusely  yields, 

Seeks  in  these  lonely  shades  to  find 
Some  wanderer  from  his  little  fields. 

Aghast  he  stands — and  simple  fear 
O'er  all  his  paly  visage  glides — 

"Ah  me!  what  means  this  misery  here? 
What  fate  this  lady  fair  betides?" 

He  bears  her  to  his  friendly  home. 

When  life,  he  finds,  has  but  retired: — 

With  haste  he  frames  the  lover's  tomb 
For  his  is  quite,  is  quite  expired  ! 

xm. 
«'  O  hide  me  in  thy  humble  bower," 

Returning  late  to  life,  she  said ; 
"I'll  bind  thy  crook  with  many  a  flower; 

With  many  a  rosy  wreath  thy  head. 

"  Good  shepherd,  haste  to  yonder  grove, 

And,  if  my  love  asleep  is  laid. 
Oh  !  wake  him  not ;  but  softly  move 

Some  pillow  to  that  gentle  head. 

"  Sure,  thou  wilt  know  him,  shepherd  swain, 
Thou  know'st  the  sun-rise  o'er  the  sea — 

But  oh  !  no  lamb  in  all  thy  train 
Was  e'er  so  mild,  so  mild  as  he." 

"  His  head  is  on  the  wood-moss  laid ; 
I  did  not  wake  his  slumber  deep — 

Sweet  sings  the  redbreast  o'er  the  shade- 
Why,  gentle  lady,  would  you  weepi" 

As  flowers  that  fade  in  burning  day. 
At  evening  find  the  dew-drop  dear, 

But  fiercer  feel  the  noontide  ray. 
When  soften'd  by  the  nightly  tear; 

Returning  in  the  flowing  tear. 

This  lovely  flower,  more  sweet  than  they, 
Found  her  fair  soul,  and,  wand'ring  near, 

The  stranger,  reason,  cross'd  her  way. 

Found  her  fair  soul — Ah  !  so  to  find 

Was  but  more  dreadful  grief  to  know  ! 

Ah  !  sure  the  privilege  of  mind 
Cannot  be  worth  the  wish  of  woe ! 


On  melancholy's  silent  urn 

A  softer  shade  of  sorrow  falls, 
But  Ellen  can  no  more  return. 

No  more  return  to  Moray's  halls. 

Beneath  the  low  and  lonely  shade 

The  slow-consuming  hour  she'll  weep, 

Till  nature  seeks  her  last  left  aid, 
In  the  sad  sombrous  arms  of  sleep. 

"  These  jewels,  all  unmeet  for  me, 

Shalt  thou."  she  said,  •'  good  shepherd,  lake; 
These  gems  will  purchase  gold  for  thee. 

And  these  be  thine  for  Ellen's  sake. 

*'  So  fail  thou  not,  at  eve  or  morn. 

The  rosemary's  pale  bough  to  bring — 

Thou  know'st  where  I  was  found  forlorn — 
Where  thou  hast  heard  the  redbreast  sing. 


JOHN  LANGHORNE. 


599 


"  Heedful  I'll  tend  thy  flocks  the  while, 
Or  aid  thy  shepherdess's  care, 

For  I  will  share  her  humble  toil, 
And  I  her  friendly  roof  will  share." 


And  now  two  longsome  years  are  past 

In  luxury  of  lonely  pain — 
The  lovely  mourner,  found  at  last, 

To  Moray's  balls  is  borne  again. 

Yet  has  she  left  one  object  dear, 

That  wears  love's  sunny  eye  of  joy — 

Is  Nithisdale  reviving  here? 
Or  is  it  but  a  shepherd's  boy  1 

By  Carron's  side  a  shepherd's  boy  1 

He  binds  his  vale-flowers  with  the  reed ; 

He  wears  love's  sunny  eye  of  joy. 
And  birth  he  little  seems  to  heed. 


But  ah !  no  more  his  infant  sleep 
Closes  beneath  a  mother's  smile, 

Who,  only  when  it  closed,  would  weep, 
And  yield  to  tender  woe  the  while. 

No  more,  with  fond  attention  dear, 
She  seeks  th'  unspoken  wish  to  find ; 

No  more  shall  she,  with  pleasure's  tear, 
See  the  soul  waxing  into  mind. 


Does  nature  bear  a  tyrant's  breast  1 
Is  she  the  friend  of  stern  control  ? 

Wears  she  the  despot's  purple  vest  1 
Or  fetters  she  the  free-born  soul  ] 

Where,  worst  of  tyrants,  is  thy  claim 
In  chains  thy  children's  breast  to  bind  1 

Gavest  thou  the  Promethean  flame  1 
The  incommunicable  mind  ? 

Thy  ofTspring  are  great  nature's — free, 
And  of  her  fair  dominion  heirs; 

Each  privilege  she  gives  to  thee ; 
Know  that  each  privilege  is  theirs. 

They  have  thy  feature,  wear  thine  eye, 
Perhaps  some  feelings  of  thy  heart; 

And  wilt  thou  their  loved  hearts  deny 
To  act  their  fair,  their  proper  part  1 


The  lord  of  Lothian's  fertile  vale, 

Ill-fated  Ellen,  claims  thy  hand ; 
Thou  know'st  not  that  thy  Nithisdale 

Was  low  laid  by  his  ruffian  band. 

And  Moray,  with  unfather'd  eyes, 
Fix'd  on  fair  Lothian's  fertile  dale. 

Attends  his  human  sacrifice. 

Without  the  Grecian  painter's  veil. 

O  married  love !  thy  bard  shall  own, 
Where  two  congenial  souls  unite, 

Thy  golden  chain  inlaid  with  down, 

l^hy  lamp  with  heaven's  own  splendour  bright. 


But  if  no  radiant  star  of  love, 

O  Hymen  !  smile  on  thy  fair  rite. 

Thy  chain  a  wretched  weight  shall  prove. 
Thy  lamp  a  sad  sepulchral  light. 


And  now  has  time's  slow  wandering  wing 
Borne  many  a  year  unmark'd  with  speed — 

Where  is  the  boy  by  Carron's  spring. 

Who  bound  his  vale-flowers  with  the  reed  ? 

Ah  me !  those  flowers  he  binds  no  more ; 

No  early  charm  returns  again  ; 
The  parent,  nature,  keeps  in  store 

Her  best  joys  for  her  little  train. 

No  longer  heed  the  sunbeam  bright 
That  plays  on  Carron's  breast  he  can. 

Reason  has  lent  her  quiv'ring  light. 
And  shown  the  chequer'd  field  of  man. 


As  the  first  human  heir  of  earth 
With  pensive  eye  himself  survey'd. 

And,  all  unconscious  of  his  birth, 
Sat  thoughtful  ofl  in  Eden's  shade ; 

In  pensive  thought  so  Owen  stray'd 
Wild  Carron's  lonely  woods  among. 

And  once  within  their  greenest  glade, 
He  fondly  framed  this  simple  song  : 


«  Why  is  this  crook  adom'd  with  gold  1 
Why  am  I  tales  of  ladies  toldl 
Why  does  no  labour  me  employ, 
If  I  am  but  a  shepherd's  boy  1 

"  A  silken  vest  like  mine  so  green 
In  shepherd's  hut  I  have  not  seen — 
Why  should  I  in  such  vesture  joy. 
If  I  am  but  a  shepherd's  boy  1 

"  I  know  it  is  no  shepherd's  art 
His  written  meaning  to  impart — 
They  teach  me  sure  an  idle  toy, 
If  I  am  but  a  shepherd's  boy. 

«  This  bracelet  bright  that  binds  my  arm- 
It  could  not  come  from  shepherd's  farm ; 
It  only  would  that  arm  annoy. 
If  I  were  but  a  shepherd's  boy. 

"  And  oh  thou  silent  picture  fair. 
That  lovest  to  smile  upon  me  there. 
Oh  say,  and  fill  my  heart  with  joy, 
That  I  am  not  a  shepherd's  boy." 


Ah,  lovely  youth  !  thy  tender  lay 
May  not  thy  gentle  life  prolong 

Seest  thou  yon  nightingale  a  prey  1 
The  fierce  hawk  hovering  o'er  his  song 

His  little  heart  is  large  with  love : 
He  sweetly  hails  his  evening  star ; 

And  fate's  more  pointed  arrows  move. 
Insidious  from  his  eye  afar. 


600 


JOHN  LANGHORNE. 


The  shepherdess,  whose  kindly  care 
Had  watch'd  o'er  Owen's  infant  breath, 

Must  now  their  silent  mansions  share. 
Whom  time  leads  calmly  down  to  death. 

«  Oh  tell  me,  parent,  if  thou  art. 
What  is  this  lovely  picture  dear  ? 

Why  wounds  its  mournful  eye  my  heart  1 
Why  flows  from  mine  th'  unbidden  tear'" 

"  Ah,  youth  !  to  leave  thee  loth  am  I, 
Though  I  be  not  thy  parent  dear ; 

And  wouldst  thou  wish,  or  ere  I  die, 
The  story  of  thy  birth  to  hear? 

"  But  it  will  make  thee  much  bewail. 
And  it  will  make  thy  fair  eye  swell — " 

She  said,  and  told  the  woesome  tale, 
As  sooth  as  shepherdess  might  tell. 


The  heart  that  sorrow  doom'd  to  share 
Has  worn  the  frequent  seal  of  woe, 

Its  sad  impressions  learn  to  bear. 
And  finds  full  oft  its  ruin  slow. 

But  when  that  seal  is  first  imprest. 

When  the  young  heart  its  pain  shall  try. 

From  the  soft,  yielding,  trembling  breast. 
Oft  seems  the  startled  soul  to  fly  : 

Yet  fled  not  Owen's — wild  amaze 
In  paleness  clothed,  and  lifted  hands. 

And  horror's  dread  unmeaning  gaze, 
Mark  the  poor  statue  as  it  stands. 

The  simple  guardian  of  his  life 

Look'd  wistful  for  the  tear  to  glide ; 

But,  when  she  saw  his  tearless  strife, 
Silent,  she  lent  him  one — and  died. 


"  No,  I  am  not  a  shepherd's  boy," 
Awaking  from  his  dream,  he  said  ; 

"  Ah,  where  is  now  the  promised  joy 
Of  this  1 — for  ever,  ever  fled  ! 

"  Oh  picture  dear ! — for  her  loved  sake 
How  fondly  could  my  heart  bewail ! 

My  friendly  shepherdess,  oh  wake, 
And  tell  me  more  of  this  sad  tale  : 

"  Oh  tell  me  more  of  this  sad  tale — 
No ;  thou  enjoy  thy  gentle  sleep  ! 

And  I  will  go  to  Lothian's  vale, 

And  more  than  aHl  her  waters  weep.' 


Owen  to  Lothian's  vale  is  fled — 

Earl  Barnard's  lofty  towers  appear — 

«  Oh !  art  thou  there  V  the  full  heart  said, 
«  Oh !  art  thou  there,  my  parent  dear]" 


Yes,  she  is  there :  from  idle  state 
Oft  has  she  stole  her  hour  to  weep ; 

Think  how  she  «  by  thy  cradle  sat," 
And  how  she  "  fondly  saw  thee  sleep." 

Now  tries  his  trembling  hand  to  frame 
Full  many  a  tender  line  of  love ; 

And  still  he  blots  the  parent's  name, 
For  that,  he  fears,  might  fatal  prove. 


O'er  a  fair  fountain's  smiling  side 

Reclined  a  dim  tower,  clad  with  moss, 

Where  every  bird  was  wont  to  bide. 
That  languish'd  for  its  partner's  loss. 

This  scene  he  chose,  this  scene  assign'd 
A  parent's  first  embrace  to  wait. 

And  many  a  soft  fear  fill'd  his  mind, 
Anxious  for  his  fond  letter's  fate. 

The  hand  that  bore  those  lines  of  love, 
The  well-informing  bracelet  bore — 

Ah !  may  they  not  unprosperous  prove ! 
Ah  !  safely  pass  yon  dangerous  door ! 


»»  She  comes  not ; — can  she  then  delay  1" 
Cried  the  fair  youth,  and  dropt  a  tear — 

«  Whatever  filial  love  could  say, 
To  her  I  said,  and  call'd  her  dear. 

"  She  comes — Oh  !  no — encircled  round, 
'Tis  some  rude  chief  with  many  a  spear. 

My  hapless  tale  that  earl  has  found — 
Ah  me  !  my  heart ! — for  her  I  fear." 

His  tender  tale  that  earl  had  read 
Or  ere  it  reach'd  his  lady's  eye ; 

His  dark  brow  wears  a  cloud  of  red. 
In  rage  he  deems  a  rival  nigh. 


*Tis  o'er — those  locks  that  waved  in  gold, 
That  waved  adown  those  cheeks  so  fair. 

Wreathed  in  the  gloomy  tyrant's  hold, 
Hang  from  the  sever'd  head  in  air ! 

That  streaming  head  he  joys  to  bear 
In  horrid  guise  to  Lothian's  halls ! 

Bids  his  grim  ruffians  place  it  there. 
Erect  upon  the  frowning  walls. 

The  fatal  tokens  forth  he  drew — 

"Know'st  thou  these — Ellen  of  the  vale  1' 
The  pictured  bracelet  soon  she  knew. 

And  soon  her  lovely  cheek  grew  pale. 

The  trembling  victim  straight  he  led, 
Ere  yet  her  soul's  first  fear  was  o'er: 

He  pointed  to  the  ghastly  head — 
She  saw — and  sunk  to  rise  no  more. 


THOMAS  PENROSE. 


[Bom,  1743.     Died,  1779.] 


The  history  of  Penrose  displays  a  dash  of  war- 
like adventure,  which  has  seldom  enlivened  the 
biography  of  our  poets.  He  was  not  led  to  the 
profession  of  arms,  like  Gascoigne,  by  his  poverty, 
or  like  Quarles,  Davenant,  and  Waller,  by  poli- 
tical circumstances ;  but  in  a  mere  fit  of  juvenile 
ardour,  gave  up  his  studies  at  Oxford,  where  he 
was  preparing  to  become  a  clergyman,  and  left 
the  banners  of  the  church  for  those  of  the  battle. 
This  was  in  the  summer  of  1762,  when  the  un- 
fortunate expedition  against  Buenos  Ayres  sailed 
under  the  command  of  Captain  Macnamara.  It 
consisted  of  three  ships :  the  Lord  Clive,  of  64 
guns ;  the  Ambuscade  of  40,  on  board  of  which 
Penrose  acted  as  lieutenant  of  marines;  the 
Gloria,  of  38,  and  some  inferior  vessels.  Pre- 
paratory to  an  attack  on  Buenos  Ayres,  it  was 
deemed  necessary  to  begin  with  the  capture  of 
Nova  Colonia,  and  the  ships  approached  closely 
to  the  fortress  of  that  settlement.  The  men  were 
in  high  spirits ;  military  music  sounded  on  board ; 
while  the  new  uniforms  and  polished  arms  of  the 
marines  gave  a  splendid  appearance  to  the  scene. 
Penrose,  the  night  before,  bad  written  and  de- 
spatched to  his  mistress  in  England  a  poetical 
address,  which  evinced  at  once  the  affection  and 
serenity  of  his  heart,  on  the  eve  of  danger.  The 
gay  preparative  was  followed  by  a  heavy  fire  of 
several  hours,  at  the  end  of  which,  when  the 
Spanish  batteries  were  almost  silenced,  and  our 
countrymen  in  immediate  expectation  of  seeing 


the  enemy  strike  his  colours,  the  Lord  Clive  wu 
found  to  be  on  fire ;  and  the  same  moment  which 
discovered  the  flames  showed  the  impossibility 
of  extinguishing  them.  A  dreadful  spectacle  was 
then  exhibited.  Men,  who  had,  the  instant  be- 
fore, assured  themselves  of  wealth  and  conquest, 
were  seen  crowding  to  the  sides  of  the  ship,  with 
the  dreadful  alternative  of  perishing  by  fire  or 
water.  The  enemy's  fire  was  redoubled  at  the 
sight  of  their  calamity.  Out  of  Macnamara's 
crew  of  340  men,  only  78  were  saved.  Penrose 
escaped  with  bis  life  on  board  the  Ambuscade, 
but  received  a  wound  in  the  action ;  and  the 
subsequent  hardships  which  he  underwent,  in  a 
prize-sloop,  in  which  he  was  stationed,  ruined 
the  strength  of  his  constitution.  He  returned  to 
England ;  resumed  his  studies  at  Oxford ;  and 
having  taken  orders,  accepted  of  the  curacy  of 
Newbury,  in  Berkshire,  of  which  his  father  was 
the  rector.  He  resided  there  for  nine  years, 
having  married  the  lady  already  alluded  to, 
whose  name  was  Mary  Slocock.  A  friend  at 
last  rescued  him  from  this  obscure  situation,  by 
presenting  him  with  the  rectory  of  Beckington 
and  Standerwick,  in  Somersetshire,  worth  about 
500/.  a  year.  But  he  came  to  his  preferment  too 
late  to  enjoy  it.  His  health  having  never  re- 
covered from  the  shock  of  his  American  service, 
obliged  him,  as  a  last  remedy,  to  try  the  hot  wells 
at  Bristol,  at  which  place  he  expired,  in  bis  thirty- 
sixth  year. 


THE  HELMETS.    A  FRAGMENT. 

'TwA8  midnight — every  mortal  eye  was  closed 
Through  the  whole  mansion — save  an  antique 

crone's. 
That  o'er  the  dying  embers  faintly  watch'd 
The  broken  sleep  (fell  harbinger  of  death) 
Of  a  sick  boteler. — Above  indeed. 
In  a  drear  gallery,  (lighted  by  one  lamp 
Whose  wick  the  poor  departing  Seneschal 
Did  closely  imitate,)  paced  slow  and  sad 
The  village  curate,  waiting  late  to  shrive 
The  penitent  when  'wake.    Scarce  show'd  the  ray 
To  fancy's  eye,  the  portray'd  characters 
That  graced  the  wall — On  this  and  t'  other  side 
Suspended,  nodded  o'er  the  steepy  stair. 
In  many  a  trophy  form'd,  the  knightly  group 
Of  helms  and  targets,  gauntlets,  maces  strong, 
And  horses'  furniture — brave  monuments 
Of  ancient  chivalry. — Through  the  stain'd  pane 
Low  gleam'd  the  moon — not  bright — but  of  such 

power 
As  mark'd  the  clouds,  black,  threatening  over 

head, 
I"  ull  mischief-fraught; — from  these  in  many  a  peal 
Srowl'd  the  near  thunder — dashed  the  frequent 

blazb 

78 


Of  lightning  blue. — While  round  the  fretted  dome 
The  wind  sung  surly :  with  unusual  clank 
The  armour  shook  tremendous : — On  a  couch 
Placed  in  the  oriel,  sunk  the  churchman  down : 
For  who,  alone,  at  that  dread  hour  of  night, 

Could  bear  portentous  prodigy  1 

«'  I  hear  it,"  cries  the  proudly  gilded  casque, 
(Fill'd  by  the  soul  of  one,  who  erst  took  joy 
In  slaught'rous  deeds,)  "I  hear  amidst  the  gale 
The  hostile  spirit  shouting — once — once  more 
In  the  thick  harvest  of  the  spears  we'll  shine — 
There  will  be  work  anon." 


■"I'm  'waken'd  too,' 


Replied  the  sable  helmet,  (tenanted 
By  a  like  inmate.)  "  Hark ! — I  hear  the  voice 
Of  the  impatient  ghosts,  who  straggling  range 
Yon  summit,  (crown'd  with  ruin'd  battlements. 
The  fruits  of  civil  discord,)  to  the  din 
The  spirits,  wand'ring  round  this  Gothic  pile. 
All  join  their  yell — the  song  Is  war  euid  death- 
There  will  be  work  anon." 

"  Call  armourers,  ho  ! 

Furbish  my  vizor — close  my  rivets  up — 

I  brook  no  dallying" 

«  Soft,  my  hasty  friend," 

Said  the  black  beaver,  "  Neither  of  us  twain 
8  A  601 


602 


SIR  WILLIAM  BLACKSTONE. 


Shall  share  the  bloody  toil — War-worn  am  I, 
Bored  by  a  happier  mace,  I  let  in  fate 
To  my  once  master, — since  unsought,  unused, 
Pensile  I'm  fix'd^ — yet,  too,  your  gaudy  pride 
Has  naught  to  boast, — the  fashion  of  the  fight 
Has  thrown  your  guilt  and  shadj;  plumes  aside 
For  modern  foppery  ; — still  do  not  frown, 
Nor  lower  indignantly  your  steely  brows, 
We've  comfort  left  enough — The  bookman's  lore 
Shall  trace  our  sometime  merit; — in  the  eye 
Of  antiquary  taste  we  long  shall  shine: 
And  as  the  scholar  marks  our  rugged  front, 
He'll  say,  this  Cressy  saw,  that  Agincoiirt: 
Thus  dwelling  on  the  prowess  of  his  fathers. 
He'll  venerate  their  shell. — Yet  more  than  this, 
From  our  inactive  station  we  shall  hear 
The  groans  of  butcher'd  brothers,  shrieking  plaints 
Of  ravish'd  maids,  and  matrons'  frantic  howls; 
Already  hovering  o'er  the  threaten'd  lands 
The  famish'd  raven  snuffs  the  promised  feast. 
And  hoarselier  croaks  for  blood — 'twill  flow." 

"  Forbid  it,  Heaven  ! 

Oh  shield   my   suffering  country ! — Shield   it," 

pray'd 
The  agonizing  priest 


THE  FIELD  OF  BATTLE. 

Fainti,y  bray'd  the  battle's  roar 
Distant  down  the  hollow  wind ; 

Panting  Terror  fled  before, 

Wounds  and  death  were  left  behind. 

The  war-fiend  cursed  the  sunken  day. 
That  check'd  his  fierce  pursuit  too  soon ; 

While,  scarcely  lighting  to  the  prey, 

Low  hung,  and  lour'd  the  bloody  moon. 

The  field,  so  late  the  hero's  pride. 

Was  now  with  various  carnage  spread ; 

And  floated  with  a  crimson  tide, 

That  drench'd  the  dying  and  the  dead. 

O'er  the  sad  scene  of  dreariest  view, 
Abandon'd  all  to  horrors  wild, 

With  frantic  step  Maria  flew, 
Maria,  Sorrow's  early  child ; 


By  duty  led,  for  every  vein 

Was  warm '(I  by  Hymen's  purest  flame ; 
With  Edgar  o'er  the  wint'ry  main 

She,  lovely,  faithful  wnnderei,  came. 

For  well  she  thought,  r  friend  so  dear 
In  darkest  hours  might  joy  impart ; 

Her  warrior,  faint  with  toil,  might  cheer. 
Or  soothe  her  bleeding  warrior's  smart. 

Though  look'd  for  long — in  chill  affrigLt, 
(The  torrent  bursting  from  her  eye. 

She  heard  the  signal  for  the  fight — 
While  her  soul  trembled  in  a  sigh — 

She  heard,  and  clasp'd  him  to  her  breast. 
Yet  scarce  could  urge  th'  inglorious  stij^ , 

His  manly  heart  the  charm  confess'd — 
Then  broke  the  charm, — and  rush'd  away. 

Too  soon  in  few — but  deadly  words, 
Some  flying  straggler  breathed  to  tell, 

That  in  the  foremost  strife  of  swords 
The  young,  the  gallant  Edgar  fell. 

She  press'd  to  hear — she  caught  the  tale — 
At  every  sound  her  blood  congeal'd; — 

With  terror  bold — with  terror  pale. 
She  sprung  to  search  the  fatal  field. 

O'er  the  sad  scene  in  dire  amaze 

She  went — with  courage  not  her  own — 

On  many  a  corpse  she  cast  her  gaze — 
And  turn'd  her  ear  to  many  a  groan. 

Drear  anguish  urged  her  to  press 

Full  many  a  hand,  as  wild  she  mourn'd ;   • 
— Of  comfort  glad,  the  drear  caress 

The  damp,  chill,  dying  hand  return'd. 

Her  ghastly  hope  was  well  nigh  fled — 
When  late  pale  Edgar's  form  she  found. 

Half-buried  with  the  hostile  dead, 

And  gored  with  many  a  grisly  wound. 

She  knew — she  sunk — the  night-bird  scream  d, 
— The  moon  withdrew  her  troubled  light. 

And  left  the  fair, — though  fall'n  she  seem'd — 
To  worse  than  death — and  deepest  night.* 


SIR  WILLIAM  BLACKSTONE. 


CBoni,173S.    Died,  1780.1 


THE  LAWYER'S  FAREWELL  TO  HIS  MUSK. 

As,  by  some  tyrant's  stern  command, 
A  wretch  forsakes  his  native  land. 
In  foreign  climes  condemned  to  roam 
An  endless  exile  from  his  home ; 
Pensive  he  treads  the  destined  way. 
And  dreads  to  go,  nor  dares  to  stay. 
Till  on  some  neighbouring  mountain's  brow 
He  stops,  and  turns  his  eyes  below ; 


There,  melting  at  the  well-known  view, 
Drops  a  last  tear,  and  bids  adieu : 
So  I,  thus  doom'd  from  thee  to  part, 
Gay  queen  of  Fancy,  and  of  Art, 

[*  Mr.  Ciimpbell  iu  his  Adelyilha,  and  above  all  in  his 
Wiundfd  Hussar,  has  given  a  vigorous  echo  of  this  poem 
of  Penrose's,  which  wants  little  to  rank  it  high  among  our 
ballad  strains.  The  picture  in  the  last  stanza  but  two  ic 
very  fine : 

Drear  anguish  urged  ber  to  press.] 


SIR  JOHN  HENRY  MOORE,  BART.                                          608 

Reluctant  move,  with  doubtful  mind,- 

There,  in  a  winding  close  retreat. 

0ft  stop,  and  often  look  behind. 

Is  justice  doom'd  to  fix  her  seat; 

Companion  of  ray  tender  age, 

There,  fenced  by  bulwarks  of  the  law. 

Serenely  gay,  and  sweetly  sage, 

She  keeps  the  wondering  world  in  awe ; 

How  blithesome  were  we  wont  to  rove 

And  there,  from  vulgar  sight  retired. 

By  verdant  hill,  or  shady  grove. 

Like  eastern  queens,  is  more  admired. 

Where  fervent  bees,  with  humming  voice, 

Oh  let  me  pierce  the  secret  shade 

Around  the  honey'd  oak  rejoice, 

Where  dwells  the  venerable  maid  ! 

And  aged  elms  with  awful  bend 

There  humbly  mark,  with  reverent  awe. 

In  long  cathedral  walks  extend ! 

The  guardian  of  Britannia's  law ; 

Lull'd  by  the  lapse  of  gliding  floods, 

Unfold  with  joy  her  sacred  page. 

Cheer'd  by  the  warbling  of  the  woods, 

The  united  boast  of  many  an  age ; 

How  bless'd  my  days,  my  thoughts  how  free. 

Where  mix'd,  yet  uniform,  appears 

In  sweet  society  with  thee  ! 

The  wisdom  of  a  thousand  years. 

Then  all  was  joyous,  all  was  young. 

In  that  pure  spring  the  bottom  view, 

And  years  unheeded  roU'd  along; 

Clear,  deep,  and  regularly  true ; 

But  now  the  pleasing  dream  is  o'er. 

And  other  doctrines  thence  imbibe 

These  scenes  must  charm  me  now  no  more. 

Than  lurk  within  the  sordid  scribe ; 

Lost  to  the  fields,  and  torn  from  you, — 

Observe  how  parts  with  parts  unite 

Farewell ! — a  long,  a  last  adieu. 

In  one  harmonious  rule  of  right ; 

Me  wrangling  courts,  and  stubborn  law. 

See  countless  wheels  distinctly  tend 

To  smoke,  and  crowds  and  cities  draw: 

By  various  laws  to  one  great  end: 

There  selfish  faction  rules  the  day, 

While  mighty  Alfred's  piercing  soul 

And  pride  and  avarice  throng  the  way; 

Pervades,  and  regulates  the  whole. 
Then  welcome  business,  welcome  strife. 

Diseases  taint  the  murky  air. 

And  midnight  conflagrations  glare  ; 

Welcome  the  cares,  the  thorns  of  life. 

Loose  Revelry,  and  Riot  bold 

The  visage  wan,  the  pore-blind  sight. 

In  frighted  streets  their  orgies  hold ; 

The  toil  by  day,  the  lamp  at  night, 

Or,  where  in  silence  all  is  drown'd. 

The  tedious  forms,  the  solemn  prate. 

Fell  Murder  walks  his  lonely  round ; 

The  pert  dispute,  the  dull  debate. 

No  room  for  peace,  no  room  for  you. 

The  drowsy  bench,  the  babbling  Hall, 

Adieu,  celestial  nymph,  adieu  ! 

For  thee,  fair  Justice,  welcome  all ! 

Shakspeare  no  more,  thy  sylvan  son, 

Thus  though  my  noon  of  life  be  pass'd. 

Nor  all  the  art  of  Addison, 

Yet  let  my  setting  sun,  at  last. 

Pope's  heaven-strung  lyre,  nor  Waller's  ease. 

Find  out  thee  still,  the  rural  cell. 

Nor  Milton's  mighty  self,  must  please: 

Where  sage  Retirement  loves  to  dwell ! 

Instead  of  these  a  formal  band. 

There  let  me  taste  the  homefelt  bliss 

In  furs  and  coifs,  around  me  stand ; 

Of  innocence,  and  inward  peace; 

With  sounds  uncouth  and  accents  dry. 

Untainted  by  the  guilty  bribe. 

That  grate  the  soul  of  harmony, 

Uncursed  amid  the  happy  tribe; 

Each  pedant  sage  unlocks  his  store 

No  orphan's  cry  to  wound  my  ear ; 

Of  mystic,  dark,  discordant  lore  ; 

My  honour,  and  my  conscience  clear ; 

And  points  with  tottering  hand  the  ways 

Thus  may  I  calmly  meet  my  end, 

That  lead  me  to  the  thorny  maze. 

Thus  to  the  grave  in  peace  descend. 

SIR  JOHN  HENR 

Y  MOORE,  BART. 

[Born,  1758. 

Died,  1780J 

This  interesting  and  promising  young  man 

died  of  a  decline,  in  his  twenty-fourth  year 

I/AMOUIl  TIMIDB. 

80N0. 

Ip  in  that  breast,  so  good,  so  pure. 

Ckasb  to  blame  my  melancholy. 

Compassion  ever  loved  to  dwell, 

Though  with  sighs  and  folded  arms 

Pity  the  sorrows  I  endure  ; 

I  muse  with  silence  on  her  charms ; 

The  cause  I  must  not,  dare  not  tell. 

Censure  not — I  know  tis  folly. 

The  grief  that  on  my  quiet  preys. 

Yet  these  mournful  thoughts  possessing. 

That  rends  my  heart,  that  checks  my  tongue. 

Such  delights  I  find  in  grief. 

1  fear  will  last  me  all  my  days, 

That,  could  heaven  afford  relief. 

But  feel  it  will  not  last  me  long. 

My  fond  heart  would  scorn  the  blessing 

RICHARD  JAGO. 


[Born,  1715.    Died,  1781.] 


The  Rev.  Richard  Jago,  the  author  of  »•  Edge  used    to  visit   him   privately,  it   being  thought 

Hill,"  a  descriptive  poem,  was  vicar  of  Snitter-  beneath  the  dignity  of  a  commoner  to  be  inti- 

field,  near  Stratford-on-Avon.     Shenstone,  who  j  mate  with  a  student  of  that  rank,  and  continued 

knew  him  at  Oxford,  where  Jago  was  a  sizar,  !   his  friendship  for  him  through  life. 


LABOUR  AND  GENIUS;  OR,  THE  MILDSTREAM 
AND  THE  CASCADE. 


Betwixt  two  sloping  verdant  hills 
A  current  pour'd  its  careless  rills, 
Which  unambitious  crept  along, 
With  weeds  and  matted  grass  o'erhung. 
Till  Rural  Genius,  on  a  day, 
Chancing  along  its  banks  to  stray, 
Remark'd  with  penetrating  look, 
The  latent  merits  of  the  brook. 
Much  grieved  to  see  such  talents  hid,    * 
And  thus  the  dull  by-standers  chid. 

How  blind  is  man's  incurious  race 
The  scope  of  nature's  plans  to  trace? 
How  do  ye  mangle  half  her  charms. 
And  fright  her  hourly  with  alarms  1 
Disfigure  now  her  swelling  mounds. 
And  now  contract  her  spacious  bounds 
Fritter  her  fairest  lawns  to  alleys. 
Bare  her  green  hills,  and  hide  her  valleys? 
Confine  her  streams  with  rule  and  line, 
And  counteract  her  whole  design  1 
Neglecting  where  she  points  the  way, 
Her  easy  dictates  to  obey  1 
To  bring  her  hidden  worth  to  sight, 
And  place  her  charms  in  fairest  light  1 
*  *  * 

He  said  :  and  to  his  favourite  son 
Consign'd  the  task,  and  will'd  it  done. 
Damon  his  counsel  wisely  weigh'd, 
And  carefully  the  scene  survey'd. 
And,  though  it  seems  he  said  but  little, 
He  took  his  meaning  to  a  tittle. 
And  fir.st,  his  purpose  to  befriend, 
A  bank  he  raised  at  th'  upper  end : 
Compact  and  close  its  outward  side, 
To  stay  and  swell  the  gathering  tide : 
But  on  its  inner,  rough  and  tall, 
A  ragged  cliff,  a  rocky  wall. 
The  channel  next  he  oped  to  view, 
And  from  its  course  the  rubbish  drew. 
Enlarged  it  now,  and  now  with  line 
Oblique  pursued  his  fair  design. 
Preparing  here  the  mazy  way, 
Anil  there  the  fall  for  sportive  play; 
The  precipice  abrupt  and  steep, 
The  pebbled  road,  and  cavern  deep ; 
The  rooty  seat,  where  best  to  view 
The  fairy  scene,  at  distance  due. 
eu4 


He  last  invoked  the  driads'  aid, 

And  fringed  the  borders  round  with  shade. 

Tapestry,  by  Nature's  fingers  wove. 

No  mimic,  but  a  real  grove : 

Part  hiding,  part  admitting  day, 

The  scene  to  grace  the  future  play. 

Damon  perceives,  with  ravish'd  eyes, 
The  beautiful  enchantment  rise. 
Sees  sweetly  blended  shade  and  light; 
Sees  every  part  with  each  unite; 
Sees  each,  as  he  directs,  assume 
A  livelier  dye,  or  deeper  gloom : 
So  fashion'd  by  the  painter's  skill. 
New  forms  the  glowing  canvas  fill : 
So  to  the  summer's  sun  the  rose 
And  jessamin  their  charms  disclose. 
*  *  * 

Not  distant  far  below,  a  mill 
Was  built  upon  a  neighb'ring  rill: 
Whose  pent-up  stream,  whene'er  let  loose, 
Impell'd  a  wheel,  close  at  its  sluice. 
So  strongly,  that  by  friction's  power, 
'T would  grind  the  firmest  grain  to  fiour. 
Or,  by  a  correspondence  new, 
With  hammers,  and  their  clatt'ring  crew. 
Would  so  bestir  her  active  stumps. 
On  iron  blocks,  though  arrant  lumps, 
That  in  a  trice  she'd  manage  matters. 
To  make  'em  all  as  smooth  as  platters. 
Or  slit  a  bar  to  rods  quite  taper, 
With  as  much  ease  as  you'd  cut  paper. 
For,  though  the  lever  gave  the  blow, 
Yet  it  was  lifted  from  below ; 
And  would  for  ever  have  lain  still. 
But  for  the  bustling  of  the  rill; 
Who,  from  her  stately  pool  or  ocean, 
Put  all  the  wheels  and  logs  in  motion ; 
Things  in  their  nature  very  quiet. 
Though  making  all  this  noise  and  riot. 

This  stream  that  could  in  toil  excel, 
Began  with  foolish  pride  to  swell : 
Piqued  at  her  neighbour's  reputation. 
And  thus  express'd  her  indignation  ^ 

"  Madam  !  methinks  you're  vastly  proud. 
You  wasn't  used  to  talk  so  loud. 
Nor  cut  such  capers  in  your  pace. 
Marry  !   what  antics,  what  grimace  ! 
For  shame  !  don't  give  yourself  such  aim. 
In  flaunting  down  those  hideous  stairs 
Nor  put  yourself  in  such  a  flutter, 
Whate'er  you  do,  you  dirty  gutter ! 


HENRY  BROOKE. 


60fi 


I'd  have  you  know,  you  upstart  minx  ! 

Ere  you  were  forin'd,  with  all  your  sinks, 

A  lake  I  was,  compared  with  which. 

Your  stream  is  but  a  paltry  ditch: 

And  still,  on  honest  labour  bent, 

I  ne'er  a  single  flash  misspent. 

And  yet  no  folks  of  high  degree 

Would  e'er  vouchsafe  to  visit  me, 

As  in  their  coaches  by  they  rattle, 

Forsooth  !  to  hear  your  idle  prattle. 

1  hough  half  the  business  of  my  flooding 

Is  to  provide  them  cakes  and  pudding: 

Or  furnish  stuff  for  many  a  trinket. 

Which,  though  so  fine,  you  scarce  would  think  it 

When  Boulton's  skill  has  fix'd  their  beauty. 

To  my  rough  toil  first  owed  their  duty. 

But  I'm  plam  Goody  of  the  mill. 

And  you  are — Madame  Cascadille  !" 

"  Dear  Coz,"  replied  the  beauteous  torrent, 
"  Pray  do  not  discompose  your  current. 
That  we  all  from  one  fountain  flow, 
Hath  been  agreed  on  long  ago. 
Varying  our  talents  and  our  tides, 
As  chance  our  education  guides. 
That  I  have  either  note,  or  name, 
I  owe  to  him  who  gives  me  fame. 
Who  teaches  all  our  kind  to  flow. 
Or  gaily  swift,  or  gravely  slow. 
Now  in  the  lake,  with  glassy  face. 
Now  moving  light,  with  dimpled  grace. 


Now  gleaming  from  the  rocky  height, 
Now,  in  rough  eddies,  foaming  white. 
Nor  envy  me  the  gay,  or  great. 
That  visit  my  obscure  retreat. 
None  wonders  that  a  clown  can  dig. 
But  'tis  some  art  to  dance  a  jig. 
Your  talents  are  employ'd  for  use, 
Mine  to  give  pleasure,  and  amuse. 
And  though,  dear  Coz,  no  folks  of  taste 
Their  idle  hours  with  you  will  waste. 
Yet  many  a  grist  comes  to  your  mill. 
Which  helps  your  master's  bags  to  fill. 
While  I,  with  all  my  notes  and  triUing, 
For  Damon  never  got  a  shilling. 
Then,  gentle  Coz,  forbear  your  clamours. 
Enjoy  your  hoppers,  and  your  hammers : 
We  gain  our  ends  by  different  ways. 
And  you  get  bread,  and  I  get — praise." 


ABSENCE. 


With  leaden  foot  Time  creeps  along, 

While  Delia  is  away. 
With  her,  nor  plaintive  was  the  song. 

Nor  tedious  was  the  day. 

Ah,  envious  power !  reverse  my  doom, 

Now  double  thy  career ; 
Strain  every  nerve,  stretch  every  plume. 

And  rest  them  when  she's  here. 


HENRY  BROOKE. 


tBorn,  1T06.    Died,  1783.] 


Henry  Brooks  was  bom  in  the  county  of 
Cavan,  in  Ireland,  where  his  father  was  a  clergy- 
man. He  studied  at  Trinity  College,  Dublin, 
and  was  a  pupil  of  Dr.  Sheridan ;  but  he  was 
taken  from  the  university  at  the  age  of  seven- 
teen, and  sent  to  England,  to  study  the  law  at 
the  Temple.  On  his  coming  to  London  he 
brought  letters  of  introduction  (probably  from 
Dr.  Sheridan)  to  Pope  and  Swift,  both  of  whom 
noticed  him  as  a  youth  of  promising  talents.  At 
the  end  of  a  few  years  he  returned  to  Dublin, 
and  endeavoured  to  practice  as  a  chamber  coun- 
sel ;  but,  without  having  obtained  much  business, 
involved  himself  in  the  cares  of  a  family,  by 
marrying  a  beautiful  cousin  of  his  own,  who  had 
been  consigned  to  his  guardianship.  It  is  related, 
not  much  to  his  credit,  that  he  espoused  her  in 
her  thirteenth  year.  The  union,  however,  proved 
to  be  as  happy  as  mutual  affection  ^ould  make  it. 
Having  paid  another  visit  to  London,  he  renewed 
his  acquaintance  with  Pope ;  and,  with  his  en- 
couragement, published  his  poem,  entitled,  "  Uni- 
versal Beauty."  This  poem  forms  a  curious, 
but  unacknowledged  prototype  of  Darwin's 
"  Botanic  Garden."  It  has  a  resemblance  to 
that  work,  in  manner,  in  scientific  spirit,  and 


in  volant  geographical  allusion,  too  striking  to  oe 
supposed  accidental ;  although  Darwin  has  gone 
beyond  his  original,  in  prominent  and  ostenta- 
tious imagery. 

After  publishing  his  poem  he  returned  to  Ire- 
land, and  applied  to  his  profession;  but  his  heart 
was  not  in  it,  and  he  came  once  more  to  Eng- 
land, to  try  his  fortune  as  a  man  of  letters.  In 
that  character,  he  was  cordially  received  by  the 
Prince  of  Wales  and  his  friends,  as  an  accession 
to  their  phalanx  ;  and  this  patronage  was  the 
more  flattering  to  Brooke,  as  the  maintenance  of 
patriotic  principles  was  the  declared  bond  of 
union  at  the  Prince's  court.  He  had  begun  to 
translate  the  "  Jerusalem"  of  Tasso,  and  had  pro- 
ceeded as  far  as  the  fourth  book  ;  but  it  is  said, 
that  he  was  invited  to  quit  this  task,  that  he 
might  write  a  tragedy  in  the  cause  of  Freedom, 
which  should  inspirit  the  people  of  England. 
Glover,  it  was  pretended,  was  the  epic  champion 
of  Liberty,  who  had  pointed  her  spear  at  Wal- 
pole ;  and  Brooke  was  now  to  turn  the  arm  of 
tragedy  against  him,  by  describing  a  tyrannic 
minister,  in  his  play  of  "  Gustavus  Vasa."  With 
regard  to  Glover,  this  was  certainly  untrue.  His 
poetry  breathed  the  spirit  of  Uberty,  but  be  was 
3a2 


606 


HENRY  BROOKE. 


above  the  wretched  taste  of  making  a  venerable 
antique  subject  the  channel  of  grotesque  allu- 
sion to  modern  parties,  or  living  characters.  If 
Brooke's  Trollio  was  really  meant  for  Walpole, 
the  minister's  friends  need  not  have  been  much 
alarmed  at  the  genius  of  a  tragic  poet,  who 
could  descend  to  double  meanings.  They  might 
have  felt  secure,  one  would  think,  that  the  arti- 
fice of  poets  could  not  raise  any  dangerous  zeal 
in  Englishmen,  against  their  malt  or  excise  bills, 
by  the  most  cunning  hints  about  Thermopylae  or 
Dalecarlia.  But  as  if  they  had  been  in  collusion 
with  Brooke,  to  identify  Walpole  with  Trollio, 
they  interdicted  the  representation  of  the  play. 
The  author  therefore  published  it,  and  got,  it  is 
said,  £800  by  the  sale. 

He  lived,  for  some  time,  very  comfortably  on 
this  acquisition,  at  Twickenham,  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood of  Pope,  till  the  state  of  his  health 
obliged  him  to  seek  the  benefit  of  his  native  air; 
when  to  the  surprise  of  those  who  knew  him,  he 
determined  to  remain  in  Ireland.  This  resolu- 
tion was  owing  to  the  influence  of  his  wife,  who 
apprehended  that  his  political  zeal,  among  his 
English  friends,  might  lead  him  to  some  intem- 
perate publication.  Brooke,  however,  had  too 
much  of  the  politician  to  lose  it  by  returning  to 
his  native  soil.     In  the  year  of  the  rebellion,  he 


addressed  his  "  Farmer's  Letters"  to  his  country- 
men, and  they  were  supposed  to  have  had  a 
beneficial  influence  on  their  temper,  at  a  critical 
period.  He  was  also,  to  his  honour,  one  of  the 
earliest  advocates  for  alleviating  the  penal  laws 
against  the  Catholics.  Their  pacific  behaviour  in 
1745  had  certainly  furnished  him  with  a  power- 
ful argument  in  their  behalf. 

He  wrote  thirteen  dramatic  pieces,  of  which 
"  Gustavus  Vasa,"  and  the  "  Earl  of  Essex," 
were  the  only  two  that  ever  reached  the  English 
stage.  The  rest  were  not  heard  of  in  England, 
till  his  collected  works  were  published  in  1778; 
but  his  novel,  "  The  Fool  of  Quality,"  gave  some 
popularity  to  his  name.  In  Ireland,  Lord  Ches- 
terfield gave  him  the  appointment  of  a  barrack- 
master,  which  he  held  till  his  death.  The  ac- 
counts of  his  private  circumstances,  in  that  king- 
dom, are  given  rather  confusedly  by  his  biogra- 
phers ;  but  it  appears,  upon  the  whole,  that  they 
were  unfortunate.  He  supported  an  only  brother 
in  his  house,  with  a  family  as  numerous  as  his 
own;  and  ruined  himself  by  his  generosity.  At 
last  the  loss  of  his  wife,  after  a  union  of  fifty 
years,  the  death  of  many  of  his  children,  and  his 
other  misfortunes,  overwhelmed  his  intellects.  Of 
this  imbecility  there  were  indeed  some  manifesta- 
tions in  the  latest  productions  of  his  pen. 


THE  REPTILE  AND  INSECT  WORLD. 

FROM   "UNIVERSAL  BEACTT,"   BOOK  V. 

Like  Nature's  law  no  eloquence  persuades, 
The  mute  harangue  our  every  sense  invades  ; 
Th'  apparent  precepts  of  the  Eternal  Will 
His  every  work,  and  every  object  fill ; 
Round  with  our  eyes  his  revelation  wheels. 
Our  every  touch  his  demonstration  feels. 
And,  O  Supreme !  whene'er  we  cease  to  know 
Thee,  the  sole  Source,  whence  sense  and  science 
Then  must  all  faculty,  all  knowledge  fail,  [flow ! 
And  more  than  monster  o'er  the  man  prevail. 

Not  thus  he  gave  our  optic's  vital  glance, 
Amid  omniscient  art,  to  search  for  chance, 
Blind  to  the  charms  of  Nature's  beauteous  frame ; 
Nor  made  our  organ  vocal,  to  blaspheme: 
Not  thus  he  will'd  the  creatures  of  his  nod. 
And  made  the  mortal  to  unmake  his  God  ; 
Breathed  on  the  globe,  and  brooded  o'er  the  wave, 
And  bid  the  wide  obsequious  world  conceive: 
Spoke  into  being  myriads,  myriads  rise. 
And  with  young  transport  gaze  the  novel  skies; 
Glance  from  the  surge,  beneath  the  surface  scud, 
Or  cleave  enormous  the  reluctant  flood; 
Or  roll  vermicular  their  wanton  maze. 
And  the  bright  path  with  wild  meanders  glaze; 
Frisk  in  the  vale,  or  o'er  the  mountains  bound. 
Or  in  huge  gambols  shake  the  trembling  ground  ; 
Swarm  in  the  beam;  or  spread  the  plumy  sail — 
The  plume  creates,  and  then  directs  the  gale ; 
While  active  gaiety,  and  aspect  bright. 
In  each  expressive,  sums  up  all  delight. 


The  reptile  first,  how  exquisitely  form'd. 
With  vital  streams  through  every  organ  warm'd! 
External  round  the  spiral  muscle  winds, 
And  folding  close  th'  interior  texture  binds; 
Secure  of  limbs  or  needless  wing  he  steers, 
And  all  one  locomotive  act  appears ; 
His  rings  with  one  elastic  membrane  bound, 
The  prior  circlet  moves  th'  obsequious  round 
The  next,  and  next,  its  due  obedience  owes, 
And  with  successive  undulation  flows. 
The  mediate  glands,  with  unctuous  juice  replete, 
Their  stores  of  lubricating  guile  secrete; 
Still  opportune,  with  prompt  emission  flow, 
And  slipping  frustrate  the  deluded  foe ; 
When  the  stiff  clod  their  little  augers  bore. 
And  all  the  worm  insinuates  through  the  pore. 

Slow  moving  next,  with  grave  majestic  pace, 
Tenacious  snails  their  silent  progress  trace ; 
Through  foreign  fields  secure  from  exile  roam, 
And  sojourn  safe  beneath  their  native  home. 
Their  domes  self-wreathed,  each  architect  attend. 
With  mansions  lodge  them,  and  with  mail  defend! 
But  chief,  when  each  his  wint'ry  portal  forms. 
And  mocks  secluded  from  incumbent  storms: 
Till  gates,  unbarring  with  the  vernal  ray. 
Give  all  the  secret  hermitage  to  day ; 
Then  peeps  the  sage  from  his  unfolding  doors, 
And  cautious  heaven's  ambiguous  brow  explores: 
Toward  the  four  winds  four  telescopes  he  bends, 
And  on  his  own  astrology  depends ; 
Assured  he  glides  beneath  the  smiling  calm. 
Bathes  in  the  dew,  and  sips  the  morning  balm ; 
The  peach  this  pamp'ring  epicure  devours. 
And  climbing  on  the  topmost  fruitage  towers 


HENRY  BROOKE. 


607 


Such  have  we  cuU'd  from  nature's  reptile  scene, 
Least  accurate  of  all  the  wondrous  train, 
Who  plunged  recluse  in  silent  caverns  sleep; 
Or  multipede,  earth's  leafy  verdure  creep; 
Or  on  the  pool's  new  mantling  surface  play, 
And  range  a  drop  as  whales  may  range  the  sea ; 
Or  ply  the  rivulet  with  supple  oars, 
And    oft,  amphibious,   course   the    neighb'ring 

shores ; 
Or  shelt'ring,  quit  the  dank  inclement  sky, 
And  condescend  to  lodge  where  princes  lies ; 
There  tread  the  ceiling,  an  inverted  floor. 
And  from  its  precipice  depend  secure : 
Or  who  nor  creep,  nor  fly,  nor  walk,  nor  swim, 
But  claim  new  motion  with  peculiar  limb. 
Successive  spring  with  quick  elastic  bound. 
And  thus  transported  pass  the  refluent  ground. 

Or  who  all  native  vehicles  despise. 
And  buoy'd  upon  their  own  inventions  rise ; 
Shoot  forth  the  twine,  their  light  aerial  guide, 
And  mounting  o'er  the  distant  zenith  ride. 

Or  who  a  twofold  apparatus  share. 
Natives  of  earth,  and  habitants  of  air ; 
Like  warriors  stride,  oppress'd  with  shining  mail. 
But  furl'd,  beneath,  their  silken  pennons  vail : 
Deceived,  our  fellow  reptile  we  admire. 
His  bright  endorsement,  and  compact  attire. 
When  lo  !  the  latent  springs  of  motion  play, 
And  rising  lids  disclose  the  rich  inlay  ; 
The  tissued  wing  its  folded  membrane  frees. 
And  with  blithe  quavers  fans  the  gath'ring  breeze ; 
Elate  tow'rds  Heaven  the  beauteous  wonder  flies. 
And  leaves  the  mortal  wrapp'd  in  deep  surprise. 
So  when  the  guide  led  Tobit's  youthful  heir. 
Elect,  to  win  the  seven  times  widow'd  fair, 
Th'  angelic  form,  conceal'd  in  human  guise. 
Deceived  the  search  of  his  associates  eyes ; 
Till  swift  each  charm  bursts  forth  like  issuing 

flame. 
And  circling  rays  confess  his  heavenly  frame ; 
The  zodiac  round  his  waist  divinely  turns. 
And  waving  radiance  o'er  his  plumage  burns: 
In  awful  transports  rapt,  the  youth  admires. 
While  light  from  earth  the  dazzling  shape  aspires. 

Oh  think,  if  superficial  scenes  amaze, 
And  e'en  the  still  familiar  wonders  please. 
These  but  the  sketch,  the  garb,  the  vail  of  things. 
Whence  all  our  depth  of  shallow  science  springs ; 
Think,  should  this  curtain  of  Omniscience  rise. 
Think  of  the  sight !  and  think  of  the  surprise ! 
Scenes  inconceivable,  essential,  new, 
Whelm'd  on  our  soul,  and  lightning  on  our  view ! — 
How  would  the  vain  disputing  wretches  shrink, 
And  shivering  wish  they  could  no  longer  think; 
Reject  each  model,  each  reforming  scheme, 
No  longer  dictate  to  the  Grand  Supreme, 
But,  waking,  wonder  whence  they  dared  to  dream ! 

All  is  phenomenon,  and  type  on  earth. 
Replete  with  sacred  and  mysterious  birth, 
Deep  from  our  search,  exalted  from  our  soar; 
And  reason's  task  is,  only  to  adore.        [swarms. 

Who    that   beholds   the    summer's    glist'ring 
I'en  thousand  thousand  gaily  gilded  forms, 
Id  volant  dance  of  mix'd  rotation  play, 
Bask  in  the  beam,  and  beautify  the  day ; 


Would  think  these  airy  wantons  so  adorn. 
Were  late  his  vile  antipathy  and  scorn. 
Prone  to  the  dust,  or  reptile  through  the  mire, 
And  ever  thence  unlikely  to  aspire  1 
Or  who  with  transient  view,  beholding,  loathes 
Those   crawling  sects,  whom   vilest  semblance 

clothes ; 
Who,  with  corruption,  hold  their  kindred  state, 
As  by  contempt,  or  negligence  of  fate ; 
Could  think,  that  such,  reversed  by  wondrous 

doom, 
Sublimer  powers  and  brighter  forms  assume ; 
From  death,  their  future  happier  life  derive, 
And  though  apparently  entomb'd,  revive ; 
Changed,  through  amazing  transmigration  rise, 
And  wing  the  regions  of  unwonted  skies  ; 
So  late  depress'd,  contemptible  on  Earth, 
Now  elevate  to  Heaven  by  second  birth  ! 
No  fictions  here  to  willing  fraud  invite, 
Iicd  by  the  marvellous,  absurd  delight; 
No  golden  ass,  no  tale  Arabians  feign ; 
Nor  flitting  forms  of  Naso's  magic  strain, 
Deucalion's  progeny  of  native  stone. 
Or  armies  from  Cadmean  harvests  grown : 
With  many  a  wanton  and  fantastic  dream, 
The  laurel,  mulberry,  and  bashful  stream ; 
Arachne  shrunk  beneath  Tritonia's  rage ; 
Tithonus  changed  and  garrulous  with  age. 
Not  such  mutations  deck  the  chaster  song, 
Adorn'd   with    nature,   and    with    truth    made 

strong ; 
No  debt  to  fable,  or  to  fancy  due. 
And  only  wondrous  facts  reveal'd  to  view. 

Though  numberless  these  insect  tribes  of  air. 
Though  numberless  each  tribe  and  species  fair. 
Who  wing  the  moon,  and  brighten  in  the  blaze, 
Innumerous  as  the  sands  which  bend  the  seas; 
These  have  their  organs,  arts,  and  arms,  and 

tools. 
And  functions  exercised  by  various  rules; 
The  saw,  ax,  auger,  trowel,  piercer,  drill; 
The  neat  alembic,  and  nectareous  still ; 
Their  peaceful  hours  the  loom  and  distaflfknow: 
But  war,  the  force  and  fury  of  the  foe. 
The  spear,  the  falchion,  and  the  martial  mail. 
And  artful  stratagem,  where  strength  may  fail. 
Each  tribe  peculiar  occupations  claim. 
Peculiar  beauties  deck  each  varying  frame; 
Attire  and  food  peculiar  are  assign'd. 
And  means  to  propagate  their  varying  kind. 

Each,  as  reflecting  on  their  primal  state. 
Or  fraught  with  scientific  craft  innate. 
With  conscious  skill  their  oval  embryon  shed, 
Where  native  first  their  infancy  was  fed  ; 
Or  on  some  vegetating  foliage  glued ; 
Or  o'er  the  flood  they  spread  their  future  brood ; 
A  slender  cord  the  floating  jelly  binds. 
Eludes  the  wave,  and  mocks  the  warring  wmds ; 
O'er  this  their  sperm  in  spiral  order  lies. 
And  pearls  in  living  ranges  greet  our  eyes. 
In  firmest  oak  they  scoop  a  spacious  tomb. 
And  lay  their  embryo  in  the  spurious  womb : 
Some  flowers,  some  fruit,  some  gems,  or  blossom* 

choose, 
And  confident  their  darling  hopes  infuse  * 


008 


JOHN  SCOTT. 


While  some  their  eggs  in  ranker  carnage  lay, 
And  to  their  young  adapt  the  future  prey. 

Meantime  the  Sun  his  fost'ring  warmth  be- 
queaths, 
Each  tepid  air  its  motive  influence  breathes, 
Mysterious  springs  the  wavering  life  supply. 
And  quick'ning  births  unconscious  motion  try ; 
Mature,  their  slender  fences  they  disown. 
And  break  at  once  into  »  world  unknown. 

All  by  their  dam's  prophetic  care  receive 
Whate'er  peculiar  indigence  can  crave : 
Profuse  at  hand  the  plenteous  table's  spread, 
And  various  appetites  are  aptly  fed. 
Nor  less  each  organ  suits  each  place  of  birth, 
Finn'd  in  the  flood,  or  reptile  o'er  the  earth  ; 
Each  organ,  apt  to  each  precarious  state. 
As  for  eternity  design'd  complete. 
Thus  nursed,  these  inconsiderate  wretches  grow, 
Take  all  as  due,  still  thoughtless  that  they  owe. 

When  lo  !  strange  tidings  prompt  each  secret 
breast. 
And  whisper  wonders  not  to  be  express'd ; 
Each  owns  his  error  in  his  later  cares. 
And  for  the  new  unthought-of  world  prepares: 
New  views,  new  tastes,  new  judgments  are  ac- 
quired, 
And  all  now  loathe  delights  so  late  admired. 
In  confidence  the  solemn  shroud  they  weave, 
Or  build  the  tomb,  or  dig  the  deadly  grave ; 


Intrepid  there  resign  their  parting  breath, 
And  give  their  former  shape  the  spoils  of  death ; 
But  reconceived  as  in  a  second  womb. 
Through  metamorphoses,  new  forms  assume: 
On  death  their  true  exalted  life  depends. 
Commencing  there,  where  seemingly  it  ends. 
The  fullness  now  of  circling  time  arrives; 
Each  from  the  long,  the  mortal  sleep  revives; 
The  tombs  pour  forth  their  renovated  dead, 
And,  like  a  dream,  all  former  scenes  are  fled. 
But  oh  !   what  terms  expressive  may  relate 
The  change,  the  splendour  of  their  new-form'd 

state  1 
Their  texture  nor  composed  of  filmy  skin. 
Of  cumbrous  flesh  without,  or  bone  within. 
But  something  than  corporeal  more  refined, 
And  agile  as  their  blithe  informing  mind. 
In  every  eye  ten  thousand  brilliants  blaze. 
And  living  pearls  the  vast  horizon  gaze ; 
Gemm'd  o'er  their  heads  the  mines  of  India  gleam, 
And  Heaven's  own  wardrobe  has  array'd  their 

fi-ame; 
Each   spangled   back   bright   sprinkling   specks 

adorn. 
Each  plume  imbibes  the  rosy  tinctured  mom , 
Spread  on  each  wing  the  florid  seasons  glow, 
Shaded  and  verged  with  the  celestial  bow. 
Where  colours  blend  an  ever  varying  dye, 
And  wanton  in  their  gay  exchanges  vie. 


JOHN  SCOTT. 


[Born,  1730.     Died,  1783.] 


This  worthy  and  poetical  quaker  was  the  son 
of  a  draper,  in  London,  and  was  born  in  the 
borough  of  Southwark.  His  father  retired  to 
Amwell,  in  Hertfordshire,  when  our  poet  was 
only  ten  years  old ;  and  this  removal,  together 
with  the  circumstance  of  his  never  having  been 
inoculated  for  the  small-pox,  proved  an  unfortu- 
nate impediment  to  his  education.  He  was  put 
to  a  day-school,  in  the  neighbouring  town  of 
Ware,  where  not  much  instruction  was  to  be  had  ; 
and  from  that  little  he  was  called  away,  upon  the 
first  alarm  of  infection.  Such  indeed  was  his 
constant  apprehension  of  the  disease,  that  he 
lived  for  twenty  years  within  twenty  miles  of 
London  without  visiting  it  more  than  once.  About 
the  age  of  seventeen,  however,  he  betook  him- 
self to  reading.  His  family,  from  their  cast  of 
opinions  and  society,  were  not  likely  to  abound 
either  in  books  or  conversation  relating  to  litera- 
ture; but  he  happened  to  form  an  acquaintance 
and  friendship  with  a  neighbour  of  the  name  of 
Frogley,  a  master  bricklayer,  who,  though  an  un- 
educated man,  was  an  admirer  of  poetry,  and  by 
his  intercourse  with  this  friend  he  strengthened 
his  literary  propensity.  His  first  poetical  essays 
wert  transmitted  to  the  Gentleman's  Magazine. 
In  his  thirtieth  year  he  published  four  elegies, 
which   were   favourably  received.     His   poems. 


entitled,  "  The  Garden,"  and  "  Amwell,"  and  his 
volume  of  collected  poetical  pieces,  appeared  after 
considerable  intervals ;  and  his  "  Critical  Essays 
on  the  English  Poets,"  two  years  after  his 
death.  These,  with  his  "  Remarks  on  the  Poems 
of  Rowley,"  are  all  that  can  be  called  his  literary 
productions.  He  published  also  two  political 
tracts,  in  answer  to  Dr.  Johnson's  "  Patriot,"  and 
"  False  Alarm."  His  critical  essays  contain 
some  judicious  remarks  on  Denham  and  Dyer; 
but  his  verbal  strictures  on  Collins  and  Gold- 
smith discover  a  miserable  insensibility  to  the 
soul  of  those  poets.  His  own  verses  are  chiefly 
interesting,  where  they  breathe  the  pacific  prin- 
ciples of  the  quaker ;  while  his  personal  character 
engages  respect,  fi-om  exhibiting  a  public  spirit 
and  liberal  taste  beyond  the  habits  of  his  breth- 
ren. He  was  well  informed  in  the  laws  of  his 
country ;  and,  though  prevented  by  his  tenets 
from  becoming  a  magistrate,  he  made  himself 
useful  to  the  inhabitants  of  Amwell,  by  his  otfiees 
of  arbitration,  and  by  promoting  schemes  of  local 
improvement.  He  was  constant  in  his  attend- 
ance at  turnpike  meetings,  navigation  trusts,  and 
commissions  of  land-tax.  Ware  and  Hertford 
were  indebted  to  him  for  the  plan  of  opening  a 
spacious  road  between  those  two  towns.  His 
treatises  on  the  highway  and  parochial  laws  were 


JOHN  SCOTT. 


609 


the  result   of  long   and   laudable    attention   to 
those  subjects. 

His  verses,  and  his  amiable  character,  gained 
him  by  degrees  a  large  circle  of  literary  acquaint- 
ance, which  included  Dr.  Johnson,  Sir  William 
Jones,  Mrs.  Montague,  and  many  other  distin- 
guished individuals;  and  having  submitted  to 
inoculation,  in  his  thirty-sixth  year,  he  was  from 
that  period  more  frequently  in  Tiondon.  In  his 
retirement  he  was  fond  of  gardening;   and,  in 


amusing  himself  with  the  improvement  of  his 
grounds,  had  excavated  a  grotto  in  the  side  of  a 
hill,  which  his  biographer,  Mr.  Hoole,  writing  in 
1785,  says,  was  still  shown  as  a  curiosity  in  that 
part  of  the  country.  He  was  twice  mained. 
His  first  wife  was  the  daughter  of  his  friend 
Frogley.  He  died  at  a  house  in  KadclifT,  of  a 
putrid  fever,  and  was  interred  there  in  the  bury- 
ing ground  of  the  friends.* 


ODE  ON  HEARING  THE  DRUM. 
I  HATE  that  drum's  discordant  sound. 
Parading  round,  and  round,  and  round: 
To  thoughtless  youth  it  pleasure  yields, 
And  lures  from  cities  and  from  fields, 
To  sell  their  liberty  for  charms 
Of  tawdry  lace,  and  glittering  arms ; 
■   And  when  ambition's  voice  commands, 
To  march,  and  fight,  and  fall,  in  foreign  lands. 

I  hate  that  drum's  discordant  sound. 
Parading  round,  and  round,  and  round : 
To  me  it  talks  of  ravaged  plains. 
And  burning  towns  and  ruin'd  strains, 
And  mangled  limbs,  and  dying  groans. 
And  widows'  tears,  and  orphans'  moans; 
And  all  that  misery's  hand  bestows, 
To  fill  the  catalogue  of  human  woes. 


ODE  ON  PRIVATEERING. 

How  custom  steels  the  human  breast 
To  deeds  that  nature's  thoughts  detest ! 
How  custom  consecrates  to  fame 
What  reason  else  would  give  to  shame  ! 
Fair  spring  supplies  the  favouring  gale, 
The  naval  plunderer  spreads  his  sail. 
And  ploughing  wide  the  watery  way, 
Explores  with  anxious  eyes  his  prey. 

The  man  he  never  saw  before. 
The  man  who  him  no  quarrel  bore. 
He  meets,  and  avarice  prompts  the  fight ; 
And  rage  enjoys  the  dreadful  sight 
Of  decks  with  streaming  crimson  dyed, 
And  wretches  struggling  in  the  tide. 
Or  'midst  th'  explosion's  horrid  glare, 
Dispersed  wiUi  quivering  limbs  in  air. 

The  merchant  now  or.  foreign  shores 
His  captured  wealth  in  vain  deplores; 
Quits  his  fair  home,  »jh  mournful  change  ! 
For  the  dark  prison'f.  scanty  range ; 


[*  In  the  life  of  thnt  p.ood  man,  Scott  of  Amwell,  is 
Inserted  a  tort  of  last  dy'.ni;  iipeech  and  confession,  which 
the  Quakers  published  ifter  bis  death.  This  precious 
paper  requires  some  cojiment.  Scott's  life  had  not  merely 
been  inimcent,  but  '^irjiiently  ufeful.  '■  He  was  esteemed 
regular  i^>id  mors!  In  his  conduct,"  says  this  very  docu- 
ment; " nevenbel'^?,"  it  sdds,  "there  is  reason  to  bo- 
lieTe  he  fivqoently  experienced  the  ronvlction  of  the 
spirit  of  trath  for  not  faithfully  following;  the  Lord." 
Whrthti  ar.y  liearier  offence  can  be  proved  aj^aiust  him 
77 


By  plenty's  hand  so  lately  i©i, 
Depends  on  casual  alms  for  bread; 
And  with  a  father's  anguish  torn, 
Sees  his  poor  offspring  left  forlorn. 

And  yet,  such  man's  misjudging  mind, 
For  all  this  injury  to  his  kind. 
The  prosperous  robber's  native  plain 
Shall  bid  him  welcome  home  again ; 
His  name  the  song  of  every  street, 
His  acts  the  theme  of  all  we  meet, 
And  oft  the  artist's  skill  shall  place 
To  public  view  his  pictured  face ! 

If  glory  thus  be  earned,  for  me 
My  object  glory  ne'er  shall  be ; 
No,  first  in  Cambria's  loneliest  dale 
Be  mine  to  hear  the  shepherd's  tale ! 
No,  first  on  Scotia's  bleakest  hill 
Be  mine  the  stubborn  soil  to  till ! 
Remote  from  wealth  to  dwell  alone. 
And  die  to  guilty  praise  unknown ! 


THE  TEMPESTUOUS  EVENING. 

AN  GDI. 

There's  grandeur  in  this  sounding  storm, 
That  drives  the  hurrying  clouds  along. 
That  on  each  other  seem  to  throng, 
And  mix  in  many  a  varied  form  ; 
While,  bursting  now  and  then  between. 
The  moon's  dim  misty  orb  is  seen. 
And  casts  faint  glimpses  on  the  green.  , 

Beneath  the  blast  the  forests  bend. 
And  thick  the  branchy  ruin  lies, 
And  wide  the  shower  of  foliage  flies; 
The  lake's  black  waves  in  tumult  blend, 
Revolving  o'er  and  o'er  and  o'er. 
And  foaming  on  the  rocky  shore. 
Whose  caverns  echo  to  their  roar. 


by  the  society  than  that  of  having  styled  himself  Esquiia 
in  one  of  his  title-pnges,  and  useil  such  heathen  words  as 
December  and  Jlay  in  his  poems,  instead  of  twelfth 
month  and  fifth  month,  we  know  not;  but  when  he  was 
dyinj;.  at  a  vigorous  age.  of  a  typhus  fever,  he  was 
"  brought  down,"  says  this  quaker-process,  "  as  from 
the  clifts  of  the  rocks  and  the  heights  of  the  hills  Into 
the  valley  of  deep  humiliation."— See  Ovar.  Bev.  vol.  xL 
p.  600.] 


610 


GEORGE  ALEXANDER  STEVENS, 


The  sight  sublime  enrapts  my  thought, 
And  swift  along  the  past  it  strays, 
And  much  of  strange  event  surveys, 
What  history's  faithful  tongue  has  taught, 
Or  fancy  form'd,  whose  plastic  skill 
The  page  with  fabled  change  can  fill 
Of  ill  to  good,  or  good  to  ill. 


But  can  my  soul  the  scene  enjoy, 
That  rends  another's  breast  with  pain  1 
Oh  hapless  he,  who,  near  the  main. 
Now  sees  its  billowy  rage  destroy  ! 
Beholds  the  foundering  bark  descend. 
Nor  knows  but  what  its  fate  may  end 
The  moments  of  his  dearest  friend ! 


GEORGE  ALEXANDER  STEVENS. 


CBora,  IT—.    Died,  1784.] 


Geokoe  Alexander  Stevens  was  bom  in 
Holborn.  He  was  for  many  years  a  strolling 
player,  and  was  afterward  engaged  at  Covent 
Garden  theatre.  His  powers  as  an  actor  were 
very  indifferent ;  and  he  had  long  lived  in  neces- 
sitous circumstances,  when  he  had  recourse  to  a 
plan  which  brought  him  affluence — this  was,  de- 
livering his  Lecture  on  Heads,  a  medley  of  wit 
and  nonsense,  to  which  no  other  performance 
than  his  own  could  give  comic  effect.  The  lec- 
ture was  originally  designed  for  Shutter;  who, 
however,  wholly  failed  in  his  delivery  of  it. 
When  Stevens  gave  it  himself,  it  immediately 
became  popular  ;  he  repeated  it  with  success  in 
different  parts  of  Great  Britain  and  Ireland,  and, 
crossing  the  Atlantic,  found  equal  favour  among 
the  Calvinists  of  Boston,  and  the  Quakers  of 
Philadelphia.  On  his  return  to  England  he  at- 
tempted to  give  novelty  to  the  exhibition  by  a 
supplementary  lecture  on  portraits  and  whole 
lengths;  but  the  supplement  had  no  success.  In 
1773  he  appeared  again  on  the  Haymarket  stage, 
in  a  piece  of  his  own  composing,  "  The  Trip  to 
Portsmouth."  He  afterward  resumed  his  tour 
of  lectures  on  heads,  till  finding  his  own  head 


worn  out  by  dissipation,  he  sold  the  property  of  the 
composition  to  Lee  Lewis,  the  comedian ;  and 
closed  a  life  of  intemperance  in  a  state  of  idiotism. 
If  Fletcher  of  Salton's  maxim  be  true,  "  that 
the  popular  songs  of  a  country  are  of  more  im- 
portance than  its  laws,"  Stevens  must  be  re- 
garded as  an  important  criminal  in  literature. 
But  the  songs  of  a  country  rather  record,  than 
influence,  the  state  of  popular  morality.  Stevens 
celebrated  Ifard  drinking,  because  it  was  the 
fashion ;  and  his  songs  are  now  seldom  vocifer- 
ated, because  that  fashion  is  gone  by.  George 
was  a  leading  member  of  all  the  great  bacchana- 
lian clubs  of  his  day ;  the  Choice  Spirits,  Comus' 
Court,  and  others,  of  similar  importance  and 
utility.  Before  the  scheme  of  his  lecture  brought 
him  a  fortune,  he  had  frequently  to  do  penance 
in  jail  for  the  debts  of  the  tavern ;  and,  on  one 
of  those  occasions,  wrote  a  poem,  entitled  "  Reli- 
gion," expressing  a  penitence  for  his  past  life, 
which  was  probably  sincere,  while  his  confine- 
ment lasted.  He  was  also  author  of  "  Tom 
Fool,"  a  novel;  "The  Birthday  of  Folly,"  a 
satire;  and  several  dramatic  pieces  of  slender 
consequence.* 


THE  WINE  VAULT. 

Contented  I  am,  and  contented  I'll  be, 
For  what  can  this  world  rnore  afford. 

Than  a  lass  that  will  sociably  sit  on  my  knee, 
And  a  cellar  as  sociably  stored. 

My  brave  boys. 

My  vault  door  is  open,  descend  and  improve, 

That  cask, — ay,  that  we  will  try ; 
*Tis  as  rich  to  the  taste  as  the  lips  of  your  love. 

And  as  bright  as  her  cheeks  to  the  eye  : 

My  brave  boys. 

In  a  piece  of  slit  hoop,  see  my  candle  is  stuck, 
'Twill  light  us  each  bottle  to  hand  ; 

The  foot  of  my  glass  for  the  purpose  I  broke, 
\s  I  hate  that  a  bumper  should  stand. 

My  b«»v«  boys. 


Astride  on  a  butt,  as  a  butt  should  be  strod, 
I  gallop  the  brusher  along  ;  [gO(l> 

Like  grape-blessing  Bacchus,  the  good  fellow's 
And  a  sentiment  give,  or  a  song. 

My  brave  boys. 

W^e  are  dry  where  we  sit,  though  the  coying 
drops  seem 
With  pearls  the  moist  walls  to  emboss ; 
From  the  arch  mouldy  cobwebs  in  gothic  taste 
stream, 
Like  stucco-work  cut  out  of  moss : 

My  brave  boys. 

[*  If  Stevens  Trrote  The  Storm  he  is  the  author  of  one 
good  piece,  but  his  right  has  been  questioned,  and  the 
song  attributed  to  Falconer,  upon  no  authority.  Pre- 
sumptive evidence  must  go  for  little,  and  it  is  unfair  to 
take  a  man's  single  song  from  him.  because  he  wrote,  with 
one  exception,  universally  ill,  and  assign  it  to  an  author 
who  might  have  written  it,  but  whose  fieune  wanto  no  false 
stays  to  establish  or  maintain  it. 


DR.  SAMUEL  JOHNSON, 


611 


When  the  lamp  is  brimful,  how  the  taper  flame 
shines. 
Which,  when  moisture  is  wanting,  decays; 
Replenish  the  lamp  of  my  life  with  rich  wines. 
Or  else  there's  an  end  of  my  blaze, 

My  brave  boys. 

Sound  those  pipes,  they're  in  tune,  and  those 
bins  are  well  fill'd  ; 
View  that  heap  of  old  Hock  in  your  rear ; 
Yon  bottles  are  Burgundy!  mark  how  they're 
piled, 
Like  artillery,  tier  over  tier, 

My  brave  boys. 

My  cellar's  my  camp,  and  my  soldiers  my  flasks. 

All  gloriously  ranged  in  review ; 
When  I  cast  my  eyes  round,  I  consider  my  casks 

As  kingdoms  I've  yet  to  subdue, 

My  brave  boys. 


Like  Macedon's  madman,  my  glass  I'll  enjoy. 

Defying  hyp,  gravel,  or  gout ; 
He  cried  when  he  had  no  more  worlds  to  destroy, 

I'll  weep  when  my  liquor  is  out, 

My  brave  boys. 

On  their  stumps  some  have  fought,  and  as  stoutly 
wUlI, 
When  reeling  I  roll  on  the  floor; 
Then  my  legs  must  be  lost,  so  I'll  drink  as  I  lie, 
And  dare  the  best  Buck  to  do  more. 

My  brave  boys. 

'Tis  my  will  when  I  die,  not  a  tear  shall  be 
shed, 
No  Hie  Jacet  be  cut  on  my  stone ; 
But  pour  on  ray  coffin  a  bottle  of  red. 
And  say  that  his  drinking  is  done, 

My  brave  boyg. 


DR.  SAMUEL  JOHNSON. 


[Barn,  1708.    Died,  1784  •] 


LONDON. 
IN  ntlTATIOS  OP  THB  THIRI)  SATIIIE   OP  JTTVENAl, 

WriUen  in  1738,t 


•  Quls  Ineptae 


Tarn  patiens  urbis,  tarn  ferreus  ut  teneat  se  ? — Jovknal. 

Though  grief  and  fondness  in  my  breast  rebel, 
When  injured  ThalesJ  bids  the  town  farewell ; 

[*  "  London  is  one  of  those  few  imitations,"  says  Gray, 
"that  have  all  the  ease  and  all  the  spirit  of  an  original." 
"  Mr.  Johnson's  London."  says  Goldsmith,  •'  is  the  Ix-st  imi- 
tatiun  of  the  original  that  has  appeared  in  our  lanjjUHge ; 
being  po8.se8sed  of  all  the  force  and  satirical  resentment 
of  Juvenal.  Imitation  gives  us  a  much  truer  idea  of  the 
ancients  than  ever  translation  could  do." 

But  "  The  Vanity  of  Human  Wishes"  is  a  better  poem. 
Sir  Walter  Scott  speaks  of  it  a«  a  satire,  "  the  deep  and 
pathetic  morality  of  which  ha'  often  extracted  tears  from 
those  whose  eyes  wander  dry  over  pages  professedly  senti- 
mental." "  Tis  a  grand  poem,"  writes  Byron. — "  and  no 
triw! — true  as  the  10th  of  Juvenal  himself;  all  the  exam- 
ples and  mode  of  giving  them  sublime,  as  well  as  the 
latter  part,  with  the  exception  of  an  occasional  couplet. 
1  do  not  80  much  admire  the  opening." 

His  Urury  Lane  Prologue  is  the  pcrfpction  of  its  kind ; 
and  his  linos  on  Levett  breathe  an  air  of  constraine<l  com- 
p'aint  and  forceful  tenderness.  His  pathos  is  loo  austere, 
but  it  is  very  fine.] 

lI  .Icihnsoii's  London  was  published  in  May  173S,  and  it 
is  remiirkable  thnt  it  came  out  on  the  same  morning  with 
Popes  satire  entitled  17^8,  Bo  that  Knglnnd  had  at  once 
Its  Juvenal  aud  Horace  as  poeticAl  monitors. — Buswell.] 

[X  That  the  "iiijureil  Tlialos"  of  Johnson's  Londrni  was 
the  poet  .Savage,  (as  is  generally  understood,)  has  been 
questioned  by  BosweU.  and  hig  acute  editor  Mr.  Croker, 
we  think  without  much  show  of  reason. 

"  Tlie  event  of  Savage's  retirement."  gays  Sir.Tohn  Haw- 
kins, "  ig  antala/eil  in  the  poem  of  London  ;  but  in  every 
particular,  except  the  difference  of  a  year,  what  is  there 
said  of  the  departure  of  Thales  must  be  understood  of 
Savage,  and  looked  upon  as  truf.  hiftnry." 

"  This  conjecture."  writes  Boswell.  •'  is.  T  believe,  en- 
tirely groundless.  I  have  been  assured  that  Johnson  said 
he  was  not  so  much  as  acquainted  with  .Savage  when  he 
wroti^  his  London.  If  the  departure  mentioned  in  it  was 
the  departure  of  Savage,  the  event  was  not  antedated  but 


Yet  still  my  calmer  thoughts  his  choice  commend, 
I  praise  the  hermit,  but  regret  the  friend, 
Who  now  resolves,  from  vice  and  London  far, 
To  breathe  in  distant  fields  a  purer  air ; 
And,  fix'd  on  Cambria's  solitary  shore, 
Give  to  St.  David  one  true  Briton  more. 

For  who  would  leave,  unbribed,  Hibemia's  land, 
Or  change  the  rocks  of  Scotland  for  the  Strand  T 

foreseen;  for  I/sndon  was  published  in  May  1738,  and 
Sava.'e  did  not  set  out  for  Wales  till  July  1739." 

'•  Notwithstanding,"  says  Mr.  Croker,  '•  Mr.  Boswell'a 
proofs,  and  Dr.  Johnson's  own  [accredited?]  assertion,  the 
identity  of  Savage  and  Thales  has  been  repeated  by  all 
the  biographers,  and  has  obtained  general  vogue.  It  may 
therefore  be  worth  while  to  add,  that  Johnson's  residence 
at  Greenwich  i  which,  as  it  was  the  scene  of  his  fancied 
parting  from  Thales,  is  currently  taken  to  have  been  that 
of  his  real  separation  from  Savage)  occurred  two  years 
before  the  latter  event ;  and  at  that  time  it  does  not  ap- 
pear that  Johnson  was  so  much  lus  acquainted  with  Savage 
or  even  with  Cave,  at  whose  house  he  first  met  Savage 
A^'ain,  Johnson  distinctly  tells  us,  in  his  Life  of  Savage, 
tliut  the  hitter  t<x)k  his  departure  for  Wales,  not  by  em- 
b.'irking  at  Greenwich,  but  by  the  Bristol  stagc-ooach :  and, 
finally  and  decisively.  Johnson,  if  Thales  had  been  Savage, 
could  never  have  admitted  into  his  poem  two  lines  which 
seem  to  point  so  forcibly  at  the  drunken  fray,  when  Savage 
8tabl>ed  a  Mr.  Sinclair,  for  which  he  was  convicted  of 
mardtr  : 

Some  frolic  drunkard,  reeling  from  a  feast, 
Provokn  a  broil,  and  ttabt  you  for  a  jest 

There  is,  certainly,  a  curious  coincidence  between  some 
points  of  the  characters  of  Thales  and  .Savage ;  but  it 
seems  equally  certain  that  the  coincidence  was  fortuitous. 
.Mr.  Murihy  endeavours  to  reconcile  the  dilliculties  by 
supposing  that  Savage's  retirement  was  in  oontt-mplation 
eighteen  months  before  it  was  carried  into  effect :  but  even 
if  this  were  true,  i  which  may  well  lie  doubted.)  it  would 
not  alter  the  facts — that  London  was  written  before  ,Iohn- 
son  knew  Savage:  and  that  one  of  the  severest  strokes  of 
the  satire  tom-hed  ."lavage's  sorest  point." 

Johnson  left  LiihtieUl  for  Ixmdon.  March  2d.  1737;  in 
the  July  of  the  same  yt-ar  he  lived  in  Church-street,  Green 
wich,  and  sought  by  letter  the  notice  of  Cave.  In  March 
1738  appeared  hig  ode  "  Ad  Urbanum ;"  ia  April  1738  ht 


612 


DR.  SAMUEL  JOHNSON. 


There  none  are  swept  by  sudden  fate  away, 
But  all,  whom  hunger  spares,  with  age  decay; 
Here  malice,  rapine,  accident  conspire, 
And  now  a  rabble  rages,  now  a  fire ; 
Their  ambush  here  relentless  ruffians  lay, 
And  here  the  fell  attorney  prowls  for  prey; 
Here  falling  houses  thunder  on  your  head, 
And  here  a  female  atheist  talks  you  dead. 

While  Thales  waits  the  wherry  that  contains 
Of  dissipated  wealth  the  small  remains. 
On  Thames's  banks,  in  silent  thought  we  stood, 
Where  Greenwich  smiles  upon  the  silver  flood : 
Struck  with  the  seat  that  gave  Eliza*  birth. 
We  kneel,  and  kiss  the  consecrated  earth ; 
In  pleasing  dreams  the  blissful  age  renew. 
And  call  Britannia's  glories  back  to  view  ; 
Behold  her  cross  triumphant  on  the  main. 
The  guard  of  commerce,  and  the  dread  of  Spain, 
Ere  masquerades  debauch'd,  excise  oppress'd, 
Or  English  honour  grew  a  standing  jest. 

A  transient  calm  the  happy  scenes  bestow, 
And  for  a  moment  lull  the  sense  of  woe. 
At  length  awaking,  with  contemptuous  frown. 
Indignant  Thales  eyes  the  neighbouring  town  : 
"  Since  worth,"  he  cries,  "  in  these  degenerate 

days, 
Wants  e'en  the  cheap  reward  of  empty  praise ; 
In  those  cursed  walls,  devote  to  vice  and  gain, 
Since  unrewarded  science  toils  in  vain  ; 
Since  hope  but  soothes  to  double  my  distress, 
And  every  moment  leaves  my  little  less; 
While  yet  my  steady  steps  no  staff  sustains. 
And  life  still  vigorous  revels  in  my  veins ; 
Grantme,kind  Heaven, to  find  some  happier  place, 
Where  honesty  and  sense  are  no  disgrace  ; 

turned  and  printed  an  epigram  in  praise  of  SaTage  :  and 
in  May  17.38,  published  his  noble  imitation  of  Juvenal's 
thinl  satire,  f'avage  left  London  for  Swansea  in  the  July 
of  the  succeeding  year. 

'•Johnson  has  marked."  says  Boswell,  " upon  his  cor- 
rected copy  of  the  first  edition  of  "London,"  "  Wri'ten  in 
17.3S ;"  and,  as  it  was  published  in  the  month  of  May  in  that 
year,  it  is  evident  that  much  time  was  not  employed  in 
preparing  it  for  the  press.''  "  Part  of  the  beauty  of  the 
performance,"  says  Johnson  to  Cave.  ("  if  any  beauty  be 
allowed  it)  consists  in  the  alaptation  of  Juvenal's  senti- 
ments to  mf'dern  facts  and  prrsntis."  This  is  curious,  and 
Beems  to  justify  the  appropriation  of  Thales  to  Savage. 

Boswe'.l's  attempt  to  overthrow  the  statement  of  his 
rival  Hawkins  was  stion  forgotten  by  himself.  He  h.nd 
been  nssiire.d  that  Johnson  was  unacquainted  with  Savage 
in  May  1738,  yet  some  forty  pages  farther  on  he  can  print 
an  encomium  on  Savage  from  the  (lentleman's  Magazine 
for  April  1838.  which  he  hfid  been  assurfd  was  written  by 
Johnson,  and  thus  give  his  former  statement  the  lie  in  a 
silent' way.  "  How  highly,"  writes  Boswell,  "Johnson  ad- 
mired him  [Savage]  for  that  knowledge  which  he  himself 
so  much  cu'tiviited,  and  what  kindness  he  entertained  for 
him,  appears  from  the  following  lines  in  the  Gentleman's 
Magazine  for  April  1738,  which  I  am  assured  were  written 
by  John-^on : — 

Ad  Ricardum  Savage,  Arm.  Humani  Generis  Amatorem. 

Humani  stu'lium  generis  cui  pectore  fervet, 
0!  colat  humanum  te  foveatque  genus  I" 

This  wa,s  not  likely  to  have  come  from  the  pen  of  Johnson, 
(if  .Fohn-on'*  it  is.)  had  he  been  unacquiiinted  with  Savcge. 
And  where  did  Mr.  Croker  learn  that  Johnson  met 
Savage  for  the  first  lime  at  the  hou-e  of  Cave?  A  literary 
ailveiiturer,  without  a  penny  in  his  pocket,  could  not  well 
have  been  a  month  in  London  befjre  he  fell  into  the 
society  of  Savage.  Thomson's  first  want  in  London  was  a 
pair  of  shoe.s,  liis  first  London  acquaintance  the  wretched 


But  what  i^  after  all,  Mr.  Murphy's  view  of  the  subject 


Some  pleasing  bank  where  verdant  osiers  play, 
Some  peaceful  vale  with  Nature's  painting  gay 
Where  once  the  harass'd  Briton  found  repose. 
And  safe  in  poverty  defied  his  foes; 
Some  secret  cell,  ye  powers  indulgent,  give. 

Let live  here,  for has  learn'd  to  live. 

Here  let  those  reign  whom  pensions  can  incite 
To  vote  a  patriot  black,  a  courtier  white ; 
Explain  their  country's  dear-bought  rights  away 
And  plead  for  pirates  in  the  face  of  day.f 
With  slavish  tenets  taint  our  poison'd  youth. 
And  lend  a  lie  the  confidence  of  truth. 
Let  such  raise  palaces,  and  manors  buy. 
Collect  a  tax,  or  farm  a  lottery  ; 
With  warbling  eunuchs  fill  a  licensed  stage,J 
And  lull  to  servitude  a  thoughtless  age. 

"Heroes,  proceed  !    what  bounds  your  pride 
shall  hold  1  [gold  ] 

What  check  restrain  your  thirst  of  power  and 
Behold  rebellious  Virtue  quite  o'erthrown, 
Behold  our  fame,  our  wealth,  our  lives,  your  own, 
To  such  a  groaning  nation's  spoils  are  given. 
When  public  crimes  inflame  the  wrath  of  Heaven; 
But  what,  my  friend,  what  hope  remains  for  me. 
Who  start  at  theft,  and  blush  at  peijury  1 
Who  scarce  forbear,  though  Britain's  court  he 
To  pluck  a  titled  poet's  borrow'd  wing ;       [sing 
A  statesman's  logic  unconvinced  can  hear, 
And  dare  to  slumber  o'er  the  Gazetteer  :§ 
Despise  a  fool  in  half  his  pension  dress'd, 
And  strive  in  vain  to  laugh  at  H y's  jest. 

"  Others,  with  softer  smiles  and  subtler  art, 
Can  sap  the  principles,  or  taint  the  heart; 
With  more  address  a  lover's  note  convey, 
Or  bribe  a  virgin's  innocence  away. 

is  the  correct  one?  "Savage's  distress,"  says  John.son, 
'•was  now  [Say  early  in  1738]  publicly  known,  and  his 
friends  therefore  thought  it  proper  to  concert  some  mea- 
sures fir  his  relief. . . .  The  scheme  propo.sed  for  his  happy 
and  independent  subistence  was,  tliat  he  should  retire  into 
Wales  and  receive  an  allowance  of  fifty  pounds  a  year,  to 

be  raised  by  a  subsf-ription This  offer   Mr.  Savage 

gladly  accepted WhiU  this  .';( heme  was  ripening  his 

friends  directed  him  to  take  a  lodging  in  the  liberties  of 
the  Fleet,  that  he  might  be  secure  from  his  creditors,  and 
sent  him  every  Monddy  a  guinea After  many  altera- 
tions and  delays,  a  subscription  was  at  length  raised,  and 
he  left  London  in  July  173J,  having  taken  leave,with  great 
tenderness,  of  hi"  friends,  and  parted  from  the  author  of 
this  narrative  with  tears  in  his  eyes." 

There  was  therefore  a  considerable  interval  between  the 
period  when  the  .scheme  of  Sava:^es  retirement  to  Swan- 
sea was  first  propo-ed  to  him,  and  his  setting  off'  in  July 
1739,  by  the  coach  for  the  shores  of  Wales! 

Whoever  Juvenal's  Umbritius  was,  the  Thales  of  John- 
son's imitation  was  po<_;r  Savage ;  and  let  us  notiie  here 
the  propriety  of  Johnson's  laying  the  scene  of  Savage's 
departure  fi"om  Greenwich.  There  is  a  note  before  us 
from  Savage  to  Birch,  dated  "Greenwich,  .May  14th,  1735," 
wherein  be  says,  •'  I  have  been  here  some  days  for  the 
benefit  of  the  air."  There  is  no  necessity  therefore  to 
bo' her  oneself  in  this  inquiry  wilh  the  date  of  Johnson's 
residence  at  Greenwich. 

And  what  is  there  to  disprove  the  fact  that  Thales  was 
Savage  in  his  departing  by  lOach  from  London,  and  not, 
as  the  poem  has  it.  by  boat  from  Greenwich?  Mr.  King 
was  the  f  dlow-student,  not  the  fellow-shepherd  of  Milton; 
yet  that  he  was  the  Lyc!da.s  of  the  poet  who  will  doubt? 
To  our  thinking  the  coincidence  is  too  close  to  be  acci- 
dental, too  particular  to  be  unmeant.] 

•  Queen  E.izabeth.  bjrn  at  Greenwirh. 

t  The  encroachments  of  the  Spaniiirds  had  been  palliated 
in  both  houses  of  parliament. 

t  The  licensing  act  had  then  lately  pa.ssed. 

I  A  paper  which  at  that  time  contained  apologies  for  the 
court. 


Well  may  they  rise,  while  I.  whose  rustic  tongue 
Ne'er  knew  to  puzzle  right,  or  varnish  wrong, 
Spurn 'd  as  a  beggar,  dreaded  as  a  spy, 
Live  unregarded,  unlaniented  die. 

"  For  what  but  social  guilt  the  friend  endears  t 
Who  shares  Orgilio's  crimes,  his  fortune  shares. 
But  thou,  should  tempting  villany  present 
All  Marlborough  hoarded,  or  all  Villiers  spent. 
Turn  from  the  glittering  bribe  thy  scornful  eye, 
Nor  sell  for  gold  what  gold  could  never  buy, 
The  peaceful  slumber,  self-approving  day. 
Unsullied  fame,  and  conscience  ever  gay. 

"  The  cheated  nation's  happy  favourites,  see ! 
Mark  whom  the  great  caress,  who  frown  on  me ! 
London  !  the  needy  villain's  general  home, 
The  common  sewer  of  Paris  and  of  Rome, 
With  eager  thirst,  by  folly  or  by  fate. 
Sucks  in  the  dregs  of  each  corrupted  state. 
Forgive  my  transports  on  a  theme  like  this, 
I  cannot  bear  a  French  metropolis. 

"  Illustrious  Edward  !  from  the  realms  of  day. 
The  land  of  heroes  and  of  saints,  survey  ! 
Nor  hope  the  British  lineaments  to  trace. 
The  rustic  grandeur,  or  the  surly  grace; 
But,  lost  in  thoughtless  ease  and  empty  show, 
Behold  the  warrior  dwindled  to  a  beau  ; 
Sense,  freedom,  piety,  refined  away, 
Of  France  the  mimic,  and  of  Spain  the  prey. 

«'  All  that  at  home  no  more  can  beg  or  steal, 
t)r  like  a  gibbet  better  than  a  wheel ; 
Hiss'd  from  the  stage,  or  hooted  from  the  court. 
Their  air,  their  dress,  their  politics  import ; 
Obsequious,  artful,  voluble,  and  gay. 
On  Britain's  fond  credulity  they  prey. 
No  gainful  trade  their  industry  can  'scape, 
They  sing,  they  dance,  clean  shoes,  or  cure  a  clap ; 
All  sciences  a  fasting  Monsieur  knows, 
And  bid  him  go  to  hell,  to  hell  he  goes. 

"Ah !  what  avails  it  that,  from  slavery  far, 
I  drew  the  breath  of  life  in  English  air; 
Was  early  taught  a  Briton's  right  to  prize. 
And  lisp  the  tale  of  Henry's  victories; 
If  the  gull'd  conqueror  receives  the  chain, 
And  flattery  subdues  when  arms  are  vain  1 

"  Studious  to  please,  and  ready  to  submit, 
The  supple  Gaul  was  born  a  parasite : 
Still  to  his  interest  true,  where'er  he  goes, 
Wit,  bravery,  worth,  his  lavish  tongue  bestows  : 
In  every  face  a  thousand  graces  shine. 
From  every  tongue  flows  harmony  divine. 
These  arts  in  vain  our  rugged  natives  try. 
Strain  out  with  faltering  ditfidence  a  lie. 
And  gain  a  kick  for  awkward  flattery. 

•'  Besides,  with  justice  this  discerning  age 
Admires  their  wondrous  talents  for  the  stage ; 
Well  may  they  venture  on  the  mimic's  art. 
Who  play  from  morn  to  night  a  borrow'd  part: 
Practised  their  master's  notions  to  embrace. 
Repeat  his  maxims,  and  reflect  his  face! 
With  every  wild  absurdity  comply. 
And  view  each  object  with  anotiier's  eye; 
To  shake  with  laughter  ere  the  jest  they  bear, 
To  pour  at  will  the  counterfeited  tear; 
And,  as  their  patron  hints  the  cold  or  heat. 
To  shake  in  dog-days,  in  Deceml«>r  sweat. 


How,  when  competitors  like  these  contend. 
Can  surly  Virtue  hope  to  fix  a  friend  ? 
Slaves  that  with  serious  impudence  beguile. 
And  lie  without  a  blush,  without  a  smile; 
Exalt  each  trifle,  every  vice  adore. 
Your  taste  in  snufT,  your  judgment  in  a  whore; 
Can  BaU>o's  eloquence  applaud,  and  swear 
He  gropes  his  breeches  with  a  monarch's  air ! 

"For  arts  like  these  preferr'd,  admired,  caress 'd. 
They  first  invade  your  table,  then  your  breast ; 
Explore  your  secrets  with  insidious  art, 
Watch  the  weak  hour,  and  ransack  all  the  heart  • 
Then  soon  your  ill-placed  confidence  repay. 
Commence  your  lords,  and  govern  or  betray. 

"  By  numbers  here,  from  shame  or  censure  free, 
All  crimes  are  safe  but  hated  poverty : 
This,  only  this,  the  rigid  law  pursues. 
This,  only  this,  provokes  the  snarling  muse. 
The  sober  trader  at  a  tatter'd  cloak 
Wakes  from  his  dream,  and  labours  for  a  joke  ; 
With  brisker  air  the  silken  courtiers  gaze. 
And  turn  the  varied  taunt  a  thousand  ways. 
Of  all  the  griefs  that  harass  the  distress'd. 
Sure  the  most  bitter  is  a  scornful  jest ; 
Fate  never  wounds  more  deep  the  generous  heart 
Than  when  a  blockhead's  insult  points  the  dart. 

"  Has  Heaven  reserved,  in  pity  to  the  poor. 
No  pathless  waste,  or  undiscover'd  shore  1* 
No  secret  island  in  the  boundless  main  1 
No  peaceful  desert  yet  unclaim'd  by  Spain  1 
Quick  let  us  rise,  the  happy  seats  explore, 
And  bear  Oppression's  insolence  no  more. 
This  mournful  truth  is  everywhere  confess'd, 
Slow  rises  worth,  by  poverty  depress'd : 
But  here  more  slow,  where  all  are  slaves  to  gold. 
Where  looks  are  merchandise,  and  smiles  are 

sold; 
Where,  won  by  bribes,  by  flatteries  implored. 
The  groom  retails  the  favours  of  his  lord,    [cries 

"  But  hark  !  the  affrighted  crowd's  tumultuous 
Roll  through  the  streets,  and  thunder  to  the  skies: 
Raised  from  some  pleasing  dream  of  wealth  and 

power. 
Some  pompous  palace,  or  some  blissful  bower. 
Aghast  you  start,  and  scarce  with  aching  sight 
Sustain  the  approaching  fire's  tremendous  light ; 
Swift  from  pursuing  horrors  take  your  way. 
And  leave  your  little  all  to  flames  a  prey ; 
Then  through  the  world  a  wretched  vagrant  roam, 
For  where  can  starving  merit  find  a  home? 
In  vain  your  mournful  narrative  disclose. 
While  all  neglect,  and  most  insult  your  woes. 

"  Should  Heaven's  just  bolts  Orgilio's  wealth 
confound. 
And  spread  his  flaming  palace  on  the  ground. 
Swift  o'er  the  lanti  the  dismal  rumour  tlies, 
And  public  mournings  pacify  the  skies  ; 
The  laureate  tribe  in  servile  verse  relate, 
How  Virtue  wars  with  persecuting  Fate; 
With  well-feign'd  gratitude  the  pension'd  band 
Refund  the  plunder  of  the  beggar'd  land. 
See !  while  he  builds,  the  gaudy  vassals  come. 
And  crowd  with  sudden  wealth  the  rising  dome; 

*  The  Spaniards  at  tliut  time  were  said  to  make  claim  to 
some  of  our  American  pru\iiice^. 
3B 


614 


DR.  SAMUEL  JOHNSON. 


The  price  of  boroughs  and  of  souls  restore, 
And  rdse  his  treasures  higher  than  before : 
Now  birss'd  with  all  the  baubles  of  the  great, 
The  polish'd  marble,  and  the  shining  plate, 
Orgilio  sees  the  golden  pile  aspire, 
And  hopes  from  angry  Heaven  another  fire. 

"Couldst  thou  resign  the  park  and  play  content, 
For  the  fair  banks  of  Severn  or  of  Trent; 
There  mightst  thou  find  some  elegant  retreat, 
Some  hireling  senator's  deserted  seat, 
And  stretch  thy  prospects  o'er  the  smiling  land, 
For  less  than  rent  the  dungeons  of  the  Strand; 
There   prune   thy  walks,  support  thy  drooping 

flowers, 
Direct  thy  rivulets,  and  twine  thy  bowers ; 
And,  while  thy  beds  a  cheap  repast  afford, 
Despise  the  dainties  of  a  venal  lord : 
There  every  bush  with  nature's  music  rings. 
There  every  breeze  bears  health  upon  its  wings; 
On  all  thy  hours  security  shall  smile. 
And  bless  thine  evening  walk  and  morning  toil. 

"  Prepare  for  death,  if  here  at  night  you  roam: 
And  sign  your  will,  before  you  sup  from  home. 
Some  fiery  fop,  with  new  commission  vain, 
W  no  sleeps  on  brambles  till  he  kills  his  man ; 
Some  frolic  drunkard,  reeling  from  a  fieast, 
Provokes  a  broil,  and  stabs  you  for  a  jest. 

"  Yet  e'en  these  heroes,  mischievously  gay, 
Lords  of  the  street,  and  terrors  of  the  way  ; 
Flush'd  as  they  are  with  folly,  youth,  and  wine, 
Their  prudent  insults  to  the  poor  confine ; 
Afar  they  mark  the  flambeau's  bright  approach. 
And  shun  the  shining  train  and  golden  coach. 

"  In  vain,  these  dangers  pass'd,  your  doors  you 
close, 
And  hope  the  balmy  blessings  of  repose : 
Cruel  with  guilt,  and  daring  with  despair, 
The  midnight  murderer  bursts  the  faithless  bar; 
Invades  the  sacred  hour  of  silent  rest. 
And  plants,  unseen,  a  dagger  in  your  breast. 

"  Scarce  can  our  fields,  such  crowds  at  Tyburn 
die. 
With  hemp  the  gallows  and  the  fleet  supply. 
Propose  your  schemes,  ye  senatorian  band, 
Whose  ways  and  means*  support  the  sinking 

land ; 
Lest  ropes  be  wanting  in  the  tempting  spring. 
To  rig  another  convoy  for  the  king.f 

"  A  single  jail,  in  Alfred's  golden  reign. 
Could  half  the  nation's  criminals  contain; 
Fair  justice  then,  without  constraint  adored. 
Held  high    the   steady  scale,  but  sheathed  the 

sword ; 
No  spies  were  paid,  no  special  juries  known  ; 
Bless'd  age !    but  ah !    how  different  from  our 
own ! 

"  Much  could  I  add, — but  see  the  boat  at  hand, 
The  tide  retiring,  calls  me  from  the  land  : 
Farewell! — When  youth,  and  health,  and  for- 
tune spent. 
Thou  fliest  for  refuge  to  the  wilds  of  Kent ; 


*  A  technical  term  in  parliament  for  raising  money, 
t  Tlie   nation  was   ihi.-u  ULscoutenied  at  the  repeated 
vi^itit  midu  by  George  the  Second  to  Hanover. 


And,  tired  like  me  with  follies  and  with  crimes. 
In  angry  numbers  warn'st  succeeding  times; 
Then  shall  thy  friend,  nor  thou  refuse  his  aid, 
Still  foe  to  vice,  forsake  his  Cambrian  shade ; 
In  virtue's  cause  once  more  exert  his  rage, 
Thy  satire  point,  and  animate  thy  page." 


THE  VANITY  OF  HUMAN  WISHES. 

W  IMITATIOy   OP   THE  TEXTH  SATIRE  OP  JUVENAL. 

Let  observation  with  extensive  view, 
Survey  mankind  fi-om  China  to  Peru ; 
Remark  each  anxious  toil,  each  eager  strife. 
And  watch  the  busy  scenes  of  crowded  Hfe  ; 
Then  say  how  hope  and  fear,  desire  and  hate, 
O'erspread  with  snares  the  clouded  maze  of  fate. 
Where  wavering  man,  betray'd  by  vent'rous  pride. 
To  chase  the  dreary  paths  without  a  guide. 
As  treach'rous  phantoms  in  the  mist  delude, 
Shuns  fancied  ills,  or  chases  airy  good ; 
How  rarely  reason  guides  the  stubborn  choice, 
Rules  the  bold  hand,  or  prompts  the  suppliant 

voice ; 
How  nations  sink  by  darling  schemes  oppress' d. 
When  vengeance  listens  to  the  fool's  request. 
Fate  wings  with  every  wish  th'  afllictive  dart, 
Each  gift  of  nature  and  each  grace  of  art ; 
With  fatal  heat  impetuous  courage  glows, 
With  fatal  sweetness  elocution  flows. 
Impeachment  stops  the  speaker's  powerful  breath, 
And  restless  fire  precipitates  on  death. 

But,  scarce  observed,  the  knowing  and  the  bold 
Fall  in  the  general  massacre  of  gold  ; 
Wide  wasting  pest !  that  rages  unconfined. 
And  crowds  with  crimes  the  records  of  mankind; 
For  gold  his  sword  the  hireling  ruffian  draws. 
For  gold  the  hireling  judge  distorts  the  laws; 
Wealth  heap'd  on  wealth,  nor  truth  nor  safety 
The  dangers  gather  as  the  treasures  rise,    [buys. 

Let  history  tell  where  rival  kings  command, 
And  dubious  title  shakes  the  madded  land. 
When  statutes  glean  the  refuse  of  the  sword. 
How  much  more  safe  the  vassal  than  the  lord ; 
Low  sculks  the  hind  beneath  the  rage  of  power. 
And  leaves  the  wealthy  traitor  in  the  Tower, 
Untouch'd  his  cottage,  and  his  slumbers  sound. 
Though  confiscation's  vultures  hover  round. 

The  needy  traveller  serene  and  gay. 
Walks  the  wild  heath  and  sings  his  toil  away. 
Does  envy  seize  thee  1   crush  th'  upbraiding  joy. 
Increase  his  riches  and  his  peace  destroy, 
Now  fears  in  dire  vicissitude  invade, 
The  rustling  l>rake  alarms,  and  quivering  shade. 
Nor  light  nor  darkness  bring  his  pain  relief. 
One  shows  the  plunder,  and  one  hides  the  thief. 

Yet  still  one  gen'ral  cry  the  skies  assails. 
And  gain  and  grandeur  load  the  tainted  gales; 
Few  know  the  toiling  statesman's  fear  or  care. 
The  insidious  rival  and  the  gaping  heir. 

Once  more,  Deinocritus,  arise  on  earth. 
With  cheerful  wisdom  and  instructive  mirth. 
See  motley  life  in  modern  trappings  dress'd, 
And  feed  with  varied  fools  the  eternal  jest: 


DR.  SAMUEL  JOHNSON. 


61 P 


Thou  vrho  could'st  laugh,  where  want  enchain'd 

caprice, 
Toil  crush'd  conceit,  and  man  was  of  a  piece ; 
Where  wealth  unloved  without  a  mourner  died; 
And  scarce  a  sycophant  was  fed  by  pride ; 
Where  ne'er  was  known  the  form  of  mock  debate, 
Or  seen  a  new-made  mayor's  unwieldy  state ; 
Where  change  of  fav'rites  made  no  change  of 

laws. 
And  senates  heard  before  they  judged  a  cause ; 
How  wouldst  thou   shake  at   Britain's   modish 

tribe. 
Dart  the  quick  taunt,  and  edge  the  piercing  gibel 
Attentive  truth  and  nature  to  descry, 
And  pierce  each  scene  with  philosophic  eye. 
To  thee  were  solemn  toys,  or  empty  show, 
The  robes  of  pleasure  and  the  vails  of  woe ; 
All  aid  the  farce,  and  all  thy  mirth  maintain. 
Whose  joys  are  causeless,  or  whose  griefs  are 

vain. 
Such  was  the  scorn  that  fill'd  the  sage's  mind, 
Renew'd  at  every  glance  on  human  kind ; 
How  just  that  scorn  ere  yet  thy  voice  declare, 
Search  every  state,  and  canvass  every  prayer. 
Unnumber'd  suppliants   crowd  Preferment's 

gate, 
Athirst  for  wealth,  and  burning  to  be  great ; 
Delusive  Fortune  hears  the  incessant  call, 
They  mount,  they  shine,  evaporate,  and  fall. 
On  every  stage  the  foes  of  peace  attend,       [end. 
Hate  dogs  their  flight,  and  insult  mocks  their 
Love  ends  with  hope,  the  sinking  statesman's  door 
Pours  in  the  morning  worshipper  no  more  ; 
For  growing  names  the  weekly  scribbler  lies. 
To  growing  wealth  the  dedicator  flies ; 
From  every  room  descends  the  painted  face. 
That  hung  the  bright  palladium  of  the  place ; 
And,  smoked  in  kitchens,  or  in  auctions  sold, 
To  better  features  yields  the  frame  of  gold  ; 
For  now  no  more  we  trace  in  every  line 
Heroic  worth,  benevolence  divine : 
The  form  distorted  justifies  the  fall. 
And  detestation  rids  the  indignant  wall. 

But  will  not  Britain  hear  the  last  appeal, 
Sign  her  foe's  doom,  or  guard  her  favourite's  zeal  1 
Through  Freedom's  sons  no  more  remonstrance 

rings. 
Degrading  nobles  and  controlling  kings ; 
Our  supple  tribes  repress  their  patriot  throats. 
And  ask  no  questions  but  the  price  of  votes ; 
With  weekly  libels  and  septennial  ale, 
Their  wish  is  full  to  riot  and  to  rail. 

In  full-blown  dignity,  see  Wolsey  standi 
Law  in  his  voice,  and  fortune  in  his  hand : 
To  him  the  church,  the  realm,  their  powers  con- 
sign, 
Through  him  the  rays  of  regal  bounty  shine, 
Turn'd  by  his  nod  the  stream  of  honour  flows. 
His  smile  alone  security  bestows: 
Still  to  new  heights  his  restless  wishes  tower. 
Claim  leads  to  claim,  and  power  advances  power ; 
J'ill  conquest  unresisted  ceased  to  please, 
And  rights  submitted  left  him  none  to  seize: 
At  length  his  sovereign  frowns — the  train  of  state 
Mark  the  keen  glance,  and  watch  the  sign  to  hate. 


Where'er  he  turns,  he  meets  a  stranger's  eye, 
His  suppliants  scorn  him,  and  his  followers  fly ; 
Now  drops  at  once  the  pride  of  awful  state, 
The  golden  canopy,  the  glitt'ring  plate, 
The  regal  palace,  the  luxurious  board. 
The  liveried  army,  and  the  menial  lord. 
With  age,  with  cares,  with  maladies  oppress'd. 
He  seeks  the  refuge  of  monastic  rest. 
Grief  aids  disease,  remember'd  folly  stings. 
And  his  last  sighs  reproach  the  faith  of  kings. 

Speak  thou  whose  thoughts  at  humble  peace 
repine. 
Shall  Wolsey's  wealth  with  Wolsey's  end  be  thine  1 
Or  livest  thou  now,  with  safer  pride  content, 
The  wisest  justice  on  the  banks  of  Trent  T 
For,  why  did  Wolsey,  near  the  steeps  of  fate, 
On  weak  foundations  raise  the  enormous  weight! 
Why  but  to  sink  beneath  misfortune's  blow, 
With  louder  ruin  to  the  gulfs  below. 

What  gave  great  Villiers  to  the  assassin's  knife, 
And  fix'd  disease  on  Harley's  closing  life  1 
What  murder 'd    Wentworth,  and  what   exiled 

Hyde, 
By  kings  protected,  and  to  kings  allied  t 
What  but  their  wish  indulged  in  courts  to  shine, 
And  power  too  great  to  keep  or  to  resign  1 

When  first  the  college  roll  receives  his  name, 
The  young  enthusiast  quits  his  ease  for  fame ; 
Resistless  burns  the  fever  of  renown, 
Caught  from  the  strong  contagion  of  the  gown : 
O'er  Bodiey's  dome  his  future  labours  spread, 
And  Bacon's  mansion  trembles  o'er  his  head. 
Are  these  thy  views  ]    Proceed,  illustrious  youth, 
And  virtue  guide  thee  to  the  throne  of  Truth ! 
Yet  should  thy  soul  indulge  the  gen'rous  heat 
Till  captive  Science  yields  her  last  retreat; 
Should  reason  guide  thee  with  her  brightest  ray 
And  pour  on  misty  doubt  resistless  day ; 
Should  no  false  kindness  lure  to  loose  delight. 
Nor  praise  relax,  nor  difficulty  fright ; 
Should  tempting  Novelty  thy  cell  refrain. 
And  Sloth  effuse  her  opiate  fumes  in  vain ; 
Should  Beauty  blunt  on  fops  her  fatal  dart. 
Nor  claim  the  triumph  of  a  letter'd  heart; 
Should  no  disease  thy  torpid  veins  invade, 
Nor  Melancholy's  phantoms  haunt  thy  shade ; 
Yet  hope  not  life  from  grief  or  danger  free, 
Nor  think  the  doom  of  man  reversed  for  thee : 
Deign  on  the  passing  world  to  turn  thine  eyes, 
And  pause  awhile  from  letters  to  be  wise; 
There  mark  what  ills  the  scholar's  life  assail. 
Toil,  envy,  want,  the  patron,  and  the  jail. 
See  nations,  slowly  wise  and  meanly  just, 
To  buried  merit  raise  the  tardy  bust. 
If  dreams  yet  flatter,  once  again  attend. 
Hear  Lydiat's  life,*  and  Galileo's  end. 

Nor  deem,  when  Learning  her  last  prize  be- 
stows. 
The  glitt'ring  eminence  exempt  firom  foes ; 


[*  A  very  learned  divine  and  mathematician,  rector  of 
Okerton,  near  Banbury ;  "  Having  Bpoken  in  favour  of 
monarchy  and  bishops,  he  was  plundered  by  the  parlia- 
ment forces,  and  twice  carried  away  prisoner  from  hi* 
rectory ;  aud  afternard  hud  not  a  tihirt  to  shift  him  in 
three  months  without  he  borrowed  it."  Ue  died  in  1(546.— 
See  BosweU,  {Md.  1835,)  vol.  x.  p.  226.] 


«16 


DR   SAMUEL  JOHNSON. 


See,  when  the  vulgar  'scapes,  despised  or  awed, 
Rebellion's  vengeful  talons  seize  on  Laud. 
From  meaner  minds  though  smaller  fines  content, 
The  plunder'd  palace,  or  sequester'd  rent,  [shock, 
Mark'd  out  by   dangerous  parts,   he  meets  the 
And  fatal  Learning  leads  him  to  the  block : 
Around  his  tomb  let  Art  and  Genius  weep, 
But  bear  his  death,  ye  blockheads,  hear  and  sleep. 

The  festal  blazes,  the  triumphal  show, 
The  ravish'd  standard,  and  the  captive  foe, 
The  senate's  thanks,  the  Gazette's  pompous  tale. 
With  force  resistless  o'er  the  brave  prevail. 
Such  bribes  the  rapid  Greek  o'er  Asia  whirl'd. 
For  such  the  steady  Roman  shook  the  world ; 
For  such  in  distant  lands  the  Britons  shine. 
And  stain  with  blood  the  Danube  or  the  Rhine; 
This  power  has  praise,  that  virtue  scarce  can 

warm 
Till  fame  supplies  the  universal  charm. 
Yet  reason  frowns  on  war's  unequal  game, 
"Where  wasted  nations  raise  a  single  name ; 
And  mortgaged  states  their  grandsires'  wreaths 

regret. 
From  age  to  age  in  everlasting  debt ; 
Wreaths  which  at  last   the   dear-bought   right 

convey 
To  rust  on  medals,  or  on  stones  decay. 

On  what  foundation  stands  the  warrior's  pride, 
How  just  his  hopes,  let  Swedish  Charles  decide; 
A  frame  of  adamant,  a  soul  of  fire. 
No  dangers  fright  him,  and  no  labours  tire  ; 
O'er  love,  o'er  fear,  extends  his  wide  domain, 
Unconquer'd  lord  of  pleasure  and  of  pain ; 
No  joys  to  him  pacific  sceptres  yield. 
War  sounds  the  trump,  he  rushes  to  the  field; 
Behold  surrounding  kings  their  powers  combine. 
And  one  capitulate,  and  one  resign  ; 
Peace  courts  his  hand,  but  spreads  her  charms 

in  vain ; 
"  Think  nothing  gain'd,"  he  cries,  "  till  nought 

remain, 
On  Moscow's  walls  till  Gothic  standards  fly. 
And  all  be  mine  beneath  the  polar  sky." 
The  march  begins  in  military  state, 
And  nations  on  his  eye  suspended  wait; 
Stern  Famine  guards  the  solitary  coast. 
And  Winter  barricades  the  realms  of  Frost ; 
He  comes,  nor  want  nor  cold  his  course  delay ; — 
Hide,  blushing  Glory,  hide  Pultowa's  day: 
The  vanquish'd  hero  leaves  his  broken  bands. 
And  shows  his  miseries  in  distant  lands  ; 
Condemn'd,  a  needy  supplicant  to  wait. 
While  ladies  interpose,  and  slaves  debate. 
But  did  not  Chance  at  length  her  error  mend  1 
Did  no  subverted  empire  mark  his  end  ] 
Did  rival  monarchs  give  the  fatal  wound  ? 
Or  hostile  millions  press  him  to  the  ground  1 
Ilis  fall  was  destined  to  a  barren  strand, 
A  petty  fortress,  and  a  dubious  hand ; 
He  left  the  name,  at  which  the  world  grew  pale. 
To  point  a  moral,  or  adorn  a  tale. 

All  times  their  scenes  of  pompous  woes  afford. 
From  Persia's  tyrant  to  Bavaria's  lord. 
In  gay  hostility  and  barb'rous  pride,       N 
With  half  mankiad  embattled  at  his  side, 


Great  Xerxes  comes  to  seize  the  certain  prey, 
And  starves  exhausted  regions  in  his  way; 
Attendant  Flatt'ry  counts  his  myriads  o'er. 
Till  counted  myriads  soothe  his  pride  no  more. 
Fresh  praise  is  tried  till  madness  fires  his  mind, 
The  waves  he  lashes,  and  enchains  the  wind. 
New  powers  are  claim'd,  new  powers  are  still 

bestow'd. 
Till  rude  resistance  lops  the  spreading  god  ; 
The  daring  Greeks  deride  the  martial  show. 
And  heap  their  valleys  with  the  gaudy  foe ; 
Th'  insulted  sea  with  humbler  thought  he  gains, 
A  single  skiff  to  speed  his  flight  remains ; 
Th'  encumber'd  oar  scarce  leaves  the  dreaded 

coast 
Through  purple  billows  and  a  floating  host. 

The  bold  Bavarian,  in  a  luckless  hour, 
Tries  the  dread  summits  of  Cesarean  power, 
With  unexpected  legions  bursts  away. 
And  sees  defenceless  realms  receive  his  sway  : 
Short  sway  !  fair  Austria  spreads  her  mournful 

charms. 
The  queen,  the  beauty,  sets  the  world  in  arms; 
From  hill  to  hill  the  beacon's  rousing  blaze 
Spreads  wide  the  hope  of  plunder  and  of  praise ; 
The  fierce  Croatian,  and  the  wild  Hussar, 
With  all  the  sons  of  ravage,  crowd  the  war; 
The  baflSed  prince,  in  honour's  flatt'ring  bloom, 
Of  hasty  greatness  finds  the  fatal  doom ; 
His  foes'  derision  and  his  subjects'  blame, 
And   steals   to   death  from   anguish    and   from 

shame. 
"  Enlarge  my  life  with  multitude  of  days !" 
In  health,  in  sickness,  thus  the  suppliant  prays : 
Hides  from  himself  its  state,  and  shuns  to  know, 
That  life  protracted  is  protracted  woe. 
Time  hovers  o'er,  impatient  to  destroy. 
And  shuts  up  all  the  passages  of  joy  : 
In  vain  their  gifts  the  bounteous  seasons  pour. 
The  fruit  autumnal,  and  the  vernal  flower ; 
With  listless  eyes  the  dotard  views  the  store. 
He    views,    and    wonders   that   they  please   no 

more; 
Now  pall  the  tasteless  meats,  and  joyless  wines. 
And  Luxury  with  sighs  her  slave  resigns. 
Approach,  ye  minstrels,  try  the  soothing  strain, 
Diffuse  the  tuneful  lenitives  of  pain; 
No  sounds,  alas!  would  touch  the  impervious  ear 
Though  dancing  mountains  witness'd  Orpheus 

near; 
Nor  lute  nor  lyre  his  feeble  powers  attend, 
Nor  sweeter  music  of  a  virtuous  friend  ; 
But  everlasting  dictates  crowd  his  tongue. 
Perversely  grave,  or  positively  wrong. 
The  still  returning  tale,  and  ling'ring  jest. 
Perplex  the  fawning  niece  and  pamper'd  guest, 
While  growing  hopes  scarce  awe  the  gath'rlng 

sneer. 
And  scarce  a  legacy  can  bribe  to  hear; 
The  watchful  guests  still  hint  the  last  offence; 
The  daughter's  petulance,  the  son's  expense. 
Improve  his  heady  rage  with  treach'rous  skill, 
And  mould  his  passions  till  they  make  his  will. 

Unnumber'd  maladies  his  joints  invade, 
Lay  siege  to  life,  and  press  the  dire  b'ockade ; 


DR.  SAMUEL  JOHNSON. 


617 


But  unextinguish'd  av'rice  still  remains, 

And  dreaded  losses  aggravate  his  pains  ; 

He  turns,  with  anxious  heart  and  crippled  hands, 

His  bonds  of  debt,  and  mortgages  of  lands; 

Or  views  his  coflers  with  suspicious  eyes, 

Unlocks  his  gold,  and  counts  it  till  he  dies. 

But  grant,  the  virtues  af  a  temp'rate  prime 
Bless  with  an  age  exempt  from  scorn  or  crime  ; 
An  age  that  melts  with  unperceived  decay, 
And  glides  in  modest  innocence  away  ; 
Whose  peaceful  day  benevolence  endears, 
Whose  night  congratulating  conscience  cheers; 
The  general  fav'rite  as  the  general  friend: 
Such  age  there  is,  and  who  shall  wish  its  end  1 

Yet  even  on  this  her  load  Misfortune  flings, 
To  press  the  weary  minutes'  flagging  wings ; 
New  sorrow  rises  as  the  day  returns, 
A  sister  sickens,  or  a  daughter  mourns. 
Now  kindred  Merit  fills  the  sable  bier. 
Now  lacerated  Friendship  claims  a  tear; 
Year  chases  year,  decay  pursues  decay, 
Still  drops  some  joy  from  with'ring  life  away ; 
New  forms  arise,  and  diflerent  views  engage. 
Superfluous  lags  the  vet'ran  on  the  stage. 
Till  pitying  Nature  signs  the  last  release. 
And  bids  afilicted  worth  retire  to  peace. 

But  few  there  arc  whom  hours  like  these  await, 
Who  set  unclouded  in  the  gulfs  of  Fate. 
From  Lydia's  monarch  should  the  search  descend. 
By  Solon  caution'd  to  regard  his'end. 
In  life's  last  scene  what  prodigies  surprise. 
Fears  of  the  brave,  and  lollies  of  the  wise ! 
From  Marlb'rough's  eyes  the  streams  of  dotage 
And  Swift  expires  a  driv'ler  and  a  show,      [flow. 

The  teeming  mother,  anxious  for  her  race. 
Begs  for  each  birth  the  fortune  of  a  face; 
Yet  Vane  could  tell  what  ills  from  beauty  spring; 
And  Sedley  cursed  the  form  that  pleased  a  king.* 
Ye  nymphs  of  rosy  lips  and  radiant  eyes. 
Whom  pleasure  keeps  too  busy  to  be  wise; 
Whom  joys  with  soft  varieties  invite. 
By  day  the  frolic,  and  the  dance  by  night; 
Who  frown  with  vanity,  who  smile  with  art; 
And  ask  the  latest  fashion  of  the  heart ; 
What  care,  what  rules,  your  heedless  charms 

shall  save. 
Each  nymph  your  rival,  and  each  youth  your 

slave  ■? 
Against  your  fame  with  fondness  hate  combines, 
The  rival  batters,  and  the  lover  mines. 
With  distant  voice  neglected  Virtue  calls. 
Less  heard  and  less,  the  faint  remonstrance  falls  ; 
Tired  with  contempt,  she  quits  the  slipp'ry  reign. 
And  Pride  and  Prudence  take  her  scat  in  vain. 
Li  crowd  at  once,  where  none  the  pass  defend. 
The  harmless  freedom,  and  the  private  friend. 
The  guardians  yield,  by  force  superior  plied: 
'I'o  Int'rest,  Prudence ;  and  to  Flatt'ry,  Pride. 
Here  Beauty  falls  betray'd,  despised,  distress'd, 
And  hissing  Infamy  proclaims  the  rest.       [find '.' 
Where  then  shall  Hope  and  Fear  their  objects 
Must  dull  suspense  corrupt  the  stagnant  mind  1 


Must  helpless  man,  in  ignorance  sedate. 
Roll  darkling  down  the  torrent  of  his  fate? 
Must  no  dislike  alarm,  no  wishes  rise, 
No  cries  invoke  the  mercies  of  the  skies  1 
Inquirer,  cease ;  petitions  yet  remain 
Which  Heav'n  may  hear,  nor  deem  religion  vain. 
Still  raise  for  good  the  supplicating  voice, 
But  leave  to  Heav'n  the  measure  and  the  choice. 
Safe  in  his  power,  whose  eyes  discern  afar 
The  secret  ambush  of  a  specious  prayer ; 
Implore  his  aid,  in  his  decisions  rest. 
Secure,  whate'er  he  gives,  he  gives  the  best. 
Yet,  when  the  sense  of  sacred  presence  fires, 
And  strong  devotion  to  the  skies  aspires. 
Pour  forth  thy  fervours  for  a  healthful  mind, 
Obedient  passions,  and  a  will  resign 'd ; 
For  love,  which  scarce  collective  man  can  fill ; 
For  patience,  sov'reign  o'er  transmuted  ill ; 
For  faith,  that,  panting  for  a  happier  seat. 
Counts  death  kind  Nature's  signal  of  retreat : 
These  goods  for  man  the  laws  of  Heav'n  ordain, 
These  goods  he  grants,  who  grants  the  pow'r  to 

gain  ; 
With  these  celestial  Wisdom  calms  the  mind. 
And  makes  the  happiness  she  does  not  find. 


[*  Ann  Vane,  the  mistresg  of  Frederick  Prince  of  Wales, 
fathur  to  (Juorge  111.;  and  Catherine  Sedley,  the  mistreas 
of  Joined  11.J 


PROLOGUE. 

SPOKEN  BY  QARRICK  AT  THE  OPENIKO   OF  THE  THEATRI 
KOYAL,  DRURT  LANE,  1747. 

When  Learning's  triumph  o'er  her  barbarous  foes 
First  rear'd  the  stage,  immortal  Shakspeare  rose ; 
Each  change  of  many-colour'd  life  he  drew, 
Exhausted  worlds,  and  then  imagined  new : 
Existence  saw  him  spurn  her  bounded  reign. 
And  panting  Time  toil'd  after  him  in  vain  ; 
His  powerful  strokes  presiding  truth  impress'd, 
And  unresisted  passion  storm 'd  the  breast 

Then  Jonson  came,  instructed  from  the  school 
To  please  in  method,  and  invent  by  rule; 
His  studious  patience  and  laborious  art, 
By  regular  approach,  essay'd  the  heart ; 
Cold  approbation  gave  the  lingering  bays ; 
For  those  who  durst  not  censure,  scarce  could 
A  mortal  born,  he  met  the  general  doom,  [praise 
But  lefi,  like  Egypt's  kings,  a  lasting  tomo. 

The  wits  of  Charles  found  easier  ways  to  fame, 
Nor  wish'd  for  Jonson's   art,  or   Shakspeare's 

flame. 
Themselves  they  studied  ;  as  they  felt,  they  writ : 
Intrigue  was  plot,  obscenity  was  wit. 
Vice  always  found  a  sympathetic  fi-iend; 
They  pleased  their  age,  and  did  not  aim  to  mend 
Yet  bards  like  these  aspired  to  lasting  praise. 
And  proudly  hoped  to  pimp  in  future  days. 
Their   cause  was  general,  their  supports  were 

strong ; 
Their  slaves  were  willing,  and  their  reign  was 

long: 
Till  Shame  regain'd  the  post  that  Sense  betray'd, 
And  Virtue  call'd  Oblivion  to  her  aid. 

Then  crush'd  by  rules,  and  weaken'd  as  refined, 
For  years  the  power  of  tragedy  declined  ; 
From  bard  to  bard  the  frigid  caution  crept. 
Till  declamation  roar'd  whilst  passion  slept 

.<tB2 


618 


MRS.  GREVILLE. 


Yet  still  did  Virtue  deign  the  stage  to  tread, 
Philosophy  remain'd,  though  Nature  fled  ; 
But  forced,  at  length,  her  ancient  reign  to  quit, 
She  saw  great  Faustus  lay  the  ghost  of  wit, 
Exulting  Folly  hail'd  the  joyous,  day. 
And  pantomime  and  song  confirm'd  her  sway. 

But  who  the  coming  changes  can  presage, 
And  mark  the  future  periods  of  the  stage  1 
Perhaps,  if  skill  could  distant  times  explore, 
New  I3ehns,  new  Durfeys,  yet  remain  in  store; 
Perhaps  where  Lear  has  raved,  and  Hamlet  died, 
On  flying  cars  new  sorcerers  may  ride  ; 
Perhaps  (for  who  can  guess  the  effects  of  chance?) 
Here  Hunt  may  box,  or  Mahomet  may  dance. 

Hard  is  his  lot  that  here,  by  fortune  placed, 
Must  watch  the  wild  vicissitudes  of  taste ; 
With  every  meteor  of  caprice  must  play, 
tnd  chase  the  new-blown  bubbles  of  the  day. 
r^h  !  let  not  censure  term  our  fate  our  choice : 
The  stage  but  echoes  back  the  public  voice ; 
^The  drama's  laws  the  drama's  patrons  give ; 
Tor  we  that  live  to  please,  must  please^ — to  live. 

Then  prompt  no  more  the  follies  you  decry, 
As  tyrants  doom  their  tools  of  guilt  to  die  ; 
'Tis  yours,  this  night,  to  bid  the  reign  commence 
Of  rescued  nature,  and  reviving  sense ; 
Tq  chase  the  charms  of  sound,  the  pomp  of  show, 
For  useful  mirth  and  salutary  woe  ; 
Bid  scenic  virtue  form  the  rising  age, 
And  truth  diffuse  her  radiance  from  the  stage.* 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  DR.  ROBERT  LEVETT. 
1782. 
Condkmn'd  to  Hope's  delusive  mine, 

As  on  we  toil  from  day  to  day. 

By  sudden  blasts,  or  slow  decUne, 

Our  social  comforts  drop  away. 


Well  tried  through  many  a  varying  year. 
See  Levett  to  the  grave  descend, 

Officious,  innocent,  sincere, 

Of  every  friendless  name  the  friend. 

Yet  still  he  fills  affection's  eye. 

Obscurely  wise^and  coarsely  kind; 

Nor,  letter'd  arrogance,  deny 
Thy  praise  to  merit  unrefined. 

When  fainting  Nature  call'd  for  aid, 
And  hovering  Death  prepared  the  blow, 

His  vigorous  remedy  display'd 

The  power  of  art  without  the  show. 

In  Misery's  darkest  cavern  known, 

His  useful  care  was  ever  nigh. 
Where  hopeless  Anguish  pour'd  his  groai, 

And  lonely  want  retired  to  die. 

No  summons  mock'd  by  chill  delay. 
No  petty  gain  disdain'd  by  pride  ; 

The  modest  wants  of  every  day 
The  toil  of  every  day  suppUed. 

His  virtues  walk'd  their  narrow  round. 
Nor  made  a  pause,  nor  left  a  void  ; 

And  sure  th'  Eternal  Master  found 
The  single  talent  well  employ 'd. 

The  busy  day,  the  peaceful  night, 

Unfelt,  uncounted,  glided  by  ; 
His  frame  was  firm,  his  powers  were  bright. 

Though  now  his  eighlietk  year  was  nigh. 

Then  with  no  throbs  of  fiery  pain. 

No  cold  gradations  of  decay. 
Death  broke  at  once  the  vital  chain. 

And  forced  his  soul  the  nearest  way-f 


MRS.  GREVILLE. 


TBom,  17—    Died,  17—.] 


PRAYER  FOR  INDIFFERENCE. 

Oft  I've  implored  the  gods  in  vain. 
And  pray'd  till  I've  been  weary : 

For  once  I'll  seek  my  wish  to  gain 
Of  Oberon  the  fairy. 

Sweet  airy  being,  wanton  sprite, 
Who  livest  in  woods  unseen ; 

And  oft  by  Cynthia's  silver  light 
Trip'st  gaily  o'er  the  green. 


[*  There  are  but  two  decent  prologues  in  our  tongue. 
Pope's  to  Cato,  Johni>ou'!i  to  Drury  Lane.  These,  with  the 
epilogues  to  "The  Distrest  Mother,"  and  I  think  one  of 
Goldsmith's,  and  a  prologue  of  old  Ck)lmanV  to  Beaumont 
ana  Fletcher's  "  Phllaater,"  are  the  best  things  of  the  kind 
we  have. — Btbon.] 


If  e'er  thy  pitying  heart  was  moved 

As  ancient  stories  tell ; 
And  for  th'  Athenian  maid  who  loved. 

Thou  sought'st  a  wond'rous  spell. 

Oh !  deign  once  more  t'  exert  thy  power ! 

Haply  some  herb  or  tree. 
Sovereign  as  juice  from  western  flower. 

Conceals  a  balm  for  me. 

[t  TO   DR.  LAWK£NCE. 

Jan.  ITW,  1782. 
Sir, — Our  old  friend,  Mr.  Levett.  who  was  last  nijrht  emi- 
nently cheerful,  died  this  morning.  The  man  who  lay  in  the 
same  room,  hearing  an  uncommon  noise,  got  up  and  tried 
to  make  him  speak,  but  without  effect.  He  then  <  ailed  Mr. 
Holder,  the  apotheiary.  who,  though  when  he  came  ho 
thought  him  dead,  opened  a  vein,  but  could  draw  no  blood. 
So  has  ended  the  long  life  of  a  very  useful  and  very  blame- 
less man.    1  am,  sir,  your  m06t  humble  servant, 

SiM.  JoussON.J 


WILLIAM  WHIIEHEAD. 


619 


I  ask  no  kind  return  in  love. 
No  tempting  charm  to  please ; 

Far  from  the  heart  such  gifts  remove, 
That  sighs  for  peace  and  ease ! 

Nor  ease,  nor  peace,  that  heart  can  know, 

That  like  the  needle  true, 
Turns  at  the  touch  of  joy  or  woe, 

But,  turning,  trembles  too. 

Far  as  distress  the  soul  can  wound, 

'Tis  pain  in  each  degree ; 
'Tis  bliss  but  to  a  certain  bounds 

Beyond — is  agony ; 

Then  take  this  treacherous  sense  of  mine. 
Which  dooms  me  still  to  smart; 

Which  pleasure  can  to  pain  refine. 
To  pain  new  pangs  impart. 

Oh  !  haste  to  shed  the  sovereign  balm. 
My  shatter'd  nerves  new-string; 

And  for  my  guest,  serenely  calm, 
The  nymph  Indiiference  bring  ! 

At  her  approach,  see  Hope,  see  Fear, 

See  Expectation  fly ! 
And  Disappointment  in  the  rear. 

That  blasts  the  purposed  joy. 


The  tears,  which  Pity  taught  to  flow, 

My  eyes  shall  then  disown; 
The  heart,  that  throbb'd  at  others'  woe. 

Shall  then  scarce  feel  its  own. 

The  wounds,  which  now  each  moment  bleed. 

Each  moment  then  shall  close; 
And  tranquil  days  shall  still  succeed 

To  nights  of  sweet  repose. 

O  fairy-elf!  but  grant  me  this,  -    \ 

This  one  kind  comfort  send ! 
And  so  may  never-fading  bliss 

Thy  flowery  paths  attend ! 

So  may  the  glow-worm's  glittering  light 

Thy  tiny  footsteps  lead 
To  some  new  region  of  delight. 

Unknown  to  mortal  tread! 

And  be  thy  acorn-goblet  fill'd 

With  heaven's  ambrosial  dew. 
From  sweetest,  freshet  flowers  distill'd. 

That  shed  fresh  sweets  for  you. 

And  what  of  life  remains'  for  me, 

I'll  pass  in  sober  ease  ; 
Half-pleased,  contented  will  I  be. 

Content — but  half  to  please. 


WILLIAM  WHITEHEAD. 


[Born,  1715.     Died,  1785.] 


WiLiiAM  Whitkhbad  was  born  in  Cam- 
bridge. "  It  would  be  vain,"  says  his  biographer. 
Mason,  the  poet,  "  to  conceal  that  he  was  of  low 
extraction ;  because  the  secret  has  been  more  than 
once  divulged  by  those  who  gain  what  they  think 
an  honest  livelihood  by  publishing  the  lives  of 
the  living ;  and  it  would  be  injurious  to  his 
memory,  because  his  having  risen  much  above 
the  level  of  his  origin  bespeaks  an  intrinsic  merit, 
which  mere  ancestry  can  never  confer.  Let  it 
then  be  rather  boasted  than  whispered,  that  he 
was  the  son  of  a  baker."  This  is  really  making 
too  much  of  a  small  thing.  Every  day  certainly 
witnesses  more  wonderful  events,  than  the  son 
of  a  tradesman  rising  to  the  honours  of  a  poet 
laureate,  and  the  post  of  a  travelling  tutor.  Why 
Mason  should  speak  of  the  secret  of  his  extrac- 
tion being  divulged,  is  diflicult  to  conceive,  un- 
less we  suppose  that  Whitehead  was  weak  enough 
to  have  wished  to  conceal  it ;  a  suspicion,  how- 
ever, which  it  is  not  fair  to  indulge,  when  we  look 
to  the  general  respectability  of  his  personal  cha- 
racter, and  to  the  honest  pride  which  he  evinced, 
in  voluntarily  discharging  his  father's  debts.  But, 
with,  all  respect  for  Whitehead,  be  it  observed, 
that  the  annals  of  '•  Baking'  can  boast  of  much 
more  illustrit.is  individuals  having  sprung  from 
the  loins  of  its  professors. 

His  father,  however,  was  a  man  of  taste  and 


expenditure,  much  above  the  pitch  of  a  baker. 
He  spent  most  of  his  time  in  ornamenting  a 
piece  of  ground,  near  Grantchester,  which  still 
goes  by  the  name  of  Whitehead's  Folly ;  and  he 
left  debts  behind  him  at  his  death,  that  would 
have  done  honour  to  the  prodigality  of  a  poet. 
In  consequence  of  his  father  dying  in  such  cir- 
cumstances, young  Whitehead's  education  was 
accomplished  with  great  difficulty,  by  the  strictest 
economy  on  his  own  part,  and  the  assistance  of 
his  mother,  whose  discharge  of  duty  to  him  he 
has  gratefully  recorded.  At  the  age  of  fourteen, 
he  was  put  to  Winchester  school,  upon  the  foun- 
dation. He  was  there  distinguished  by  his  love 
of  reading,  and  by  his  facility  in  the  production 
of  English  verse ;  and  before  he  was  sixteen  he 
had  written  an  entire  comedy.  When  the  Earl 
of  Peterborough,  accompanied  by  Pope,  visited 
Winchester  school,  in  the  year  1733,  he  gave  ten 
guineas,  to  be  distributed  in  prizes  among  the 
boys.  Pope  prescribed  the  subject,  which  was 
«  Peterborough,"  and  young  Whitehead  was  one 
of  the  six  who  shared  the  prize  money.  It  would 
appear  that  Pope  had  distinguished  him  on  this 
occasion,  as  the  reputation  of  his  notice  was  af- 
terward of  advantage  to  Whitehead  when  he  went 
to  the  university.  He  also  gained  some  applause 
at  Winchester  for  his  powers  of  acting,  in  the 
part  of  Mercia,  in  Cato.     He  was  a  graceful  re- 


620 


WILLIAM  WHITEHEAD. 


citer ;  and  is  said  to  have  been  very  handsome  in 
his  youth.  Even  his  Ukeness,  which  is  given  in 
Mason's  edition  of  his  works,  though  it  was  taken 
when  he  was  advanced  in  years,  has  an  elegant 
and  prepossessing  countenance.  It  was  observed, 
that  his  school  friendships  were  usually  contracted 
with  youths  superior  to  himself  in  station.  With- 
out knowing  his  individual  associates,  it  is  im- 
possible to  say  whether  vanity,  worldly  prudence, 
or  a  taste  tor  refined  manners,  predominated  in 
this  choice ;  but  it  is  observable,  that  he  made  his 
way  to  prosperity  by  such  friendships,  and  he 
seems  to  have  early  felt  that  he  had  the  power  of 
acquiring  them.  At  Winchester  he  was  school- 
tutor  to  Mr.  Wallop,  afterward  Lord  Lymington, 
son  to  the  Earl  of  Portsmouth. 

At  the  election  to  New  College,  in  1735,  he 
was  treated  with  some  injustice,  being  placed  too 
low  in  the  roll  of  candidates ;  and  was  obliged  to 
leave  Winchester,  without  obtaining  from  thence 
a  presentation  to  either  university.  He,  how- 
ever, obtained  a  scholarship  at  Clare-hall,  Cam- 
bridge, from  the  very  circumstance  of  that  low 
extraction  for  which  Mason  apologizes.  Being 
the  orphan  son  of  a  baker,  in  Cambridge,  he  was 
thought  the  best  entitled  to  be  put  on  the  founda- 
tion of  Pyke,  who  had  been  of  that  trade  and 
town.  His  scholarship  was  worth  only  four  shil- 
lings a  week:  and  he  was  admitted  as  a  sizer; 
but  the  inferiority  of  his  station  did  not  prevent 
his  introduction  to  the  best  society ;  and,  before 
he  left  the  university,  he  made  himself  known  by 
several  publications,  particularly  by  his  '<  Essay 
on  the  Danger  of  writing  Verse."  Having  ob- 
tained a  fellowship,  and  a  master's  degree,  he  was 
on  the  point  of  taking  orders,  when  his  intention 
was  prevented,  in  consequence  of  his  being  in- 
vited l)y  the  Earl  of  Jersey  to  be  the  domestic 
tutor  of  his  son,  Viscount  Viliiers.  This  situation 
was  made  peculiarly  agreeable  to  him  by  the 
kindness  of  the  Jersey  family,  and  by  the  abund- 
ant leisure  which  it  afforded  him  to  pursue  his 
studies,  as  well  as  to  enjoy  public  amusements. 
From  frequenting  the  theatre,  he  was  led  to  at- 
tempt dramatic  composition.  His  first  effort  was 
a  little  farce,  on  the  subject  of  the  Pretender, 
which  has  never  been  published.  In  1750  he 
brought  upon  the  stage  a  regular  tragedy,  the 
"  Roman  Father,"  an  imitation  of  Corneille's 
Horace.  Mason  has  employed  a  good  deal  of 
criticism  on  this  drama,  to  prove  something  analo- 
gous to  the  connoisseur's  remark  in  Goldsmith, 
"  that  the  piece  would  have  been  better,  if  the 
artist  had  bestowed  more  pains  upon  it."  It  is 
acknowledged,  at  the  same  time,  by  his  biogra- 
pher, tiiat  the  Roman  Father  was  long  enough 
in  its  author's  hands  to  receive  many  alterations; 
but  these  had  not  been  for  the  better.  It  was 
put  through  the  mangle  of  Garrick's  criticism ; 
and  he,  according  to  Mason,  was  a  lover  of  no 
beauties  in  a  play,  but  those  which  gave  an  op- 
portunity for  the  display  of  his  own  powers  of 
re|)resenting  sudden  and  strong  effects  of  passion. 
This  remark  of  Mason  accords  with  Johnson's 
complaint  of  Garrick's  projected  innovations  in 


his  own  tragedy ;  «  That  fellow,"  he  said, «  wants 
me  to  make  Mahomet  mad.  that  he  may  have  an 
opportunity  of  tossing  his  hands,  and  kicking  his 
heels."  For  the  faults  of  the  piece,  however,  it 
is  but  circuitous  and  conjectural  justice  to  make 
Garrick  responsible;  and,  among  those  faults,  the 
mode  of  the  heroine's  death  is  not  the  slightest. 
After  Corneille's  heroine  has  been  stabbed  by 
her  brother,  she  appears  no  more  upon  the  stage. 
The  piece,  to  be  sure,  drags  heavily  after  this 
event;  for,  in  fact,  its  interest  is  concluded. 
Whitehead  endeavours  to  conquer  this  diflSculty 
by  keeping  her  alive,  after  she  has-been  wounded, 
in  order  to  have  a  conference  with  her  father, 
which  she  terminates  by  tearing  the  bandages  off 
her  wounds,  and  then  expires.  But  the  effect  of 
her  death  by  this  process  is  more  disagreeable 
than  even  the  tedium  of  Corneille's  fifth  act.  It 
inspires  us  with  a  sore  physical  shuddering  in- 
stead of  tragic  commiseration.* 

In  1754  he  brought  out,  at  Drury  Lane,  his 
tragedy  of"  Creusa,"  a  play  which,  though  seldom 
read,  and  never  acted,  is  by  no  means  destitute 
of  dramatic  feeling  and  conception.  The  subject 
is  taken  from  the  "Ion"  of  Euripides;  but  with 
bold,  and  sometimes  interesting  alterations.  In 
the  Greek  story,  Creusa,  Princess  of  Athens,  who 
had  been  violated  by  Apollo,  had  concealed  her 
shame  by  exposing  her  infant.  She  had  after 
ward  married  Xuthus,  a  military  stranger,  who, 
at  her  father's  death,  succeeded,  in  her  right,  to 
the  throne  of  Athens.  But  their  marriage-bed 
having  proved  fruitless,  they  arrive  at  Delphi,  to 
consult  the  oracle  for  an  heir.  The  oracle  pro- 
nounces, that  the  first  whom  Xuthus  shall  meet 
in  going  out  of  the  temple  is  his  son.  He  meets 
with  Ion,  a  youth  of  unknown  parentage,  who 
had  been  reared  as  a  servant  in  the  holy  place, 
and  who,  in  fact,  is  the  child  of  Creusa,  whom 
she  had  exposed.  Xuthus  embraces  Ion  for  his 
son ;  and,  comparing  his  age  with  the  date  of  a 
love  adventure,  which  he  recollected  in  former 
times,  concludes  that  Ion  is  the  offspring  of  that 
amour.  It  is  no  sooner  known  that  Xuthus  has 
found  a  son  of  his  own  blood,  than  the  tutor  of 
Creusa  exhorts  the  queen  to  resent  this  indignity 
on  her  childless  state,  and  to  rid  herself  of  a  step- 
son, who  may  imbitter  and  endanger  her  future 
days.  The  tutor  attempts  to  poison  Ion,  but  fails 
— Creusa  is  pursued  to  the  altar  by  her  own  son, 
who  is  with  difficulty  prevented  from  putting  her 
to  death  ;  but  a  discovery  of  their  consanguinity 
takes  place — Minerva  descends  from  heaven  to 
confirm  the  proofs  of  it ;  and  having  predicted 
that  Ion  shall  reign  in  Athens,  and  prudently 
admonished  the  mother  and  son  to  let  King 
XuthOs  remain  in  the  old  belief  of  his  being 
father  to  Ion,  leaves  the  piece  to  conclude  tri- 
umphantly,— Such  is  the  bare  outline  of  the 
ancient  drama.      Whitehead's  story  is  entirely 


*  The  directions  for  tearing  off  the  bandages  are  given 
in  Mason's  edilion  of  Wliite iieail'g  Works.  1  observe  lliat 
in  later  editions  of  the  play  ihey  are  omitted;  but  stil. 
with  this  improved  itttention  to  humanity,  the  heroino 
protracts  her  dying  scene  too  long. 


nl 


WILLIAM  WHITEHEAD. 


621 


tragical,  and  stripped  of  miraculous  agency.  He 
gives  a  human  father  (Nicander)  to  (Ilyssus)  the 
secret  child  of  Creusa.  This  Nicander.  the  first 
lover  of  the  lady,  had,  on  the  discovery  of  their 
attachment,  been  driven  into  banishment  by 
Creusa's  father,  but  had  carried  with  him  their 
new-born  offspring:  and  both  he  and  the  infant 
were  supposed  to  have  been  murdered  in  their 
flight  from  Athens.  Nicander,  however,  had 
made  his  way  to  Delphi,  had  intrusted  his  child 
to  the  temple;  and  living  in  the  neighbourhood, 
passed  (under  the  name  of  Aletes)  for  the  tutor 
of  the  mysterious  orphan.  Having  obtained  a 
high  character  for  sagacity,  he  was  consulted  by 
the  priestess  Pythia  herself;  and  he  is  repre- 
sented as  having  an  influence  upon  her  responses 
(it  is  an  English  poet,  we  must  recollect,  and  not 
a  Greek  one,  who  is  telling  the  story.)  Mean- 
while, Creusa,  having  been  forced  to  give  her 
hand,  without  her  heart,  to  Xuthus,  is  still  a 
mourner,  like  Lady  Randolph,*  when,  at  the  end 
of  eighteeen  years  from  the  birth  of  Ilyssus,  she 
comes  to  consult  the  oracle.  Struck,  at  the  first 
sight  of  Ilyssus,  by  his  likeness  to  Nicander,  she 
conceives  an  instinctive  fondness  for  the  youth. 
The  oracle  declares  him  heir  to  the  throne  of 
Athens ;  but  this  is  accompanied  with  a  rumour 
of  bitter  intelligence  to  Creusa,  that  he  is  really 
the  son  of  Xuthus.  Her  Athenians  are  indignant 
at  the  suspicion  of  Xuthus's  collusion  with  the 
oracle,  to  entai!  the  sceptre  of  their  kingdom  on 
his  foreign  oflfspring.  Her  confidant  (like  the 
tutor  in  Euripides)  rouses  her  pride  as  a  queen, 
and  her  jealousy  as  a  mother,  against  this  intruder. 
He  tries  every  artifice  to  turn  her  heart  against 
Ilyssus ;  still  she  retains  a  partiality  for  him, 
and  resists  the  proposal  of  attempting  his  life. 
At  length,  however,  her  husband  insults  her  with 
expressing  his  triumph  in  his  new-found  heir, 
and  reproaches  her  with  the  plebeian  grave  of  the 
first  object  of  her  aflfection.  In  the  first  trans- 
port of  her  wrath  she  meets  the  Athenian  enemy 
of  Ion,  and  a  guilty  assent  is  wrung  from  her, 
that  Ilyssus  shall  be  poisoned  at  the  banquet. 
Aletes,  ignorant  of  the  plot,  had  hitherto  dreaded 
to  disclose  himself  to  Creusa,  lest  her  agitation 
should  prematurely  interfere  with  his  project  of 
placing  his  son  on  the  throne  of  Athens.  He 
meets  her,  however,  at  last,  and  she  swoons  at 
recognizing  him  to  be  Nicander.  When  he  tells 
her  that  Ilyssus  is  her  son,  she  has  in  turn  to  un- 
fold the  dreadful  confession  of  having  consented 
to  his  death.  She  flies  to  the  banquet,  if  possible, 
to  avert  his  fate ;  and  arrives  in  time  to  snatch 
the  poisoned  chalice  from  his  hand.  But  though 
she  is  thus  rescued  from  remorse,  she  is  not  ex- 
tricated from  despair.  To  Nicander  she  has  to 
say,  "Am  I  not  Xuthus'  wife:  and  what  art 
thou !"  She  anticipates  that  the  kingdom  of 
Athens  must  be  involved  in  bloodshed  for  her 
sake:  one  victim  she  deems  would  suffice,  and 

*  If  any  recollection  of  Home's  tragetly  should  occur 
to  the  reader  of  Wliitehead's,  it  is  hut  fnir  to  remind  hinn 
that  the  play  of  Creusa  was  produced  a  year  or  two  earlier 
than  that  of  DougJAss. 


determines  that  it  shall  be  herself.  Having, 
therefore,  exacted  an  oath  from  Xuthus  and  the 
Athenians,  that  Ilyssus  shall  succeed  to  the 
throne  of  her  fathers,  she  drinks  of  the  fatal 
goblet. 

The  piece  contains  some  strong  situations:  ita 
language  is  unaffected  ;  and  it  fixes  the  attention 
(if  I  may  judge  from  my  own  experience)  from 
the  first  to  the  last  scene.  The  pure  and  holy 
character  of  the  young  Ilyssus  is  l>rought  out,  1 
have  no  hesitation  to  say,  more  interestingly  than 
in  Euripides,  by  the  display  of  his  reverential 
gratitude  to  the  queen,  upon  the  first  tenderness 
which  she  shows  him,  and  by  the  agony  of  his 
ingenuous  spirit,  on  beholding  it  withdrawn. 
And,  though  Creusa's  character  is  not  unspotted, 
she  draws  our  sympathy  to  some  of  the  deepest 
conceivable  agonies  of  human  nature.  I  by  no 
means  wish  to  deny  that  the  tragedy  has  many 
defects,  or  to  speak  of  it  as  a  great  production , 
but  it  does  not  deserve  to  be  consigned  to  ob- 
livion. 

The  exhibition  of  Creusa  was  hardly  over, 
when  Whitehead  was  called  upon  to  attend  his 
pupil  and  discount  Nuneham,  son  to  Earl  Har- 
court,  upon  their  travels.  The  two  young  noble- 
men were  nearly  of  an  age,  and  had  been  intimate 
from  their  childhood.  They  were  both  so  much 
attached  to  Whitehead,  as  to  congratulate  each 
other  on  his  being  appointed  their  common  tutor. 
They  continued  abroad  for  about  two  years,  dur- 
ing which  they  visited  F" ranee,  Italy,  and  Ger- 
many. In  his  absence,  Lady  Jersey  made  interest 
enough  to  obtain  for  him  the  offices  of  secretary 
and  registrar  of  the  Order  of  the  Bath.  On  his 
return  to  England,  he  was  pressed  by  Lord  Jersey 
to  remain  with  the  family;  and  he  continued  to 
reside  with  them  for  fourteen  years,  except  during 
his  visits  to  the  seat  of  Lord  Harcourt.  His 
pupils,  who  had  now  sunk  the  idea  of  their  go- 
vernor in  the  more  agreeable  one  of  their  friend, 
showed  him  through  life  unremitted  marks  of 
affection. 

Upon  the  death  of  Gibber,  in  1757,  he  suc- 
ceeded to  the  place  of  poet  laureate.  The  ap- 
pointment had  Iteen  offered  to  Gray  as  a  sinecure  ; 
but  it  was  not  so  when  it  was  given  to  White- 
head. Mason  wonders  why  this  was  the  case, 
when  George  the  Second  had  no  taste  for  poetry. 
His  wonder  is  quite  misplaced.  If  the  king  had 
had  a  taste  for  poetry,  he  would  have  abolished 
the  laureate  odes.  As  he  had  not,  they  were 
continued.  Our  author's  official  lyrics  are  said 
by  Mason  to  contain  no  fulsome  panegyric,  a  fact 
for  which  I  hope  his  word  may  be  taken ;  for  to 
ascertain  it  by  perusing  the  strains  themselves 
would  be  an  alarming  undertaking.  But  the 
laurel  was  to  Whitehead  no  very  enviable  distinc- 
tion.    He  had  something  more  to  pay  for  it  than 

"  His  quil-rent  ode,  his  peppercorn  of  praise.""^ 

At  first  he  was  assailed  by  the  hostility  of  all  the 
petty  tribe,  among  whom  it  is  lamentable,  as  Gray 

t[Cowpiai— 7UW«  2\ilk.] 


($22 


WILLIAM  WHITEHEAD. 


remarks,  to  find  beings  capable  of  envying  even 
a  poet  laureate.  He  stood  their  attacks  for  some 
time,  without  a  sensible  diminution  of  character ; 
and  his  comedy  of  the  "  School  for  Lovers," 
which  was  brought  out  in  1762,  before  it  was  the 
fashion  to  despise  him,  was  pretty  well  received, 
as  an  easy  and  chaste  imitation  of  the  manners 
of  well-bred  life.  But  in  the  same  year  the  rabid 
satire  of  Churchill  sorely  smote  his  reputation. 
Poor  Whitehead  made  no  reply.  Those  who, 
with  Mason,  consider  his  silence  as  the  effect  of 
a  pacific  disposition,  and  not  of  imbecility,  will 
esteem  him  the  more  for  his  forbearance,  and 
will  apply  it  to  the  maxim,  Rarum  est  eloquenter 
hqui  viiriris  eloquenter  tacere.  Among  his  unpub- 
lished MSS.  there  were  even  found  verses  ex- 
pressing a  compliment  to  Churchill's  talents. 
'J'here  is  something,  no  doubt,  very  amiable  in  a 
good  and  candid  man  taking  the  trouble  to  ce- 
ment rhymes  upon  the  genius  of  a  blackguard, 
who  had  abused  him ;  but  the  effect  of  all  this 
candour  upon  his  own  generation  reminds  us 
how  much  more  important  it  is,  for  a  man's  own 
advantage,  that  he  should  be  formidable  than 
harmless.  His  candour  could  not  prevent  his 
poetical  character  from  being  completely  killed 
by  Churchill.  .Justly,  some  will  say  ;  he  was  too 
stupid  to  resist  his  adversary.  I  have  a  different 
opinion,  both  as  to  the  justice  of  his  fate,  and  the 
cause  of  his  abstaining  from  retaliation.  He  cer- 
tainly wrote  too  many  insipid  things ;  but  a  toler- 
able selection  might  be  made  from  his  works,  that 


would  discover  his  talents  to  be  no  legitimate  ob- 
ject of  contempt ;  and  there  is  not  a  trait  of  arro- 
gance or  vanity  in  any  one  of  his  compositions, 
that  deserved  to  be  publicly  humiliated.  He  was 
not  a  satirist;  but  he  wanted  rather  the  gall  than 
the  ingenuity  that  is  requisite  for  the  character. 
If  his  heart  had  been  full  of  spleen,  he  was  not 
so  wholly  destitute  of  humour  as  not  to  have 
been  able  to  deal  some  hard  blows  at  Churchill, 
whose  private  character  was  a  broad  mark,  and 
even  whose  writings  had  many  vapid  parts  that 
were  easily  assailable.  Had  Whitehead  done  so, 
the  world  would  probably  have  liked  him  the 
better  for  his  pugnacity.  As  it  was,  his  name 
sunk  into  such  a  by-word  of  contempt,  that  Gar- 
rick  would  not  admit  his  "Trip  to  Scotland"  on 
the  stage,  unless  its  author  was  concealed.  He 
also  found  it  convenient  to  publish  his  pleasing 
tale,  entitled  "  Variety,"  anonymously.  The 
public  applauded  both  his  farce  and  his  poem, 
because  it  was  not  known  that  they  were  White- 
head's. 

In  1769  he  obtained  an  unwilling  permission 
from  Lord  Jersey  to  remove  to  private  lodgings  ; 
though  he  was  still  a  daily  expected  guest  at  his 
lordship's  table  in  town;  and  he  divided  his  sum- 
mers between  the  country  residences  of  the  Jersey 
and  Harcourt  families.  His  health  began  to  de- 
cline about  his  seventieth  year,  and  in  1785  he 
was  carried  off  by  a  complaint  in  his  chest.  His 
death  was  sudden,  and  his  peaceable  life  was 
closed  without  a  groan. 


FKOM  HIS  TRAGEDY  OF  "CREUSA." 

ILTSSCS   MEETING   CKETISA. 

Persons — Creusa,  iLTssna. 

Ilysstis.  Please  you,  great  queen, 

In  yon  pavilion  to  repose,  and  wait 
Th'  arrival  of  the  king. 

Creusa.  Lycea, — Phorbas, — 

What  youth  is  this?  There's  something  in  his  eyes, 
His  shape,  his  voice. — What  may  we  call  thee, 
youth  ? 

Ilyssus.  The  servant  of  the  god  who  guards  this 

Creusa.  Bear'st  thou  no  name  T  [fane. 

Ilyssus.  Ilyssus,  gracious  queen, 

The  priests  and  virgins  call  me. 

Creusa.  Ah!  Ilyssus! 

That  name's  Athenian.     Tell  me,  gentle  youth, 
Art  thou  of  Athens,  then  1 

Ilyssus.  I  have  no  country; 

Nor  know  I  whence  I  am. 

Creusa.  Who  were  thy  parents  1 

Thy  father,  mother  ! 

Ilyssus.  Ever  honour'd  queen, 

I  never  knew  a  mother's  tender  cares. 
Nor  heard  the  instructions  of  a  father's  tongue. 

Cnusa,  How  earnest  thou  hither  1 

Ilyssus.  Eighteen  years  are  past 

Since  in  the  temple's  portal  I  was  found 
A  sleeping  infant. 

Creitsa.  Eighteen  years!  good  heaven! 


That  fatal  time  recalls  a  scene  of  woe — 

Let  me  not  think. — Were  there  no  marks  to  show 

From  whom  or  whence  thou  werti 

Ilyssus.  I  have  been  told 

An  osier  basket,  such  as  shepherds  weave, 
And  a"  few  scatter'd  leaves,  were  all  the  bed 
And  cradle  I  could  boast. 

Creusa.  Unhappy  child ! 

But  more,  oh  ten  times  more,  unhappy  they 
Who  lost  perhaps  in  thee  their  only  offspring ! 
What  pangs,  what  anguish,  must  the  mother  feel, 
Compell'd  no  doubt,  by  some  disastrous  fate — 
— But  this  is  all  conjecture. — 

Ilyssus.  O  great  queen, 

Hadthosefrom  whom  Isprung  been  form 'd  like  theo 
Had  they  e'er  felt  the  secret  pangs  of  nature. 
They  had  not  left  me  to  the  desert  world 
So  totally  exposed.     I  rather  fear 
I  am  the  child  of  lowliness  and  vice. 
And  happy  only  in  my  ignorance. 
— Why  should  she  weep  1   Oh  if  her  tears  can  fall 
For  even  a  stranger's  but  suspected  woes. 
How  is  that  people  bless'd  where  she  presides 
As  queen,  and  mother! — Please  you,  I  retire? 

Crevsa.  No,  stay.  Thy  sentiments  at  least  be- 
A  gen'rous  education.  Tell  me,  youth,  [speak 
How  has  thy  mind  been  form'd  ? 

Ilyssus.  In  that,  great  queen 

I  never  wanted  parents.     The  good  priests 
And  pious  priestess,  who  with  care  sustain'd 


My  helpless  infancy,  left  not  my  youth 
Without  instruction.     But  oh,  more  than  all, 
The  kindest,  hest  good  man,  a  neighbouring  sage, 
Who  has  known  better  days,  though  now,  retired 
To  a  small  cottage  on  the  mountain's  brow. 
He  deals  his  blessings  to  the  simple  swains 
In  balms  and  powerful  herbs.  He  taught  me  things 
Which  my  soul  treasures  as  its  dearest  wealth, 
And  will  remember  ever.     The  good  priests, 
'Tis  true,  had  taught  the  same,  but  not  with  half 
That  force  and  energry  ;  conviction's  self 
Dwelt  on  Aletes'  tongue. 

Creusa.  Aletes,  said'st  thou  T 

Was  that  the  good  man's  name  1 

Ityssus.  It  is,  great  queen. 

For  yet  he  lives,  and  guides  me  by  his  counsels. 

Creusa.  What  did  he  teach  thee  1 

Ilyssus.  To  adore  high  heaven. 

And  venerate  on  earth  heaven's  image,  truth  ! 
To  feel  for  others'  woes  and  bear  my  own 
With  manly  resignation. — Yet  I  own 
Some  things  he  taught  me,  which  but  ill  agree 
With  my  condition  here. 

Creusa.  What  things  were  those  1 

Ilyssus.  They  were  for  exercise,  and  to  confirm 
My  growing  strength.     And  yet  I  often  told  him 
The  exercise  he  taught  resembled  much 
What  I  had  heard  of  war.     He  was  himself 
A  warrior  once. 

Creusa.        And  did  those  sports  delight  thee  ? 

Ilyssus.    Great  queen,  I  do  confess  my  soul 
mix'd  with  them. 
Whene'er  I  grasped  the  osier-plaited  shield, 
Or  sent  the  mimic  javelin  to  its  mark, 
I  felt  I  know  not  what  of  manhood  in  me. 
But  then  I  knew  my  duty,  and  repress'd 
The  swelling  ardour.     *Tis  to  shades,  I  cried. 
The  servant  of  the  temple  must  confine 
His  less  ambitious,  not  less  virtuous  cares. 

Creusa.  Did  the  good  man  observe,  and  blame 
thy  ardour  1 

Ilyssus.  He  only  smiled  at  my  too  forward  zeal ; 
Nay,  seemed  to  think  such  sports  were  necessary 
To  soften,  what  he  cali'd,  more  rigorous  studies. 

Creusa.  Suppose  when  I  return  to  Athens, youth. 
Thou  should'st  attend  me  thither !  wouldst  thou 
To  me  thy  future  fortunes?  [trust 

Ilyssus.  Oh  most  gladly  ! 

—  But  then  to  leave  these  shades  where  I  was  nursed 
The  servant  of  the  god,  how  might  that  seem  1 
And  good  Aletes  too,  the  kind  old  man 
Of  whom  I  spake  ? — 'But  wherefore  talk  I  thus, 
You  only  throw  these  tempting  lures  to  try 
Th'  ambition  of  my  youth. — Please  you,  retire. 

Creusa.  Ilyssus,  we  will  find  a  time  to  speak 
More  largely  on  this  subject ;  for  the  present 
Let  all  withdraw  and  leave  us.    Youth,  farewell, 
I  see  the  place,  and  will  retire  at  leisure. 
Lycea,  Phorbas,  stay. 

Ilyssus  (aside.)  How  my  heart  beats ! 

She  must  mean  something,  sure.     Though  good 

Aletes 
Has  told  me  polish'd  courts  abound  in  falsehood. 
But  I  will  bedr  the  priestess'  message  to  him, 
A  id  open  all  my  doubts.  [£xa. 


VARIETY. 

A  TALE  FOR  MARRIED  PBOPLB. 

A  GENTLE  maid  of  rural  breeding, 
By  Nature  first,  and  then  by  reading. 
Was  fill'd  with  all  those  soft  sensations 
Which  we  restrain  in  near  relations, 
Lest  future  husbands  should  be  jealous, 
And  think  their  wives  too  fond  of  fellows. 

The  morning  sun  beheld  her  rove 
A  nymph,  or  goddess  of  the  grove  ! 
At  eve  she  paced  the  dewy  lawn. 
And  cali'd  each  clown  she  saw,  a  faun  ! 
Then,  scudding  homeward,  lock'd  her  door, 
And  tum'd  some  copious  volume  o'er. 
For  much  she  read :  and  chiefly  those 
Great  authors,  who  in  verse,  or  prose. 
Or  something  betwixt  both,  unwind 
The  secret  springs  which  move  the  mind. 
These  much  she  read ;  and  thought  she  knew 
The  human  heart's  minutest  clue ; 
Yet  shrewd  observers  still  declare, 
(To  show  how  shrewd  observers  are,) 
Though  plays,  which  breathed  heroic  flame, 
And  novels,  in  profusion,  came, 
Im[>orted  fresh-and-fresh  from  France, 
She  only  read  the  heart's  romance. 

The  world,  no  doubt,  was  well  enough 
To  smooth  the  manners  of  the  rough ; 
Might  pleass  the  giddy  and  the  vain, 
Those  tinseli'd  slaves  of  folly's  train: 
But,  for  her  part,  the  truest  taste 
She  found  was  in  retirement  placed. 
Where,  as  in  verse  it  sweetly  flows, 
«'  On  every  thorn  instruction  grows." 

Not  that  she  wish'd  to  "  be  alone," 
As  some  aftected  prudes  have  done : 
She  knew  it  was  decreed  on  high 
We  should  "  increase  and  multiply  ;" 
And  therefore,  if  kind  Fate  would  grant 
Her  fondest  wish,  her  only  want, 
A  cottage  with  the  man  she  loved 
Was  what  her  gentle  heart  approved  ; 
In  some  delightful  solitude 
Where  step  profane  might  ne'er  intrude; 
But  Hymen  guard  the  sacred  ground. 
And  virtuous  Cupids  hover  round. 
Not  such  as  flutter  on  a  fan 
Round  Crete's  vile  bull,  or  Leda's  swan, 
(Who  scatter  myrtles,  scatter  roses. 
And  hold  their  fingers  to  their  noses,) 
But  simp'ring,  mild,  and  innocent, 
As  angels  on  a  monument. 

Fate  heard  her  pray'r :  a  lover  came. 
Who  felt,  like  her,  th*  innoxious  flame; 
One  who  had  trod,  as  well  as  she, 
The  flow'ry  paths  of  poesy  ; 
Had  warm'd  himself  with  Milton's  heat, 
Could  every  line  of  Pope  repeat, 
Or  chant  in  Shenstone's  tender  strainn, 
"The  lover's  hopes,"  "the  lover's  pains" 

Attentive  to  the  charmer's  tongue, 
With  him  she  thought  no  evening  long; 
With  him  she  saunter'd  half  the  day  ; 
And  sometimes,  in  a  laughing  way, 


624 


WILLIAM  WHITEHEAD. 


Ran  o'er  the  catalogue  by  rote 

Of  who  might  marry,  and  who  not; 

"  Consider,  sir,  we're   near  relations — " 

"  I  liope  so  in  our  inclinations. — " — 

In  short,  she  look'd,  she  blush'd  consent; 

He  grasp'd  her  hand,  to  church  they  went; 

And  every  matron  that  was  there, 

With  tongue  so  voluble  and  supple. 
Said  for  her  part,  she  must  declare, 

She  never  saw  a  finer  couple. 
O  Halcyon  days !  'Twas  Nature's  reign, 
'Twas  Tempe's  vale,  and  Enna's  plain, 
The  fields  assumed  unusual  bloom. 
And  every  zephyr  breathed  perfume; 
The  laughing  sun  with  genial  beams 
Danced  lightly  on  th'  exulting  streams; 
And  the  pale  regent  of  the  night. 
In  dewy  softness  shed  delight. 
'Twas  transport  not  to  be  exprest; 
'Twas  Paradise  ! But  mark  the  rest. 

Two  smiling  springs  had  waked  the  flow'rs 
That  paint  the  meads,  or  fringe  the  bow'rs, 
(Ye  lovers,  lend  your  wond'ring  ears. 
Who  count  by  months,  and  not  by  years,) 
Two  smiling  springs  had  chaplets  wove 
To  crown  their  solitude,  and  love : 
When  lo.  they  find,  they  can't  tell  how. 
Their  walks  are  not  so  pleasant  now. 
The  seasons  sure  were  changed ;  the  place 
Had,  somehow,  got  a  different  face. 
Some  blast  had  struck  the  cheerful  scene; 
The  lawns,  the  woods,  were  not  so  green. 
The  purling  rill,  which  murniur'd  by, 
And  once  was  liquid  harmony. 
Became  a  sluggish,  reedy  pool : 
The  days  grew  hot,  the  evenings  cool, 
The  moon,  with  all  the  starry  reign. 
Were  melancholy's  silent  train. 
And  then  the  tedious  winter  night — 
They  could  not  read  by  candle-light. 

Full  oft,  unknowing  why  they  did. 
They  call'd  in  adventitious  aid. 
A  faithful,  fav'rite  dog  ('twas  thus 
With  Tobit  and  Telemachus) 
Amused  their  steps;  and  for  a  while 
They  viewed  his  gambols  with  a  smile. 
The  kitten  too  was  comical. 
She  play'd  so  odly  with  her  tail, 
Or  in  the  glass  was  pleased  to  find 
Another  cat,  and  peep'd  behind. 

A  courteous  neighbour  at  the  door 
Was  deem'd  intrusive  noise  no  more. 
For  rural  visits,  now  and  then. 
Are  rieht.  as  men  must  live  with  men. 
Then  cousin  Jenny,  fresh  from  town, 

A  new  recruit,  a  dear  delight ! 
Made  many  a  heavy  hour  go  down. 

At  morn,  at  noon,  at  eve,  at  night : 
Sure  they  could  hear  her  jokes  forever, 
She  was  so  sprightly  and  so  clever ! 

Yet  neighl)ors  were  not  quite  the  thing ; 
What  joy,  alas!  could  converse  bring 
With  awkward  creatures  bred  at  home — 
The  dog  grew  dull,  or  troublesome. 


The  cat  had  spoil'd  the  kitten's  merit. 

And,  with  her  youth,  had  lost  her  spirit 

And  jokes  repeated  o'er  and  o'er. 

Had  quite  exhausted  Jenny's  store, 

— "  And  then,  my  dear,  I  can't  abide 

This  always  sauntering  side  by  side." 

"  Enough  !"  he  cries,  "  the  reason's  plain : 

For  causes  never  rack  your  brain. 

Our  neighbours  are  like  other  folks. 

Skip's  playful  tricks,  and  Jenny's  jokes, 

Are  still  delightful,  still  would  please. 

Were  we,  my  dear,  ourselves  at  ease. 

Look  round,  with  an  impartial  eye. 

On  yonder  fields,  on  yonder  sky ; 

The  azure  cope,  the  flow'rs  below. 

With  all  their  wonted  colours  glow. 

The  rill  still  murmurs;  and  the  moon 

Shines,  as  she  did,  a  softer  sun. 

No  change  has  made  the  seasons  fail. 

No  comet  brush'd  us  with  his  tail. 

The  scene's  the  same,  the  same  the  weather- 

We  live,  my  dear,  too  murk  together." 

Agreed.     A  rich  old  uncle  dies, 
And  added  wealth  the  means  supplies. 
With  eager  haste  to  town  they  flew, 
Where  all  must  please,  for  all  was  new. 

But  here,  by  strict  poetic  laws. 
Description  claims  its  proper  pause. 

The  rosy  morn  had  raised  her  bead 
From  old  Tithonus'  saffron  bed ; 
And  embryo  sunbeams  from  the  east, 
Half-choaked,  were  struggling  through  the  mist, 
When  forth  advanced  the  gilded  chaise ; 
The  village  crowded  round  to  gaze. 
The  pert  postillion  now  promoted 
From  driving  plough,  and  neatly  booted, 
His  jacket,  cap,  and  baldric  on, 
(As  greater  folks  than  he  have  done,) 
Look'd  round ;  and  with  a  coxcomb'd  air, 
Smack'd  loud  his  lash.     The  happy  pair 
Bow'd  graceful,  from  a  sep'rate  door, 
And  Jenny,  fi-om  the  stool  before. 

Roll  swift,  ye  wheels !  to  willing  eyes 
New  objects  e\'ery  moment  rise. 
Each  carriage  passing  on  the  road. 
From  the  broad  waggon's  pond'rous  load 
To  the  light  car,  where  mounted  high 
The  giddy  driver  seems  to  fly. 
Were  themes  for  harmless  satire  fit. 
And  gave  fresh  force  to  Jenny's  wit. 
Whate'er  occurred,  'twas  all  delightful, 
No  noise  was  harsh,  no  danger  frightful. 
The  dash  and  splash  through  thick  and  thin. 
The  hair-breadth  'scapes,  the  bustling  inn, 
(Where  well-bred  landlords  were  so  ready 
To  welcome  in  the  'squire  and  lady,) 
Dirt,  dust,  and  sun,  they  bore  with  ease. 
Determined  to  be  pleased,  and  please. 

Now  nearer  town,  and  all  agog. 
They  know  dear  London  by  its  fog. 
Bridges  they  cross,  through  lanes  they  wind, 
Leave  Hounslow's  dang'rous  heath  behind, 
Through  Brentford  win  a  passage  free 
By  roaring,  "  Wilkes  and  Liberty !" 


WILLIAM  WHITEHEAD. 


625 


At  Knightsbridge  bless  the  short'ning  way, 

(Where  Bays's  troops  in  ambush  lay,) 

O'er  Piccadilly's  pavement  glide, 

(With  palaces  to  grace  its  side.) 

Till  Bond-street  with  its  lamps  a-blaze 

Concludes  the  journey  of  three  days. 

Why  should  we  paint,  in  tedious  song, 
How  every  day,  and  all  day  long, 
They  drove  at  first  with  curious  haste 
Through  Lud's  vast  town ;  or,  as  they  pass'd 
'Midst  risings,  fallings,  and  repairs 
Of  streets  on  streets,  and  squares  on  squares, 
Describe  how  strong  their  wonder  grew 
At  buildings — and  at  builders  too  1 

Scarce  less  astonishment  arose 
At  architects  more  fair  than  those — 
Who  built  as  high,  as  widely  spread 
Th'  enormous  loads  that  clothed  their  head. 
For  British  dames  new  follies  love. 
And,  if  they  can't  invent,  improve. 
Some  with  erect  pagodas  vie. 
Some  nod,  like  Pisa's  tower,  awry. 
Medusa's  snakes,  with  Pallas'  crest, 
Convolved,  contorted,  and  compress'd  ; 
With  intermingling  trees,  and  flowers, 
And  corn,  and  grass,  and  shepherd's  bowers. 
Stage  above  stage  the  turrets  run. 
Like  pendent  groves  of  Babylon, 
Till  nodding  from  the  topmost  wall 
Otranto's  plumes  envelop  all ! 
Whilst  the  black  ewes,  who  own'd  the  hair, 
Feed  harmless  on,  in  pastures  fair, 
Unconscious  that  their  tails  perfume, 
In  scented  curls  the  drawing-room. 

When  Night  her  murky  pinions  spread. 
And  sober  folks  retire  to  bed. 
To  every  public  place  they  flew. 
Where  Jenny  told  them  who  was  who. 
Money  was  always  at  command. 
And  tripp'd  with  pleasure  hand  in  hand. 
Money  was  equipage,  was  show, 
Gallina's,  Almack's,  and  Soho; 
The  passe-parlout  through  every  vein 
Of  dissipation's  hydra  reign. 

0  London,  thou  prolific  source. 
Parent  of  vice,  and  folly's  nurse! 
Fruitful  as  Nile  thy  copious  springs 
Spawn  hourly  births, — and  all  with  stings : 
But  happiest  far  the  he,  or  she, 

1  know  not  which,  that  livelier  dunce 
Who  first  contrived  the  coterie. 

To  crush  domestic  bliss  at  once. 
Then  grinn'd  no  doubt,  amidst  the  dames, 
As  Nero  fiddled  to  the  flames. 

Of  thee.  Pantheon,  let  me  speak 
With  reverence,  though  in  numbers  weak; 
Thy  beauties  satire's  frown  beguile. 
We  spare  the  follies  for  the  pile. 
Flounced,  furbelow'd,  and  trick'd  for  show. 
With  lamps  above,  and  lamps  below. 
Thy  charms  even  modern  taste  defied. 
They  could  not  spoil  thee,  though  they  tried. 

Ah,  pity  that  "Time's  hasty  wings 
Must  sweep  thee  off  with  vulgar  things ! 
70 


Let  architects  of  humbler  name 
On  frail  materials  build  their  fame. 
Their  noblest  works  the  world  might  want, 
Wyatt  should  build  in  adamant. 

But  what  are  these  to  scenes  which  lie 
Secreted  from  the  vulgar  eye. 
And  baffle  all  the  powers  of  song? — 
A  brazen  throat,  an  iron  tongue, 
(Which  poets  wish  for,  when  at  length 
Their  subject  soars  above  their  strength,) 
Woulil  shun  the  task.     Our  humbler  Muse, 
(Who  only  reads  the  public  news. 
And  idly  utters  what  she  gleans 
From  chronicles  and  magazines,) 
Recoiling  feels  her  feeble  fires. 
And  blushing  to  her  shades  retires. 
Alas !  she  knows  not  how  to  treat 
The  finer  follies  of  the  great, 
Where  even  Democritus,  thy  sneer 
Were  vain  as  Heraclitus'  tear. 

Suffice  it  that  by  just  degrees 
They  reach'd  all  heights,  and  rose  with  ease ; 
(For  beauty  wins  its  way,  uncall'd,) 
And  ready  dupes  are  ne'er  black-ball'd, 
Each  gambUng  dame  she  knew,  and  he 
Knew  every  shark  of  quality ; 
From  the  grave  cautious  few  who  live 
On  thoughtless  youth,  and  living  thrive, 
To  the  light  train  who  mimic  France, 
And  the  sofl  sons  of  nonchalance. 
While  Jenny,  now  no  more  of  use, 
Excuse  succeeding  to  excuse. 
Grew  piqued,  and  prudently  withdrew 
To  shilling  whist,  and  chicken  loo. 

Advanced  to  fashion's  wavering  head. 
They  now,  where  once  they  follow'd,  led. 
Devised  new  systems  of  delight, 
A-bed  all  day,  and  up  all  night. 
In  different  circles  reign'd  supreme. 
Wives  copied  her,  and  husbands  him; 
Till  so  divinely  life  ran  on, 
So  separate,  so  quite  bon-ton. 
That  meeting  in  a  public  place. 
They  scarcely  knew  each  other's  face. 

At  last  they  met,  by  his  desire, 
A  tete-d'tSte  across  the  fire; 
Look'ji  in  each  other's  face  awhile. 
With  half  a  tear,  and  half  a  smile. 
The  ruddy  health,  which  wont  to  grace 
With  manly  glow  his  rural  face, 
Now  scarce  retain'd  its  faintest  streak ; 
So  sallow  was  his  leathern  cheek. 
She,  lank  and  pale,  and  hollow-eyed. 
With  rouge  had  striven  in  vain  to  hide 
What  once  was  beauty,  and  repair 
The  rapine  of  the  midnight  air. 

Silence  is  eloquence,  'tis  said. 
Both  wish'd  to  speak,  both  hung  the  head. 

At  length  it  burst. "  'Tis  time,"  he  cries, 

"  When  tired  of  folly,  to  be  wise. 

Are  you  too  tired  1" — then  check'd  a  groan. 

She  wept  consent,  and  he  went  on. 

'<  How  delicate  the  married  life ! 
You  love  your  husband,  I  my  wife ! 
80 


626 


RICHARD  GLOVER. 


Not  even  satiety  could  tame, 
Nor  dissipation  quench  the  flame. 

"  True  to  the  bias  of  our  kind, 
'Tis  happiness  we  wish  to  find. 
In  rural  scenes  retired  we  sought 
In  vain  the  dear  delicious  draught, 
Though  blest  with  love's  indulgent  store. 
We  found  we  wanted  something  more. 
'Twas  company,  'twas  friends  to  share 
The  bliss  we  languish'd  to  declare. 
'Twas  social  converse,  change  of  scene, 
To  soothe  the  sullen  hour  of  spleen; 
Short  absences  to  wake  desire. 
And  sweet  regrets  to  fan  the  fire. 

"  We  left  the  lonesome  place ;  and  found, 
In  dissipation's  giddy  round,    ' 
A  thousand  novelties  to  wake 
The  springs  of  life  and  not  to  break. 
As,  from  the  nest  not  wandering  far, 
In  light  excursions  through  the  air. 
The  feather'd  tenants  of  the  grove 
Around  in  mazy  circles  move, 
(Sip  the  cool  springs  that  murmuring  flow, 
Or  taste  the  blossom  on  the  bough.) 
We  sported  freely  with  the  rest; 
And  still,  returning  to  the  nest. 
In  easy  mirth  we  chatted  o'er 
The  trifles  of  the  day  before. 

"  Behold  us  now,  dissolving  quite 
In  the  full  ocean  of  delight, 


In  pleasures  every  hour  employ, 

Immersed  in  all  the  world  calls  joy ; 

Our  affluence  easing  the  expense 

Of  splendour  and  magnificence; 

Our  company,  the  exalted  set 

Of  all  that's  gay,  and  all  that's  great: 

Nor  happy  yet ! — and  where's  the  wonder  ! — 

We  live,  my  dear,  too  much  asunder." 

The  moral  of  my  tale  is  this. 
Variety's  the  soul  of  bliss ; 
But  such  variety  alone 
As  makes  our  home  the  more  our  own. 
As  from  the  heart's  impelling  power 
The  life  blood  pours  its  genial  store; 
Though  taking  each  a  various  way, 
The  active  streams  meandering  play 
Through  every  artery,  every  vein,  ^ 

All  to  the  heart  return  again; 
From  thence  resume  their  new  career, 
But  still  return  and  centre  there : 
So  real  happiness  below 
Must  from  the  heart  sincerely  flow ; 
Nor,  listening  to  the  syren's  song. 
Must  stray  too  far,  or  rest  too  long. 
All  human  pleasures  thither  tend ; 
Must  there  begin,  and  there  must  end  , 
Must  there  recruit  their  languid  force. 
And  gain  fresh  vigour  from  their  source. 


RICHARD  GLOVER. 


[Born,  1712.    Died,  1785.J 


Richard  Glover  was  the  son  of  a  Hamburgh 
merchant  in  London,  and  was  born  in  St.  Mar- 
tin's-lane,  Canon-street.  He  was  educated  at 
the  school  of  Cheam,  in  Surrey ;  but  being  in- 
tended for  trade,  was  never  sent  to  the  univer- 
sity. This  circumstance  did  not  prevent  him 
from  applying  assiduously  to  classical  learning ; 
and  he  was,  in  the  competent  opinion  of  Dr. 
Warton,  one  of  the  best  Greek  scholars  of  his 
time.  This  fact  is  worth  mentioning,  as  it 
exhibits  how  far  a  determined  mind  may  connect 
the  pursuits,  and  even  distinctions  of  literature, 
with  an  active  employment.  His  first  poetical 
effort  was  a  poem  to  the  memory  of  Sir  Isaac 
Newton,  which  was  written  at  the  age  of  sixteen; 
and  which  his  friend  Dr.  Pemberton  thought  fit  to 
prefix  to  a  "  View  of  the  Newtonian  Philosophy," 
which  he  published.  Dr.  Pemberton,  who  was  a 
man  of  more  science  than  taste  on  this  and  on 
some  other  occasions,  addressed  the  public  with 
critical  eulogies,  on  the  genius  of  Glover,  written 
with  an  excess  of  admiration,  which  could  be 
pardoned  only  for  its  sincerity.  It  gives  us  a 
higher  idea  of  the  youthful  promises  of  his  mind, 
to  find  that  the  intelligent  poet  Green  had  the 
same  prepossession  in  his  favour.  Green  says  of 
him  in  the  "  Spleen," 


"  But  there's  a  youth,  that  you  can  uame, 
Who  needs  no  leading-strings  to  fame ; 
Whose  quick  mnturity  of  brain, 
The  birth  of  Pallas  may  explain." 

At  the  age  of  twenty-five  he  published  nine 
books  of  his  "  Leonidas."  The  poem  was  imme- 
diately taken  up  with  ardour  by  Lord  Cobham, 
to  whom  it  was  inscribed,  and  by  all  the  readers 
of  verse,  and  leaders  of  politics,  who  professed 
the  strongest  attachment  to  liberty.  It  ran 
rapidly  through  three  editions,  and  was  publicly 
extolled  by  the  pen  of  Fielding,  and  by  the  lips 
of  Chatham.  Even  Swift  in  one  of  his  letters 
from  Ireland,  drily  inquires  of  Pope,  "  who  is  this 
Mr.  Glover,  who  unit  '  Leonidas,'  which  is  reprint- 
ing here,  and  hath  great  vogue?"*  Overrated  as 
«♦  Leonidas"  might  be.  Glover  stands  acquitted  of 
all  attempts  or  artifice  to  promote  its  popularity 
by  false  means.  He  betrayed  no  irritation  in 
the  disputes  which  were  raised  about  its  merit; 
and  his  personal  character  appears  as  respect- 
able in  the  ebb  as  in  the  flow  of  his  poetical  repu- 
tation. 

[*  Pope's  answer  does  not  appear :  "  It  would  have  Ijeen 
curious,"  says  Dr.  Warton,  "  to  have  known  his  opinion 
concerning  a  poem  that  is  written  in  a  ta^te  and  manner 
so  different  from  his  own,  in  a  style  formed  on  the  Grecian 
school,  and  with  the  HimpUcity  of  the  amdent."] 


RICHARD  GLOVER. 


627 


In  the  year  1739  he  published  his  poem  "Lon- 
don ;  or  the  Progress  of  Commerce,"  in  which, 
instead  of  selecting  some  of  those  interesting 
views  of  the  progress  of  social  life  and  civiliza- 
tion, which  the  subject  might  have  afforded,  he 
confined  himself  to  exciting  the  national  spirit 
against  the  Spaniards.  This  purpose  was  better 
effected  by  his  nearly  contemporary  ballad  of 
"  Hosier's  Ghost." 

His  talents  and  politics  introduced  him  to  the 
notice  and  favour  of  Frederick,  Prince  of  Wales, 
whilst  he  maintained  an  intimate  friendship  with 
the  chiefs  of  the  opposition.  In  the  mean  time, 
he  pursued  the  business  of  a  merchant  in  the 
city,  and  was  an  able  auxiliary  to  his  party,  by 
his  eloquence  at  public  meetings,  and  by  his  in- 
fluence with  the  mercantile  body.  Such  was 
the  confidence  in  his  knowledge  and  talents,  that 
in  1743  the  merchants  of  London  deputed  him 
to  plead,  in  behalf  of  their  neglected  rights,  at 
the  bar  of  the  House  of  Commons,  a  duty  which 
he  fulfilled  with  great  ability.  In  1744,  he  was 
offered  an  employment  of  a  very  different  kind, 
being  left  a  bequest  of  500/.  by  the  Duchess  of 
Marlborough,  on  condition  of  his  writing  the 
duke's  life,  in  conjunction  with  Mallet.  He 
renounced  this  legacy,  while  Mallet  accepted  it, 
but  never  fulfilled  the  terms.  Glover's  rejection 
of  the  offer  was  the  more  honourable,  as  it  came 
at  a  time  when  his  own  affairs  were  so  embar- 
rassed as  to  oblige  him  to  retire  from  business 
for  several  years,  and  to  lead  a  life  of  the  strictest 
economy.  During  his  distresses,  he  is  said  to 
have  received  from  the  Prince  of  Wales  a  pre- 
sent of  500/.  In  the  year  1751,  his  friends  in 
the  city  made  an  attempt  to  obtain  for  him  the 
office  of  city  chamberlain  ;  but  he  was  unfortun- 
ately not  named  as  a  candidate,  till  the  majority 
of  votes  had  been  engaged  to  Sir  Thomas  Har- 
rison. The  speech  which  he  made  to  the  livery 
on  this  occasion  did  him  much'  honour,  both  for 
the  liberality  with  which  he  spoke  of  his  success- 
ful opponent,  and  for  the  manly  but  unassuming 
manner  in  which  he  expressed  the  consciousness 
of  his  own  integrity,  amidst  his  private  misfor- 
tunes, and  asserted  the  merit  of  his  public  con- 
duct as  a  citizen.  The  name  of  Guildhall  is  cer- 
tainly not  apt  to  inspire  us  with  high  ideas  either 
of  oratory  or  of  personal  sympathy ;  yet  there  is 
something  in  the  history  of  this  transaction  which 
increases  our  respect,  not  only  for  Glover,  but  for 
the  scene  itself,  in  which  his  eloquence  is  said  to 
have  warmly  touched  his  audience  with  a  feeling 
of  his  worth  as  an  individual,  of  his  spirit  as  a 
politician,  and  of  his  powers  as  an  accomplished 
speaker.  He  carried  the  sentiments  and  endow- 
ments of  a  polished  scholar  into  the  most  popular 
meeting  of  trading  life,  and  showed  that  they 
could  be  welcomed  there.  Such  men  elevate  the 
character  of  a  mercantile  country. 

During  his  retirement  from  business,  he  finished 
nis  tragedy  of  "  Boaclicia,"  which  was  brought 
out  at  Drury  Lane  in  1753,  and  was  acted  for 
nine  nights,  it  it  said  "  successfully,"  perhaps  a 
misprint  for  successively.     Boadicea  is  certainly 


not  a  contemptible  drama:  it  has  some  scenes 
of  tender  interest  between  Venusia  and  Dum- 
norix ;  but  the  defectiveness  of  its  incidents,  and 
the  frenzied  character  of  the  British  queen  render 
it,  upon  the  whole,  unpleasing.  Beaumont  and 
Fletcher,  in  their  play  on  the  same  subject,  have 
left  Boadicia,  with  all  her  rashness  and  revenge- 
ful disposition,  still  a  heroine ;  but  Glover  makes 
her  a  behlam  and  a  fury,  whom  we  could  scarcely 
condemn  the  Romans  for  having  carted.  The 
disgusting  novelty  of  this  impression  is  at  variance 
with  the  traditionary  regard  for  her  name,  from 
which  the  mind  is  unwilling  to  part.  It  is  told 
of  an  eminent  portrait-painter,  that  the  picture  of 
each  individual  which  he  took  had  some  resem- 
blance to  the  last  sitter:  when  he  painted  a  comic 
actress,  she  resembled  a  doctor  of  divinity,  because 
his  imagination  had  not  yet  been  delivered  of  the 
doctor.  The  converse  of  this  seems  to  have  hap- 
pened to  Glover.  He  anticipated  the  hideous 
traits  of  Medea,  when  he  produced  the  British 
queen.  With  a  singular  degree  of  poetical  in- 
justice, he  leans  to  the  side  of  compassion  in  de- 
lineating Medea,  a  monster  of  infanticide,  and 
prepossesses  us  against  a  high-spirited  woman, 
who  avenged  the  wrongs  of  her  country,  and  the 
violation  of  her  daughters.  His  tragedy  of 
"Medea"  appeared  in  1761  ;  and  the  spirited  act- 
ing of  Mrs.  Yates  gave  it  considerable  effect. 

In  his  later  years,  his  circumstances  were 
greatly  improved,  though  we  are  not  informed 
from  what  causes.  He  returned  again  to  public 
life;  was  elected  to  parliament;  and  there  dis- 
tinguished himself,  whenever  mercantile  pros- 
perity was  concerned,  by  his  knowledge  of  com- 
merce, and  his  attention  to  its  interests.  In  1770 
he  enlarged  his  "  Leonidas"  from  nine  to  twelve 
books,  and  afterward  wrote  its  sequal,  the  "  Athe- 
naid,"  and  a  sequel  to  "  Medea."  The  latter  was 
never  acted,  and  the  former  seldom  read.  Tlie 
close  of  his  life  was  spent  in  retirement  from 
business,  but  amidst  the  intimacy  of  the  most 
eminent  scholars  of  his  time. 

Some  contemporary  writers,  calling  themselves 
critics,  preferred  "  Leonidas"  in  its  day  to  "  Para- 
dise Lost ;"  because  it  had  smoother  versification, 
and  fewer  hard  words  of  learning.  The  reaction 
of  popular  opinion,  against  a  work  that  has  been 
once  over-rated,  is  apt  to  depress  it  beneath  its 
just  estimation.  It  is  due  to  "  Leonidas"  to  say, 
that  its  narrative,  descriptions,  and  imagery,  have 
a  general  and  chaste  congruity  with  the  Grecism 
of  its  subject.  It  is  far,  indeed,  from  l>eing  a  vivid 
or  arresting  picture  of  antiquity  ;  but  it  has  an 
air  of  classical  taste  and  propr  e:y  in  its  des  gn  ; 
and  it  sometimes  places  the  religion  and  manners 
of  Greece  in  a  pleasing  and  impressive  light. 
The  poet's  description  of  Dithyrainbus  ma^mg 
his  way  from  the  cave  of  CEla,  by  a  secret  ascent, 
to  the  temple  of  the  Muses,  and  bursting,  i;nex- 
pectedly,  into  the  hallowed  presence  of  their 
priestess  Melissa,  is  a  passage  fraught  with  a 
considerable  degree  of  the  f  inciful  and  beautiful 
in  superstition.  The  abode  of  Oileus  is  also 
traced  with  a  suavitv  of  local  description,  which 


628 


RICHARD  GLOVER. 


is  n<it  unusual  to  Glover ;  and  the  speech  of  Me- 
lissa, when  she  first  receives  the  tidings  of  her 
venerable  father's  death,  supports  a  fine  consis- 
tency with  the  august  and  poetical  character 
which  is  ascribed  to  her. 

"A  sigh 
Broke  from  her  heart,  these  accents  from  her  lips. 
The  full  of  days  and  honours  through  the  gate 
Of  painless  slumber  is  retired.     His  tomb 
Shall  stand  among  his  fathers,  in  the  shade 
Of  his  own  trophies.    Placid  were  his  days, 
■\V)  ich  flow'd  through  blessings.     A.s  a  river  pure, 
Whose  side-s  are  flow'ry.  and  whose  meadows  fair. 
Meets  in  his  course  a  subterranean  void; 
There  dips  his  silver  bead,  airain  to  rise. 
And.  rising,  glides  throu.;h  flowers  and  meadows  new; 
So  shall  Oileus  in  those  happier  fields, 
Where  never  gloom  of  trouble  shades  the  mind." 

The  undeniable  fault  of  the  entire  poem  is, 
that  it  wants  impetuosity  of  progress,  and  that 
its  characters  are  without  wann  and  interesting 
individuality.  What  a  great  genius  might  have 
made  of  the  subject,  it  may  be  difficult  to  pro- 
nounce by  supposition ;  for  it  is  the  very  cha- 
racter of  genius  to  produce  effects  which  cannot 
be  calculated.  But  imposing  as  the  names  of 
Leonidas  and  Thermopylte  may  appear,  the  sub- 
ject which  they  formed  for  an  epic  poem  was 
such,  that  we  cannot  wonder  at  its  baffling  the 
powers  of  Glover.  A  poet,  with  such  a  theme, 
was  furnished  indeed  with  a  grand  outline  of 
actions  and  sentiments;  but  how  difficult  was  it, 
after  all  that  books  could  teach  him,  to  give  the 


close  and  veracious  appearance  of  life  to  charac- 
ters and  manners  beheld  so  remotely  on  the 
verge  of  the  horizon  of  history  !  What  difficulty 
to  avoid  coldness  and  generality,  on  the  one  hand, 
if  he  delineated  his  human  beings  only  with  the 
manners  which  history  could  authenticate ;  and 
to  shun  grotesqueness  and  inconsistency  on  the 
other,  if  he  filled  up  the  vague  outline  of  the 
antique  with  the  particular  and  familiar  traits  of 
modern  life !  Neither  Fenelon,  with  all  his 
genius,  nor  Barthelemy,  with  all  his  learning, 
have  kept  entirely  free  of  this  latter  fault  of  in- 
congruity, in  modernizing  the  aspect  of  ancient 
manners.  The  characters  of  Barthelemy,  in  par- 
ticular, often  remind  us  of  statues  in  modern 
clothes.  Glover  has  not  fallen  into  this  impurity; 
but  his  purity  is  cold:  his  heroes  are  like  out- 
lines of  Grecian  faces,  with  no  distinct  or  minute 
physiognomy.  They  are  not  so  much  poetical 
characters,  as  historical  recollections.  There  are, 
indeed,  some  touches  of  spirit  in  Artemisia's  cha- 
racter, and  of  pathos  in  the  episode  of  Teribazus; 
but  Leonidas  is  too  good  a  Spartan,  and  Xerxes 
too  bad  a  Persian,  to  be  pitied ;  and  most  of  the 
subordinate  agents,  that  fall  or  triumph  in  battle, 
only  load  our  memories  with  their  names.  The 
local  descriptions  of  "  Leonidas,"  however,  its 
pure  sentiments,  and  the  classical  images  which 
it  recalls,  render  it  interesting,  as  the  monument 
of  an  accomplished  and  amiable  mind.* 


FROM  "LEONIDAS,"  BOOK  I. 

OPEKINO  OP  THE   POEM — OFFER  OP   LEOMDAS  TO   DEVOM   HIM- 
8ELP   FOR   HIS  COCNTRT. 

The  virtuous  Spartan,  who  resign'd  his  life 
To  save  his  country  at  the  CEtsean  straits, 
Thermopylae,  when  ail  the  peopled  East 
In  arms  with  Xerxes  fill'd  the  Grecian  plains, 
O  Muse,  record  !     The  Hellespont  they  pass'd, 
O'erpow'ring  Thrace.    The  dreadful  tidings  swift 
To  Corinth  flew.     Her  Isthmus  was  the  seat 
Of  Grecian  council.     Alpheus  thence  returns 
To  Lacedemon.     In  assembly  full 
He  finds  the  Spartan  people  with  their  kings; 
Their  kings,  who  boast  an  origin  divine. 
From  Hercules  descended.     They  the  sons 
Of  Lacedemon  had  convened,  to  learn 
The  sacred  mandates  of  th'  immortal  gods, 
That  morn  expected  from  the  Delphian  dome. 
But  Alpheus  sudden  their  attention  drew. 
And  thus  address'd  them :   For  immediate  war. 
My  countrymen,  prepare.     Barbarian  tents 
Already  fill  the  trembling  bounds  of  Thrace. 
The  Isthmian  council  hath  decreed  to  guard 
Thermopylse,  the  Locrian  gate  of  Greece. 

Here  Alpheus  paused.  Leutychides,  who  shared 


[*  Glover's  Leonidas,  though  only  party  spirit  could 
have  extolled  it  as  a  work  of  genius,  obtained  no  incon- 
siderable sale,  and  a  reputation  whi'  h  flourished  for  half 
a  century.  It  has  now  a  plnce  in  the  two  jireat  general 
collections,  and  deserves  to  hold  it.  The  author  has  the 
merit  of  having  departed  fiom  bad  models,  rcgected  all 


With  great  Leonidas  the  sway,  uprose 
And  spake.     Ye  citizens  of  Sparta,  hear. 
Why  from  her  bosom  should  Laconia  send 
Her  valiant  race  to  wage  a  distant  war 
Beyond  the  Isthrausl  There  the  gods  have  placed 
Our  native  barrier.     In  this  favour'd  land, 
Which  Pelops  gcivern'd,  us  of  Doric  blood 
That  Isthmus  inaccessible  secures. 
There  let  our  standards  rest.    Your  solid  strength, 
If  once  you  scatter  in  defence  of  states 
Remote  and  feeble,  you  betray  your  own. 
And  merit  Jove's  derision.     With  assent 
The  Spartans  heard.     Leonidas  replied  : 

O  most  ungen"rous  counsel !     Most  unwise  ! 
Shall  we,  confining  to  that  Isthmian  fence 
Our  efforts,  leave  beyond  it  every  state 
Disown'd,  exposed  1  Shall  Athens,  while  her  fleets 
Unceasing  watch  th'  innumerable  foes, 
And  trust  th'  impending  dangers  of  the  field 
To  Sparta's  well-known  valour,  shall  she  hear. 
That  to  barbarian  violence  we  leave 
Her  unprotected  walls  ?     Her  hoaiy  sires. 
Her  helpless  matrons,  and  their  infant  race. 
To  servitude  and  shame  1     Her  guardian  gods 
Will  yet  preserve  them.    Neptune  o'er  his  main, 


false  ornaments  and  tricks  of  style,  and  trusted  to  the 
dignity  of  his  suliject.  And  though  the  poem  is  cold  and 
bald,  stately  rather  than  strong  in  its  best  parts,  and  in 
general  rather  stiff  than  stately,  there  is  in  its  verj'  naked- 
ness a  sort  of  .Spartan  severity  that  commands  respect.— 
SouTHtT,  Li/e  of  CkAoper,  vol.  ii.  p.  176.J 


RICHARD  GLOVER. 


62S 


With  Pallas,  power  of  wisdom,  at  their  helms, 
Will  soon  transport  them  to  a  happier  clime, 
Safe  from  insulting  foes,  from  false  allies, 
And  Eleutherian  Jove  will  bless  their  flight. 
Then  shall  we  feel  the  unresisted  force 
Of  Persia's  navy,  deluging  our  plains 
With  inexhausted  numbers.     Half  the  Greeks, 
By  us  betray'd  to  bondage,  will  support 
A  Persian  lord,  and  lift  th'  avenging  spear 
For  our  destruction.     But,  my  friends,  reject 
Such  mean,  such  dang'rous  counsels,  which  would' 

blast 
Your  long-establish'd  honours,  and  assist 
The  proud  invader.     O  eternal  king 
Of  jioiis  and  mortals,  elevate  our  minds ! 
Each  low  and  partial  passion  thence  expel ! 
Greece  is  our  gen'ral  mother.     All  must  join 
In  her  defence,  or,  sep'rate,  each  must  fall. 

This  said,  authority  and  shame  controll'd 
The  mute  assembly.     Agis  too  appear'd. 
He  from  the  Delphian  cavern  was  return'd, 
Where,  taught  by  Phcebus  on  Parnassian  clifTs, 
The  Pythian  maid  unfolded  Heaven's  decrees. 
He  came;  but  discontent  and  grief  o'ercast 
His  anxious  brow.     Reluctant  was  his  tongue, 
Yet  seem'd  full  charged  to  speak.    Religious  dread 
Each  heart  relax'd.     On  every  visage  hung 
Sad  expectation.     Not  a  whisper  told 
The  silent  fear.     Intensely  all  were  fix'd. 
All  still  as  death,  to  hear  the  solemn  tale. 
As  o'er  the  western  waves,  when  every  storm 
Is  hush'd  within  its  cavern,  and  a  breeze, 
Soft-breathing,  lightly  with  its  wings  along 
The  slacken'd  cordage  glides,  the  sailor's  ear 
Perceives  no  sound  throughout  the  vast  expanse; 
None,  but  the  murmurs  of  the  sliding  prow. 
Which  slowly  parts    the    smooth    and    yielding 

main : 
So  through  the  wide  and  listeningcrowd  no  sound, 
No  voice,  but  thine,  O  Agis,  broke  the  air ! 
While  thus  the  issue  of  thy  awful  charge 
Thy  lips  deliver'd.     Spartans,  in  your  name 
I  went  to  Delphi.     I  inquired  the  doom 
Of  Lacedemon  from  th'  impending  war, 
When  in  these  words  the  deity  replied: 

"  Inhabitants  of  Sparta,  Persia's  arms 
Shall  lay  your  proud  and  ancient  seat  in  dust ; 
Unless  a  king,  from  Hercules  derived. 
Cause  Lacedemon  for  his  death  to  mourn." 

As  when  the  hand  of  Perseus  had  disclosed 
The  snakes  of  dire  Medusa,  all  who  view'd 
The  Gorgon  features  were  congeai'd  to  stone. 
With  ghastly  eyeballs  on  the  hero  bent. 
And  horror,  living  in  their  marble  form ; 
Thus  with  amazement  rooted,  where  they  stood. 
In  speechless  terror  frozen,  on  their  kings 
The  Spartans  gazed :    but  soon   their   anxious 

looks 
All  on  the  great  Leonidas  unite, 
Long  known  his  country's  refnge.     He  alone 
Remains  unshaken.     Rising,  he  displays 
His  godlike  presence.     Dignity  ami  grace 
Adorn  his  frame,  where  manly  beauty  joins 
With  strength  Herculean.     On  his  as{>ect  shine 
Sublimest  virtue,  and  desire  of  fame. 


Where  justice  gives  the  laurel,  in  his  eye 
The  inextinguishable  spark,  which  fires 
The  souls  of  patriots ;  while  his  brow  supports 
Undaunted  valour,  and  contempt  of  death. 
Serene  he  cast  his  looks  around,  and  spake: 

Why  this  astonishment  on  every  face. 
Ye  men  of  Sparta  ?     Does  the  name  of  death 
Create  this  fear  and  wonder  1     Oh  my  friends. 
Why  do  we  labour  through  the  arduous  paths 
Which  lead  to  virtue?     Fruitless  were  the  toil, 
Above  the  reach  of  human  feet  were  placed 
The  distant  summit,  if  the  fear  of  death 
Could  intercept  our  passage.     But  a  frown 
Of  unavailing  terror  he  assumes. 
To  shake  the  firmness  of  a  mind,  which  knows 
That,  wanting  virtue,  life  is  pain  and  woe, 
That,  wanting  liberty,  even  virtue  mourns. 
And  looks  around  for  happiness  in  vain. 
Then  speak,  O  Sparta,  and  demand  tny  life ! 
My  heart,  exulting,  answers  to  thy  call. 
And  smiles  on  glorious  fate.     To  live  with  fame, 
The  gods  allow  to  many  ;  but  to  die 
With  equal  lustre  is  a  blessing,  Jove 
Among  the  choicest  of  his  boons  reserves, 
Which  but  on  few  his  sparing  hand  bestows. 

Salvation  thus  to  Sparta  he  proclaim'd. 
Joy,  wrapt  awhile  in  admiration,  paused. 
Suspending  praise ;  nor  praise  at  last  resounds 
In  high  acclaim  to  rend  the  arch  of  heaven: 
A  reverential  murmur  breathes  applause. 
So  were  the  pupils  of  Lycurgus  train'd 
To  bridle  nature.     Public  fear  was  dumb 
Before  their  senate,  ephori,  and  kings. 
Nor  exultation  into  clamour  broke. 
Amidst  them  rose  Dieneces,  and  thus: 

Haste  to  Thermopylae.     To  Xerxes  show 
The  discipline  of  Spartans,  long  renown'd 
In  rigid  warfare,  with  enduring  minds, 
Which  neither  pain,  nor  want,  nor  danger  bend. 
Fly  to  the  gate  of  Greece,  which  open  stands 
To  slavery  and  rapine.     They  will  shrink 
Before  your  standard,  and  their  native  seats 
Resume  in  abject  Asia.     Arm,  ye  sires, 
Who  with  a  growing  race  have  bless'd  the  state; 
That  race,  your  parents,  gen'ral  Greece  forbid 
Delay.     Heaven  summons.     Equal  to  the  cause 
A  chief  behold.     Can  Spartans  ask  for  more  1 

Bold  Alpheus  next.  Command  my  swift  return 
Amid  the  Isthmian  council,  to  declare 
Your  instant  march.     His  dictates  all  approve. 
Back  to  the  Isthmus  he  unwearied  speeds. 


FROM  BOOK  II. 

Description  of  the  Dwelling  of  Otleus,  at  which  the  SpartAti 
Army  hult  un  their  march  to  Tliermopylie. 

Thk  moon  rode  high  and  clear.     Her  light 
benign 
To  their  pleased  eyes  a  rural  dwelling  show'd. 
All  unadornd,  but  seemly.     Either  side 
Was  fenced  by  trees  high-shadowing.   The  fron 
Look'd  on  a  crystal  pool,  by  feather'd  tribes 
At  every  dawn  frequented.     From  the  springs 
A  small  redundance  fed  a  shallow  brook, 
3c2 


630 


RICHARD  GLOVER. 


O'er  smoothest  pebbles  rippling,  just  to  wake 
Not  startle  silence,  and  the  ear  of  night 
Entice  to  listen  undisturb'd.     Around 
The  grass  was  cover'd  by  reposing  sheep. 
Whose  drowsy  guard  no  longer  bay'd  the  moon. 

The  warriors  stopp'd,  contemplating  the  seat 
Of  rural  quiet.     Suddenly  a  swain 
Steps  forth.    His  fingers  touch  the  breathing  reed. 
Uprise  the  fleecy  train.     Each  faithful  dog 
Is  roused.     All  heedful  of  the  wonted  sound 
Their  known  conductor  follow.      Slow  behind 
Th'  observing  warriors  move.  Ere  long  they  reach 
A  broad  and  verdant  circle,  thick  inclosed 
With  birches  straight  and  tall,  whose  glossy  rind 
Is  clad  in  silver  from  Diana's  car. 
The  ground  was  holy,  and  the  central  spot 
An  altar  bore  to  Pan.     Beyond  the  orb 
Of  skreening  trees  th'  external  circuit  swarm'd 
With  sheep  and  beeves,  each  neighbouring  ham- 
let's wealth 
Collected.     Thither  soon  the  swain  arrived, 
Whom,  by  the  name  of  Meliboeus  hail'd, 
A  peasant  throng  surrounded.     As  their  chief, 
He  nigh  the  altar  to  his  rural  friends 
Address'd  these  words :  Oh  sent  from  diflPrent  lords 
With  contribution  to  the  public  wants. 
Time  presses.    God  of  peasants,  bless  our  course ! 
Speed  to  the  slow-paced  ox  for  once  impart ! 
That  o'er  these  valleys,  cool'd  by  dewy  night, 
We  to  our  summons  true,  ere  noon-tide  blaze, 
May  join  Oi'leus.  and  his  praise  obtain. 

He  ceased.     To  rustic  madrigals  and  pipes. 
Combined  with  bleating  notes  and  tinkling  bells, 
With  clamour  shrill  from  busy  tongues  of  dogs. 
Or  hollow-sounding  from  the  deep-mouth'd  ox, 
Along  the  valloy  herd  and  flock  are  driven 
Successive,  halting  oft  to  harmless  spoil 
Of  flow'rs  and  herbage,  springing  in  their  sight. 
While  MelibcEUs  marshall'd  with  address 
The  inoffensive  host,  unseen  in  shades 
Dieneces  applauded,  and  the  youth 
Of  Menalippus  caution'd.     Let  no  word 
Impede  the  careful  peasant.     On  his  charge 
Depends  our  welfare.     Diligent  and  staid 
He  suits  his  godlike  master.     Thou  wilt  see 
That  righteous  hero  soon.     Now  sleep  demands 
Our  debt  to  nature.     On  a  carpet  dry 
Of  moss  beneath  a  wholesome  beach  they  lay, 
Arm'd  as  they  were.    Their  slumber  short  retires 
With  night's  last  shadow.      At  their  warning 

roused. 
The  troops  proceed.     Th'  admiring  eye  of  youth 
In  Menalippus  caught  the  morning  rays 
To  guide  its  travel  o'er  the  landscape  wide 
Of  cultivated  hillocks,  dales,  and  lawns, 
W  here  mansions,  hamlets  interposed,  where  domes 
Rose  to  their  gods  through  consecrated  shades. 
He  then  exclaims:  Oh  say,  can  Jove  devote 
These  fields  to  ravage,  those  abodes  to  flames  1 

The  Spartan  answers :  Ravage,  sword,  and  fire. 
Must  be  endured  as  incidental  ills. 
Suffice  it,  these  invaders,  soon  or  late. 
Will  leave  this  soil  more  fertile  by  their  blood, 
With  spoils  abundant  to  rebuild  the  fiiries. 
•'recarious  benefits  are  these,  thou  see'st. 


So  framed  by  heaven ;  but  virtue  is  a  good 
No  foe  can  spoil,  and  lasting  to  the  grave. 

Beside  the  public  way  an  oval  fount 
Of  marble  sparkled  with  a  silver  spray 
Of  falling  rills,  collected  from  above. 
The  army  halted,  and  their  hollow  casques 
Dipp'd  in  the  limpid  stream^     Behind  it  rose 
An  edifice,  composed  of  native  roots, 
And  oaken  trunks  of  knotted  girth  unwrought. 
Within  were  beds  of  moss.     Old,  batter'd  arms 
Hung  from  the  roof.  The  curious  chiefs  approach. 
These  words,  engraven  on  a  tablet  rude, 
Megistias  reads ;  the  rest  in  silence  hear. 
"  Yon  marble  fountain,  by  Oileus  placed. 
To  thirsty  lips  in  living  water  flows ; 
For  weary  steps  he  framed  this  cool  retreat ; 
A  grateful  offering  here  to  rural  peace  ; 
His  dinted  shield,  his  helmet  he  resign'd. 
0  passenger,  if  born  to  noble  deeds 
Thou  would'st  obtain  perpetual  grace  from  Jove, 
Devote  thy  vigour  to  heroic  toils, 
And  thy  decline  to  hospitable  cares. 
Rest  here ;  then  seek  Oiileus  in  his  vale." 


FROM  BOOK  VI. 

The  Grecian  cftmmanders,  after  a  battle,  having  retired 
to  a  cuve  on  the  side  of  Mount  (Eta,  Dithyrambus,  dis- 
covering a  passage  through  it,  ascends  to  the  Temple  of 
the  Muses. 

A  CAVE,  not  distant  from  the  Phocian  wall. 
Through  (Eta's  cloven  side  had  nature  form'd 
In  spacious  windings.     This  in  moss  she  clad ; 
O'er  half  the  entrance  downward  from  the  roots 
She  hung  the  shaggy  trunks  of  branching  firs. 
To  heaven's  hot  ray  impervious.  Near  the  mouth 
Relucent  laurels  spread  before  the  sun 
A  broad  and  vivid  foliage.     High  above. 
The  hill  was  darken'd  by  a  solemn  shade. 
Diffused  from  ancient  cedars.     To  this  cave 
Diomedon,  Demophilus  resort, 
And  Thespia's  youth.     A  deep  recess  appears, 
Cool  as  the  azure  grot  where  Thetis  sleeps 
Beneath  the  vaulted  ocean.     Whisper'd  sounds 
Of  waters,  trilling  from  the  riven  stone 
To  feed  a  fountain  on  the  rocky  floor. 
In  purest  streams  o'erflowing  to  the  sea. 
Allure  the  warriors,  hot  with  toil  and  thirst. 

To  this  retreat  serene.     Against  the  sides 
Their  disencumber'd  hands  repose  their  shields; 
The  helms  they  loosen  from  their  glowing  cheeks; 
Propp'd  on  their  spears,  they  rest:  when  Agis 

brings 
From  Lacedemon's  leader  these  commands. 

Leonidas  recalls  you  from  your  toils. 
Ye  meritorious  Grecians.     You  have  reap'd 
The  first  bright  harvest  on  the  field  of  fame. 
Our  eyes  in  wonder  from  the  Phocian  wall 
On  your  unequall'd  deeds  incessant  gazed. 

To  whom  Platffia's  chief     Go,  Agis,  say 
To  Lacedemon's  ruler,  that,  untired, 
Diomedon  can  yet  exalt  his  spear. 
Nor  feels  the  armour  heavy  on  his  limbs. 
Then  shall  I  quit  the  contest?     Ere  he  sinks. 
Shall  not  this  early  sun  again  behold 


RICHARD  GLOVER. 


631 


The  slaves  of  Xerxes  tremble  at  my  lance, 
Should  they  adventure  on  a  fresh  assault] 

To  him  the  'J'hespian  youth.     My  friend,  my 
guide 
To  noble  actions,  since  thy  gen'rous  heart 
Intent  on  fame  disdains  to  rest,  oh  grant 
I  too  thy  glorious  labours  may  partake. 
May  learn  once  more  to  imitate  thy  deeds. 
Thou,  gentlest  Agis,  Sparta's  king  entreat 
Not  to  command  us  from  the  field  of  war. 

Yes,  persevering  heroes,  he  replied, 
I  will  return,  will  Sparta's  king  entreat 
Not  to  command  you  from  the  field  of  war. 

Then  interposed  Demophilus.     Oh  friend. 
Who  lead'st  to  conquest  brave  Platsea's  sons ; 
Thou,  too,  loved  offspring  of  the  dearest  man. 
Who  dost  restore  a  brother  to  my  eyes; 
My  soul  your  magnanimity  applauds : 
But,  oh  reflect,  that  unabating  toil 
Subdues  the  mightiest.    Valour  will  repine. 
When  the  weak  hand  obeys  the  heart  no  more. 
Yet  I,  declining  through  the  weight  of  years. 
Will  not  assign  a  measure  to  your  strength. 
If  still  you  find  your  vigour  undecay'd. 
Stay  and  augment  your  glory.     So,  when  time 
Casts  from  your  whiten'd  heads  the  helm  aside ; 
When  in  the  temples  your  enfeebled  arms 
Have  hung  their  consecrated  shields,  the  land 
Which  gave  you  life,  in  her  defence  employ'd. 
Shall  then  by  honours,  doubled  on  your  age, 
Bequit  the  gen'rous  labours  of  your  prime. 

So  spake  the  senior,  and  forsook  the  cave. 
But  from  the  fount  Diomedon  receives 
Th'  overflowing  waters  in  his  concave  helm, 
Addressing  thus  the  genius  of  the  stream. 

Whoe'er  thou  art,  divinity  unstain'd 
Of  this  fair  fountain,  till  unsparing  Mars 
Heap'd  carnage  round  thee,  bounteous  are  thy 

streams 
To  me,  who  ill  repay  thee.     I  again 
Thy  silver-gleaming  current  must  pollute. 
Which,  mix'd  with  gore,  shall  tinge  the  Malian 
slime. 

He  said,  and  lifted  in  his  brimming  casque 
The  bright,  refreshing  moisture.     Thus  repairs 
The  spotted  panther  to  Hydaspes'  side. 
Or  eastern  Indus,  feasted  on  the  blood 
Of  some  torn  deer,  which  nigh  his  cruel  grasp 
Had  roam'd,  unheeding,  in  the  secret  shade; 
Rapacious  o'er  the  humid  brink  he  stoops, 
And  in  the  pure  and  fluid  crystal  cools 
His  reeking  jaws.     Meantime  the  Thespian's  eye 
Roves  round  the  vaulted  space ;  when  sudden 

sounds 
Of  music,  utter'd  by  melodious  harps, 
And  melting  voices,  distant,  but  in  tones 
By  distance  soften'd,  while  the  echoes  sigh'd 
In  lulling  replication,  fill  the  vault 
With  harmony.    In  admiration  mute. 
With  nerves  unbraced  by  rapture,  he,  entranced. 
Stands  like  an  eagle,  when  his  parting  plumes 
The  balm  of  sleep  relaxes,  and  his  wings 
Fall  from  his  languid  side.     Platsea's  chief. 
Observing,  roused  the  warrior.     Son  of  Mars, 
Shall  music's  softness  from  thy  bosom  steal 


The  sense  of  glory  1    From  his  neighb'ring  camp 

Perhaps  the  Persian  sends  fresh  nations  down. 

Soon  in  bright  steel  Thermopylae  will  blaze. 

Awake.    Accustom'd  to  the  clang  of  arms, 

Intent  on  vengeance  for  invaded  Greece, 

My  ear,  my  spirit  in  this  hour  admit 

No  new  sensation,  nor  a  change  of  thought. 

The  Thespian  starting  from  oblivious  sloth 
Of  ravishment  and  wonder,  quick  replied. 

These  sounds  were  more  than  human.   Hark! 
Again ! 
Oh  honour'd  friend,  no  adverse  banner  streams 
In  sight.     No  shout  proclaims  the  Persian  freed 
From  his  late  terror.     Deeper  let  us  plunge 
In  this  mysterious  dwelling  of  the  nymphs, 
Whose  voices  charm  its  gloom.     In  smites  re- 
Diomedon.     I  see  thy  soul  enthrall'd.         [join'd 
Me  thou  would'st  rank  among  the  unletter  d  rout 
Of  yon  barbarians,  should  I  press  thy  stay. 
Time  favours  too.     'J'ill  Agis  be  return'd. 
We  cannot  act.     Indulge  thy  eager  search. 
Here  will  I  wait,  a  sentinel  unmoved, 
To  watch  thy  coming.     In  exploring  haste 
Th'  impatient  Thespian  penetrates  the  cave. 
He  finds  it  bounded  by  a  steep  ascent 
Of  rugged  steps ;  where  down  the  hollow  rock 
A  modulation  clear,  distinct,  and  slow 
In  movement  solemn  from  a  lyric  string. 
Dissolves  the  stagnant  air  to  sweet  accord 
With  these  sonorous  lays.     Celestial  maids ! 
While,  from  our  clifis  contemplating  the  war, 
We  celebrate  our  heroes,  oh  impart 
Orphean  magic  to  the  pious  strain  ! 
That  from  the  mountain  we  may  call  the  groves. 
Swift  motion  through  these  marble   fragments 
To  overleap  the  high  CEtean  ridge,         [breathe 
And  crush  the  fell  invaders  of  our  peace. 

The  animated  hero  upward  springs 
Light,  as  a  kindled  vapour,  which,  confined 
In  subterranean  cavities,  at  length 
Pervading,  rives  the  surface  to  enlarge 
The  long-imprison'd  flame.     Ascending  soon. 
He  sees,  he  stands  abash'd,  then  rev'rend  kneels 

An  aged  temple  with  insculptured  forms 
Of  Jove's  harmonious  daughters,  and  a  train 
Of   nine    bright   virgins,    round    their    priestess 
Who  stood  in  awful  majesty,  receive         [ranged 
His  unexpected  feet.     The  song  is  hush'd. 
The  measured  movement  on  the  lyric  chord 
In  faint  vibration  dies.     The  priestess  sage, 
Whose  elevated  port  and  aspect  rose 
To  more  than  mortal  dignity,  her  lyre 
Consigning  graceful  to  attendant  hands. 
Looks  with  reproof.     The  loose,  uncovered  hair 
Shades  his  inclining  forehead,  while  a  flush 
Of  modest  crimson  dyes  his  youthful  cheek. 
Her  pensive  vision  softens  to  a  smile, 
On  worth  so  blooming,  which  she  thus  accosts. 

I  should  reprove  thee,  inadvertent  youth. 
Who  through  the  sole  access  by  nature  left 
To  this  pure  mansion,  with  intruding  steps 
Dost  interrupt  our  lays.  But  rise.  Thy  sward 
Perhaps  embellish'd  that  triumphant  scene, 
Which  waked  these  harps  to  celebrating  notes. 
What  is  the  impress  on  thy  warlike  shield  1 


632 


RICHARD  GLOVER. 


A  golden  eagle  on  my  shield  I  bear, 
Still  bending  low,  he  answers.     She  pursues. 

Art  thou  possessor  of  that  glorious  orb, 
By  me  distinguish'd  in  the  late  defeat 
Of  Asia,  driven  before  thee  ?      Speak  thy  name. 
Who  is  thy  sire  1     Where  lies  thy  native  seat  1 
Comest  thou  for  glory  to  this  fatal  spot, 
Or  from  barbarian  violence  to  guard 
A  parent's  age,  a  spouse,  and  tender  babes, 
Who  call  thee  father  1     Humbly  he  again. 

I  am  of  Thespia,  Dithyrambus  named. 
The  son  of  Harmatides.    Snatch'd  by  fate. 
He  to  his  brother,  and  my  second  sire, 
Demophilus,  consign'd  me.     Thespia's  sons 
By  him  are  led.     His  dictates  I  obey. 
Him  to  resemble  strive.     No  infant  voice 
Calls  me  a  father.     To  the  nuptial  vow 
I  am  a  stranger,  and  among  the  Greeks 
The  least  entitled  to  thy  partial  praise. 

None  more  entitled,  interposed  the  dame. 
Deserving  hero,  thy  demeanour  speaks, 
It  justifies  the  fame,  so  widely  spread. 
Of  Harmatides'  heir.    Oh  grace  and  pride 
Of  that  fair  city,  which  the  Muses  love. 
Thee  an  acceptant  visitant  I  hail 
In  this  their  ancient  temple.     Thou  shalt  view 
Their  sacred  haunts.    Descending  from  the  dome, 
She  thus  pursues.  First  know,  my  youthful  hours, 
Were  exercised  in  knowledge.    Homer's  muse 
To  daily  meditation  won  my  soul, 
With  my  young  spirit  mix'd  undying  sparks 
Of  her  own  rapture.     By  a  father  sage 
Conducted,  cities,  manners,  men  I  saw. 
Their  institutes  and  customs.     I  return'd. 
The  voice  of  Locris  call'd  me  to  sustain 
The  holy  function  here.     Now  throw  thy  sight 
Across  that  meadow,  whose  enliven'd  blades 
Wave  in  the  breeze,  and  glisten  in  the  sun 
Behind  the  hoary  fane.     My  bleating  train 
Are  nourish'd  there,  a  spot  of  plenty  spared 
From  this  surrounding  wilderness.    Remark 
That  fluid  mirror,  edged  by  shrubs  and  flow'rs, 
Shrubs  of  my  culture,  flow'rs  by  Iris  dress'd, 
Nor  pass  that  smiling  concave  in  the  hill. 
Whose  pointed  crags  are  soften'd  to  the  sight 
By  figs  and  grapes.     She  pauses ;  while  around 
His  eye,  delighted,  roves,  in  more  delight 
Soon  to  the  spot  returning,  where  she  stood 
A.  deity  in  semblance,  o'er  the  place 
Presiding  awful,  as  Minerva  wise, 
August  like  Juno,  like  Diana  pure, 
But  not  more  pure  than  fair. 


FROM  THE  EPISODE  OF  "TERIBAZUS  AND 
ARIANA." 


Amid  the  van  of  Persia  was  a  youth, 
Named  Teribazus,  not  for  golden  stores, 
Not  for  wide  pastures,  traversed  o'er  by  herds, 
By  fleece-abounding  sheep,  or  gen'rous  steeds. 
Nor  vet  for  power,  nor  splendid  honours  famed. 
Rich  was  his  mind  in  every  art  divine ; 
Through  every  path  of  science  had  he  walk'd, 


The  votary  of  wisdom.     In  the  years. 
When  tender  down  invests  the  ruddy  cheek, 
He  with  the  Magi  turn'd  the  hallow'd  page 
Of  Zoroastres.     Then  his  tow 'ring  thoughts 
High  on  the  plumes  of  contemplation  soar'd. 
He  from  the  lofty  Babylonian  fane  [sphere. 

With   learn'd   Chaldaeans  traced  their  heavenly 
There  number'd  o'er  the  vivid  fires,  which  gleam 
On  night's  bespangled  bosom.     Nor  unheard 
Were  Indian  sages  from  sequester'd  bow'rs. 
While  on  the  banks  of  Ganges  they  disclosed 
The  powers  of  nature,  whether  in  the  woods, 
The  fruitful  glebe,  or  flower,  the  healing  plant, 
The  limpid  waters,  or  the  ambient  air. 
Or  in  the  purer  element  of  fire. 
The  realm  of  old  Sesostris  next  he  view'd, 
Mysterious  Egypt  with  her  hidden  rites 
Of  Isis  and  Osiris.     Last  he  sought 
The  Ionian  Greeks,  from   Athens  sprung,  nor 
Miletus  by,  which  once  in  rapture  heard   fpass'd 
The  tongue  of  Thales,  nor  Priene's  walls. 
Where  wisdom  dwelt  with  Bias,  nor  the  seat 
Of  Pittacus,  revered  on  Lesbian  shores. 

The  enlighten'd  youth  to  Susa  now  return'd, 
Place  of  of  his  birth.     His  merit  soon  was  dear 
To  Hyperanthes.     It  was  now  the  time. 
That  discontent  and  murmur  on  the  banks 
Of  Nile  were  loud  and  threat'ning.      Chembes 
The  only  faithful  stood,  a  potent  lord,         [there 
Whom  Xerxes  held  by  promised  nuptial  ties 
With  his  own  blood.     To  this  Egyptian  prince 
Bright  Ariana  was  the  destined  spouse, 
From  the  same  bed  with  Hyperanthes  born. 
Among  her  guards  weis  Teribazus  named 
By  that  fond  brother,  tender  of  her  weal. 

The  Egyptian  boundaries  they  gain.     They 
Of  insurrection,  of  the  Pharian  tribes  [hear 

In  arms,  and  Chembes  in  the  tumult  slain. 
They  pitch  their  tents,  at  midnight  are  assail'd, 
Surprised,  their  leaders  massacred,  the  slaves 
Of  Ariana  captives  borjie  away. 
Her  own  pavilion  forced,  her  person  seized 
By  ruffian  hands :  when  timely  to  redeem 
Her  and  the  invaded  camp  from  further  spoil 
Flies  Teribazus  with  a  rallied  band. 
Swift  on  the  chariot  seats  the  royal  fair, 
Nor  waits  the  dawn.     Of  all  her  menial  train 
None  but  three  female  slaves  are  left.    Her  guide. 
Her  comforter  and  guardian  fate  provides 
In  him,  distinguish'd  by  his  worth  alone, 
No  prince,  nor  satrap,  now  the  single  chief 
Of  her  surviving  guard.     Of  regal  birth, 
But  with  excelling  graces  in  her  soul, 
Unlike  an  eastern  princess,  she  inclines 
To  his  consoling,  his  instructive  tongue 
An  humbled  ear.     Amid  the  converse  sweet 
Her  charms,  her  mind,  her  virtues  he  explores. 
Admiring.     Soon  his  admiration  changed 
To  love ;  nor  loves  he  sooner  than  despairs. 
From  morn  till  eve  her  passing  wheels  he  guarda 
Back  to  Euphrates.     Often,  as  she  mounts. 
Or  quits  the  car,  his  arm  her  weight  sustains 
With  trembling  pleasure.     His  assiduous  hand 
From  purest  fountains  wafts  the  living  flood. 
Nor  seldom  by  the  fair  one's  soft  command 


RICHARD  GLOVER. 


688 


Would  he  repose  him,  at  her  feet  reclined ; 
While  o'er  his  lips  her  lovely  forehead  bow'd, 
Won  by  his  grateful  eloquence,  which  soothed 
With  sweet  variety  the  tedious  march, 
Beguiling  time.     He  too  would  then  forget 
His  pains  awhile,  in  raptures  vain  entranced, 
Delusion  all,  and  fleeting  rays  of  joy. 
Soon  overcast  by  more  intense  despair ; 
Like  wint'ry  clouds,  which,  op'ning  for  a  time. 
Tinge  their  black  folds  with  gleams  of  scatter'd 
Then,  swiftly  closing,  on  the  brow  of  morn  [light. 
Condense  their  horrors,  and  in  thickest  gloom 
The  ruddy  beauty  veil.     They  now  approach 
The  tower  of  Belus.     Hyperanthes  leads 
Through  Babylon  an  army  to  chastise 
The  crime  of  Egypt.     Teribazus  here 
Parts  from  his  princess,  marches  bright  in  steel 
Beneath  his  patron's  banner,  gathers  palms 
On  conquer'd  Nile.     To  Susa  he  returns, 
To  Ariana's  residence,  and  bears 
Deep  in  his  heart  the  immedicable  wound. 
But  unreveal'd  and  silent  was  his  pain; 
Nor  yet  in  solitary  shades  he  roam'd, 
Nor  shunn'd  resort :  but  o'er  his  sorrows  cast 
A  sickly  dawn  of  gladness,  and  in  smiles 
Conceul'd  his  anguish ;  while  the  secret  flame 
Raged  in  his  bosom,  and  its  peace  consumed : 
His    soul    still    brooding    o'er   these    mournful 

thoughts. 

*  *  *  * 

The  day  arrived,  when  Xerxes  first  advanced 
His  arms  from  Susa's  gates.   The  Persian  dames. 
So  were  accustom'd  ail  the  eastern  fair. 
In  sumptuous  cars  accompanied  his  march, 
A  beauteous  train,  by  Ariana  graced. 
Her  Teribazus  follows,  on  her  wheels 
Attends  and  pines.  Such  woes  oppress  the  youth, 
Oppress,  but  not  enervate.     From  the  van 
He  in  this  second  conflict  had  withstood 
The  threat'ning  frown  of  adamantine  Mars, 
He  singly,  whde  his  bravest  friends  recoil' d. 
His  manly  temples  no  tiara  bound. 
The  slender  lance  of  Asia  he  disdain'd. 
And  her  light  target.     Eminent  he  tower'd 
In  Grecian  arms,  the  wonder  of  his  foes; 
Among  the  lonians  were  his  strenuous  limbs 
Train'd  in  the  gymnic  school.    A  fulgent  casque 
Inclosed  his  head.     Before  his  face  and  chest 
Down  to  the  knees  an  ample  shield  was  spread. 
A  pond'rous  spear  he  shook.  The  well-aim'd  point 
Sent  two  Phliasians  to  the  realms  of  death 
W  ilh  lour  Tegffians,  whose  indignant  chief, 
Brave  Hegesander,  vengeance  breathed  in  vain, 
With  streaming  wounds  repulsed.    Thus  far  un- 
matched. 
His  arm  prevail'd  ;  when  Hyperanthes  call'd 
From  fight  his  fainting  legions.    Now  each  band 
Their  languid  courage  reinforced  by  rest 
Meantime  with  Teribazus  thus  conferr'd  [youth, 
The  applauding  prince.     Thou  much-deserving 
Had  twenty  warriors  in  the  dangrous  van 
Like  thee  maintain'd  the  onset,  Greece  had  wept 
Her  prostrate  ranks.     The  wearied  fight  awhile 
1  now  relax,  till  Abradates  strong, 
Orontes  and  Mazsus  are  advanced. 
6u 


Then  to  the  conflict  will  I  give  no  pause. 
If  not  by  prowess,  yet  by  endless  toil 
Successive  numbers  shall  exhaust  the  foe. 

He  said.    Immersed  in  sadness,  scarce  replied. 
But  to  himself  complain'd  the  am'rous  youth. 

Still  do  I  languish,  mourning  o'er  the  fame 
My  arm  acquires.    Tormented  heart .'  thou  seat 
Of  constant  sorrow,  what  deceitful  smiles 
Yet  canst  thou  borrow  from  unreal  hope 
To  flatter  life  ?   at  Ariana's  feet 
What  if  with  supplicating  knees  I  bow, 
Implore  her  pity,  and  reveal  my  love. 
Wretch !  canst  thou  climb  to  yon  effulgent  orb, 
And  share  the  splendours  which  irradiate  heaven '! 
Dost  thou  aspire  to  that  exalted  maid, 
Great  Xerxes'  sister,  rivalling  the  claim 
Of  Asia's  proudest  potentates  and  kings? 
Unless  within  her  bosom  I  inspired 
A  passion  fervent  as  my  own,  nay  more, 
Such,  as  dispelling  every  virgin  fear, 
Might,  unrestrain'd,  disclose  its  fond  desire. 
My  love  is  hopeless ;  and  her  willing  hand. 
Should  she  bestow  it,  draws  from  Asia's  lord 
On  both  perdition.     By  despair  benumb'd. 
His  limbs  their  action  lose.     A  wish  for  death 
O'ercasts  and  chills  his  soul.    When  sudden  cries 
From  Ariamnes  rouse  his  drooping  powers. 
Alike  in  manners,  they  of  equal  age 
Were  friends,  and  partners  in  the  glorious  toil 
Of  war.     Together  they  victorious  chased 
The  bleeding  sons  of  Nile,  when  Egypt's  pride 
Before  the  sword  of  Hyperanthes  fell. 
That  loved  companion  Teribazus  views 
By  all  abandon'd,  in  his  gore  outstretch'd. 
The  victor's  spoil.     His  languid  spirit  starts ; 
He  rushes  ardent  from  the  Persian  fine ; 
The  wounded  warrior  in  his  strong  embrace 
He  bears  away.     By  indignation  stung. 
Fierce  from  the  Grecians  Diophantus  sends 
A  loud  defiance.     Teribazus  leaves 
His  rescued  friend.    His  massy  shield  he  rears; 
High-brandishing  his  formidable  spear. 
He  turns  intrepid  on  the  approaching  foe. 
Amazement  follows.    On  he  strides,  and  shakes 
The  plumed  honours  of  his  shining  crest. 
The  ill-fated  Greek  awaits  the  unequal  fight. 
Pierced  in  the  throat,  with  sounding  arms  he  falls. 
Through  every  file  the  Mantineans  mourn. 
Long  on  the  slain  the  victor  fix'd  his  sight 
With  these  reflections.     By  thy  splendid  arms 
Thou  art  a  Greek  of  no  ignoble  rank. 
From  thy  ill  fortune  I  perhaps  derive 
A  more  conspicuous  lustre — What  if  heaven 
Should  add  new  victims,  such  as  thou,  to  grace 
My  undeserving  hand  1  who  knows,  but  she 
Might  smile  upon  my  trophies.  Oh !  vain  thought' 
I  see  the  pride  of  Asia's  monarch  swell 
With  vengeance  fatal  to  her  beauteous  head. 
Disperse,  ye  phantom  hopes.      Too  long,  torn 

heart, 
Hast  thou  with  grief  contended.     Lo!  I  plant 
My  foot  this  moment  on  the  verge  of  death, 
By  fame  invited,  by  despair  impell'd 
To  pass  the  irremeable  bound.     No  more 
Shall  Teribazus  backward  turn  his  step, 


634 


RICHARD  GLOVER. 


But  here  conclude  his  doom.  Then  cease  to  heave, 
Thou  troubled  bosom,  every  thought  be  calm 
Now  at  the  approach  of  everlasting  peace. 

He  ended;  when  a  mighty  foe  drew  nigh, 
Not  less  than  Dithyramhus.     Ere  they  join'd, 
The  Persian  warrior  to  the  Greek  began : 

Art  thou  the  unconquerable  chief,  who  mow'd 
Our  battle  down  1  That  eagle  on  thy  shield 
Too  well  proclaims  thee.     To  attempt  thy  force 
I  rashly  purposed.     That  my  single  arm    [know 
Thou  deign'st  to  meet,  accept  my  thanks,  and 
The  thought  of  conquest  less  employs  my  soul. 
Than  admiration  of  thy  glorious  deeds, 
And  that  by  thee  I  cannot  fall  disgraced. 

He  ceased.     These  words  the  Thespian  youth 
return'd : 
Of  all  the  praises  from  thy  gen'rous  mouth, 
The  only  portion  my  desert  may  claim, 
Is  this  my  bold  adventure  to  confront       [mark'd 
Thee,  yet  unmatch'd.     What  Grecian  hath  not 
Thy  flaming  steel  1  from  Asia's  boundless  camp 
Not  one  hath  equall'd  thy  victorious  might. 
But  whence  thy  armour  of  the  Grecian  form  T 
Whence  thy  tall  spear,  thy  helmet?   Whence  the 

weight  ^ 

Of  that  strong  shield  1   Unlike  thy  eastern  friends, 
Oh  if  thou  be'st  some  fugitive,  who,  lost 
To  liberty  and  virtue,  art  become 
A  tyrant's  vile  stipendiary,  that  arm. 
That  valour  thus  triumphant  I  deplore. 
Which  after  all  their  eflforts  and  success 
Deserve  no  honour  from  the  gods,  or  men. 

Here  Teribazus  in  a  sigh  rejoin'd : 
I  am  to  Greece  a  stranger,  am  a  wretch 
To  thee  unknown,  who  courts  this  hour  to  die, 
Yet  not  ignobly,  but  in  death  to  raise 
My  name  from  darkness,  while  I  end  my  woes. 

The  Grecian  then :  I  view  thee,  and  I  mourn. 
A  dignity,  which  virtue  only  bears. 
Firm  resolution,  seated  on  thy  brow. 
Though  grief  hath  dimm'd  thy  drooping  eye,  de- 
My  veneration:  and  whatever  be-  [mand 

The  malice  of  thy  fortune,  what  the  cares. 
Infesting  thus  thy  quiet,  they  create 
Within  my  breast  the  pity  of  a  friend. 
Why  then,  constraining  my  reluctant  hand 
To  act  against  thee,  will  thy  might  support 
The  unjust  ambition  of  malignant  kings. 
The  foes  to  virtue,  liberty,  and  peace  1 
Yet  free  from  rage  or  enmity  I  lift 
My  adverse  weapon.      Victory  I  ask. 
Thy  life  may  fate  for  happier  days  reserve. 

This  said,  their  beaming  lances  they  protend. 
Of  hostile  hate,  or  fury  both  devoid. 
As  on  the  Isthmian,  or  Olympic  sands 
For  fame  alone  contending.     Either  host, 
I'oised  on  their  arms,  in  silent  wonder  gaze. 
The  fight  commences.    Soon  the  Grecian  spear, 
Which  all  the  day  in  constant  battle  worn, 
Unnumber'd  shields  and  corselets  had  transfix'd, 
Against  the  Persian  buckler,  shiv'ring,  breaks. 
Its  master's  hand  disarming.     Then  began 
The  sense  of  honour,  and  the  dread  of  shame 
To  swell  in  Dithyrambus.     Undismay'd. 
He  grappled  with  his  foe,  and  instant  seized 


His  threat'ning  spear,  before  the  uplifted  arm 
Could  execute  the  meditated  wound. 
The  weapon  burst  between  their  struggling  grasp 
Their  hold  they  loosen,  bare  their  shining  swords 
With  equal  swiftness  to  defend  or  charge. 
Each  active  youth  advances  and  recedes. 
On  every  side  they  traverse.     Now  direct. 
Obliquely  now  the  wheeling  blades  descend. 
Still  is  the  conflict  dubious ;  when  the  Greek, 
Dissembling,  points  his  falchion  to  the  ground, 
His  arm  depressing,  as  o'ercome  by  toil : 
While  with  his  buckler  cautious  he  repels 
The  blows,  repeated  by  his  active  foe. 
Greece  trembles  for  her  hero.     Joy  pervades 
The  ranks  of  Asia.     Hyperanthes  strides 
Before  the  line,  preparing  to  receive 
His  friend  triumphant:  while  the  wary  Greek, 
Calm  and  defensive,  bears  the  assault.     At  last, 
As  by  the  incautious  fury  of  his  strokes. 
The  Persian  swung  his  covering  shield  aside, 
The  fatal  moment  Dithyrambus  seized. 
Light  darting  forward  with  his  feet  outstretch'd. 
Between  the  unguarded  ribs  he  plunged  his  steel. 
Affection,  grief,  and  terror,  wing  the  speed 
Of  Hyperanthes.     From  his  bleeding  foe 
The  Greek  retires,  not  distant,  and  awaits 
The  Persian  prince.     But  he  with  watery  cheeks 
In  speechless  anguish  clasps  his  dying  friend  ; 
From  whose  cold  lip.  with  interrupted  phrase, 
These  accents  break  :  Oh  dearest,  best  of  men ! 
Ten  thousand  thoughts  of  gratitude  and  love 
Are  struggling  in  my  heart — O'erpow'ring  fate 
Denies  my  voice  the  utterance — Oh  my  friend ! 

0  Hyperanthes  !  Hear  my  tongue  unfold 
.What,  had  I  lived,  thou  never  should'st  have 

known. 

1  loved  thy  sister.     With  despair  I  loved. 
Soliciting  this  honourable  doom. 
Without  regret  in  Persia's  sight  and  thine 
I  fall.     The  inexorable  hand  of  fate 

Weighs  down  his  eyelids,  and  the  gloom  of  death 
His -fleeting  light  eternally  o'ershades. 
Him  on  Choaspes  o'er  the  blooming  verge 
A  frantic  mother  shall  bewail ;  shall  strew 
Her  silver  tresses  in  the  crystal  wave : 
While  all  the  shores  re-echo  to  the  name 
Of  Teribazus  lost. 


THE  SAME  CONTINUED. 

mOM   BOOK  IX. 

In  sable  vesture,  spangled  o'er  with  stars. 
The  Night  assumed  her  throne.  Recall'd  from  war 
Their  toil,  protracted  long,  the  Greeks  forget, 
Dissolved  in  silent  slumber,  all  but  those 
Who  watch  th'  uncertain  perils  of  the  dark, 
A  hundred  warriors.     Agis  was  their  chief. 
High  on  the  wall  intent  the  hero  sat. 
Fresh  winds  across  the  undulating  bay 
From  Asia's  host  the  various  din  convey'd 
In  one  deep  murmur,  swelling  on  his  ear. 
When  by  the  sound  of  footsteps  down  the  pass 
Alarm'd,  he  calls  aloud.     What  feet  are  these 

j    Which  beat  the  echoing  pavement  of  the  rock? 

I   Reply,  nor  tempt  inevitable  fate. 


RICHARD  GLOVER. 


63S 


A  voice  replied.     Xo  enemies  we  come, 
But  crave  admittance  in  an  humble  tone. 

The  Spartan  answers.    Through  the  midnight 
shade 
What  purpose  draws  your  wand'ring  steps  abroad? 

To  whom  the  stranger.     We  are  friends  to 
Greece. 
Through  thy  assistance  we  implore  access 
To  Lacedemon's  king.     The  cautious  Greeli 
Still  hesitates;  when  musically  sweet 
A  tender  voice  his  wond'ring  ear  allures. 

O  gen'rpus  warrior,  listen  to  the  pray'r 
Of  one  distress'd,  whom  grief  alone  hath  led 
Through  midnight  shades  to  these  victorious  tents, 
A  wretched  woman,  innocent  of  fraud. 

The  chief,  descending,  through  th'    unfolded 
gates 
Upheld  a  flaming  torch.     The  light  disclosed 
One  first  in  servile  garments.     Near  his  side 
A  woman  graceful  and  majestic  stood, 
Not  with  an  aspect,  rivalling  the  pow'r 
Of  fatal  Helen,  or  th'  ensnaring  charms 
Of  love's  sofl  queen,  by  such  as  far  surpass'd 
Whate'er  the  lily,  blending  with  the  rose, 
Spretids  on  the  cheek  of  beauty  soon  to  fade ; 
Such  as  express'd  a  mind  by  wisdom  ruled, 
By  sweetness  temper'd  ;  virtue's  purest  light 
Illumining  the  countenance  divine: 
Yet  could  not  soften  rig'rous  fate,  nor  charm 
Malignant  fortune  to  revere  the  good ; 
Which  oft  with  anguish  rends  a  spotless  heart, 
And  oft  associates  wisdom  with  despair. 
In  courteous  phrase  began  the  chief  humane. 

Exalted  fair,  whose  form  adorns  the  night. 
Forbear  to  blame  the  vigilance  of  war. 
My  slow  compliance,  to  the  rigid  laws 
Of  Mars  impute.     In  me  no  longer  pause 
Shall  from  the  presence  of  our  king  withhold 
This  thy  apparent  dignity  and  worth. 

Here  ending,  he  conducts  her.     At  the  call 
Of  his  loved  brother,  from  his  couch  arose 
Leonidas.     In  wonder  he  survey 'd 
Th'  illustrious  virgin,  whom  his  presence  awed. 
Her  eye  submissive  to  the  ground  declined 
In  veneration  of  the  godlike  man. 
His  mien,  his  voice,  her  anxious  dread  dispel. 
Benevolent  and  hospitable  thus. 

Thy  looks,  fair  stranger,  amiable  and  great, 
A  mind  delineate,  which  from  all  commands 
Supreme  regard.     Relate,  thou  noble  dame, 
By  what  relentless  destiny  compell'd. 
Thy  tender  feet  the  paths  of  darkness  tread  ; 
Rehearse  th'  afflictions  whence  thy  virtue  mourns. 

On  her  wan  cheek  a  sudden  blush  arose 
Like  day,  first  dawning  on  the  twilight  pale ; 
W  her.,  wrapt  in  grief,  these  words  a  passage  found. 

If  to  be  most  unhappy,  and  to  know 
That  hope  is  irrecoverably  fled  ; 
If  to  be  great  and  wretched  may  deserve 
Comfniseration  from  the  brave;  behold. 
Thou  glorious  leader  of  unconquer'd  bands. 
Behold,  descended  from  Darius'  loins. 
The   afflicted  Ariana;  and  my  pray'r 
.Accept  with  pity,  nor  my  tears  disdain. 
First,  that  I  loved  the  best  of  human  race. 


Heroic,  wise,  adorn 'd  by  every  art. 

Of  shame  unconscious  doth  my  heart  reveal. 

This  day,  in  Grecian  arms  conspicuous  clad. 

He  fought,  he  fell.     A  passion,  long  conceal'd. 

For  me,  alas !  within  my  brother's  arms. 

His  dying  breath  resigning,  he  disclosed. 

Oh  !  I  will  stay  my  sorrows !  will  forbid 

My  eyes  to  stream  before  thee,  and  my  breast, 

O'erwhehn'd  by  anguish,  will  from  sighs  restrain ! 

For  why  should  thy  humanity  be  grieved 

At  my  distress  ?  why  learn  from  me  to  mourn 

The  lot  of  mortals  doom'd  to  pain  and  woe. 

Hear  then,  O  king,  and  grant  my  sole  request. 

To  seek  his  body  in  the  heaps  of  slain. 

Thus  to  the  hero  sued  the  royal  maid. 
Resembling  Ceres  in  majestic  woe, 
When  supplicating  Jove,  from  Stygian  gloom. 
And  Pluto's  black  embraces,  to  redeem 
Her  loved  and  lost  Proserpina.     A  while 
On  Ariana  fixing  stedfast  eyes. 
These  tender  thoughts  Leonidas  recall'd. 

Such  are  thy  sorrows,  oh  for  ever  dear, 
Who  now  at  Lacedaemon  dost  deplore 
My  everlasting  absence.     Then  aside 
He  turn'd  and  sigh'd.     Recov'ring,  he  address'd 
His  brother.     Most  beneficent  of  men, 
Attend,  assist  this  princess.     Night  retires 
Before  the  purple-winged  morn.     A  band 
Is  call'd.     "The  well-remember'd  spot  they  find, 
Where  Teribazus  from  his  dying  hand 
Dropt  in  their  sight  his  formidable  sword. 
Soon  from  beneath  a  pile  of  Asian  dead 
They  draw  the  hero,  by  his  armour  known. 

Then,  Ariana,  what  transcending  pangs 
Were  thine !  what  horrors !  In  thy  tender  breast 
Love  still  was  mightiest.     On  the  bosom  cold 
Of  Teribazus,  grief-distracted  maid,  [hue 

Thy  beauteous  limbs  were  thrown.     Thy  snowy 
The  clotted  gore  disfigured.     On  his  wounds 
Loose  flow'd  thy  hair;  and,  bubbling  from  thy  eyes; 
Impetuous  sorrow  laved  th'  empurpled  clay. 
*  *  *  * 

Then,  with  no  trembling  hand,  no  change  of 
look. 
She  drew  a  poniard,  which  her  garment  veil'd ; 
And  instant  sheathing  in  her  heart  the  blade. 
On  her  slain  lover  silent  sunk  in  death. 
The  unexpected  stroke  prevents  the  care 
Of  Ajiis,  pierced  by  horror  and  distress, 
Like  one,  who,  standing  on  a  stormy  beach, 
Beholds  a  found'ring  vessel,  by  the  deep 
At  once  engulf 'd  ;  his  pity  feels  and  mourns, 
Deprived  of  pow'r  to  save  :  so  Agis  view'd 
The  prostrate  pair.     He  dropp'd  a  tear,  and  thus 

Oh  !   much  lamented  !  Heavy  on  your  heads 
Hath  evil  fall'n,  which  o'er  your  pale  remains 
Commands  this  sorrow  from  a  stranger's  eye. 
Illustrious  ruins  !  May  the  grave  impart 
That  peace  which  life  denied  !  and  now  receive 
This  pious  office  from  a  hand  unknown. 

He  spake,  unclasping  from  his  shoulders  broad 
His  ample  robe.     He  strew'd  the  waving  folds 
O'er  each  wan  visage;  turning  then  address'd 
The  slave,  in  mute  dejection  standing  near. 

Thou,  who,  attendant  on  this  hapless  fair. 


r)36 


RICHARD  GLOVER. 


Hast  view  d  this  dreadful  spectacle,  return. 
These  bleeding  relics  bear  to  Persia's  king, 
Thou  with  four  captives,  whom  I  free  from  bonds. 


FROM  BOOK  XII. 
Song  of  the  Priestosg  of  the  Muses  to  the  chosen  Band  after 
their  Return  from  the  Inroad  into  the  I'ersian  Camp,  on 
the  Night  before  the  Battle  of  Thermopylte. 

Back  to  the  pass  in  gentle  march  he  leads 
Th'  embattled  warriors.    They,  behind  the  shrubs, 
Where  Medon  sent  such  numbers  to  the  shades, 
In  ambush  lie.     The  tempest  is  o'erblown. 
Soft  breezes  only  from  the  Malian  wave 
O'er  each  grim  face,  besmear'd  with  smoke  and 

gore. 
Their  cool  refreshment  breathe.  The  healing  gale, 
A  crystal  rill  near  CEta's  verdant  feet, 
Dispel  the  languor  from  their  harass'd  nerves. 
Fresh  braced  by  strength  returning.     O'er  their 
Lo!  in  full  blaze  of  majesty  appears  [heads 

Melissa,  bearing  in  her  hand  divine 
Th'  eternal  guardian  of  illustrious  deeds, 
The  sweet  Phoebean  lyre.     Her  graceful  train 
Of  white-robed  virgins,  seated  on  a  range 
Half  down  the  cliff,  o'ershadowing  the  Greeks, 
All  with  concordant  strings,  and  accents  clear, 
A  torrent  pour  of  melody,  and  swell 
A  high,  triumphal,  solemn  dirge  of  praise, 
Anticipating  fame.     Of  endless  joys 
In  bless'd  Elysium  was  the  song.     Go,  meet 
Lycurgus,  Solon,  and  Zaleucus  sage. 
Let  them  salute  the  children  of  their  laws. 
Meet  Homer,  Orpheus  and  th'  Ascrsean  bard, 
Who  with  a  spirit,  by  ambrosial  food 
Refined,  and  more  exalted,  shall  contend 
Your  splendid  fate  to  warble  through  the  bow'rs 
Of  amaranth  and  myrtle  ever  young. 
Like  your  renown.     Your  ashes  we  will  cull. 
In  yonder  fane  deposited,  your  urns. 
Dear  to  the  Muses,  shall  our  lays  inspire. 
Whatever  ofTring,  genius,  science,  art 
Can  dedicate  to  virtue,  shall  be  yours. 
The  gifts  of  all  the  Muses,  to  transmit 
You  on  th'  enliven'd  canvas,  marble,  brass, 
In  wisdom's  volume,  in  the  poet's  song. 
In  every  tongue,  through  every  age  and  clime. 
You  of  this  earth  the  brightest  flow'rs,  not  crept. 
Transplanted  only  to  immortal  bloom 
Of  praise  with  men,  of  happiness  with  gods. 


ADMIRAL  HOSIER'S  GHOST. 

ON  THE  TAKING    OF   POETOBELLO   FROM   THE   SPANURDS  BY 
ADMIRAL  VFJINON.*      NoV.  22,  1739. 

As  near  Porto-Bello  lying 

On  the  gently  swelling  flood. 
At  midnight  with  streamers  flying. 

Our  triumphant  navy  rode  ; 

[*  The  case  of  Hosier,  which  is  here  80  patlietically 
represented,  was  hricfiy  this.  In  April  172fi  that  com- 
mander was  sent  with  a  strong  fleet  into  the  Spanish 
West  Indies,  to  blor'k  up  the  galloons  in  the  ports  of  that 
country,  or,  should  they  presume  to  come  out,  to  seize 
and  carry  them  into  England;  he  accnrdin^rly  arrived  at 
th<>  Ha«(imcntoes  near  Porto-Bello.  hut  being  employed 
rather  to  overawe  than  to  attack  the  Spaniards,  with  whom 
it  wa«  probably  not  our  interest  to  go  to  war,  he  conti- 


There  while  Vernon  sat  all-glorious 
From  the  Spaniards'  late  defeat ; 

And  his  crews,  with  shouts  victorious, 
Drank  success  to  England's  fleet: 

On  a  sudden, shrilly  sounding, 

Hideous  yells  and  shrieks  were  heard; 
Then  each  heart  with  fear  confounding, 

A  sad  troop  of  ghosts  appear'd. 
All  in  dreary  hammocks  shrouded, 

Which  for  winding  sheets  they  wore, 
And  with  looks  by  sorrow  clouded, 

Frowning  on  that  hostile  shore. 

On  them  gleam'd  the  moon's  wan  lustre, 

When  the  shade  of  Hosier  brave 
His  pale  bands  were  seen  to  muster, 

Rising  from  their  wat'ry  grave : 
O'er  the  glimm'ring  wave  he  hied  him, 

Where  the  Burfordf  rear'd  her  sail. 
With  three  thousand  ghosts  beside  him 

And  in  groans  did  Vernon  hail. 

"  Heed,  oh  heed,  our  fatal  story, 

I  am  Hosier's  injured  ghost. 
You,  who  now  have  purchased  glory 

At  this  place  where  I  was  lost ; 
Though  in  Porto-Bello's  ruin 

You  now  triumph  free  from  fears, 
When  you  think  on  our  undoing, 

You  will  mix  your  joy  with  tears. 

«  See  these  mournful  spectres,  sweeping 

Ghastly  o'er  this  hated  wave. 
Whose  wan  cheeks  are  stain'd  with  weeping  •, 

These  were  English  captains  brave : 
Mark  those  numbers  pale  and  horrid, 
Those  were  once  my  sailors  bold, 
Lo !  each  hangs  his  drooping  forehead, 

While  his  dismal  tale  is  told. 

"  I,  by  twenty  sail  attended. 

Did  the  Spanish  town  aflfright : 
Nothing  then  its  wealth  defended 

But  my  orders  not  to  fight: 
Oh  !  that  in  this  rolling  ocean 

I  had  cast  them  with  disdain. 
And  obey'd  my  heart's  warm  motion. 

To  have  quell'd  the  pride  of  Spain 

"  For  resistance  I  could  fear  none. 

But  with  twenty  ships  had  done 
What  thou,  brave  and  happy  Vernon, 

Hast  achieved  with  six  alone. 
Then  the  Bastimentos  never 

Had  our  foul  dishonour  seen. 
Nor  the  sea  the  sad  receiver 

Of  this  gallant  train  had  been. 

nucd  long  inactive  on  that  station,  to  his  own  great  regrrt. 
He  afterward  removed  to  Carthauena,  and  remained  cruis- 
ing in  these  seas  till  far  the  greater  part  of  his  men  pe- 
ri.^hed  deplorably  by  (he  diseases  of  that  unhealthy  climate. 
This  brave  man  seeinjr  his  best  officers  and  men  thus 
daily  swept  away,  his  ships  exposed  to  inevitable  destruc- 
tion, and  himself  made  tlie  sport  of  the  enemy,  is  said  to 
have  died  of  a  broken  heart  — Percy.] 
[t  Admiral  Vernon's  ship.] 


JOHN-  HALL  STEPHENSON. 


637 


"  Thus,  like  thee,  proud  Spain  dismaying, 

And  her  galleons  leading  home. 
Though  condemn'd  for  disobeying, 

I  had  met  a  traitor's  doom; 
To  have  fall'n,  my  country  crying 

He  has  play'd  an  English  part, 
Had  been  better  far  than  dying 

Of  a  grieved  and  broken  heart. 

"  Unrepining  at  thy  glory. 

Thy  successful  arms  we  hail ; 
But  remember  our  sad  story. 

And  let  Hosier's  wrongs  prevail. 
Sent  in  this  foul  clime  to  languish. 

Think  what  thousands  fell  in  vain. 
Wasted  with  disease  and  anguish, 

Not  in  glorious  battle  slain. 


"Hence,  with  all  my  train  attending 

From  their  oozy  tombs  below. 
Through  the  hoary  foam  ascending, 

Here  I  feed  my  constant  woe : 
Here  the  Bastimentos  viewing, 

We  recall  our  shameful  doom. 
And  our  plaintive  cries  renewing. 

Wander  through  the  midnight  gloom. 

"  O'er  these  waves  for  ever  mourning 

Shall  we  roam  deprived  of  rest. 
If  to  Britain's  shores  returning, 

You  neglect  my  just  request. 
Afler  this  proud  foe  subduing. 

When  your  patriot  fi-iends  you  see. 
Think  on  vengeance  for  my  ruin. 

And  for  England  shamed  in  me."* 


JOHN  HALL  STEPHENSON. 


[Boni,lT18.    Died,  1785.] 


I  HAVE  met  with  no  account  of  this  writer's 
life,  nor  have  I  been  very  anxious  to  seek  for  it, 


as  a  volume  of  poems,  which  bears  his  name,  i* 
disgraced  by  obscenity. 


THE  BLACKBIRD.    A  MACARONI  FABLE. 

In  concert  with  the  curfew  bell. 
An  Owl  was  chanting  vespers  in  his  cell ; 
Upon  the  outside  of  the  wall, 
A  blackbird,  famous  in  that  age. 
From  a  bow-window  in  the  hall, 
Hung  dangling  in  a  wicker  cage ; 
Instead  of  psalmody  and  prayers. 
Like  those  good  children  of  St.  Francis, 
He  secularized  all  his  airs, 
And  took  delight  in  wanton  fancies. 
Whilst  the  bell  toll'd,  and  the  Owl  chanted. 
Every  thing  was  calm  and  still ; 
All  nature  seem'd  rapt  and  enchanted. 
Except  the  querulous,  unthankful  rill; 
Unawed  by  this  imposing  scene. 
Our  Blackbird  the  enchantment  broke  ; 
Flourish'd  a  sprightly  air  between. 
And  whistled  the  Black  Joke. 
This  lively  unexpected  motion 
Set  nature  in  a  gayer  light ; 
Quite  overturn'd  the  monks'  devotion, 
And  scatter'd  all  the  gloom  of  night. 
I  have  been  taught  in  early  youth. 
By  an  expert  metaphysician, 
That  ridicule's  the  test  of  truth. 
And  only  match  for  superstition, 
Imposing  rogues,  with  looks  demure. 
At  Rome  keep  all  the  world  in  awe ; 
Wit  is  profane,  learning  impure, 
And  reasoning  against  the  law. 
Between  two  tapers  and  a  book. 
Upon  a  dresser  clean  and  neat, 
Behold  a  sacerdotal  cook, 
Cooking  a  dish  of  heavenly  meat ! 


How  fine  he  curtsies !    Make  your  bow ; 
Thump  your  breast  soundly,  beat  your  poll; 
Lo !  he  has  toss'd  up  a  ragout. 
To  fill  the  belly  of  your  soul. 
Even  here  there  are  some  holy  men 
Would  fain  lead  people  by  the  nose ; 
Did  not  a  blackbird,  now  and  then. 
Benevolently  interpose. 
My  good  Lord  Bishop,  Mr.  Dean, 
You  shall  get  nothing  by  your  spite ; 
Tristram  shall  whistle  at  your  spleen. 
And  put  Hypocrisy  to  flight. 


TO  MISS . 

Thanks  to  your  wiles,  deceitful  fair. 
The  gods  so  long  in  vain  implored, 

At  last  have  heard  a  wretch's  prayer; 
At  last  I  find  myself  restored. 

From  thy  bewitching  snares  and  thee  ■ 
I  feel  for  once  this  is  no  dream : 

I  feel  my  captive  soul  is  free ; 
And  I  am  truly  what  I  seem. 
*  *  » 

Without  a  blush  your  name  I  hear. 
No  transient  glow  my  bosom  heats ; 

And  when  I  meet  your  eye,  my  dear. 
My  fluttering  heart  no  longer  beats. 


[*  I  was  much  amused  with  Ijearing  old  Leonidaa 
Glover  sing  hi'<  own  fine  bnllail  of  H  tier'f  Qhnsl,  which 
WHS  very  affpctin);.  He  is  past  eight). — Haknai!  Mob> 
Life,  vol.  1.  p.  406.] 

3  D 


638 


EDWARD  THOMPSON. 


I  dream,  but  I  no  longer  find 
Your  form  still  present  to  my  view; 

1  wake,  but  now  my  vacant  mind 
No  longer  waking  dreams  of  you. 
*  *  * 

I  meet  you  now  without  alarms, 
Nor  longer  fearful  to  displease, 

I  talk  with  ease  about  your  charms, 
E'en  with  my  rival  talk  with  ease. 

Whether  in  angry  mood  you  rise, 
Or  sweetly  sit  with  placid  guile, 

Vain  is  the  lightning  of  your  eyes. 
And  vainer  still  your  gilded  smile. 

Loves  in  your  smiles  no  longer  play ; 

Your  lips,  your  tongue  have  lost  their  art ; 
Those  eyes  have  now  forgot  the  way 

That  led  directly  to  my  heart. 


Hear  me ;  and  judge  if  I'm  sincere ; 

That  you  are  beauteous  still  I  swear : 
But  oh  !  no  longer  you  appear 

The  fairest,  and  the  only  fair. 

Hear  me;  but  let  not  truth  offend. 
In  that  fine  form,  in  many  places, 

I  now  spy  faults,  my  lovely  friend, 
Which  I  mistook  before  for  graces. 

And  yet,  though  free,  I  thought  at  first, 
With  shame  my  weakness  I  confess, 


My  agonizing  heart  would  burst. 

The  agonies  of  death  are  less. 

«  *  * 

The  little  songster  thus  you  see 

Caught  in  the  cruel  schoolboy's  toils, 

Struggling  for  life,  at  last  like  me. 

Escapes,  and  leaves  his  feather'd  spoils. 

His  plumage  soon  resumes  its  gloss. 
His  little  heart  soon  waxes  gay ; 

Nor  falls,  grown  cautious  from  his  loss, 
To  artifice  again  a  prey. 

*  *  * 

It  is  not  love,  it  is  not  pique. 

That  gives  my  whole  discourse  this  cast ; 
'Tis  nature  that  delights  to  speak 

Eternally  of  dangers  past. 

Carousing  o'er  the  midnight  bowl 
The  soldier  never  ceasing  prates, 

Shows  every  scar  to  every  soul, 
And  every  hair-breadth  'scape  relates. 

*  *  * 

Which  of  us  has  most  cause  to  grieve  T 
Which  situation  would  you  chuse? 

I,  a  capricious  tyrant  leave. 
And  you,  a  faithful  lover  lose. 

I  can  find  maids  in  every  rout. 

With  smiles  as  false,  and  forms  as  fine ; 
But  you  must  search  the  world  throughout 

To  find  a  heart  as  true  as  mine. 


EDWARD  THOMPSON. 


[Born,  1738.     Died,  1786.] 


Captain  Edward  Thompson  was  a  native  of 
Hull,  and  went  to  sea  so  early  in  life  as  to  be 
precluded  from  the  advantages  of  a  liberal  educa- 
tion. At  the  age  of  nineteen,  he  acted  as  lieu- 
tenant on  board  the  Jason,  in  the  engagement  off 
Ushant,  between  Hawke  and  Conflans.  Coming 
to  London  after  the  peace,  he  resided,  for  some 
time,  in  Kew-lane,  where  he  wrote  some  light 
pieces  for  the  stage,  and  some  licentious  poems ; 
the  titles  of  which  need  not  be  revived.  At  the 
breaking  out  of  the  American  war,  Garrick's 
interest  obtained  promotion  for  him  in  his  own 
profession  ;  and  he  was  appointed  to  the  com- 
mand of  the  Hysena  frigate,  and  made  his  fortune 


by  the  single  capture  of  a  French  East  Indiaman. 
He  was  afterward  in  Rodney's  action  ofl  Cape 
St.  Vincent,  and  brought  home  the  tidings  of  the 
victory.  His  death  was  occasioned  by  a  fever, 
which  he  caught  on  board  the  Grampus,  while 
he  commanded  that  vessel  off  the  coast  of  Africa. 
Though  a  dissolute  man,  he  had  the  character 
of  an  able  and  humane  commander. 

A  few  of  his  sea  songs  are  entitled  to  remem- 
brance. Besides  his  poems  and  dramatic  pieces, 
he  published  "Letters  of  a  Sailor;"  and  edited 
the  works  of  John  Oldham,  P.  Whitehead,  and 
Andrew  Marvell.  For  the  last  of  those  tasks  he 
was  grossly  unqualified. 


THE  SAILOR'S  FAREWELL. 


The  topsails  shiver  in  the  wind. 
The  ship  she  casts  to  sea  ; 

But  yet  my  soul,  my  heart,  my  mind. 
Are,  Mary,  moor'd  by  thee: 

For  '.hough  thy  sailor's  bound  afar, 

Still  love  shall  be  his  leading  star. 


Should  landmen  flatter  when  we're  sail'd, 

Oh  doubt  their  artful  tales ; 
No  gallant  sailor  ever  fail'd. 

If  Cupid  fill'd  his  sails: 
Thou  art  the  compass  of  my  soul, 
Which  steers  my  heart  from  pole  to  pole. 


HENRY  HEADLEY. 


639 


Sirens  in  every  port  we  meet, 
More  fell  than  rocks  and  waves ; 

But  sailors  of  the  British  fleet 
Are  lovers,  and  not  slaves: 

No  foes  our  courage  shall  subdue, 

Although  we've  left  our  hearts  with  you. 

These  are  our  cares ;  but  if'you're  kind 
We'll  scorn  the  dashing  main, 

The  rocks,  the  billows,  and  the  wind, 
The  powers  of  France  and  Spain. 

Now  Britain's  glory  rests  with  you, 

Our  sails  are  full — sweet  girls,  adieu ! 


SONG. 


Behold  upon  the  swelling  wave, 
With  streaming  pendants  gay, 

Our  gallant  ship  invites  the  brave, 
While  glory  leads  the  way ; 

And  a  cruising  we  will  go. 

Whene'er  Monsieur  comes  in  view. 

From  India  richly  fraught. 
To  gain  the  prize  we're  firm  and  true, 

And  fire  as  quick  as  thought. 

With  hearts  of  oak  we  ply  each  gun, 

Nor  fear  the  least  dismay ; 
We  either  take,  or  sink,  or  burn, 

Or  make  them  run  away. 

The  lovely  maids  of  Britain's  isle 
We  sailors  ne'er  despise ; 


Our  courage  rises  with  each  smile, 
For  them  we  take  each  prize. 

The  wind  sets  fair,  the  vessel's  trim, 

Then  let  us  boldly  go ; 
Old  Neptune  guides  us  while  we  swim, 

To  check  the  haughty  foe. 

United  let  each  Briton  join. 

Courageously  advance. 
We'll  baffle  every  vain  design, 

And  check  the  pride  of  France. 


SONO. 


Loose  every  sail  to  the  breeze. 
The  course  of  my  vessel  improve ; 

I've  done  with  the  toils  of  the  seas. 
Ye  sailors,  I'm  bound  to  my  love. 

Since  Emma  is  true  as  she's  fair. 
My  griefs  I  fling  all  to  the  wind : 

'Tis  a  pleasing  return  for  my  care. 
My  mistress  is  constant  and  kind. 

My  sails  are  all  fill'd  to  my  dear ; 

What  tropic  bird  swifter  can  move  ? 
Who,  cruel,  shall  hold  his  career 

That  returns  to  the  nest  of  his  love ! 

Hoist  every  sail  to  the  breeze, 

Come,  shipmates,  and  join  in  the  song; 
Let's  drink,  while  ihe  ship  cuts  the  seas. 

To  the  gale  that  may  drive  her  along. 


HENRY  HEADLEY. 


[Born,  1T66.    Died,  178S.] 


Henrt  Hkadlet,  whose  uncommon  talents 
were  lost  to  the  world  at  the  age  of  twenty-two, 
was  born  at  Irstead,  in  Norfolk.  He  received 
his  education  at  the  grammar-school  of  Norwich, 
under  Dr.  Parr :  and,  at  the  age  of  sixteen,  was 
admitted  a  member  of  Trinity  College,  Oxford. 
There  the  example  of  Thomas  Warton,  the  senior 
of  his  college,  led  him  to  explore  the  beauties  of 
our  elder  poets.  About  the  age  of  twenty  he 
published  some  pieces  of  verse,  which  exhibit  no 
very  remarkable  promise;  but  his  "Select 
Beauties  of  the  Ancient  English  Poets,"  which 
appeared  in  the  following  year,  were  accompanied 
with  critical  observations,  that  showed  an  unpa- 
ralleled ripeness  of  mind  for  his  years.  On 
leaving  the  university,  after  a  residence  of  four 
years,  he  married,  and  retired  to  Matlock,  in 
Derbyshire.  His  matrimonial  choice  is  said  to 
have  been  hastily  formed,  amid  the  anguish  of 
disappointment  in  a  previous  attachment.     But 


short  as  his  life  was,  he  survived  the  lady  whom 
he  married. 

The  symptoms  of  consumption  having  appeared 
in  his  constitution,  he  was  advised  to  try  the 
benefit  of  a  warmer  climate;  and  he  took  the 
resolution  of  repairing  to  Lisbon,  unattended  by 
a  single  friend.  On  landing  at  Lisbon,  far  from 
feeling  any  relief  from  the  climate,  he  found  him- 
self oppressed  by  its  sultriness;  and  in  this 
forlorn  state,  was  on  the  point  of  expiring,  when 
Mr.  De  Vismes,  to  whom  he  had  received  a  letter 
of  introduction  from  the  late  Mr.  Windham,  con- 
veyed him  to  his  healthful  villa,  near  Cintra, 
allotted  spacious  apartments  for  his  use,  procured 
for  him  the  ablest  medical  assistance,  and  treated 
him  with  every  kindness  and  amusement  that 
could  console  his  sickly  existence.  But  his 
malady  proved  incurable;  and,  returning  to 
England  at  the  end  of  a  few  months,  he  expired 
at  Norwich. 


640 


THOMAS  RUSSELL. 


FROM  HIS  "INVOCATIOX  TO  MELANCHOLY." 
*  ♦  *  * 

Child  of  the  potent  spell  and  nimble  eye, 
Young  Fancy,  oft  in  rainbow  vest  array'd, 
Points  to  new  scenes  that  in  succession  pass 
Across  the  wond'rous  mirror  that  she  bears, 
And  bids  thy  unsated  soul  and  wondering  eye 
A  wider  range  o'er  all  her  prospects  take ; 
Lo,  at  her  call,  New  Zealand's  wastes  arise ! 
Casting  their  shadows  far  along  the  main. 
Whose  brows,  cloud-capp'd  in  joyless  majesty, 
No  human  foot  hath  trod  since  time  began ; 
Here  death-like  silence  ever-brooding  dwells. 
Save  when  the  watching  sailor  startled  hears, 
Far  from  his  native  land  at  darksome  night, 
The  shrill-toned  petrel,  or  the  penguin's  voice, 
That  skim  their  trackless  flight  on  lonely  wing, 
Through  the  bleak  regions  of  a  nameless  main : 
Here  danger  stalks,  and  drinks  with  glutted  ear 
The  wearied  sailor's  moan,  and  fruitless  sigh, 
Who,  as  he  slowly  cuts  his  daring  way, 
Affrighted  drops  his  axe,  and  stops  awhile, 
To  hear  the  jarring  echoes  length«n'd  din, 
That  fling  from  pathless  cliffs  their  sullen  sound : 
Oft  here  the  fiend  his  grisly  visage  shows, 
His  limbs,  of  giant  form,  in  vesture  clad 
Of  drear  collected  ice  and  stiffen'd  snow, 
The  same  he  wore  a  thousand  years  ago, 
That    thwarts  the   sunbeam,   and-  endures    the 
day. 

'Tis  thus,  by  Fancy  shown,  thou  kenn'st  en- 
tranced 
Long  tangled  woods,  and  ever  stagnant  lakes, 
That  know  no  zephyr  pure,  or  temperate  gale, 


By  baneful  Tigris  banks,  where  oft,  they  say. 
As  late  in  sullen  march  for  prey  he  prowls, 
The  tawny  lion  sees  his  shadow'd  form, 
At  silent  midnight  by  the  moon's  pale  gleam, 
On  the  broad  surface  of  the  dark  deep  wave; 
Here,  parch'd  at  mid-day,  oft  the  passenger 
Invokes  with  lingering  hope  the  tardy  breeze. 
And  oft  with  silent  anguish  thinks  in  vain 
On  Europe's  milder  air  and  silver  springs. 

Thou,  unappall'd,  canst  view  astounding  fear 
With  ghastly  visions  wild,  and  train  unbless'd 
Of  ashy  fiends,  at  dead  of  murky  night, 
Who  catch  the  fleeting  soul,  and  slowly  pace, 
With  visage  dimly  seen,  and  beckoning  hand. 
Of  shadowy  forms,  that,  ever  on  the  wing, 
Flit  by  the  tedious  couch  of  wan  despair. 
Methinks  I  hear  him,  with  impatient  tongue. 
The  lagging  minutes  chide,  whilst  sad  he  sits 
And  notes  their  secret  lapse  with  shaking  head. 
See,  see,  with  tearless  glance  they  mark  his  fall. 
And  close  his  bearaless  eye,  who,  trembling,  meets 
A  late  repentance,  and  an  early  grave. 

With   thine   and   elfin    Fancy's  dreams  well 
pleased, 
Safe  in  the  lowly  vale  of  letter'd  ease, 
From  all  the  dull  buffoonery  of  life. 
Thy  sacred  influence  grateful  may  I  own ; 
Nor  till  old  age  shall  lead  me  to  my  tomb. 
Quit  thee  and  all  thy  charms  with  many  a  tear. 

On  Omole,  or  cold  Soracte's  top. 
Singing  defiance  to  the  threat'ning  storm, 
Thus  the  lone  bird,  in  winter's  rudest  hour, 
Hid  in  some  cavern,  shrouds  its  ruflSed  plumes, 
And  through  the  long,  long  night,  regardless  hears 
The  wild  wind's  keenest  blast  and  dashing  rain. 


THOMAS  RUSSELL. 


[Bom.lTSJ.    Died,  1788.1 


[Thomas  Russell  was  the  son  of  an  attorney 
at  Bridport,  and  one  of  Joseph  Warton's  wonder- 
ful boys  at  Winchester  School.  He  became  fellow 
of  New  College,  Oxford,  and  died  of  consumption 
at  Bristol  Hot- Wells  in  his  twenty-sixth  year. 

His  poems  were  posthumous.     The  sonnet  on 


Philoctetes  is  very  fine;  and  of  our  young  writers, 
mature  rather  in  genius  than  in  years,  Ru.ssell 
holds  no  humble  place.  Mr.  Southey  has  num- 
bered five,  and  Russell  is  among  them — Chat- 
terton,  Bruce,  Russell,  Bampfylde,  and  Kirke 
White.] 


SONNETS. 


TO  VALCLU8A. 


What  though,  Valclusa,  the  fond  bard  be  fled. 
That  woo'd  his  fair  in  thy  sequester'd  bowers. 
Long  loved  her  living,  long  bemoan'd  her  dead, 
\nd  hung  her  visionary  shrine  with  flowers  ! 
What  though  no  more  he  teach  thy  shades  to  mourn 
The  hapless  chances  that  to  love  belong, 


As  erst  when  drooping  o'er  her  turf  forlorn, 
He  charm'd  wild  Echo  with  his  plaintive  song. 
Yet  still,  enamour'd  of  the  tender  tale. 
Pale  Passion  haunts  thy  grove's  romantic  gloom, 
Yet  still  soft  music  breathes  in  every  gale. 
Still  undecay'd  the  fairy  garlands  bloom, 
Still  heavenly  incense  fills  each  fragrant  vale. 
Still  Petrarch's  Genius  weeps  o'er  Laura's  tomb. 


JOHN  LOGAN. 


641 


SUPPOSED  TO  BK  WRITTEN  AT  LEMNOS. 
On  this  lone  isle,  whose  rugged  rocks  affright 
The  cautious  pilot,  ten  revolving  years 
Great  Paeon's  son,  unwonted  erst  to  tears. 
Wept  o'er  his  wound:  alike  each  rolling  light 
Of  heaven  he  watch'd,  and  blamed  its  lingering 

flight: 
By  day  the  sea-mew,  screaming  round  his  cave, 
Drove  slumber  from  bis  eyes,  the  chiding  wave, 


And  savage  bowlings  chased  his  dreams  by  nighf 
Hope    still   was  his;    in  each    low  breeze  thai 

sigh'd 
Through  his  rude  grot,  he  heard  a  coming  oar  : 
In  each  white  cloud  a  coming  sail  he  spied ; 
Nor  seldom  listen'd  to  the  fancied  roar 
Of  CEtna's  torrents,  or  the  hoarser  tide 
That   parts   famed    Trachis    from    th'    Euboic 

shore. 


JOHN  LOGAN. 


CBorn,  1748.    Died,  1788.] 


John  Logan  was  the  son  of  a  farmer,  in  the 
parish  of  Fala,  and  county  of  Mid-Lothian,  Scot- 
land. He  was  educated  for  the  church,  at  the 
university  of  Edinburgh.  There  he  contracted 
an  intimacy  with  Dr.  Robertson,  who  was  then 
a  student  of  his  own  standing ;  and  he  was  in- 
debted to  that  eminent  character  for  many  friendly 
offices  in  the  course  of  his  life.  After  finishing 
his  theological  studies,  he  lived  for  some  time  in 
the  family  of  Mr.  Sinclair,  of  Ulbster,  as  tutor 
to  the  late  Sir  John  Sinclair.  In  his  twenty-fifth 
year,  he  was  ordained  one  of  the  ministers  of 
Leith;  and  had  a  principal  share  in  the  scheme 
for  revising  the  psalmody  of  the  Scottish  church, 
under  the  authority  of  the  General  Assembly.  He 
contributed  to  this  undertaking  several  scriptural 
translations,  and  paraphrases,  of  his  own  compo- 
sition. Ahout  the  same  time,  he  delivered,  during 
two  successive  seasons,  in  Edinburgh,  Lectures 
on  History,  which  were  attended  with  so  much 
approbation,  that  he  was  brought  forward  as  a 
candidate  for  the  Professorship  of  History  in  the 
university ;  but,  as  the  chair  had  been  always 
filled  by  one  of  the  members  of  the  faculty  of 
advocates,  the  choice  fell  upon  another  competitor, 
who  possessed  that  qualification.  When  disap- 
pointed in  this  oliject,  he  published  the  substance 
of  his  lectures  in  a  work,  entitled,  "Elements  of 
the  Philosophy  of  History ;"  and,  in  a  separate 
essay,  "  On  the  Manners  of  Asia." 

His  poems,  which  had  hitherto  been  only  cir- 
culated in  MS.  or  printed  in  a  desultory  manner, 
were  collected  and  published  in  1781.  The 
favourable  reception  which  they  met  with,  en- 
couraged him  to  attempt  the  composition  of  a 
tragedy,  and  he  chose  the  charter  of  Runnymede 
for  bis  subject.  This  innocent  drama  was  sent 
to  the  manager  of  Covent  Garden,  by  whom  it 
was  accepted,  and  even  put  into  rehearsal ;  but, 


on  some  groundless  rumour  of  its  containing  dan- 
gerous political  matter,  the  Lord  Chamberlain 
thought  fit  to  prohibit  its  representation.  It  was, 
however,  acted  on  the  Edinburgh  boards,  and 
afterward  published;  though  without  exhibiting 
in  its  contents  any  thing  calculated  to  agitate 
either  poetical  or  political  feelings. 

In  the  mean  time  our  author  unhappily  drew 
on  himself  the  displeasure  of  his  parishioners. 
His  connection  with  the  stage  was  deemed  im- 
proper in  a  clergyman.  His  literary  pursuits 
interfered  with  his  pastoral  diligence;  and,  what 
was  worse,  he  was  constitutionally  subject  to  fits 
of  depression,  from  which  he  took  refuge  in  ine- 
briety. Whatever  his  irregularities  were,  (for 
they  have  been  differently  described,)  he  was 
obliged  to  compound  for  them,  by  resigning  his 
flock,  and  retiring  upon  a  small  annuity.  He 
came  to  London,  where  his  principal  literary  em- 
ployments were, furnishing  articles  for  the  English 
Review,  and  writing  in  vindication  of  Warren 
Hastings.  He  died  at  the  age  of  forty,  at  his 
lodgings,  in  Marlborough-street.  His  Sermons, 
which  were  published  two  years  after  his  death, 
have  obtained  considerable  popularity. 

His  "  Ode  to  the  Cuckoo"  is  the  most  agree- 
able effusion  of  his  fancy.  Burke  was  so  much 
plensed  with  it,  that,  when  he  came  to  Edinburgh, 
he  made  himself  acquainted  with  its  author.  His 
claim  to  this  piece  has  indeed  been  disputed  by 
the  relatives  of  Michael  Bruce;  and  it  is  certain, 
that  when  Bruce's  poems  were  sent  to  Logan,  he 
published  them  intermixed  with  his  own,  without 
any  marks  to  discriminate  the  respective  authors. 
He  is  further  accused  of  having  refused  to  restore 
theMSS.  Butasthe  charge  of  stealing  the  Cuckoo 
from  Bruce  was  not  brought  against  Logan  in 
his  life-time,  it  cannot,  in  charity,  stand  against  his 
memory  on  the  bare  assertion  of  bis  accusers.* 


ODE  TO  THE  CUCKOO. 
Hail,  beauteous  stranger  of  the  g^rove ! 

Thou  messenger  of  Spring ! 
Now  Heaven  repairs  thy  rural  seat, 

And  woods  thy  welcome  sing. 

What  time  the  daisy  decks  the  green, 
Thy  certain  voice  we  hear; 
81 


Hast  thou  a  star  to  guide  thy  path, 
Or  mark  the  rolling  year  1 


[*  BecauM  some  pieces  ■which  are  printed  among  the 
remnins  of  poor  Michael  Bruce,  have  been  ascribed  to 
Lo^an,  Mr.  Cbnlmers  has  not  thought  it  proper  to  admit 
Bruce's  poems  into  his  collection. — Socthjey,  Quar.  Siv 
vol.  xi.  p.  50i.J 

ZDi 


642 


JOHN  LOGAN 


Delightful  visitant !  with  thee 

I  hail  the  time  of  flowers, 
And  hear  the  sound  of  music  sweet 

From  birds  among  the  bowers. 

The  schoolboy,  wandering  through  the  wood 

To  pull  the  primrose  gay, 
Starts,  the  new  voice  of  Spring  to  hear, 

And  imitates  thy  lay. 

What  time  the  pea  puts  on  the  bloom, 

Thou  fliest  thy  vocal  vale. 
An  annual  guest  in  other  lands, 

Another  Spring  to  hail. 

Sweet  bird !  thy  bower  is  ever  green, 

Thy  sky  is  ever  clear ; 
Thou  hast  no  sorrow  in  thy  song. 

No  winter  in  thy  year ! 

Oh  could  I  fly,  I'd  fly  with  thee ! 

We'd  make,  with  joyful  wing, 
Our  annual  visit  o'er  the  globe. 

Companions  of  the  Spring. 


THE  LOVERS. 
Har.  'Tis  midnight  dark :  'tis  silence  deep, 
My  father's  house  is  hush'd  in  sleep ; 
In  dreams  the  lover  meets  his  bride. 
She  sees  her  lover  at  her  side ; 
The  mourner's  voice  is  now  suppress'd, 
A  while  the  weary  are  at  rest : 
*Tis  midnight  dark ;  'lis  silence  deep ; 
I  only  wake,  and*  wake  to  weep. 

The  window's  drawn,  the  ladder  waits, 
I  spy  no  watchman  at  the  gates ; 
No  tread  re-echoes  through  the  hall. 
No  shadow  moves  along  the  wall. 
I  am  alone.     'Tis  dreary  night. 
Oh  come,  thou  partner  of  my  flight ! 
Shield  me  from  darkness,  from  alarms; 
Oh  take  me  trembling  to  thine  arms  ! 

The  dog  howls  dismal  in  the  heath, 

The  raven  croaks  the  dirge  of  death ; 

Ah  me  !  disaster's  in  the  sound  ! 

The  terrors  of  the  night  are  round  ; 

A  sad  mischance  my  fears  forebode. 

The  demon  of  the  dark's  abroad. 

And  lures,  with  apparition  dire. 

The  night-struck  man  through  flood  and  fire. 

The  owlet  screams  ill-boding  sounds. 
The  spirit  walks  unholy  rounds; 
The  wizard's  hour  eclipsing  rolls ; 
The  shades  of  hell  usurp  the  poles : 
The  moon  retires ;  the  heaven  departs. 
From  opening  earth  a  spectre  starts : 
My  spirit  dies — Away  my  fears. 
My  love,  my  life,  my  lord  appears ! 

Hen.  I  come,  I  come,  my  love !  my  life ! 
\nd  nature's  dearest  name,  my  wife ! 


Long  have  I  loved  thee ;  long  have  sought : 
And  dangers  braved,  and  battles  fought ; 
In  this  embrace  our  evils  end  ; 
From  this  our  better  days  ascend ; 
The  year  of  suffering  now  is  o'er. 
At  last  we  meet  to  part  no  more ! 

My  lovely  bride !  my  consort,  come ! 
The  rapid  chariot  rolls  thee  home. 

Har.  I  fear  to  go 1  dare  not  stay. 

Look  back. 1  dare  not  look  that  way. 

Hen.  No  evil  ever  shall  betide 
My  love,  while  I  am  at  her  side. 
Lo!  thy  protector  and  thy  friend, 
The  arms  that  fold  thee  will  defend. 

Har.  Still  beats  my  bosom  with  alarms ; 
I  tremble  while  I'm  in  thy  arms  ! 
What  will  impassion'd  lovers  do  1 
What  have  I  done — to  follow  youl 
I  leave  a  father  torn  with  fears  ; 
I  leave  a  mother  bathed  in  tears ; 
A  brother,  girding  on  his  sword, 
Against  my  life,  against  my  lord. 

Now,  without  father,  mother,  friend, 
On  thee  my  future  days  depend ; 
Wilt  thou,  for  ever  true  to  love, 
A  father,  mother,  brother  prove  1 

O  Henry  ! to  thy  arms  I  fall. 

My  friend  !  my  husband  !  and  my  all! 
Alas !  what  hazards  may  I  run  1 
Shouldst  thou  forsake  me — Cm  undone. 

Hen.  My  Harriet,  dissipate  thy  fears, 
And  let  a  husband  wipe  thy  tears; 
For  ever  join'd  our  fates  combine. 
And  I  am  yours,  and  you  are  mine. 
The  fires  the  firmament  that  rend. 
On  this  devoted  head  descend, 
If  e'er  in  thought  from  thee  I  rove, 
Or  love  thee  less  than  now  I  love  ! 

Although  our  fathers  have  been  foes. 

From  hatred  stronger  love  arose  ; 

From  adverse  briers  that  threat'ning  stood, 

And  threw  a  horror  o'er  the  wood, 

Two  lovely  roses  met  on  high. 

Transplanted  to  a  better  sky  ; 

And,  grafted  in  one  stock,  they  grow. 

In  union  spring,  in  beauty  blow. 

Har.  My  heart  believes  my  love ;  but  still 
My  boding  mind  presages  ill: 
For  luckless  ever  was  our  love, 
Dark  as  the  sky  that  hung  above. 
While  we  embraced,  we  shook  with  fears, 
And  with  our  kisses  mingled  tears; 
We  met  with  murmurs  and  with  sighs, 
And  parted  still  with  watery  eyes. 

An  unforeseen  and  fatal  hand 

Cross'd  all  the  measures  love  had  plitnn'd 

Intrusion  marr'd  the  tender  hour, 

A  demon  started  in  the  bower ; 


ROBERT  NUGENT,  EARL  NUGENT. 


643 


If,  like  the  past,  the  future  run, 
And  my  dark  day  is  but  begun. 
What  clouds  may  hang  above  my  head! 
What  tears  may  I  have  yet  to  shed] 

hen.  Oh  do  not  wound  that  gentle  breast, 
Nor  sink,  with  fancied  ills  opprest; 
For  softness,  sweetness,  all,  thou  art, 
And  love  is  virtue  in  thy  heart. 
That  bosom  ne'er  shall  heave  again 
But  to  the  poet's  tender  strain  ; 
And  never  more  these  eyes  o'erflow 
But  for  a  hapless  lover's  woe. 

Long  on  the  ocean  tempest-tost. 
At  last  we  gain  the  happy  coast ; 
And  safe  recount  upon  the  shore 
Our  sufferings  past,  and  dangers  o'er: 
Past  scenes;  the  woes  we  wept  erewhile 
Will  make  our  future  minutes  smile: 
When  sudden  joy  from  sorrow  springs, 
How  the  heart  thrills  through  all  its  strings ! 

Har.  My  father's  castle  springs  to  sight; 
Ye  towers  that  gave  me  to  the  light ! 
O  hills  !   O  vales  !   where  I  have  play'd ; 
Ye  woods,  that  wrap  me  in  your  shade ! 
O  scenes  I've  often  wander'd  o'er ! 

0  scenes  I  shall  behold  no  more  ! 

1  take  a  long,  last,  lingering  view: 
Adieu  !  my  native  land,  adieu  ! 

O  father,  mother,  brother  dear ! 
0  names  still  utter'd  with  a  tear  ! 
Upon  whose  knees  I've  sat  and  smiled, 
Whose  griefs  my  blandishments  beguiled; 
Whom  I  forsake  in  sorrows  old. 
Whom  I  shall  never  more  behold  ! 


Farewell,  my  friends,  a  long  farewell, 
Till  time  shall  toll  the  funeral  knell. 

Hen.  Thy  friends,  thy  father's  house  resign ; 
My  friends,  my  house,  my  all  is  thine: 
Awake,  arise,  my  wedded  wife, 
To  higher  thoughts,  and  happier  life! 
For  thee  the  marriage  feast  is  spread, 
For  thee  the  virgins  deck  the  bed ; 
The  star  of  Venus  shines  above, 
And  all  thy  future  life  is  love. 

They  rise,  the  dear  domestic  hours ! 
The  .May  of  love  unfolds  her  flow'rs; 
Youth,  beauty,  pleasure,  spread  the  feast, 
And  friendship  sits  a  constant  guest; 
In  cheerful  peace  the  morn  ascends. 
In  wine  and  love  the  evening  ends; 
At  distance  grandeur  sheds  a  ray. 
To  gild  the  evening  of  our  day. 

Connubial  love  has  dearer  names, 
And  finer  ties,  and  sweeter  claims, 
Than  e'er  uiiwedded  hearts  can  feel, 
Than  wedded  hearts  can  e'er  reveal ; 
Pure  as  the  charities  above. 
Rise  the  sweet  sympathies  of  love; 
And  closer  cords  than  those  of  life 
Unite  the  husband  to  the  wife. 

Like  cherubs  new  come  from  the  skies, 
Henrys  and  Harriets  round  us  rise ; 
And  playing  wanton  in  the  hall. 
With  accent  sweet  their  parents  call ; 
To  your  fair  images  I  run. 
You  clasp  the  husband  in  the  son; 
O  how  the  mother's  heart  will  bound ; 
O  how  the  father's  joy  be  crown'd  ! 


ROBERT  NUGENT,  EARL  NUGENT. 


[Born,  1709.     Died,  1788.] 


Robert  Nugent  was  descended  from  the 
Nuijents  of  Carlanstown,  in  the  county  of  West- 
meath,  and  was  a  younger  son  of  Michael  Nugent, 
by  the  daughter  of  Robert  Lord  Trimlestown. 
In  the  year  1741,  he  was  elected  member  of 
parliament  for  St.  Mawes,  in  Cornwall ;  and, 
becoming  attached  to  the  party  of  the  Prince  of 
Wales,  was  appointed  in  (1747)  comptroller  of 
his  Royal  Highness's  household.  On  the  death 
of  the  Prince  he  made  his  peace  with  the  court, 
and  was  named  successively  a  lord  of  the  trea- 
sury, one  of  the  vice-treasurers  of  Ireland,  and 
,.  lord  of  trade.  In  1767  he  was  created  Baron 
Nugent  and  Viscount  Clare,  and  subsequently 
Earl  Nugent.  He  was  thrice  married.  His 
second  wile,  with  whom  he  acquired  a  large  for- 
tune, was  sister  and  heiress  to  Secretary  Craggs, 
the  friend  of  Addison. 


His  political  character  was  neither  independent 
nor  eminent,  except  for  such  honours  as  the  court 
could  bestow ;  but  we  are  told  that  in  some  in- 
stances he  stood  forth  as  an  advocate  for  the  inte- 
rests of  Ireland.  His  zeal  for  the  manufactures 
of  his  native  island^pduced  him,  on  one  occasion, 
to  present  the  queen  with  a  new-year's  gift  of 
Irish  grogham,  accompanied  with  a  copy  of  verses; 
and  it  was  wickedly  alleged,  that  her  majesty  had 
returned  her  thanks  to  the  noble  author  for  both 
his  pieces  of  stuff, 

A  volume  of  his  poems  was  published  anony- 
mously, by  Dodsley,  in  1739.  Lord  Orford  re- 
marks, that  "  he  was  one  of  those  men  of  parts, 
whose  dawn  was  the  brightest  moment  of  a  long 
life.  He  was  first  known  by  a  very  spirited  ode 
on  his  conversion  from  popery  ;  yet  he  relapsed 
to  the  faith   he  had   abjured.     On  the  circuot 


644 


ROBERT  NUGENT,  EARL  NUGENT. 


stance  of  his  re-conversion  it  is  uncharitable  to 
lay  much  stress  against  his  memory.  There  have 
been  instances  of  it  in  men,  whom  either  church 
would  have  been  proud  to  appropriate.  But  it 
cannot  be  denied  that  his  poem  on  Faith  formed, 


at  a  late  period  of  his  life,  an  anti-climax  to  the 
first  promise  of  his  literary  talents;  and  though 
he  possessed  abilities,  and  turned  them  to  hia 
private  account,  he  rose  to  no  public  confidence 
as  a  statesman.* 


ODE  TO  WILUAM  PULTENEY,  ESQ-f 

Remote  fi-om  liberty  and  truth. 
By  fortune's  crime,  my  early  youth 

Drank  error's  poison'd  springs, 
Taught  by  dark  creeds  and  mystic  law, 
Wrapt  up  in  reverential  awe, 

I  bow'd  to  priests  and  kings. 

Soon  reason  dawn'd,  with  troubled  sight 
I  caught  the  glimpse  of  painful  light. 

Afflicted  and  afraid ; 
Too  weak  it  shone  to  mark  my  way, 
Enough  to  tempt  my  steps  to  stray 

Along  the  dubious  shade. 

Restless  I  roam'd,  when  from  afar 
Lo,  Hooker  shines !  the  friendly  star 

Sends  forth  a  steady  ray. 
Thus  cheer'd,  and  eager  to  pursue, 
I  mount,  till  glorious  to  my  view, 

Locke  spreads  the  realms  of  day. 

Now  warm'd  with  noble  Sidney's  page, 
I  pant  with  all  the  patriot's  rage ; 

Now  wrapt  in  Plato's  dream, 
With  More  and  Harrington  around 
I  tread  fair  Freedom's  magic  ground. 

And  trace  the  flatt'ring  scheme. 

But  soon  the  beauteous  vision  flies; 
And  hideous  spectres  now  arise, 

Corruption's  direful  train: 
The  partial  judge  perverting  laws, 
The  priest  forsaking  virtue's  cause, 

And  senates  slaves  to  gain. 

Vainly  the  pious  artist's  toil 
Would  rear  to  heaven  a  mortal  pile. 

On  some  immortal  plan  ; 
Within  a  sure,  though  varying  date, 
Confined,  alas !  is  every  state 

Of  empire  and  of  man. 

What  though  the  good,  thebrave,  the  wise. 
With  adverse  force  undaunted  rise. 

To  break  the  eternal  doom  ! 
Though  Cato  lived,  though  Tully  spoke. 
Though  Brutus  dealt  the  godlike  stroke, 

Yet  perish'd  fated  Rome.J 


[•  Ooldsmith.  whoxdmittpfl  his  Epistle  to  a  Lady  amon<; 
his  Beauties  of  British  I'oetry,  addressed  his  Haunch  <^ 
Timixon  to  him. 

"  I  am  told,"  writes  Mr.  John  Qmy  to  Smollett.  "  that 
Dr.  Goldsmith  now  generally  lives  with  his  countryman, 
I/Ord  Clare,  who  ha*  lo^t  his  only  son  Colonel  Nugent." 
LoTidon,  Xnly  9, 1771.    Eurnp.  Mag.  yol.  xlv.] 


To  swell  some  future  tyrant's  pride. 
Good  Fleury  pours  the  golden  tide 

On  Gallia's  smiling  shores; 
Once  more  her  fields  shall  thirst  in  vain 
For  wholesome  streams  of  honest  gain. 

While  rapine  wastes  her  stores. 

Yet  glorious  is  the  great  design. 

And  such,  O  Pulteney  !  such  is  thine. 

To  prop  a  nation's  frame  : 
If  crush'd  beneath  the  sacred  weight, 
The  ruins  of  a  falling  state 

Shall  tell  the  patriot's  name. 


ODE  TO  MANKIND. 

Is  there,  or  do  the  schoolmen  dream  ? 
Is  there  on  earth  a  power  supreme. 

The  delegate  of  heaven. 
To  whom  an  uncontroll'd  command, 
In  every  realm  o'er  sea  and  land. 

By  special  grace  is  given  1 

Then  say,  what  signs  this  god  proclaim  ? 
Dwells  he  amidst  the  diamond's  flame, 

A  throne  his  hallow'd  shrine  1 
The  borrow'd  pomp,  the  arrn'd  array. 
Want,  fear,  and  impotence,  betray 

Strange  proofs  of  power  divine ! 

If  service  due  from  human  kind. 
To  men  in  slothful  ease  reclined. 

Can  form  a  sovereign's  claim : 
Hail,  monarchs  !  ye,  whom  heaven  ordains, 
Our  toil's  unshared,  to  share  our  gains, 

Ye  idiots,  blind  and  lame  ! 

Superior  virtue,  wisdom,  might, 
Create  and  mark  the  ruler's  right, 

So  reason  must  conclude: 
Then  thine  it  is,  to  whom  belong 
The  wise,  the  virtuous,  and  the  strong. 

Thrice  sacred  multitude  ! 

In  thee,  vast  All !  are  these  contain'd, 
For  thee  are  those,  thy  parts  ordain'd, 

So  nature's  systems  roll : 
The  sceptre's  thine,  if  such  there  be ; 
If  none  there  is,  then  thou  art  free, 

Great  monarch  !  mighty  whole  ! 


[t  "Mr.  Nuprent."  savs  Gray  to  Walpole,  "sure  did  not 
write  his  own  Ode.  Mallet,  it  was  universally  believed, 
had  trimmed  and  doctored  it  up."] 

[J  ThLs  very  fine  verse  is  qjioted  by  Gibbon  in  hia  ch» 
raeter  of  Brutus, — an  honour  it  deserves.] 


ROBERT  NUGENT,  EARL  NUGENT.                                           645 

Let  the  proud  tyrant  rest  his  cause 

These  had  no  charms  to  please  the  sense. 

On  faith,  prescription,  force,  or  laws, 

No  graceful  port,  no  eloquence. 

An  host's  or  senate's  voice! 

To  win  the  Muse's  throng : 

His  voice  affirms  thy  stronger  due, 

Unknown,  unsung,  unmark'd  they  lie; 

Who  for  the  many  made  the  few. 

But  Csesar's  fate  o'ercasts  the  sky. 

And  gave  the  species  choice. 

And  Nature  mourns  his  wrong. 

Unsanctified  by  thy  command, 

Thy  foes,  a  frontless  band,  invade ; 

Unown'd  by  thee,  the  scepter'd  hand 

Thy  friends  afford  a  timid  aid. 

The  trembling  slave  may  bind  ; 

And  yield  up  half  the  right. 

But  loose  from  nature's  moral  ties. 

Ev'n  Locke  beams  forth  a  mingled  ray, 

The  oath  by  force  imposed  belies 

Afraid  to  pour  the  flood  of  day 

The  unassenting  mind. 

On  man's  too  feeble  sight. 

Thy  will's  thy  rule,  thy  good  its  end ; 

Hence  are  the  motley  systems  framed. 

You  punish  only  to  defend 

Of  right  transferr'd,  of  power  reclaim'd : 

What  parent  nature  gave: 

Distinctions  weak  and  vain. 

And  he  who  dares  her  gifts  invade. 

Wise  nature  mocks  the  wrangling  herd ; 

By  nature's  oldest  law  is  made 

For  unreclaim'd,  and  untransferr'd, 

Thy  victim  or  thy  slave. 

Her  powers  and  rights  remain. 

Thus  reason  founds  the  just  degree 

While  law  the  royal  agent  moves. 

On  universal  liberty, 

The  instrument  thy  choice  approves, 

Not  private  rights  assign'd : 

We  bow  through  him  to  you. 

Through  various  nature's  wide  extent, 

But  change,  or  cease  the  inspiring  choice. 

No  private  beings  e'er  were  meant 

The  sovereign  sinks  a  private  voice, 

To  hurt  the  general  kind. 

Alike  in  one,  or  few ! 

Thee  justice  guides,  thee  right  maintains. 

Shall  then  the  wretch,  whose  dastard  heart 

The  oppressor's  wrongs,  the  pilf'rer's  gains, 

Shrinks  at  a  tyrant's  nobler  part. 

Thy  injured  weal  impair. 

And  only  dares  betray; 

Thy  warmest  passions  soon  subside. 

With  reptile  wiles,  alas  !  prevail. 

Nor  partial  envy,  hate,  nor  pride. 

Where  force,  and  rage,  and  priestcraft  fail, 

Thy  temper'd  counsels  share. 

To  pilfer  power  away  1 

Each  instance  of  thy  vengeful  rage. 

Oh !  shall  the  bought,  and  buying  tribe, 

Collected  from  each  clime  and  age. 

The  slaves  who  take,  and  deal  the  bribe. 

Though  malice  swell  the  sum, 

A  people's  claims  enjoy  ! 

Would  seem  a  spotless  scanty  scroll. 

So  Indian  murd'rers  hope  to  gain 

Compared  with  Marius'  bloody  roll, 

The  powers  and  virtues  of  the  slain. 

Or  Sylla's  hippodrome. 

Of  wretches  they  destroy. 

But  thine  has  been  imputed  blame, 

"  Avert  it,  Heaven  !  you  love  the  brave. 

The  unworthy  few  assume  thy  name. 

You  hate  the  treach'rous,  willing  slave. 

The  rabble  weak  and  loud ; 

The  self-devoted  head ; 

Or  those  who  on  thy  ruins  feast. 

Nor  shall  an  hireling's  voice  convey 

The  lord,  the  lawyer,  and  the  priest; 

That  sacred  prize  to  lawless  sway. 

A  more  ignoble  crowd. 

For  which  a  nation  bled." 

Avails  it  thee,  if  one  devours. 

Vain  prayer,  the  coward's  weak  resource ! 

Or  lesser  spoilers  share  his  powers, ' 

Directing  reason,  active  force, 

While  both  thy  claim  oppose  1 

Propitious  heaven  l)estows. 

Monsters  who  wore  thy  sullied  crown. 

But  ne'er  shall  flame  the  thund'ring  sky, 

Tyrants  who  pull'd  those  monsters  down. 

'     To  aid  the  trembling  herd  that  fly 

Alike  to  thee  were  foes. 

Before  their  weaker  foes. 

Far  other  shone  fair  Freedom's  band, 

In  names  there  dwell  no  magic  charms. 

Far  other  was  the  immortal  stand. 

The  British  virtues,  British  arms 

When  Hampden  fought  for  thee: 

Unloosed  our  fathers'  band : 

They  snatch'd  from  rapine's  gripe  thy  spoils, 

Say,  Greece  and  Rome !  if  these  should  fail. 

The  fruits  and  prize  of  glorious  toils. 

What  names,  what  ancestors  avail. 

Of  arts  and  industry. 

To  save  a  sinking  land  1 

On  thee  yet  foams  the  preacher's  rage. 

Far,  far  from  us  such  ills  shall  be. 

On  thee  fierce  frowns  the  historian's  page, 

Mankind  shall  boast  one  nation  free. 

A  false  apostate  train  : 

One  monarch  truly  great: 

Tears  stream  adown  the  martyr's  tomb; 

Whose  title  speaks  a  people's  choice. 

Unpitied  in  their  harder  doom, 

Whose  sovereign  will  a  people's  voice 

Thy  thousands  strow  the  plain. 

Whose  strength  a  prosp'rous  state. 

WILLIAM  JULIUS  MICKLE. 


CBorn,  1734.    Died,  1T88.] 


William  Jitlius  Mickle  was  born  at  Lang- 
holDi,  in  Dunfriesshire.  His  father,  who  was  a 
clergyman  of  the  Scottish  church,  had  lived  for 
some  time  in  London,  and  had  preached  in  the 
dissenting  meeting-house  of  the  celebrated  Dr. 
Watts.  He  returned  to  Scotland  on  being  pre- 
sented to  the  living  of  Langholm,  the  duties  of 
which  he  fulfilled  for  many  years ;  and,  in  con- 
sideration of  his  long  services,  was  permitted  to 
retain  the  stipend  after  he  had  removed  to  Edin- 
burgh, for  the  better  education  of  his  children. 
His  brother-in-law  was  a  brewer  in  Edinburgh, 
on  whose  death  the  old  clergyman  unfortunately 
embarked  his  property,  in  order  to  continue  his 
business,  under  the  name  of  his  eldest  son. 
William,  who  was  a  younger  son,  was  taken  from 
the  high-school  of  Edinburgh,  and  placed  as  a 
clerk  in  the  concern  :  and,  on  coming  of  age,  took 
the  whole  responsibility  of  it  upon  himself.  When 
it  is  mentioned,  that  Mickle  had,  from  his  boyish 
years,  been  an  enthusiastic  reader  of  Spenser, 
and  that,  before  he  was  tv?enty,  he  had  composed 
two  tragedies  and  half  an  epic  poem,  which  were 
in  due  time  consigned  to  the  flames,  it  may  be 
easily  conceived  that  his  habits  of  mind  were  not 
peculiarly  fitted  for  close  and  minute  attention  to 
a  trade  which  required  incessant  superintendence. 
He  was,  besides,  unfortunate,  in  becoming  secu- 
rity tor  an  insolvent  acquaintance.  In  the  year 
1763  he  became  a  bankrupt;  and  being  appre- 
hensive of  the  severity  of  one  of  his  creditors,  he 
repaired  to  London,  feeling  the  misery  of  his  own 
circumstances  aggravated  by  those  of  his  relations 
whom  he  had  left  behind  him. 

Before  leaving  Scotland,  he  had  corresponded 
with  Lord  Lyttelton,  to  whom  he  had  submitted 
some  of  his  poems  in  MS.,  and  one,  entitled 
"  Providence,"  which  he  had  printed  in  1762. 
Lord  Lyttelton  patronised  his  Muse  rather  than 
his  fortune.  He  undertook  (to  use  his  lordship's 
own  phrase)  to  be  his  -'schoolmaster  in  poetry;" 
but  his  fastidious  blottings  could  be  of  no  service 
to  any  man  who  had  a  particle  of  genius :  and 
the  only  personal  benefit  which  he  attempied  to 
render  him  was  to  write  to  his  brother,  the 
governor  o<  Jamaica,  in  Mickle's  behalf,  when 
our  piet  had  thoughts  of  going  out  to  that  island. 
Mickle,  however,  always  spoke  with  Incoming 
liberality  of  this  connection.  He  was  pleased 
with  the  suavity  of  Lord  Lyttelton's  nianners, 
and  knew  that  his  means  of  patronage  were  very 
slender.  Li  the  me-intime,  he  lived  nearly  two 
years  in  London,  upon  remittances  from  his  friends 
in  Scotland,  and  by  writing  for  the  daily  papers. 

After  having  fluctuated  between  several  schemes 

for  subsistence,   he    at    length    accepted    of  the 

situation  of  corrector  to  the  Clarendon  press,  at 

Oxford.      Whilst   he    retained    that    office,   he 

616 


published  a  poem,  which  he  at  first  named 
«'The  Concubine;"  but  on  finding  that  the  title 
alarmed  delicate  ears,  and  suggested  a  false  idea 
of  its  spirit  and  contents,  he  changed  it  to  "  Syr 
Martyn."*  At  Oxford  he  also  engaged  in  polemi- 
cal divinity,  and  published  some  severe  animad- 
versions on  Dr.  Harwoods's  recent  translation  of 
the  New  Testament.  He  also  showed  his  fidelity 
to  the  cause  of  religion  in  a  tract,  entitled  "  Vol- 
taire in  the  Shades;  or  Dialogues  on  the  Deistical 
Controversy." 

His  greatest  poetical  undertaking  was  the 
translation  of  "  The  l^usiad,"  which  he  began  in 
1770,  and  finished  in  five  years.  For  the  sake 
of  leisure  and  retirement,  he  gave  up  his  situa- 
tion at  the  Clarendon  press,  and  resided  at  the 
house  of  a  Mr.  Tomkins,  a  farmer  at  Forest 
Hill,  near  Oxford.  The  Engli.-h  Lusiad  was 
dedicated,  by  permission  to  the  Duke  of  Buc- 
cleugh ;  but  his  Grace  returned  not  the  slightest 
notice  or  kindness  to  his  ingenious  countryman. 
Whatever  might  be  the  duke's  reasons,  good  or 
bad,  for  this  neglect,  he  was  a  man  fully  capable 
of  acting  on  his  own  judgment ;  and  there  was  no 
necessity  for  making  any  other  person  responsible 
for  his  conduct.  But  Mickle,  or  his  friends, 
suspected  that  Adam  Smith  and  David  Hume 
had  maliciously  stood  between  him  and  the 
Buccleuch  patronage.  This  was  a  mere  sus- 
picion, which  our  author  and  his  friends  ought 
either  to  have  proved  or  suppressed.  Mickle 
was  indeed  the  declared  antagonist  of  Hume  ;  he 
had  written  against  him,  and  could  not  hear  his 
name  mentioned  with  temper;  but  there  is  not 
the  slightest  evidence  that  the  hatred  was  mu- 
tual. That  Adam  Smith  should  have  done  him 
a  mean  injury,  no  one  will  believe  probable,  who 
is  acquainted  with  the  traditional  private  charac- 
ter of  that  philosopher.  But  Mickle  was  also 
the  antagonist  of  Smith's  doctrines  on  political 
economy,  as  may  be  seen  in  his  "  Dissertation 
on  the  Charter  of  the  East  India  Company."  The 
author  of  the  "  Wealth  of  Nations,"  forsooth, 
was  jealous  of  his  opinions  on  monopolies !  Even 
this  paltry  supposition  is  contradicted  by  dates, 
for  Mickle's  tract  upon  the  subject  of  Monopolies 
was  published  several  years  after  the  preface  to 
the  Lusiad.  Upon  the  whole,  the  suspicion 
of  his  philosophical  enemies  having  poisoned 
the  ear  of  the  Duke  of  Buccleuch  seems  to 
have  proceeded  from  the  same  irritable  vanity,, 
which  made    him  threaten  to  celebrate  Garrick 

[*  Mtukle'.s  facility  of  versification  was  so  great,  that, 
being  a  printer  liy  iirofosMon,  lie  frequontlv  put  liis  line? 
into  typo  without  taking  tlie  trouble  previously  to  put 
them  into  wiitiiij;;  thus  uniting  the  composition  of  the 
author  with  the  meihanical  operation  whiih  typographers 
call  by  the  same  name. — bm  Waliee  £>coit,  l\iet.  Wurki, 
vol.  i.  p.  70.) 


rJJ 


WILLIAM  JULIUS  MICKLE. 


647 


as  the  hero  of  a  second  Dunciad  when  he  re- 
fused to  accept  of  his  tragedy,  "  The  Siege  of 
Marseilles."* 

Though  the  Lusiad  had  a  tolerable  sale,  his 
circumstances  still  made  his  friends  solicitous 
that  he  should  obtain  some  settled  provision. 
Dr.  Lowth  offered  to  provide  for  him  in  the 
church.  He  refused  the  offer  with  honourable 
delicacy,  lest  his  former  writings  in  favour  of 
religion  should  be  attributed  to  the  prospect  of 
reward.  At  length  the  friendship  of  his  kins- 
man, Commodore  Johnstone,  relieved  him  from 
unsettled  prospects.  Being  appointed  to  the 
command  of  a  squadron  destined  for  the  coast 
of  Portugal,  he  took  out  the  translator  of  Camoens 
as  his  private  secretary.  Mickle  was  received 
with  distinguished  honours  at  Lisbon.  The  Duke 
of  Braganza,  in  admitting  him  a  member  of  the 
Royal  Academy  of  Lisbon,  presented  him  with 
bis  own  picture. 

He  returned  to  England  in  1780,  with  a  con- 
siderable acquisition  of  prize-money,  and  was  ap- 
pointed an  agent  for  the  distribution  of  the  prize 
profits  of  the  cruise.  His  fortune  now  enabled 
him  to  discharge  the  debts  of  his  early  and  mer- 
cantile life.  He  married  the  daughter  of  Mr. 
Tomkins,  with  whom  he  had  resided  while  trans- 
lating the  Lusiad ;  and,  with  every  prospect  of 
spending  the  remainder  of  his  life  in  affluence 
and  tranquillity,  purchased  a  house,  and  settled 
at  Wheatley,  near  Oxford.  So  far  his  circum- 
stances have  almost  the  agreeable  air  of  a  con- 
cluding novel ;  but  the  failure  of  a  banker  with 
whom  he  was  connected  as  prize  agent,  and  a 
chancery  suit  in  which  he  was  involved,  greatly 
diminished  his  finances,  and  disturbed  tlie  peace 
of  his  latter  years.  He  died  at  Forest  Hill,  after 
a  short  illness. 

His  reputation  principally  rests  upon  the  trans- 
lation of  the  Lusiad,  which  no  Englishman  had 
attempted  before  him,  except  Sir  Richard  Fan- 
shawe.  Sir  Richard's  version  is  quaint,  flat,  and 
harsh  ;  and  he  has  interwoven  many  ridiculously 
conceited  expressions  which  are  foreign  both  to 
the  spirit  and  style  of  his  original ;  but  in  gene- 
ral it  is  closer  than  the  modern  translation  to 
the  literal  meaning  of  Camoens.  Altogether, 
Fanshawe's  representation  of  the  Portuguese 
poem  may  be  compared  to  the  wrong  side  of  the 
tapestry.      Mickle,  on    the   other  hand,  is   free, 

[•In  the  year  1769  I  might  have  gone  to  the  East  Indies 
on  very  advantaiteoufi  terms.  1  have  a  relation  an  India 
Director,  and  there  are  two  others  with  whom  I  have  great 
interest:  I  mean  Johnstone  ami  Demp.«ter.  My  conduct 
ill  neglecUng  snch  ailvantajcea  apiears  to  some  of  my 
friend;  a-s  absurd  and  spiritless; — but  they  mistake  me. 
I  Mm  so  fir  from  disliking  to  venture  abroiul,  that  should 
I  fail  of  jwetical  success,  to  the  Kiist  Indies  I  will  certainly 
g);  and  it  was  only  in  the  hopes  that  my  tragedy  would 
enable  me  to  indulge  the  strong  bent  of  my  inclinations, 
tliat  in  1760  prevented  me. — Mickle  to  T.  Warion,  Oxford, 
April  IS,  1771.] 

t  A  happy  example  of  this  occurs  in  the  description  of 
Va  (iauia's  fleet  anchoring  by  moonlight  in  the  harbour 
of  Motiambique. 
"  The  moon,  full  orh'd.  forsakes  her  watery  cave, 

And  lil't^  her  lovely  head  alwve  the  wave; 

The  snowy  spenduurs  of  her  modest  ray 

dtruam  u'er  the  gUbtening  iraves,  and  glistening  play : 


flowery,  and  periphrastical ;  he  is  incomparablj 
more  spirited  than  Fanshawe ;  but  still  he  de 
parts  from  the  majestic  simplicity  of  Camoens" 
diction  as  widely  as  Pope  has  done  from  that  of 
Homer.f  The  sonorous  and  simple  language  of 
the  Lusitanian  epic  is  like  the  sound  of  a  trumpet; 
and  Mickle's  imitation  like  the  shakes  and  flou- 
rishes of  the  flute. 

Although  he  was  not  resjionsible  for  the  faults 
of  the  original,  he  has  taken  abundance  of  pains 
to  defend  them  in  his  notes  and  preface.  In 
this  he  has  not  been  successful.  The  long 
lecture  on  geography  and  Portuguese  history, 
which  Gama  delivers  to  the  king  of  Melinda,  is 
a  wearisome  interruption  to  the  narrative;  and 
the  use  of  Pagan  mythology  is  a  radical  and 
unanswerable  defect.  Mickle  informs  us  as  an 
apology  for  the  latter  circumstance,  that  all  this 
Pagan  machinery  was  allegorical,  and  that  the 
gods  and  goddesses  of  Homer  were  allegorical 
also ;  an  assertion  which  would  require  to  be 
proved,  before  it  can  be  admitted.  Camoens 
himself  has  said  something  about  his  conceal- 
ment of  a  moral  meaning  under  his  Pagan 
deities;  but  if  he  has  any  such  morality,  it  is  so 
well  hidden  tlrat  it  is  impossible  to  discover  it. 
The  Venus  of  the  Lusiad,  we  are  told,  is  Divine 
Love ;  and  how  is  this  Divine  Love  employed  ] 
For  no  other  end  than  to  give  the  poet  an 
opportunity  of  displaying  a  scene  of  sensual 
gratification,  an  island  is  purposely  raised  up  in 
the  ocean;  Venus  conducts  De  Gama  and  his 
followers  to  this  blessed  spot,  where  a  bevy  of 
the  nymphs  of  Venus  are  very  good-naturedly 
prepared  to  treat  them  to  their  favours;  not  as 
a  trial,  but  as  a  reward  for  their  virtues  !  Vol- 
taire was  certainly  justified  in  pronouncing  this 
episode  a  piece  of  gratuitous  indecency.  In  the 
same  allegorical  spirit  no  doubt,  Bacchus,  who 
opposes  the  Portuguese  discoverers  in  the  coun- 
cils of  Heaven,  disguises  himself  as  a  Popish 
priest  and  celebrates  the  rites  of  the  catholic 
religion.  The  imagination  is  somewhat  puzzled 
to  discover  why  Bacchus  should  be  an  enemy  to 
the  natives  of  a  country,  the  soil  of  which  is  so 
productive  of  his  beverage ;  and  a  friend  to  the 
Mahometans  who  forbid  the  use  of  it :  although 
there  is  something  amusing  in  the  idea  of  the 
jolly  god  oflliciating  as  a  Romish  clergyman. 

Mickle's   story  of   Syr    Martyn   is    the   most 

Around  her,  glittering  on  the  Heavens'  arch'd  brow, 
Unnumlter'd  stars  enclosed  in  azure  glow, 
Thick  as  the  dew  dn)ps  in  the  April  dawn, 
Or  May  flowers  crowdin>r  oer  the  daisy  lawn. 
The  canvas  whitens  in  the  silvery  beam. 
And  with  a  mild  pale-red  the  pendants  gleam: 
The  mart's  tall  shadows  tremble  o'er  the  deep, 
The  pe.iceful  lines  a  holy  silence  keep ; 
The  watchman's  carol,  echoed  from  the  prows. 
Alone,  at  times,  awakes  the  still  repose." 
In  this  beautiful  sea-piece,  the  circumstance  of  "  the 
mast's  tall  shadow  tromi>ling  o'er  the  deep,"  and  of  the 
"carol  of  the  watchman  echoed  from  the  prows,"  are 
touches  of  the  translator's  addition.    Mickle  has.  however, 
got  more  creiJit  Cir  improving  the  Lusiad  than  he  Jeserres. 
ICamoens  copied  litimer  in  llie  above  quotation,  and  Mickle 
had  his  eye  intently  fixed  on  Pope's  traoslatiou  of  the 
passage.] 


648 


WILLIAM  JULIUS  MICKLE. 


pleasing  of  his  original  pieces.  The  object  of 
the  narrative  is  to  exhibit  the  degrading  effects 
ot  concubinage,  in  the  history  of  an  amiable  man, 
who  is  reduced  to  despondency  and  sottishness, 
under  the  dominion  of  a  beldam  and  a  slattern. 
The  defect  of  the  moral  is,  that  the  same  evils 
might  have  happened  to  Syr  Martin  in  a  state 


of  matrimony.  The  simplicity  of  the  tale  is  also, 
unhappily,  overlaid  by  a  weight  of  allegory  and 
of  obsolete  phraseology,  which  it  has  not  import- 
ance to  sustain.  Such  a  style,  applied  to  the 
history  of  a  man  and  his  housekeeper,  is  like 
building  a  diminutive  dwelling  in  all  the  pomp  of 
Gothic  architecture.* 


FROM  "SYR  MARTIN." 
*  »  »  * 

«  Fleet  past  the  months  ere  yet  the  giddy  boy 
One  thought  bestowd  on  what  would  surely  be ; 
But  well  his  aunt  perceivd  his  dangerous  toy, 
And  sore  she  feard  her  auncient  familie 
Should  now  be  staind  with  blood  of  base  degree: 
For  sooth  to  tell,  her  liefest  hearts  delight 
Was  still  to  count  her  princely  pedigree, 
Through  barons  bold  all  up  to  Cadwall  hight. 
Thence  up  to  Trojan  Brute  ysprong  of  Venus 
bright. 

"  But,  zealous  to  forefend  her  gentle  race 
From  baselie  matching  with  plefeian  bloud. 
Whole  nights  she  schemd  to  shonne  thilke  foull 

disgrace, 
And  Kathrins  bale  in  wondrous  wrath  she  vowd: 
Yet  could  she  not  with  cunningportaunce  shroud, 
So  as  might  best  succede  her  good  intent. 
But  clept  her  lemman  and  vild  slut  aloud  ; 
That  soon  she  should  her  gracelesse  thewes  re- 
pent, 
And  stand  in  long  white  sheet  before  the  parson 
shent." 

So  spake  the  wizard,  and  his  hand  he  wavd. 
And  prompt  the  scenerie  rose,  where  listless  lay 
The  knight  in  shady  bowre,  by  streamlet  lavd. 
While  Philomela  soothd  the  parting  day  : 
Here  Kathrin  him  approachd  with  features  gay. 
And  all  her  store  of  blandishments  and  wiles ; 
The  knight  was  touchd—  but  she  with  soft  delay 
And  gentle  teares  y blends  her  languid  smiles, 
And  of  base  falsitie  th'  enamourd  boy  reviles. 

Amazd  the  boy  beheld  her  ready  teares. 

And,    faultring    oil,   exclaims   with   wondring 

stare, 
"What  mean  these  sighs?    dispell  thine  ydle 

fcares ; 
And,  confident  in  me,  thy  griefes  declare." 
"  And  need,"  quoth  she,  « need  I  my  heart  to 

bare. 
And  tellen  what  untold  well  knowne  mote  be] 
Lost  is  my  friends  goodwill,  my  mothers  care — 
By  you  deserted — ah  !  unhappy  me  ! 
Left    to  your    aunts   fell  spight,   and  wreakfull 

crueltie." 


[*  Many  of  Mickle's  old  poems  are  in  Evans'  Old  Ballads. 
'•Perhaps,"  says  Mr.  Southey.  ''it  would  not  yet  be  too 
late  to  discover  other  pieces  of  this  veiy  iible  writer  which 
exi8t  in  the  periodlcjil  publications  of  the  day.  The  Old 
Bachelor,  a  poem  of  strikinK  merit,  which  was  reprinted 
la  the  Annual  Anthology  from  the  Town  and  Country 


•»  My  aunt !"  quoth  he,  "  forsooth  shall  she  com- 
mand? 
No ;  sooner  shall  yond  hill  forsake  his  place," 
He  laughing  said,  and  would  have  caught  her 

hand; 
Her  hand  she  shifted  to  her  blubberd  face. 
With  prudish  modestie,  and  sobd,  "Alas! 
Grant  me  your  bond,  or  else  on  yonder  tree 
These  silken  garters,  pledge  of  thy  embrace, 
Ah,  welladay  !  shall  hang  thy  babe  and  me. 
And  everie  night  our  ghostes  shall  bring  ail  Hell 
to  thee." 

Ythrilld  with  horror  gapd  the  wareless  wight. 
As  when,  aloft  on  well-stored  cherrie-tree. 
The  thievish  elfe  beholds  with  pale  affright 
The  gardner  near,  and  weets  not  where  to  flee: 
"  And  will  my  bond  forefend  thilke  miserie  ? 
That  shalt  thou  have ;  and  for  thy  peace  beside, 
What  mote  I  more?   housekeeper  shalt  thou 

be."— 
An  awful  oath  forthwith  his  promise  tied. 
And  Kathrin  was  as  blythe  as  ever  blythesome 

bride. 

His  aunt  fell  sick  for  very  dole  to  see 
Her  kindest  counsels  scornd,  and  sore  did  pine 
To  think  what  well  she  knew  would  shortly  be, 
Cadwallins  blood  debasd  in  Kathrins  line; 
For  very  dole  she  died.     0  sad  propine, 
Syr  knight,  for  all  that  care  which  she  did  take? 
How  many  a  night,  for  coughs  and  colds  of  thine. 
Has  she  sat  up,  rare  cordial  broths  to  make. 
And  cockerd  thee  so  kind  with  many  a  daintie  cake ! 

Soft  as  the  gossamer  in  summer  shades 
Extends  its  twinkling  hne  from  spray  to  spray. 
Gently  as  sleep  the  weary  lids  invades, 
So  soft,  so  gently  pleasure  mines  her  way : 
But  whither  will  the  smiling  fiend  betray. 
Ah,  let  the  knights  approaching  days  declare ! 
Though  everie  bloome  and  flowre  of  buxom  May 
Bestrew  her  path,  to  deserta  cold  and  bare 
The  mazy  paths  betrays  the  giddy  wight  unware. 

"  Ah  !"  says  the  wizard,  *'  what  may  now  availe 
His  manlie  sense  that  fairest  blossoms  bore. 
His  temper  gentle  as  the  whispering  gale, 
His  native  goodnesse,  and  his  vertuous  loie  ! 


Magazine,  seems  to  bear  the  mark  of  his  hands." — Quar. 
Rev.  vol.  xi.  p.  601. 

Mickle  was  the  author  of  that  very  beautiful  song, 
"There's  nae  luck  about  the  house,"  and,  on  his  ba'lad 
of  '-Cumnor  Uall,"  Scott  founded  his  romance  of  "Kenil. 
worth." — See  Scott's  Mi$c.  Pr.  Worki,  vol.  xvii.  pp.  123-1^ 


WILLIAM  JULIUS  MICKLE. 


6i9 


Now  through  his  veins,  all  uninflatnd  before, 

Th'  enchanted  cup  of  dissipation  hight 

Has  shedd,  with  subtil  stealth,  through  everie 

pore. 
Its  giddy  poison,  brewd  with  magicke  might. 
Each  budd  of  gentle  worth  and  better  thought  to 
blight. 

"  So  the  Canadian,  traind  in  drery  wastes 
To  chase  the  foming  bore  and  fallow  deer, 
At  first  the  traders  beverage  shylie  tastes; 
But  soon  with  headlong  rage,  unfelt  whyleare, 
Inflamd  he  lusts  for  the  delirious  cheer : 
So  bursts  the  boy  disdainful  of  restrent. 
Headlong  atlonce  into  the  wylde  career 
Of  joUitie,  with  all  his  mind  unbent. 
And  dull  and  yrksome  hangs  the  day  in  sports  un- 
spent. 

"  Now  fly  the  wassal  seasons  wingd  with  glee, 
Each  day  affords  a  floode  of  roring  joy ; 
The  springs  green  months  ycharmd  with  cock- 
ing flee. 
The  jolly  horse-race  summers  grand  employ. 
His  harvest  sports  the  foxe  and  hare  destroy. 
But  the  substantial  comforts  of  the  bowl 
Arc  thine,  O  Winter!  thine  to  fire  the  boy 
With  Englands  cause,  and  swell  his  mightie 
soul. 
Till  dizy  with  his  peres  about  the  flore  he  row]. 

"  Now  round  his  dores  ynaild  on  cloggs  of  wood 
Hang  many  a  badgers  snout  and  foxes  tail. 
The  which  had  he  through  many  a  hedge  persewd, 
Through  marsh,  through  meer,  dyke,  ditch,  and 

delve  and  dale ; 
To  bear  his  hair-breadth  scapes  would  make  you 

pale; 
Which  well  the  groome  hight  Patrick  can  relate, 
Whileas  on  holidays  he  quaffs  his  ale; 
And  not  one  circumstance  will  he  forgett, 
So  keen  the  braggard  chorle  is  on  his  hunting 

sett. 

»  Now  on  the  turf  the  knight  with  sparkling  eyes 
Beholds  the  springing  racers  sweep  the  ground ; 
Now  lightlie  by  the  post  the  foremost  flies, 
And  thondring  on,  the  rattling  hoofs  rebound  ; 
The  coursers  groan,  the  cracking  whips  resound  : 
And  gliding  with  the  gale  they  rush  along 
Right  to  the  stand.     The  knight  stares  wildly 

round, 
\nd,  rising  on  his  sell,  his  jocund  tongue 
Is  heard  above  the  noise  of  all  the  noisie  throng. 

«'  While  thus  the  knight  persewd  the  shaddow  joy, 
As  ^'outhful  spirits  thoughtlesse  led  the  way. 
Her  gilden  baits,  ah,  gilded  to  decoy  ! 
Kathrin  did  eve  and  morn  liefore  him  lay, 
WalchfuU  to  please,  and  ever  kindlic  gay ; 
Till,  like  a  thing  bewitchd,  the  carelesse  wight 
Kesi^ns  himself  to  her  capricious  sway  ; 
Then  soon,  perdie,  was   never   charme-bound 
spright 
In  necrumancers  thrall  in  halfe  such  pitteous  plight. 
82 


"  Her  end  accomplishd,  and  her  hopes  at  stay. 
What  need  her  now, she  recks, one  smyle bestow; 
Each  care  to  please  were  trouble  thrown  away, 
And  thriftlesse  waste,  with  many  maxims  moe, 
As,  What  were  she  the  better  did  she  sol 
She  conns,  and  freely  sues  her  native  bent ; 
Yet  still  can  she  to  guard  his  thralldom  know. 
Though  grimd  with  snufT  in  tawdrie  gown  she 
went,  rjollimcnt 

Though  peevish  were  her  spleen  and  rude  her 

"  As  when  the  linnett  hails  the  balmie  morne. 
And  roving  through  the  trees  his  mattin  sings, 
liively  with  joy,  till  on  a  luckless  thorne 
He  lights,  where  to  his  feet  the  birdlime  clings; 
Then  all  in  vain  he  flapps  his  gaudie  wings ; 
The  more  he  flutters  still  the  more  foredone  : 
So  fares  it  with  the  knight:  each  morning  brings 
His  deeper  thrall ;  ne  can  he  brawling  shun. 
For  Kathrin  was  his  thorne  and  birdlime  both  in 
one. 

"  Or,  when  atop  the  hoary  western  hill 
The  ruddie  sunne  appears  to  rest  his  chin. 
When  not  a  breeze  disturbs  the  murmuring  rill, 
And  mildlie  warm  the  falling  dewes  begin. 
The  gamesome  trout  then  shows  her  silverieskin, 
As  wantonly  beneath  the  wave  she  glides. 
Watching  the  buzzing  flics  that  never  blin. 
Then,  dropt  with  pearle  and  golde,  displays  her 
sides,  [divides. 

While  she  with  frequent  leape  the  ruffled  streame 

"  On  the  greene  banck  a  truant  schoolboy  stands: 
Well  has  the  urchin  markt  her  merry  play, 
An  ashen  rod  obeys  his  guilefull  hands. 
And  leads  the  mimick  fly  across  her  way ; 
Askaunce,  with  wistly  look  and  coy  delay, 
The  hungrie  trout  the  glitteraund  Ireachor  eyes, 
Semblaunt  of  life,  with  speckled  wings  so  gay ; 
Then,  slylie  nibbling  prudish  from  it  flies. 
Till  with  a  bouncing  start  she  bites  the  truthless 
prize. 

"  Ah,  then  the  younker  gives  the  fatefull  twitch ; 
Struck  with  amaze  she  feels  the  hook  ypight 
Deepe  in   her  gills,  and,   plonging  where  the 

beech 
Shaddows  the  poole,  she  runs  in  dred  affright ; 
In  vain  her  deepest  rock,  her  late  delight. 
In  vain  the  sedgy  nook  for  help  she  tries ; 
The  laughing  elfe  now  curbs,  now  aids  her  flight. 
The  more  entangled  still  the  more  she  flies. 
And  soon  amid  the  grass  the  panting  captive  lies. 

"  Where  now,  ah  pity !  where  that  sprightly  play, 

That  wanton  bounding,  and  exulting  joy. 

That  lately  welcomd  the  retourning  ray. 

When  by  the  rivlelt  bancks,  with  blushes  coy 

April  walkd  forth — ah !  never  more  to  toy  [dies . 

In  purling  streame,  she  pants,  she  gasps,  and 

Aye  me  1  how  like  the  fortune  of  the  boy. 

His  days  of  revel  and  his  nights  of  noise 

Have  left  him  now,  involvd,  his  lemmans  haples* 

prize. 

3E 


650 


WILLIAM  JULIUS  MICKLE. 


■'See  now  the  changes  that  attend  her  sway  ; 
The  parke  where  rural  elegance  had  placd 
Her  sweat  retreat,  where  cunning  art  did  play 
Her  happiest  freaks,  that  nature  undefacd 
Receivd  new  charms ;  ah,  see,  how  foul  disgracd 
Now  lies  thillie  parke  so  sweetlie  wylde  afore! 
Each  grove  and  bowery  walke  be  now  laid  waste ; 
The  bowling-green  has  lost  its  shaven  flore, 
And  snowd  with  washing  suds  now  yawns  beside 
the  dore. 

"  All  round  the  borders  where  the  pansie  blue, 
Crocus,  and  polyanthus  speckld  fine, 
And  daffodils  in  fayre  confusion  grew 
Emong  the  rose-bush  roots  and  eglantine 
These  now  their  place  to  cabbages  resign, 
And  tawdrie  pease  supply  the  lily's  stead ; 
Rough  artichokes  now  bristle  where  the  vine 
Its  purple  clusters  round  the  windows  spread, 
And    laisie    coucumbers    on   dung   recline   the 
head. 

"  The  fragrant  orchard,  once  the  summers  pride. 
Where  oft,  by  moonshine,  on  the  dasied  greene, 
In  jovial  daunce,  or  tripping  side  by  side, 
Pomona  and  her  buxom  nymphs  were  scene; 
Or,  where  the  clear  canal  stretchd  out  atweene, 
Deffly  their  locks  with  blossomes  would  they  brede 
Or,  resting  by  the  primrose  hillocks  sheene. 
Beneath  the  apple  boughs  and  walnut  shade, 
They  sung  their  loves  the  while  the  fruitage  gaily 
spread : 

"  The  fragrant  orchard  at  her  dire  command 
In  all  the  pride  of  blossome  strewd  the  plain  ; 
The  hillocks  gently  rising  through  the  land 
Must  now  no  trac«. of  natures  steps  retain  ; 
The  clear  canal,  the  mirrour  of  the  swain. 
And  bluish  lake  no  more  adorn  the  greene, 
Two  durty  watering  ponds  alone  remain; 
And  where  the  moss-floord  filbert  bowres  had 

beene, 
Is    now    a   turnip-field   and  cow-yarde   nothing 

cleane. 

"  An  auncient  crone,  yclepd  by  housewives  Thrift, 
All  this  devisd  for  trim  oeconomie ; 
But  certes  ever  from  her  birth  bereft 
Of  elegance,  ill  fitts  her  title  high: 
Coarse  were  her  looks,  yet  smoothe  her  courtesie, 
Hoyden  her  shapes,  but  grave  was  her  attyre, 
And  ever  fixt  on  trifles  was  her  eye ; 
And  still  she  plodden  round  the  kitchen  fyre, 
To  save  the  smallest  crombe  her  pleasure  and 
desyre. 

"  Bow-bent  with  eld,  her  steps  were  soft  and  slow, 
Fast  at  her  side  a  bounch  of  keys  yhong, 
Dull  care  sat  brooding  on  her  jealous  brow. 
Sagacious  proverbs  dropping  from  her  tongue  : 
Yet  sparing  though  she  beene  her  guests  emong, 
Ought  by  herself  that  she  mote  gormondise. 
The  foul  curmudgeon  would  have  that  ere  long. 
And  hardly  could  her  witt  her  gust  suffice ; 
Albee  in  varied  stream,  still  was  it  covetise. 


"Dear  was  the  kindlie  love  which  Kathrin  bore 
This  crooked  ronion,  for  in  soothly  guise 
She  was  her  genius  and  her  counsellor : 
Now  cleanly  milking-pails  in  careful  wise 
Bedeck  each  room,  and  much  can  she  despise  [ill ; 
The  knights  complaints,  and  thriftlesse  judgment 
Eke  versd  in  sales,  right  wondrous  cheap  she  buys. 
Parlour  and  bedroom  too  her  bargains  fill ; 
Though  uselesse,  cheap  they  beene,  and  cheap 
she  purchased  still. 

«  His  tenants  whilhom  been  of  thriftie  kind. 
Did  like  to  sing  and  worken  all  the  day, 
At  seedtime  never  were  they  left  behind. 
And  at  the  harvest  feast  still  first  did  play; 
And  ever  at  the  terme  their  rents  did  pay, 
For  well  they  knew  to  guide  their  rural  geer . 
All  in  a  row,  yclad  in  homespun  gray. 
They  marchd  to  church  each  Sunday  of  the  year. 
Their  imps  yode  on  afore,  the  caries  brought  up 
the  rear. 

"  Ah,  happy  days !  but  now  no  longer  found : 
No  more  with  social  hospitable  glee 
The  village  hearths  at  Christmas  tide  resound. 
No  more  the  Whitsun  gamboll  may  you  see. 
Nor  morrice  daunce,  nor  May  daye  jollitie. 
When  the  blythe  maydens  foot  the  dewy  green; 
But  now  in  place,  heart-sinking  penurie 
And  hopelesse  care  on  every  face  is  seen. 
As   these   the   drery  times   of  curfeu    bell  had 
been. 

"  For  everie  while,  with  thief-like  lounging  pace. 
And  dark  of  look,  a  tawdrie  villain  came. 
Muttering  some  words  with  serious-meaning  face, 
And  on  the  church  dore  he  would  fix  their  name  : 
Then,  nolens  volens,  they  must  heed  the  same, 
And  quight  those  fieldes  their  yeomen  grandsires 

plowd  [with  fame, 

Eer  since  black   Edwards  days,  when,  crownd 

From  Cressie  field  the  knightsoldgrandsire  p«-owd 

Led  home  his  yeomandrie,  and  each  his  glebe 

allowd. 

"But  now  the  orphan  sees  his  harvest  fielde 
Beneath  the  gripe  of  laws  sterne  rapine  fall. 
The  friendlesse  widow,  from  her  hearth  expelld, 
Withdraws  to  some  poor  hutt  with  earthen  wall: 
And  these,  perdie,  were  Kathrins  projects  all ; 
For,  sooth  to  tell,  grievd  was  the  knight  full  sore 
Such  sinful  deeds  to  see:  yet  such  his  thrall, 
Though  he  had  pledgd  his  troth,  yet  nathemore 
It  mote  he  keep,  except  she  willd  the  same  be- 
fore. 

"  Oh  wondrous  powre  of  womans  wily  art, 
What  for  thy  withcraft  too  secure  may  be! 
Not  Circes  cup  may  so  transform  the  heart. 
Or  bend  the  will,  fallacious  powre,  like  thee; 
Lo  manly  sense,  of  princely  dignitie, 
Witchd  by  thy  spells,  thy  crowching  slave  is  seen ; 
Lo,  high-hrowd  honour  bends  the  groveling  knee, 
And  every  bravest  virtue,  sooth  I  ween. 
Seems  like  a  blighted  flowre  of  dank  unlovely  mien 


=JJ 


WILLIAM  JULIUS  MICKLE. 


651 


"  Ne  may  grim  Saracene,  nor  Tartar  man, 
Such  ruthless  bondage  on  his  slave  impose, 
As  Kalhrin  on  the  knight  full  deffly  can : 
Ne  may  the  knight  escape,  or  cure  his  woes: 
As  he  who  dreams  he  climbs  some   ujountains 

brows, 
With   painful  struggling  up  the  steep  height 

strains, 
Anxious  he  pants  and  toils,  hut  strength  foregoes 
His  feeble  limbs,  and  not  a  step  he  gains; 
So  toils  the  powerlesse  knight  beneath  his  servile 

chains. 

"  His  lawyer  now  assumes  the  guardians  place ; 
Learnd  was  thilk  clerk  in  deeds,  and  passing  slie ; 
Slow  was  his  speeche,  and  solemn  was  his  face 
As  that  grave  bird  which  Athens  rankt  so  high; 
Pleased  Dullness  basking  in  his  glossie  eye. 
The  smyle  would  oft  steal  through  his  native 

phlegm ; 
And  well  he  guards  syr  Martyns  propertie, 
Till  not  one  peasant  dares  invade  the  game ; 
But  certes,  seven  yeares  rent  was  soon  his  own  just 

claim. 

"  Now  mortgage  follows  mortgage ;  cold  delay 
Still  yawns  on  everie  long-depending  case. 
The  knights  gay  bloome  the  while  slid  fast  away  ; 
Kathrin  the  while  brought  bantling  imps  apace  ; 
While  everie  day  renews  his  vile  disgrace, 
And  straitens  still  the  more  his  galling  thrall ; 
See  now  what  scenes  his  household  hours  de- 
base. 
And  rise  successive  in  his  cheerlesse  hall." 
So  spake  the  seer,  and  prompt  the  scene  obey'd  his 
call. 

«'  See,"  quoth  the  wizard,  ••  how  with  faltering 

mien. 
And  discomposd,  yon  stranger  he  receives; 
Lo,  how  with  sulkie  look,  and  moapt  with  spleen. 
His  frowning  mistresse  to  his  friend  behaves; 
In  vain  he  nods,  in  vain  his  hand  he  waves, 
Ne  will  she  heed,  ne  will  she  sign  obay ; 
Nor  corner  dark  his  awkward  blushes  saves, 
Ne  may  the  hearty  laugh,  ne  features  gay  ; 
The  hearty  laugh,  perdie,  does  but  his  pain  be- 
tray. 

"  A  worthy  wight  his  friend  was  ever  known  , 
Some  generous  cause  did  still  his  lips  inspire; 
He  begs  the  knight  by  friendships  long  agone 
To  shelter  from  his  lawyers  cruel  ire 
An  auncient  hinde,  around  whose  cheerlesse  fire 
Sat  grief,  and  pale  disease.  The  poor  mans  wrong 
Affects  the  knight:  his  inmost  harts  desire 
Gleams  through  his  eyes  ;  yet  all  confusd,  and 

stung 
With  inward  pain,  he  looks,  and  silence  guards 

bis  tongue. 

"  See,  while  his  friend  entreats  and  urges  still, 
See,  how  with  sidelong  glnuuce  and  haviour  shy 
He  steals  the  look  to  read  bis  leinmans  will, 
Watchful  the  dawn  of  an  assent  to  spy. 


Look  as  he  will,  yet  will  she  not  comply. 
His  friend  with  scorn  beholds  his  awkward  pain 
From  him  even  pity  turns  her  tear-dewd  eye. 
And  hardlie  can  the  bursting  laugh  restrain. 
While  manlie  honour  frowns  on  his   unmanl) 
stain. 

"  Let  other  scenes  now  rise,"  the  wizard  said . 
He  wavd  his  hand,  and  other  scenes  arose. 
"  See  there,"  quoth  he,  "  the  knight  supinely  laid 
Invokes  the  household  houres  of  learnd  repose: 
An  auncient  song  its  manly  joys  bestows  : 
The  melting  passion  of  the  nutt-browne  mayde 
Glides  through  his  breast ;  his  wandering  fancy 

glows. 
Till  into  wildest  reveries  betrayd. 
He  hears  th'  imagind  faire,  and  wooes  the  lovely 
shade. 

"  Transported  be  repeats  her  constant  tow. 
How  to  the  green  wode  shade,  betide  whateer, 
She  with  her  banished  love  would  fearlesse  goe 
And  sweet  would  be  with  him  the  hardest  cheer. 
'  O,  Heaven !'  he  sighs,  '  what  blessings  dwell 

sincere 
In  love  like  this !' — But  instant  as  he  sighd. 
Bursting  into  the  room,  loud  in  his  ear 
His  lemman  thonders,  «  Ah  !  fell  dole  betide 
The  girl  that  trusts  in  man,  before  she  bees  bis 

bride ! 

'<<  And  must  some  lemman  of  a  whiffling  song 
Delight  your  fancy  V  she  disdainful  cries ; 
When  straight  her  imps  all  brawling  round  her 

throng, 
And,  bleard  with  teares,  each  for  revenge  applies ; 
Him  chiefe  in  spleene  the  father  means  chastise, 
But  from  his  kindlie  hand  she  saves  him  still; 
Yet  for  no  fault,  anon,  in  furious  wise 
iTon  yellow  elfe  she  little  spares  to  kill; 
And  then,  next  breath,  does  all  to  coax  its  stub- 

born  will. 

"  Pale  as  the  ghoste  that  by  the  gleaming  moon 
Withdraws  the  curtain  of  the  murderers  bed. 
So  pale  and  cold  at  heart,  as  half  aswoon  [sed 
The  knight  stares  round ;  yet  good  nor  bad  he 
Alas  !  though  trembling  anguish  inward  bled. 
His  best  resolve  soon  as  a  meteor  dies:  [tied. 
His  present  peace  and  ease  mote  chance  have 
He  deems ;  and  yielding,  looks  most  wondrous 

wise. 
As  from  himself  he  hopd  his  grief  and  shame 

disguise. 

•'  Woe  to  the  wight  whose  hated  home  no  more 
The  hallowd  temple  of  content  may  be  ! 
While  now  hisdays  abroad  with  groomes  he  wore, 
His  mistresse  with  her  liefest  companie, 
A  rude  unletterd  herd  !  with  dearest  glee. 
Enjoys  each  whisper  of  her  neighbours  shame 
And  still  anon  the  Hask  of  ratitie 
Improves  their  tales,  till  certes  not  a  name 
Escapes  their  blastmg  tongue,  or  goody,  wencb 
or  dame." 


NATHANIEL  COTTON. 


[Born,  1707.    Died,  1788.] 


Nathaniel  Cotton  was  a  physician,  who  paid 
particular  attention  to  the  subject  of  mental  dis- 
•Trders ;  and  kept  a  receptacle  for  insane  patients 


at  St.  Albans, 
his  care. 


Cowper  was  for  some  time  undei 


THE  FIKESIDE.* 
Dkae  Chloe,  while  the  busy  crowd, 
The  vain,  the  wealthy,  and  the  proud, 

In  folly's  maze  advance; 
Though  singularity  and  pride 
Be  call'd  our  choice,  we'll  step  aside, 

Nor  join  the  giddy  dance. 

From  the  gay  world  we'll  oft  retire 
To  our  own  family  and  fire, 

Where  love  our  hours  employs; 
No  noisy  neighbour  enters  here, 
No  intermeddling  stranger  near. 

To  spoil  our  heartfelt  joys. 

If  solid  happiness  we  prize. 
Within  our  breast  this  jewel  lies, 

And  they  are  fools  who  roam ; 
The  world  hath  nothing  to  bestow. 
From  our  own  selves  our  bliss  must  flow, 

And  that  dear  hut  our  home. 

Of  rest  was  Noah's  dove  bereft. 
When  with  impatient  wing  she  left 

That  safe  retreat,  the  ark  ; 
Giving  her  vain  excursions  o'er. 
The  disappointed  bird  once  more 

Explored  the  sacred  bark. 

Though  fools  spurn  Hymen's  gentle  powers, 
We,  who  improve  his  golden  hours, 

By  sweet  ejtperience  know. 
That  marriage,  rightly  understood, 
Gives  to  the  tender  and  the  good 

A  paradise  below. 

Our  babes  shall  richest  comfort  bring; 
If  tutor'd  right  they'll  prove  a  spring 

Whence  pleasures  ever  rise ; 
We'll  form  their  minds  with  studious  care. 
To  all  that's  manly,  good,  and  fair. 

And  train  them  for  the  skies. 

While  they  our  wisest  hours  engage. 
They'll  joy  our  youth,  support  our  age. 

And  crown  our  hoary  hairs; 
They'll  grow  in  virtue  every  day. 
And  they  our  fondest  loves  repay. 

And  recompense  our  cares. 


'.*  Cotton's  well-known  gtunzaa  entitled   T)ie  Fireside, 
xtill  bold,  a/id  »re  likely  to  retain,  a  place  in  popular 
■elections." — SouiujiY,  Li/t  of  Oowper,  vol.  i.  p.  148. 
652 


No  borrow'd  joys !  they're  all  our  own, 
While  to  the  world  we  live  unknown, 

Or  by  the  world  forgot : 
Monarchs !  we  envy  not  your  state, 
We  look  with  pity  on  the  great. 

And  bless  our  humble  lot. 

Our  portion  is  not  large,  indeed. 
But  then  how  little  do  we  need. 

For  nature's  calls  are  few ! 
In  this  the  art  of  living  lies. 
To  want  no  more  than  may  suffice, 

And  make  that  little  do. 

We'll  therefore  relish  with  content, 
Whate'er  kind  Providence  has  sent, 

Nor  aim  beyond  our  power  ; 
For,  if  our  stock  be  very  small, 
'Tis  prudence  to  enjoy  it  all. 

Nor  lose  the  present  hour. 

To  be  resign'd  when  ills  betide. 
Patient  when  favours  are  denied, 

And  pleased  with  favours  given ; 
Dear  Chloe,  this  is  wisdom's  part. 
This  is  that  incense  of  the  heart, 

Whose  fragrance  smells  to  heaven. 

We'll  ask  no  long  protracted  treat. 
Since  winter-life  is  seldom  sweet; 

But  when  our  feast  is  o'er. 
Grateful  from  table  we'll  arise. 
Nor  grudge  our  sons,  with  envious  eyes. 

The  relics  of  our  store. 

Thus  hand  in  hand  through  life  we'll  go; 
Its  checker'd  paths  of  joy  and  woe 

With  cautious  steps  we'll  tread  ; 
Quit  its  vain  scenes  without  a  tear, 
Without  a  trouble,  or  a  fear. 

And  mingle  with  the  dead. 

While  conscience  like  a  faithful  friend, 
Shall  through  the  gloomy  vale  attend. 

And  cheer  our  dying  breath  ; 
Shall,  when  all  other  comforts  cease, 
Like  a  kind  angel  whisper  peace. 

And  smooth  the  bed  of  death. 


A  poem  like  this,  which  depends  altogether  upon  its 
truthfulness,  should  have  nothing  to  do  with  Chloe  or  with 
Hymen.] 


TIMOTHY  DWIGHT. 


Op  this  American  poet  I  am  sorry  to  be  able 
tc  Rive  the  British  reader  no  account.     I  believe 


his  personal  history  is  as  little  known   as   ou 
poetry  on  this  side  of  the  Atlantic. 


bltOM  HIS  "CONQUEST  OF  CANAAN,"  BOOK  V. 

MSD.  REPRINTKD  1788. 

DEATH  OF  IRAD,  AND  LAMENTATION  OF  SELIMA 
OVER  HIS  BODY. 

Mid  countless  warrior's  Irad's  limbs  were  spread, 
Even  there  distinguish 'd  from  the  vulgar  dead ; 
Fair  as  the  spring,  and  bright  as  rising  day, 
His  snowy  bosom  open'd  as  he  lay  : 
From  the  deep  wound  a  little  stream  of  blood 
In  silence  fell,  and  on  the  javelin  glow'd. 
Grim  Jabin,  frowning  o'er  his  hapless  head, 
Deap  in  his  bosom  plunged  the  cruel  blade ; 
Foes  even  in  death  his  vengeance  ne'er  forgave, 
But  hail'd  their  doom  insatiate  as  the  grave ; 
No  worth,  no  bravery,  could  his  rage  disarm, 
Nor  smiling  love  could  melt,  nor  beauty  warm. 

But  now  th'  approaching  clarions'  dreadful  sound 
Denounces  flight,  and  shakes  the  banner'd  ground. 
From  clouded  plains  increasing  thunders  rise. 
And  drifted  volumes  roil  along  the  skies ; 
At  once   the  chief  commands    th'  unnumber'd 

throng. 
Like  gathering  tempests  darkly  pour'd  along ; 
High  on  the  winds,  unfurl'd  in  purple  pride, 
The  imperial  standard  cast  the  view  aside ; 
A  hero  there  sublimely  seem'd  to  stand, 
To  point  the  conquest,  and  the  flight  command ; 
In  arms  of  burnish'd  gold  the  warrior  shone. 
And  waved  and  brighten'd  in  the  falling  sun. 


But  now  sublime,  in  crimson  triumph  borne. 
The  sacred  standard  mock'd  th'  etherial  morn  ; 
Wide  on  the  winds  its  waving  splendours  flow'd. 
And  call'd  the  warriors  from  the  distant  wood. 
Behind  great  Joshua,  Hazor's  sons  to  dare. 
Pours  the  bold  thousands  to  the  western  war ; 
Beyond  Ai's  wall  the  less'ning  heathen  train 
In  well-form'd  squadrons  cross  the  distant  plain  ; 
Part  still  in  sight  their  shady  files  extend, 
Part  fill  the  wood,  and  part  the  hills  ascend  ; 
To  cease  from  toil  the  prudent  chief  commands. 
And  balmy  quiet  soothes  the  wearied  bands. 

Half  lost  in  mountain  groves  the  sun's  broad  ray 
Shower'd   a  full  splendour  round   his    evening 

way. 
Slow  Joshua  strotle  the  lovely  youth  to  find, 
Th'  unwilling  bands  more  slowly  moved  behind. 
Soon  as  the  matchless  form  arose  to  view, 
O'er  their  sad  faces  shone  the  sorrowing  dew : 


Silent  they  stood ;  to  speak  the  leader  tried. 
But  the  choked  accents  on  his  palate  died — 
His  bleeding  bosom  beat.      *      *      *      * 

«  Ah  !  best  and  bravest  of  thy  race,"  he  paid. 

And  gently  raised  the  pale  reclining  head, 

*'  Lost  are  thy  matchless  charms ;  thy  glory  gone. 

Gone  is  the  glory  which  thy  hand  hath  won. 

In  vain  on  thee  thy  nation  cast  her  eyes, 

In  vain  with  joy  beheld  thy  light  arise. 

In  vain  she  wish'd  thy  sceptre  to  obey." 


Borne  by  six  chiefs,  in  silence  o'er  the  plain, 
Fair  Irad  moved ;  before  the  mournful  train 
Great  Joshua's  arm  sustain'd  his  sword  and  shield. 
Th'  affected  thousands  length'ning  through  the 

field; 
When,  crown'd  with  flow'rs,  the  maidens  at  her 

side. 
With  gentle  steps  advanced  great  Caleb's  pride ; 
Her  snowy  hand,  inspired  by  restless  love. 
Of  the  lone  wild-rose  two  rich  wreaths  inwove, 
Fresh  in  her  hands  the  flowers  rejoiced  to  bloom. 
And  round  the  fair  one  shed  a  mild  perfume. 
O'er  all  the  train  her  active  glances  roved. 
She  gazed,  and  gazing  miss'd  the  youth  she  loved. 
Some  dire  mischance  her  boding  heart  divined. 
And  thronging  terrors  fill'd  her  anxious  mind. 
As  near  the  host  her  quick'ning  footsteps  drew. 
The  breathless  hero  met  her  trembling  view ! 
From  her  chill'd  hand  the  headlong  roses  fell. 
And  life's  gay  beauty  bade  her  cheeks  farewell, 
And  sunk  to  earth. 


With  anguish  Caleb  saw  her  faded  charms, 
And  caught  the  favourite  in  his  hast'ning  arms 
Revived,  with  piercing  voice  that  froze  his  soul. 
She  forced  the  big  round  tear  unwish'd  to  roll : 
By  all  his  love  besought  him  soon  to  lead 
Where  cruel  friendship  snatch'd  the  lovely  dead. 
In  vain  the  chief  his  anguish  strove  to  hide. 
Sighs  rent  his  breast  and  chill'd  the  vital  tide. 

To  Jo.shua  then,  whose  heart  beside  her  mourn'd 
With  gnze  of  keen  distress  the  charmer  turn'd. 
"  Oh  !  generous  chief,  to  misery  ever  kind. 
Thou  lovest  my  sire — support  his  sinking  mind. 
Thy  friendly  wish  delights  to  lessen  woe. 
See  how  his  tears  for  fallen  Irad  flow. 
He  claims  thy  friendship — Generous  hero !  seo. 
Lost  to  himself,  his  fondness  bleeds  for  me. 
3m2  65a 


654 


TIMOTHY  DWIGHT. 


To  view  the  hapless  youth  distress'd,  he  fears 
Would  wound  my  soul,  and  force  too  copious  tears; 
But  lead — Oh !  lead  me  where  the  youth  is  borne — 
Calm  is  my  heart,  nor  will  my  bosom  mourn ; 
So  cold  that  heart  it  yields  no  pitying  sigh  ; 
And  see,  no  tear  bedews  this  marbled  eye ! 

She  said ;     *  *  *  *    reclined 

On  Joshua's  arm,  she  forced  his  melting  mind. 
Pressing  her  hand,  he  traced  a  gentle  way, 
Where  breathless  Irad,  lost  in  slumbers,  lay. 
From  the  pale  face  his  chilling  hand  withdrew 
The  decent  veil,  and  gave  the  youth  to  view. 
Fix'd  o'er  the  form  with  solemn  gaze  she  hung, 
And  strong  deep  sighs  burst  o'er  her  frozen  tongue. 
On  Joshua  then  she  cast  a  wistful  look — • 
Wild  was  her  tearless  eye,  and  rolling  spoke 
Anguish  unutterable — thrice  she  tried 
To  vent  her  woes,  and  thrice  her  efforts  died. 
At  length,  in  accents  of  ecstatic  grief, 
Her  voice,  bewilder'd,  gave  her  heart  relief. 

"  Is  this  the  doom  we  dread  ?   Is  this  to  die ! 
To  sleep,  to  feel  no  more,  to  close  the  eye  1 
Slight  is  the  change — how  vain  the  childish  fear 
That  trembles  and  recoils  when  death  is  near. 
I  too,  melhinks,  would  share  the  peaceful  doom, 
And  seek  a  calm  repose  in  Irad's  tomb. 
This  breath,  I  know,  this  useless  breath  must  fail, 
These  eyes  be  darken'd,  and  this  face  grow  pale — 
But  thou  art  pale,  0  youth  !   thy  lot  I  crave, 
And  every  grief  shall  vanish  in  the  grave !" 

She  ceased  :  the  tender  chief  without  delay, 
Soft  pressing,  kindly  forced  her  steps  away. 
Slow  toward  the  camp  with  solemn  pace  they  drew. 
'J"he  corse  moves  on,  the  mournful  bands  pursue. 
Unnuniber'd  tears  their  hapless  fate  bewail, 
And  voice  to  voice  resounds  the  dreadful  tale. 
Unhappy,  to  their  tents  the  host  retired, 
And  gradual  o'er  the  mountains  day  expired. 


FROM  THE  SAME. 

Prediction  made  by  the  an^el  to  Joshua  of  the  future 
disiovery  and  happiness  of  America — and  of  the  Mil- 
lennium. 

Far  o'er  yon  azure  main  thy  view  extend, 
Where  seas  and  skies  in  blue  confusion  blend  : 
Lo,  there  a  mighty  realm,  by  Heav'n  design'd 
The  last  retreat  for  poor  oppress'd  mankind  ; 
Form'd  with  that  pomp  which   marks  the  hand 

divine, 
And  clothes  yon  vault  where  worlds  unnumber'd 

shine. 
Here  spacious  plains  in  solemn  grandeur  spread. 
Here  cloudy  forests  cast  eternal  shade ; 
Rich  valleys  wind,  the  sky-tall  mountains  brave. 
And  inland  seas  for  commerce  spread  the  wave. 
With  nobler  floods  the  sea-like  rivers  roll, 
And  fairer  lustre  purples  round  the  pole. 
Here,  warm'd  by  happy  suns,  gay  mines  unfold 
'J'he  useful  iron  and  the  lasting  gold; 
Pure,  changing  gems  in  silence  learn  to  glow, 
And  mock  the  splendours  of  the  covenant  bow. 


On  countless  hills,  by  savage  footsteps  trod. 
That  smile  to  see  the  future  harvest  nod. 
In  glad  succession  plants  unnumber'd  bloom. 
And  flowers  unnumber'd  breathe  a  rich  perfume. 
Hence  life  once  more  a  length  of  days  shall  claim, 
And  health,  reviving,  light  her  purple  flame. 

Far  from  all  realms  this  world  imperial  lies. 
Seas  roll  between,  and  threat'ning  tempests  rise. 
Alike  removed  beyond  ambition's  pale, 
And  the  bold  pinions  of  the  vent'rous  sail; 
Till  circling  years  the  destined  period  bring, 
And  a  new  Moses  lift  the  daring  wing; 
Through  trackless  seas  an  unknown  flight  explores, 
And  hails  a  new  Canaan's  promised  shores. 

On  yon  far  strand  behold  that  little  train 
Ascending  vent'rous  o'er  the  unmeasured  main  ; 
No  dangers  fright,  no  ills  the  course  delay, 
'Tis  virtue  prompts,  and  God  directs  the  way. 
•Speed — speed,  ye  sons  of  truth  !  let  Heav'n  be- 
friend. 
Let  angels  wafl  you,  and  let  peace  attend. 
Oh  !  smile,  thou  sky  serene ;  ye  storms,  retire ; 
And  airs  of  Eden  every  sail  inspire. 
Swift  o'er  the  main  behold  the  canvas  fly. 
And  fade  and  fade  beneath  the  farthest  sky  : 
See  verdant  fields  the  changing  waste  unfold ; 
See  sudden  harvest  dress  the  plains  in  gold; 
In  lofty  walls  the  moving  rocks  ascend. 
And  dancing  woods  to  spires  and  temples  bend. 
Meantime,  expanding  o'er  earth's  distant  ends, 
Lo,  Slavery's  gloom  in  sable  pomp  ascends ! 
Far  round  each  eastern  clime  her  volumes  roll. 
And  pour  deep  shading  to  the  sadden'd  pole. 
How  the  world  droops  beneath  the  fearful  blast. 
The  plains  all  wither'd,  and  the  skies  o'ercast. 

*  *  *  * 

Bcnumb'd  and  fix'd  the  palsied  soul  expires, 
Blank'd  all    its  views,   and   quench'd    its  living 

fires: 
In  clouds  of  boundless  shade  the  scenes  decay. 
Land  after  land  departs,  and  nature  fades  away. 

In  that  dread  hour,  beneath  auspicious  skies. 
To  nobler  bliss  yon  western  world  shall  rise ; 
Unlike  ail  former  realms  by  war  that  stood. 
And  saw  the  guilty  throne  ascend  in  blood: 
Here  union'd  choice  shall  form  a  rule  divine, 
Here  countless  lands  in  one  great  system  join; 
'I'he  sway  of  law,  unbroke,  unrivall'd  grow. 
And  bid  her  blessings  every  land  o'erflow. 

*  *  *  * 

Here  empire's  last  and  brightest  throne  shall  rise. 
And  Peace,  and  Right,  and  Freedom  greet  the  skies. 
'J'o  morn's  fair  realms  her  trading  ships  shall  sail, 
Or  lift  their  canvas  to  the  evening  gale. 
In  wisdom's  walks  her  sons  ambitious  soar. 
Tread  starry  fields,  and  untried  scenes  explore. 
And  hark !  what  strange,  what  solemn  breaking 

strain 
Swells  wildly  murm'ring  o'er  the  far,  far  main ! 
Down  Time's  long  less'ning  vale  the  notes  decay 
And,  lost  in  distant  ages,  roll  away. 


JAMES  WHYTE. 


SIMILE. 

nox  A  coiLEcnoir  op  poems,  PRrNTES  n  bttbun,  1789. 

EDITED   BY  JTR.  ORADBERRT. 

YoP  say,  sir,  once  a  wit  allow'd 
A  woman  to  be  like  a  cloud, 
Accept  a  simile  as  soon 
Between  a  woman  and  the  moon ; 
For  let  manicind  say  what  they  will, 
The  sex  are  heavenly  bodies  still. 

Grant  me  to  mimic  human  life — 
The  sun  and  moon  are  man  and  wife: 
Whate'er  kind  Sol  affords  to  lend  her, 
Is  squander'd  upon  midnight  splendour; 
And  when  to  rest  he  lays  him  down. 
She's  up,  and  stared  at  through  the  town. 


From  him  her  beauties  close  confining,  • 
And  only  in  his  absence  shining; 
Or  else  she  looks  like  sullen  tapers ; 
Or  else  she's  fairly  in  the  vapours; 
Or  owns  at  once  a  wife's  ambition, 
And  fully  glares  in  opposition. 

Say,  are  not  these  a  modish  pair, 
Where  each  for  other  feels  no  care  f 
Whole  days  in  separate  coaches  driving, 
Whole  nights  to  keep  asunder  striving; 
Both  in  the  dumps  in  gloomy  weather. 
And  lying  once  a  month  together. 
In  one  sole  point  unlike  the  case  is. 
On  her  own  head  the  horns  she  places. 


THOMAS  WARTON. 


[Bom,  1728.    Died,  17M.] 


Thomas  Waeton  was  descended  from  an  an- 
cient family,  whose  residence  was  at  Beverly,  in 
Yorkshire.  One  of  his  ancestors  was  knighted  in 
the  civil  wars,  for  his  adherence  to  Charles  I. ;  but 
by  the  failure  of  the  same  cause,  the  estate  of 
the  family  was  confiscated,  and  they  were  unable 
to  maintain  the  rank  of  gentry.  The  toryism  of 
the  historian  of  English  poetry  was,  therefore, 
hereditary.  His  father  was  fellow  of  Magdalen 
college,  Oxford  ;  professor  of  poetry  in  that  uni- 
versity ;  and  vicar  of  Basingstoke,  in  Hants, 
and  of  Cobham,  in  Surrey.  At  the  age  of  six- 
teen, our  author  was  admitted  a  commoner  of 
Trinity  college,  Oxford,  of  which  he  continued  a 
member,  and  an  ornament,  for  forty-seven  years. 
His  first  poetical  appearance  in  print  has  been 
traced  to  five  eclogues  in  blank  verse;  the  scenes 
of  which  are  laid  among  the  shepherds,  oppressed 
by  the  wars  in  Germany.  'I'hey  appeared  in 
Pearch's  "  Supplement  to  Dodsley's  Collection 
of  Fugitive  Pieces."  Warton  disavowed  those 
eclogues  in  his  riper  years.  They  are  not  dis- 
creditable to  him  as  the  verses  of  a  boy ;  but  it 
was  a  superfluous  offering  to  the  public,  to  sub- 
join them  to  his  other  works,  in  Mr.  Chalmers' 
edition  of  the  British  Poets.*  His  poem,  "  The 
Pleasures  of  Melancholy,"  was  written  not  long 
after.  As  the  composition  of  a  youth,  it  is  en- 
titled to  a  very  indulgent  consideration;  and 
perhaps  it  gives  promise  of  a  sens.bility,  which 

[*  Mr.  Southey  in  his  review  of  Chalmers'  collection, 
i8  of  a  different  opinion.  "  A  valuable  ndclition  is  made," 
be  payi>,  "  to  T.  Warton's  works,  by  the  dis-  overy  of  five 
pavtorul  eclogues,  the  scenes  of  wbiih  are  miide  among  the 
shepherds  oppressed  by  the  war  in  Germany.  They  were 
published  in  ll-ii,  antf  ftscribed  to  him  on  the  competent 


his  subsequent  poetry  did  not  fulfil.  It  was 
professedly  written  in  his  seventeenth,  but  pub- 
lished in  his  nineteenth  year,  so  that  it  must  be 
considored  as  testifying  the  state  of  his  genius  at 
the  latter  period ;  for  until  his  work  had  passed 
through  the  press,  he  would  continue  to  improve 
it.  In  the  year  1749,  he  published  his  "  Triumph 
of  Isis,"  in  answer  to  Mason's  poetical  attack  on 
the  loyalty  of  Oxford.  The  best  passage  in  this 
piece,  beginning  with  the  lines, 

"Ye  fretted  pinnacles,  ye  fanes  sublime. 
Ye  towers,  that  wear  the  mossy  vest  of  time, 

discovers  that  fondness  for  the  beauties  of  archi- 
tecture, which  was  an  absolute  passion  in  the 
breast  of  Warton.  Joseph  Warton  relates,  that, 
at  an  early  period  of  their  youth,  his  brother  and 
he  were  taken  by  their  father  to  see  Windsor 
Castlc.f  Old  Dr.  Warton  complained,  that  whilst 
the  rest  of  the  party  expressed  delight  at  the 
magnificent  spectacle.  Thomas  made  no  remarks; 
but  Josejih  Warton  justly  observes,  that  the  silence 
of  his  brother  was  only  a  proof  of  the  depth  of  his 
pleasure;  that  he  was  really  absorbed  in  the  en- 
joyment of  the  sight:  and  that  his  subsequent 
fondness  for  '^  cagtle  imagery,"  he  believed,  might 
be  traced  to  the  impression  which  he  then  received 
from  Windsor  Castle. 

In  1760  he  took  the  degree  of  a  master  of  arts; 
and  in  the  following  year  succeeded  to  a  fellow- 
ship.    In    1754  he  published  his  "Observations 

authority  of  Isaac  Keed.  They  are  certainly  remarkable 
productions  for  a  youth  of  eighteen." — Quar.  Rev.  vol.  xl. 
p.  501.] 

[t  See  the  father*!  poem  r.non  viewing  Windsor  Castle, 
ante,  p.  4M.] 


656 


THOMAS  WARTON. 


on  Spenser's  Faery  Queen,"  in  a  single  volume, 
which  he  afterward  expanded  into  two  volumes, 
in  the  edition  of  1762.  In  this  work  he  minutely 
analyses  the  Classic  and  Romantic  sources  of 
Spenser's  fiction  ;  and  so  far  enables  us  to  esti- 
mate the  power  of  the  poet's  genius,  that  we  can 
compare  the  scattered  ore  of  his  fanciful  materials, 
with  their  transmuted  appearance  in  the  Faery 
Queen.  T'his  work,  probably,  contributed  to  his 
appointment  to  the  professorship  of  poetry,  in 
the  university,  in  1757,  which  he  held,  according 
to  custom,  for  ten  years.  While  possessed  of 
that  chair,  he  delivered  a  course  of  lectures  on 
poetry,  in  which  he  introduced  his  translations 
from  the  Greek  Anthology,  as  well  as  the  sub- 
stance of  his  remarks  on  the  Bucolic  poetry  of 
the  Greeks,  which  were  afterward  published  in 
his  edition  of  Theocritus.  In  1758  he  assisted 
Dr.  Johnson  in  the  Idler,  with  Nos.  33,  93,  and 
96.  About  the  same  time,  he  published,  without 
name  or  date,  "  A  Description  of  the  City,  College, 
and  Cathedral  of  Winchester,"  and  a  humorous 
account  of  Oxford,  intended  to  burlesque  the 
popular  description  of  that  place,  entitled,  "  A 
Companion  to  the  Guide,  or  a  Guide  to  the  Com- 
panion." He  also  published  anonymously  in 
1758,  "  A  Selection  of  Latin  Metrical  Inscrip- 
tions." 

Warton's  clerical  profession  forms  no  very 
prominent  part  of  his  history.  He  had  an  indis- 
tinct and  hurried  articulation,  which  was  peculi- 
arly unfavourable  to  his  pulpit  oratory.  His 
ambition  was  directed  to  other  objects  than  pre- 
ferment in  the  church,  and  he  was  above  solici- 
tation. After  having  served  the  curacy  of  Wood- 
stock for  nine  years,  as  well  as  his  avocations 
would  permit,  he  was  appointed,  in  1774,  to  the 
small  living  of  Kiddington,  in  Oxfordshire;  and, 
in  1785,  to  the  donative  of  Hill  Farrance,  in 
Somersetshire,  by  his  own  college. 

The  great  work  to  which  the  studies  of  his  life 
were  subservient,  was  his  "  History  of  English 
Poetry,"  an  undertaking  which  had  been  succes- 
sively projected  by  Pope  and  Gray.  Those  writers 
had  suggested  the  imposing  plan  of  arranging  the 
British  poets,  not  by  their  chronological  succes- 
sion, but  by  their  different  schools.  Warton 
deliberately  relinquished  this  scheme  ;  because  he 
felt  that  it  was  impracticable,  except  in  a  very 
vague  and  general  manner.  Poetry  is  of  too 
spiritual  a  nature,  to  admit  of  its  authors  being 
exactly  grouped,  by  a  Linnsean  system  of  classifi- 
cation. Striking  resemblances  and  distinctions 
will,  no  doubt,  be  found  among  poets;  but  the 
shades  of  variety  and  gradation  are  so  infinite, 
that  to  bring  every  composer  within  a  given  line 
of  resemblance,  would  require  a  new  language  in 
the    philosophy    of    taste.       Warton,    therefore, 

1*  As  Warton's  plan  exchnted  the  drama,  his  work  very 
til  merited  its  title  of  ii  History  of  Kng  ish  Poetry.  John- 
Bon's  Lives  of  the  Poets,  where  Sbakspeare  and  Spenser 
are  omitted,  is  not  a  greater  misnomer.  Such  hns  been 
the  effijcl  of  Warton's  pian  that  no  <-oilection  of  our  poets 
has  ever  included  even  a  portion  of  the  drama;  and  till 
Mr.  Campbell  selected  his.  there  were  no  Sjecimens  where 
ibf.y  were:  always  excepting  the  Klegaul  Extracts,  aiid 


adopted  the  simpler  idea  of  tracing  our  poetry  by 
its  chronological  progress.  The  work  is  certainly 
provokingly  digressive,  in  many  places,  and  those 
who  have  subsequently  examined  the  same  subject 
have  often  complained  of  its  inaccuracies :  but 
the  chief  cause  of  those  inaccuracies  was  that 
boldness  and  extent  of  research,  which  makes 
the  work  so  useful  and  entertaining.  Those  who 
detected  his  mistakes  have  been,  in  no  small 
degree,  indebted  to  him  for  their  power  of  detect- 
ing them.  The  first  volume  of  his  History  ap- 
peared in  1774;  the  second  in  1778;  and  the 
third  in  1781.  Of  the  fourth  volume  only  a  few 
sheets  were  printed ;  and  the  account  of  our 
poetry,  which  he  meant  to  have  extended  to  the 
last  century,  was  continued  only  to  the  reign  of 
Elizabeth.* 

In  the  year  1785,  he  was  appointed  to  the 
Camden  Professorship  of  History,  in  which  situa- 
tion he  delivered  only  one  inaugural  dissertation. 
In  the  same  year,  upon  the  death  of  Whitehead, 
he  received  the  laureateship.  His  odes  were  sul>- 
jected  to  the  ridicule  of  the  RoUiad ;  but  his  head 
filled  the  laurel  with  more  learning  than  it  had 
encompassed  for  100  years. 

In  his  sixty-second  year,  after  a  life  of  uninter- 
rupted good  health,  he  was  attacked  by  the  gout; 
went  to  Bath  for  a  cure,  and  returned,  as  he 
imagined,  perfectly  recovered  ;  but  his  appear- 
ance betrayed  that  his  constitution  had  received 
a  fatal  shock.  At  the  close  of  an  evening,  which 
he  had  spent  with  more  than  ordinary  cheerful- 
ness, in  the  common-hall  of  his  college,  he  was 
seized  with  a  paralytic  stroke,  and  expired  on  the 
following  day. 

Some  amusing  eccentricities  of  his  character 
are  mentioned  by  the  writer  of  his  life,  (Dr.  Mant,) 
which  the  last  editor  of  the  British  Poetsf  blames 
that  biographer  for  introducing.  I  am  far  from 
joining  in  this  censure.  It  is  a  miserable  system 
of  biography,  that  would  never  allow  us  to  smile 
at  the  foibles  and  peculiarities  of  its  subject. 
The  historian  of  English  poetry  would  sometimes 
forget  his  own  dignity,  so  far  as  to  drink  ale,  and 
smoke  tobacco  with  men  of  vulgar  condition ; 
either  wishing,  as  some  have  gravely  alleged,  to 
study  undiguised  and  unlettered  human  nature, 
or,  which  is  more  probable,  to  enjoy  a  heartier 
laugh,  and  broader  humour  than  could  be  found 
in  polite  society.  He  was  also  passionately  fond 
(not  of  critical,  but)  of  military  reviews  and  de- 
lighted in  martial  music.  The  same  strength  of 
a.ssociation  which  made  him  enjoy  the  sound  of 
"  llie  spirit-stirring  drum,"  led  him  to  be  a  con- 
stant and  curious  explorer  of  the  architectural 
monuments  of  chivalrous  times;  and  during  his 
summer  excursions  into  the  country,  he  always 
committed  to  paper  the  remarks  which  he  had 

Mr.  Lamb's  tasteful  Selections,  which  is  scarce  an  instance 
in  poiut.J 

[t  The  late  Alexander  Chalmers.  Sir  Walter  Scott  and 
Sir.  Campbell  were  to  have  edited  this  collection ;  which 
fell,  as  many  a  noble  project  has  done,  into  the  hands  of  a 
mere  hack  in  literature;  not  destitute  of  knowledge,  but 
without  the  means  of  using  it  properly,  and  without  taste. 
—,ikf.  Lockhart't  Life  of  SooU,  vol.  ii.  p.  240,  2d  ed.] 


THOMAS  WARTON. 


657 


make  on  ancient  buildings.  During  his  visits  to 
his  brother,  Dr.  J.  VVarton,  the  reverend  profes- 
sor became  an  associate  and  coniid»nt  in  all  the 
sports  of  the  schoolboys.  When  engaged  with 
them  in  some  culinary  occupation,  and  when 
abirmed  by  the  sudden  approach  of  the  master, 
he  has  been  known  to  hide  himself  in  a  dark 
corner  of  the  kitchen;  and  has  been  dragged 
from  thence  by  the  Doctor,  who  had  taken  him 
for  some  great  boy.  He  also  used  to  help  the 
boys  in  their  exercises,  generally  putting  in  as 
many  faults  as  wo.uld  disguise  the  assistance. 

Every  Englishman  who  values  the  literature  of 
his  country,  must  feel  himself  obliged  to  Warton 
as  a  poetical  antiquary.  As  a  poet,  he  is  ranked 
by  his  brother  Joseph  in  the  school  of  Spenser 
and  Milton ;  but  this  classification  can  only  be 
admitted  with  a  full  understanding  of  the  immense 
distance  between  him  and  his  great  masters.  He 
had,  indeed,  "spelt  the  fabled  rhyme;"  he 
abounds  in  allusions  to  the  romantic  subjects  of 
Spenser,  and  he  is  a  sedulous  imitator  of  the  rich 
lyrical  manner  of  Milton:  but  of  the  tenderness 
and  peculiar  harmony  of  Spenser  he  has  caught 
nothing ;  and  in  his  resemblance  to  Milton,  he  is 
the  heir  of  his  phraseology  more  than  of  his  spirit. 
His  imitation  of  manner,  however,  is  not  confined 
to  Milton.  His  style  otlen  exhibits  a  com- 
posite order  of  poetical  architecture.  In  his 
verses  to  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  for  instance,  he 
blends  the  point  and  succinctness  of  Pope,  with 
the  richness  of  the  elder  and  more  fanciful 
school.  It  is  one  of  his  happiest  compositions ; 
and,  in  this  case,  the  intermixture  of  styles  has  no 
unpleasing  effect.  In  others,  he  often  tastelessly 
and  elaborately  unites  his  afl'ectation  of  antiquity, 
with  the  case-hardened  graces  of  modern  polish. 

If  we  judge  of  him  by  the  character  of  the 
majority  of  his  pieces,  I  believe  that  fifty  out  of 
sixty  of  them  are  such,  that  we  should  not  be 
anxious  to  give  them  a  second  perusal.  From 
that  proportion  of  his  works,  I  conceive  that  an 
unprejudiced  reader  would  pronounce  him  a 
florid,  unalfecting  describer,  whose  images   are 


plentifully  scattered,  but  without  selection  or 
relief.  To  confine  our  view,  however,  to  some 
seven  or  eight  of  his  happier  pieces,  we  shall  find, 
in  these,  a  considerable  degree  of  graphic  power, 
of  fancy,  and  animation.  His  "Verses  to  Sir 
Joshua  Reynolds"  are  splendid  and  spirited. 
There  is  also  a  softness  and  sweetness  in  his  ode 
entitled  "  The  Hamlet,"  which  is  the  more  wel- 
come, for  being  rare  in  his  productions;  and  his 
"Crusade,"  and  "Grave  of  Arthur,"  have  a 
genuine  air  of  martial  and  minstrel  enthusiasm, 
'i'hose  pieces  exhibit,  to  the  best  advantage,  the 
most  striking  feature  of  his  poetical  character, 
which  was  a  fondness  for  the  recollections  of 
chivalry,  and  a  minute  intimacy  of  imagination 
with  its  gorgeous  residences,  and  imposing  spec- 
tacles. 'J'he  spirit  of  chivalry,  he  may  indeed  be 
said,  to  have  revived  in  the  poetry  of  modern 
times.  His  memory  was  richly  stored  with  all 
the  materials  for  description  that  can  be  got  from 
books:  and  he  seems  not  to  have  been  without 
an  original  enthusiasm  for  those  objects  which 
excite  strong  associations  of  regard  and  wonder. 
Whether  he  would  have  ever  looked  with  interest 
on  a  shepherd's  cottage,  if  he  had  not  found  it 
described  by  Virgil  or  Theocritus,  may  be  fairly 
doubted ;  but  objects  of  terror,  splendour  and 
magnificence,  are  evidently  congenial  to  his 
fancy.  He  is  very  impressive  in  sketching  the 
appearance  of  an  ancient  Gothic  castle,  in  the 
following  lines : 

"  High  o'er  the  trackless  heath,  at  midnight  seen. 
No  more  the  windows,  ranged  in  long  army, 
(Where  the  tall  shaft  and  fretted  nook  between 
Thick  ivy  twines)  the  taper'd  rites  betray." 

His  memory  was  stored  with  an  uncommon  por- 
tion of  that  knowledge  which  supplies  materials 
for  picturesque  description ;  and  his  universal 
acquaintance  with  our  poets  supplied  him  with 
expression,  so  as  to  answer  the  full  demand  of 
his  original  ideas.  Of  his  poetic  invention,  in  the 
fair  sense  of  the  word,  of  his  depth  of  sensibility, 
or  of  his  powers  of  reflection,  it  is  not  so  easy  to 
say  any  thing  favourable.* 


VERSES  ON  SIR  JOSHUA  REYNOLDS  S  PAINTED 
WINDOW,  AT  NEW  CuLLBUE,  OXFORD. 

Ah,  stay  thy  treacherous  hand,  forbear  to  trace 
Those  faultless  forms  of  elegance  and  grace! 
Ah,  cease  to  spread  the  bright  transparent  mass. 
With  Titian's  pencil,  o'er  the  speaking  glass ! 
Nor  steal,  by  strokes  of  art  with  truth  combined. 
The  fond  illusions  of  rny  wayward  mind! 
For  long  enamour'd  of  a  barbarous  age, 
A  faithless  truant  to  the  classic  page; 
Long  have  I  loved  to  catch  the  simple  chime 
Of  minstrel-harps,  and  spell  the  fabling  rime ; 
To  view  the  festive  rites,  the  knightly  play. 
That  deck'd  heroic  Albion's  elder  day ; 
To  mark  the  mouldering  halli  of  barons  bold, 
And  the  rough  castle,  cast  in  giant  mould ; 
83 


With  Gothic  manners  Gothic  arts  explore. 
And  muse  on  the  magnificence  of  yore. 

But  chief,  enraptured  have  I  loved  to  roam, 
A  lingering  votary,  the  vaulted  dome. 
Where  the  tall  shafts,  that  mount  in  massy  pride, 
Their  mingling  branches  shoot  from  side  to  side; 
Where  elfin  sculptors,  with  fantastic  clew, 
O'er  the  long  roof  their  wild  embroidery  drew ; 
Where  Superstition  with  capricious  hand 
In  many  a  maze  the  wreathed  window  plann'd. 
With  hues  romantic  tinged  the  gorgeous  pane. 
To  fill  with  holy  light  the  wondrous  fane ; 

[» lu  the  best  of  Warton's  poems  there  is  a  stiffness  which 
too  often  gives  them  the  appearance  of  imitations  from  thf 
Qreek. — Colekidoe. 

Thomiis  Warlou  has  sent  me  his  "  Inscriptions,"  whieb 
are  rather  too  simple  for  my  tuste. — Su£iCinotrE.J 


658 


THOMAS  WARTON. 


To  aid  the  builder's  model,  richly  rude. 

By  no  Vitruvian  symmetry  subdued ; 

To  suit  the  genius  of  the  mystic  pile  : 

Whilst  as  around  the  far-retiring  aisle, 

And  fretted  shrines,  with  hoary  trophies  hung, 

Her  dark  illumination  wide  she  flung, 

With  new  solemnity,  the  nooks  profound, 

The  cave  of  death,  and  the  dim  arches  frown'd 

From  bliss  long  felt  unwillingly  we  part : 

Ah,  spare  the  weakness  of  a  lover's  heart ! 

Chase  not  the  phantoms  of  my  fairy  dream. 

Phantoms  that  shrink  at  Reason's  painful  gleam ! 

That  softer  touch,  insidious  artist,  stay. 

Nor  to  new  joys  my  struggling  breast  betray ! 

Such  was  a  pensive  bard's  mistaken  strain.— 
But,  oh,  of  ravish'd  pleasures  why  complain  1 
No  more  the  matchless  skill  I  call  unkind. 
That  strives  to  disenchant  my  cheated  mind. 
For  when  again  I  view  thy  chaste  design. 
The  just  proportion,  and  the  genuine  line ; 
Those  native  portraitures  of  Attic  art. 
That  from  the  lucid  surface  seem  to  start ; 
Those  tints,  that  steal  no  glories  from  the  day, 
Nor  ask  the  sun  to  lend  his  streaming  ray : 
The  doubtful  radiance  of  contending  dyes, 
That  faintly  mingle,  yet  distinctly  rise  ; 
'Twixt  light  and  shade  the  transitory  strife ; 
The  feature  blooming  with  immortal  life: 
The  stole  in  casual  foldings  taught  to  flow. 
Not  with  ambitious  ornaments  to  glow  ; 
The  tread  majestic,  and  the  beaming  eye, 
That  lifted  speaks  its  commerce  with  the  sky; 
Heaven's  golden  emanation,  gleaming  mild 
O'er  the  mean  cradle  of  the  Virgin's  child: 
Sudden,  the  sombrous  imagery  is  fled, 
Which  late  my  visionary  rapture  fed: 
Thy  powerful  hand  has  broke  the  Gothic  chain, 
And  brought  my  bosom  back  to  truth  again ; 
To  truth,  by  no  peculiar  taste  confined, 
Whose  universal  pattern  strikes  mankind ; 
To  truth,  whose  bold  and  unresisted  aim 
Checks  frail  caprice,  and  fashion's  fickle  claim ; 
To  truth,  whose  charms  deception's  magic  quell, 
And  bind  coy  Fancy  in  a  stronger  spell. 

Ye  brawny  Prophets,  that  in  robes  so  rich, 
At  distance  due,  possess  the  crisped  niche ; 
Ye  rows  of  Patriarchs,  that  sublimely  rear'd 
Diffuse  a  proud  primeval  length  of  beard; 
Ye  Saints,  who,  clad  in  crimson's  bright  array, 
More  pride  than  humble  poverty  display : 
Ye  Virgins  meek,  that  wear  the  palmy  crown 
Of  patient  faith,  and  yet  so  fiercely  frown : 
Ye  Angels,  that  from  clouds  of  gold  recline, 
But  boast  no  semblance  to  a  race  divine : 
Ye  tragic  Tales  of  legendary  lore. 
That  draw  devotion's  ready  tear  no  more ; 
Ye  Martyrdoms  of  unenlighten'd  days. 
Ye  Miiacles,  that  now  no  wonder  raise: 
Shapes,  that  with  one  broad   glare    the    gazer 

strike. 
Kings,  bishops,  nuns,  apostles,  all  alike ! 
Ye  Colours,  that  th'  unwary  sight  amaze, 
And  only  dazzle  in  the  noontide  blaze ! 
No  more  the  sacred  window's  round  disgrace, 
But  yield  to  Grecian  groups  the  shining  space. 


Lo,  from  the  canvas  Beauty  shifts  her  throne, 
Lo,  Picture's  powers  a  new  formation  own ! 
Behold,  she  prints  upon  the  crystal  plain. 
With  her  own  energy,  th'  expressive  stain ! 
The  mighty  Master  spreads  his  mimic  toil 
More  wide,  nor  only  blends  the  breathing  oil ; 
But  calls  the  lineaments  of  life  complete 
From  genial  alchymy's  creative  heat ; 
Obedient  forms  to  the  bright  fusion  gives. 
While  in  the  warm  enamel  Nature  lives. 

Reynolds,  'tis  thine,  from  the  broad  window' 
height. 
To  add  new  lustre  to  religious  light : 
Not  of  its  pomp  to  strip  this  ancient  shrine, 
But  bid  that  pomp  with  purer  radiance  shine: 
With  arts  unknown  before,  to  reconcile 
The  willing  Graces  to  the  Gothic  pile. 


INSCRIPTION  IN  A  HERMITAGE. 

AT   AN8LET-HA1L,  IN  WAKWICBSHIRE. 

Beneath  this  stony  roof  reclined, 
I  soothe  to  peace  my  pensive  mind ; 
And  while,  to  shade  my  lowly  cave. 
Embowering  elms  their  umbrage  wave; 
And  while  the  maple  dish  is  mine. 
The  beechen  cup,  unstain'd  with  wine ; 
I  scorn  the  gay  licentious  crowd, 
Nor  heed  the  toys  that  deck  the  proud. 

Within  my  limits  lone  and  still 
The  blackbird  pipes  in  artless  trill ; 
Fast  by  my  couch,  congenial  guest. 
The  wren  has  wove  her  mossy  nest ; 
From  busy  scenes,  and  brighter  skies, 
To  lurk  with  innocence,  she  flies ; 
Here  hopes  in  safe  repose  to  dwell. 
Nor  aught  suspects  the  sylvan  cell. 

At  morn  I  take  my  custom'd  round. 
To  mark  how  buds  yon  shrubby  mound ; 
And  every  opening  primrose  count. 
That  trimly  paints  my  blooming  mount : 
Or  o'er  the  sculptures,  quaint  and  rude, 
That  grace  my  gloomy  solitude, 
I  teach  in  winding  wreathes  to  stray 
Fantastic  ivy's  gadding  spray. 

At  eve,  within  yon  studious  nook, 

I  ope  my  brass-embossed  book, 

Portray'd  with  many  a  holy  deed 

Of  martyrs,  crown'd  with  heavenly  meed; 

Then,  as  my  taper  waxes  dim, 

Chant,  ere  I  sleep,  my  measured  hymn ; 

And,  at  the  close,  the  gleams  behold 

Of  parting  wings  bedropt  with  gold. 

While  such  pure  joys  my  bliss  create. 
Who  but  would  smile  at  guilty  state? 
Who  but  would  wish  his  holy  lot 
In  calm  Oblivion's  humble  grot  1 
Who  but  would  cast  his  pomp  away, 
To  take  my  staff,  and  amice  gray  ; 
And  to  the  world's  tumultuous  stage 
Prefer  the  blameless  hermitage  ? 


THOMAS  WARTON. 


659 


THE  HAMLET. 

AN  ODE. 

The  hinds  how  bless'd,  who  ne'er  beguiled 
To  quit  their  hamlet's  hawthorn  wild  ; 
Nor  haunt  the  crowd,  nor  tempt  the  main, 
For  splendid  care,  and  guilty  gain  ! 

When  morning's  twilight-tinctured  beam 
Strikes  their  low  thatch  with  slanting  gleam, 
They  rove  abroad  in  ether  blue, 
To  dip  the  scythe  in  fragrant  dew ; 
The  sheaf  to  bind,  the  beech  to  fell, 
That  nodding  shades  a  craggy  dell. 

Midst  gloomy  glades,  in  warbles  clear. 
Wild  nature's  sweetest  notes  they  hear: 
On  green  untrodden  banks  they  view 
The  hyacinth's  neglected  hue: 
In  their  lone  haunts,  and  woodland  rounds. 
They  spy  the  squirrel's  airy  bounds  : 
And  startle  from  her  ashen  spray. 
Across  the  glen,  the  screaming  jay  : 
Each  native  charm  their  steps  explore 
Of  Solitude's  sequester'd  store. 

For  them  the  moon  with  cloudless  ray 

Mounts,  to  illume  their  homeward  way : 

Their  weary  spirits  to  relieve. 

The  meadow's  incense  breathe  at  eve. 

No  riot  mars  the  simple  fare. 

That  o'er  a  glimmering  hearth  they  share : 

But  when  the  curfew's  measured  roar 

Duly,  the  darkening  valleys  o'er. 

Has  echoed  from  the  distant  town. 

They  wish  no  beds  of  cygnet-down. 

No  trophied  canopies,  to  close 

Their  drooping  eyes  in  quick  repose. 

Their  little  sons,  who  spread  the  bloom 
Of  health  around  the  clay-built  room. 
Or  through  the  primrosed  coppice  stray, 
Or  gambol  in  the  new-mown  hay ; 
Or  quaintly  braid  the  cowslip-twine, 
Or  drive  afield  the  tardy  kine ; 
Or  hasten  from  the  sultry  hill. 
To  loiter  at  the  shady  rill ; 
Or  climb  the  tall  pine's  gloomy  crest. 
To  rob  the  raven's  ancient  nest. 

Their  humble  porch  with  honey'd  flowers 
The  curling  woodbine's  shade  embowers: 
From  the  small  garden's  thy  my  mound 
Their  bees  in  busy  swarms  resound : 
Nor  fell  Disease,  before  his  time, 
Hastes  to  consume  life's  golden  prime: 
But  when  their  temples  long  have  wore 
The  silver  crown  of  tresses  hoar ; 
As  studious  still  calm  peace  to  keep. 
Beneath  a  flowery  turf  they  sleep. 


THE  SUICIDE. 

AX  ODB. 

Bkneath  the  beech,  whose  branches  bare, 
Smit  with  the  lightning's  livid  glare, 
O'erhang  the  craggy  road, 


And  whistle  hollow  as  they  wave; 
Within  a  solitary  grave, 
A  Slayer  of  himself  holds  his  accursed  abode. 

Lower'd  the  grim  morn,  in  murky  dyes 
Damp  mists  involved  the  scowling  skies, 

And  dimm'd  the  struggUng  day; 
As  by  the  brook,  that  ling'ring  laves 
Yon  rush-grown  moor  with  sable  waves. 
Full  of  the  dark  resolve  he  took  his  sullen  way. 

I  mark'd  his  desultory  pace. 

His  gestures  strange,  and  varying  face, 

With  many  a  mutter'd  sound ; 
And  ah  !  too  late,  aghast  I  view'd 
The  reeking  blade,  the  hand  embrued ; 
He  fell,  and  groaning  grasp'd  in  agony  the  ground. 

Full  many  a  melancholy  night 

He  watch'd  the  slow  return  of  light; 

And  sought  the  powers  of  sleep, 
To  spread  a  momentary  calm 
O'rr  his  sad  couch,  and  in  the  balm 
Of  bland  oblivion's  dews  his  burning  eyes  to  steep. 

Full  oft,  unknowing  and  unknown. 
He  wore  his  endless  noons  alone, 

Amid  the  autumnal  wood  : 
Oft  was  he  wont,  in  hasty  fit. 
Abrupt  the  social  board  to  quit,  [flood. 

And  gaze  with  eager  glance  upon  the  tumbling 

Beckoning  the  wretch  to  torments  new, 
Despair,  for  ever  in  his  view, 

A  spectre  pale,  appear'd ; 
While,  as  the  shades  of  eve  aro?e. 
And  brought  the  day's  unwelcome  close, 
More  horrible  and  huge  her  giant-shape  she  rear'd. 

"  Is  this,"  mistaken  Scorn  will  cry, 
"  Is  this  the  youth  whose  genius  high 

Could  build  the  genuine  rhyme  1 
Whose  bosom  mild  the  favouring  Muse 
Had  stored  with  all  her  ample  views. 
Parent  of  fairest  deeds,  and  purposes  sublime. 

Ah !  from  the  Muse  that  bosom  mild 
By  treacherous  magic  was  beguiled. 

To  strike  the  deathful  blow  : 
She  fill'd  his  soft  ingenuous  mind 
With  many  a  feeling  too  refined,  [woe. 

And  roused  to  livelier  pangs  his  wakeful  sense  of 

Though  doom'd  hard  penury  to  prove, 
And  the  sharp  stings  of  hopeless  love  ; 

To  griefe  congenial  prone. 
More  wounds  than  nature  gave  he  knew. 
While  misery's  form  his  fancy  drew 
In  dark  ideal  hues,  and  horrors  not  its  own. 

Then  wish  not  o'er  his  earthy  tomb 
The  baleful  nightshade's  lurid  bloom 

To  drop  its  deadly  dew  : 
Nor  oh  !  forbid  the  twisted  thorn, 
That  rudely  binds  his  turf  forlorn,  [anew. 

With  spring's  green-swelling  buds  to  vegetata 

What  though  no  marble-piled  bust 
Adorn  his  desolated  dust. 

With  speaking  sculpture  wrought^ 


660 


THOMAS  WARTON. 


Pity  shall  woo  the  weeping  Nine, 
To  builJ  a  visionary  shrine,  [brought. 

Hung  with  unfading  flowers,  from  fairy  regions 

What  though  refused  each  chanted  rite  1 
Here  viewless  mourners  shall  delight 

To  touch  the  shadowy  shell : 
And  Petrarch's  harp,  that  wept  the  doom 
Of  Laura,  lost  in  early  bloom,  [knell. 

In  many  a  pensive  pause  shall  seem  to  ring  his 

To  soothe  a  lone,  unhallow'd  shade, 
This  votive  dirge  sad  duty  paid. 

Within  an  ivied  nook: 
Sudden  the  half-sunk  orb  of  day 
More  radiant  shot  its  parting  ray,  [took. 

And  thus  a  cherub-voice  my  charm'd  attention 

"  Forbear,  fond  bard,  thy  partial  praise ; 
Nor  thus  for  guilt  in  specious  lays 

The  wreath  of  glory  twine: 
In  vain  with  hues  of  gorgeous  glow 
Gay  Fancy  gives  her  vest  to  flow,       [confine. 
Unless  Truth's  matron-hand  the  floating  folds 

"  Just  Heaven,  man's  fortitude  to  prove, 
Permits  through  life  at  large  to  rove 

The  tribes  of  hell-born  Woe : 
Yet  the  same  power  that  wisely  sends 
Life's  fiercest  ills,  indulgent  lends 
Religion's  golden  shield  to  break  the  embattled  foe. 

"  Her  aid  divine  had  luU'd  to  rest 

Yon  foul  self-murderer's  throbbing  breast, 

And  stay'd  the  rising  storm  : 
Had  bade  the  sun  of  hope  appear 
To  gild  his  darken'd  hemisphere,  [form. 

And  give  the  wonted  bloom  to  nature's  blasted 

"Vain  Man!  'tis  Heaven's  prerogative 
To  take,  what  first  it  deign'd  to  give. 

Thy  tributary  breath : 
In  awful  expectation  placed. 
Await  thy  doom,  nor  impious  haste      [death." 
To  pluck  from  God's  right  hand  his  instruments  of 


THE  CRUSADE. 

AS   ODE. 

BoTTND  for  holy  Palestine, 
Nimbly  we  brush'd  the  level  brine, 
All  in  azure  steel  array'd ; 
O'er  the  wave  our  weapons  play'd. 
And  made  the  dancing  billows  glow  ; 
High  upon  the  trophied  prow. 
Many  a  warrior-minstrel  swung 
His  sounding  harp,  and  boldly  sung: 

"  Syrian  virgins,  wail  and  weep, 
English  Richard  ploughs  the  deep ! 
Tremble,  watchmen,  as  ye  spy. 
From  distant  towers,  with  anxious  eye, 
The  radiant  range  of  shield  and  lance 
Down  Damascus'  hills  advance: 
From  Sion's  turrets  as  afar 
Ye  ken  the  march  of  Europe's  war  ! 
Saladin,  thou  paynim  king. 
From  Albion's  isle  revenge  we  bring ! 


On  Aeon's  spiry  citadel. 

Though  to  the  gale  thy  banners  swell. 

Pictured  with  the  silver  moon; 

England  shall  end  thy  glory  soon ! 

In  vain,  to  break  our  firm  array. 

Thy  brazen  drums  hoarse  discord  bray : 

Those  sounds  our  rising  fury  fan : 

English  Richard  in  the  van. 

On  to  victory  we  go, 

A  vaunting  infidel  the  foe." 

Blondel  led  the  tuneful  band. 
And  swept  the  wire  with  glowing  hand. 
Cyprus,  from  her  rocky  mound. 
And  Crete,  with  piny  verdure  crown'd. 
Far  along  the  smiling  main 
Echoed  the  prophetic  strain. 

Soon  we  kiss'd  the  sacred  earth 
That  gave  a  murder'd  Saviour  birth; 
Then,  with  ardour  fresh  endued, 
Thus  the  solemn  song  renew'd. 

"  Lo,  the  toilsome  voyage  past. 
Heaven's  favour'd  hills  appear  at  last!        * 
Object  of  our  holy  vow. 
We  tread  the  Tynan  valleys  now. 
From  Carmel's  almond-shaded  steep 
We  feel  the  cheering  fragrance  creep: 
O'er  Engaddi's  shrubs  of  balm 
Waves  the  date-empurpled  palm. 
See  Lebanon's  aspiring  head 
Wide  his  immortal  umbrage  spread  ! 
Hail,  Calvary,  thou  mountain  hoar, 
Wet  with  our  Redeemer's  gore  ! 
Ye  trampled  tombs,  ye  fanes  forlorn, 
Ye  stones,  by  tears  of  pilgrims  worn; 
Your  ravish'd  honours  to  restore, 
Fearless  we  climb  this  hostile  shore  ! 
And  thou,  the  sepulchre  of  God  ! 
By  mocking  pagans  rudely  trod. 
Bereft  of  every  awful  rite. 
And    quench'd    thy  lamps    that    beam'd    so 

bright; 
For  thee,  from  Britain's  distant  coast, 
Lo,  Richard  leads  his  faithful  host ! 
Aloft  in  his  heroic  hand. 
Blazing,  like  the  beacon's  brand, 
O'er  the  far-aff'righted  fields. 
Resistless  Kaliburn  he  wields. 
Proud  Saracen,  pollute  no  more 
The  shrines  by  martyrs  built  of  yore! 
From  each  wild  mountain's  trackless  crown 
In  vain  thy  gloomy  castles  frown ; 
Thy  battering  engines,  huge  and  high. 
In  vain  our  steel-clad  steeds  defy ; 
And,  rolling  in  terrific  state. 
On  giant-wheels  harsh  thunders  grate. 
When  eve  has  hush'd  the  buzzing  camp, 
Amid  the  moonlight  vapours  damp, 
Thy  necromantic  forms,  in  vain, 
Haunt  us  on  the  tented  plain  : 
We  bid  those  spectre-shapes  avaunt, 
Ashtaroth,  and  Termagaunt ! 
With  many  a  demon  pale  of  hue, 
Doom'd  to  drink  the  bitter  dew 
That  drops  from  Macon's  sooty  tree, 
Mid  the  dread  grove  of  ebony. 


THOMAS  WARTON. 


661 


Nor  mafjic  charms,  nor  fiends  of  hell, 
The  Christian's  holy  courage  quell. 

Salem,  in  ancient  majesty 
Arise,  and  lift  thee  to  the  sky  ! 
Soon  on  thy  battlements  divine 
Shall  wave  the  badge  of  Constantine ! 
Ye  Barons,  to  the  sun  unfold 
Our  Cross  with  crimson  wove  and  gold !" 


THE  GRATE  0?  KING  ABTHtJB. 

AN  ODE. 

Statklt  the  feast,  and  high  the  cheer: 
Girt  with  many  an  armed  peer, 
And  canopied  with  golden  pall, 
Amid  Cilgarran's  castle  hall, 
Sublime  in  formidable  state. 
And  warlike  splendour,  Henry  sate ; 
Prepared  to  stain  the  briny  flood 
Of  Shannon's  lakes  with  rebel  blood. 

Illumining  the  vaulted  roof: 
A  thousand  torches  flamed  aloof: 
From  massy  cups,  with  golden  gleam 
Sparkled  the  red  metheglin's  stream : 
To  grace  the  gorgeous  festival, 
Along  the  lofty  window'd  hall, 
The  storied  tapestry  was  hung : 
With  minstrelsy  the  rafters  rung 
Of  harps  that  with  reflected  light 
From  the  proud  gallery  glitter'd  bright: 
While  gifted  bards,  a  rival  throng, 
(From  distant  Mona,  nurse  of  song. 
From  Teivi,  fringed  with  umbrage  brown, 
From  Elvy's  vale,  and  Cader's  crown. 
From  many  a  shaggy  precipice. 
That  shades  lerne's  hoarse  abyss, 
And  many  a  sunless  solitude 
Of  Radnor's  inmost  mountains  rude,) 
To  crown  the  banquet's  solemn  close, 
Themes  of  British  glory  chose ; 
And  to  the  strings  of  various  chime 
Atternper'd  thus  the  fabling  rhyme. 

"  O'er  Cornwall's  cliffs  the  tempest  roar'd, 
High  the  screaming  sea-mew  soar'd ; 
On  Tintaggel's  topmost  tower 
Darksome  fell  the  sleety  shower ; 
Round  the  rough  castle  shrilly  sung 
The  whirling  blast,  and  wildly  flung 
On  each  tall  rampart's  thundering  side 
The  surges  of  the  tumbling  tide: 
When  Arthur  ranged  his  red-cross  ranks 
On  conscious  Camlan's  crimson'd  banks: 
By  Mordred's  faithless  guile  decreed 
Beneath  a  Saxon  spear  to  bleed  ! 
Yet  in  vain  a  paynim  foe 
Arm'd  with  fate  the  mighty  blow; 
For  when  he  fell,  an  elfin  queen, 
All  in  secret,  and  unseen. 
O'er  the  fainting  hero  threw 
Her  mantle  of  ambrosial  blue: 
And  bade  her  spirits  bear  him  far, 
In  Merlin's  agate-axled  car, 
To  her  green  isle's  enamell'd  steep. 
Far  in  the  navel  of  the  deep. 


O'er  his  wounds  she  sprinkled  dew 
From  flowers  that  in  Arabia  grew: 
On  a  rich  inchanted  bed 
She  pillow'd  his  majestic  head ; 
O'er  his  brow,  with  whispers  bland, 
Thrice  she  waved  an  opiate  wand ; 
And  to  soft  music's  airy  sound. 
Her  magic  curtains  closed  around. 
There,  renew'd  the  vital  spring. 
Again  he  reigns  a  mighty  king ; 
And  many  a  fair  and  fragrant  clime. 
Blooming  in  immortal  prime. 
By  gales  of  Eden  ever  fann'd. 
Owns  the  monarch's  high  command  • 
Thence  to  Britain  shall  return, 
(If  right  prophetic  rolls  I  learn,) 
Borne  on  victory's  spreading  plume. 
His  ancient  sceptre  to  resume ; 
Once  more,  in  old  heroic  pride, 
His  barbed  courser  to  bestride ; 
His  knightly  table  to  restore. 
And  brave  the  tournaments  of  yore." 

They  ceased :  when  on  the  tuneful  stage 
Advanced  a  bard,  of  aspect  sage  ; 
His  silver  tresses,  thin  besprent. 
To  age  a  graceful  reverence  lent ; 
His  beard,  all  white  as  spangles  frore 
That  clothe  Plinlimmon's  forests  hoar, 
Down  to  his  harp  descending  flow'd ; 
With  Time's  faint  rose  his  features  glow'd ; 
His  eyes  diff"used  a  soften'd  fire. 
And  thus  be  waked  the  warbling  wire. 

"Listen,  Henry,  to  my  rede! 
Not  from  fairy  realms  I  lead 
Bright-robed  Tradition,  to  relate 
In  forged  colours  Arthur's  fate; 
Though  much  of  old  romantic  lore 
On  the  high  theme  I  keep  in  store : 
But  boastful  Fiction  should  be  dumb. 
Where  Truth  the  strain  might  best  become. 
If  thine  ear  may  still  be  won 
With  songs  of  Uther's  glorious  son, 
Henry,  I  a  tale  unfold. 
Never  yet  in  rhyme  enroll'd. 
Nor  sung  nor  harp'd  in  hall  or  bower; 
Which  in  my  youth's  full  early  flower, 
A  minstrel,  sprung  of  Cornish  line. 
Who  spoke  of  kings  from  old  Locrine, 
Taught  me  to  chant,  one  vernal  dawn, 
Deep  in  a  cliff-encircled  lawn, 
What  time  the  glistening  vapours  fled 
From  cloud-enveloped  Clyder's  head; 
And  on  its  sides  the  torrents  gray 
Shone  to  the  morning's  orient  ray. 

«  When  Arthur  bow'd  his  haughty  creet. 
No  princess,  veil'd  in  azure  vest, 
Snatch'd  him,  by  Merlin's  potent  spell, 
In  groves  of  golden  bliss  to  dwell; 
Where,  crown'd  with  wreaths  of  misletoe, 
Slaughter'd  kings  in  glory  go : 
But  when  he  fell,  with  winged  speed, 
His  champions,  on  a  milk-white  steed,. 
From  the  battle's  hurricane, 
Bore  him  to  Joseph's  tower'd  fane, 
sr 


662 


THOMAS  BLACKLOCK. 


In  the  fair  vale  of  Avalon  :* 

There,  with  chanted  orison, 

And  tbi  long  blaze  of  tapers  clear, 

The  stoied  fathers  met  the  bier; 

Through  the  dim  aisles  in  order  dread 

Of  martial  woe,  the  chief  they  led. 

And  deep  entomb'd  in  holy  ground. 

Before  the  altar's  solemn  bound. 

Around  no  dusky  banners  wave. 

No  mouldering  trophies  mark  the  grave : 

Away  the  ruthless  Dane  has  torn 

Each  trace  that  Time's  slow  touch  had  worn  ; 

And  long,  o'er  the  neglected  stone. 

Oblivion's  vail  its  shade  has  thrown: 

The  faded  tomb,  with  honour  due, 

'Tis  thine,  O  Henry,  to  renew  ! 

Thither,  when  Conquest  has  restored 

Yon  recreant  isle,  and  sheath'd  the  sword, 

When  peace  with  palm  has  crown'd  thy  brows, 

Haste  thee,  to  pay  thy  pilgrim  vows. 

There,  observant  of  my  lore, 

The  pavement's  hallow'd  depth  explore ; 

And  thrice  a  fathom  underneath 

Dive  into  the  vaults  of  death. 

There  shall  thine  eye,  with  wild  amaze, 

On  his  gigantic  stature  gaze; 

There  shalt  thou  find  the  monarch  laid, 

All  in  warrior-weeds  array'd  ; 

Wearing  in  death  his  helmet-crown, 

And  weapons  huge  of  old  renown. 

Martial  prince,  'tis  thine  to  save 

From  dark  oblivion  Arthur's  grave ! 

So  may  thy  ships  securely  stem 

The  western  frith  :  thy  diadem 

Shine  victorious  in  the  van, 

Nor  heed  the  slings  of  Ulster's  clan  : 

Thy  Norman  pikemen  win  their  way 

Up  the  dun  rocks  of  Harald's  bay  :t 

And  from  the  steeps  of  rough  Kildaro 

Thy  prancing  hoofs  the  falcon  scare  : 

So  may  thy  bow's  unerring  yew 

Its  shafts  in  Roderick's  heart  imbrue." 


Amid  the  pealing  symphony 
The  spiced  goblets  mantled  high  ; 
With  passions  new  the  song  impress'd 
The  listening  king's  impatient  breast: 
Flash  the  keen  lightnings  from  his  eyes; 
He  scorns  awhile  his  bold  emprise ; 
E'en  now  he  seems,  with  eager  pace, 
The  consecrated  floor  to  trace. 
And  ope,  from  its  tremendous  gloom, 
The  treasure  of  the  wondrous  tomb: 
E'en  now  he  burns  in  thought  to  rear. 
From  its  dark  bed,  the  ponderous  spear, 
Rough  with  the  gore  of  Pictish  kings  : 
E'en  now  fond  hope  his  fancy  wings. 
To  poise  the  monarch's  massy  blade, 
Of  magic-temper'd  metal  made ; 
And  drag  to  day  the  dinted  shield 
That  felt  the  storm  of  Camlan's  field. 
O'er  the  sepulchre  profound 
E'en  now,  with  arching  sculpture  crown'd, 
He  plans  the  chantry's  choral  shrine. 
The  daily  dirge,  and  rites  divine. 


WBTITEN  AFTEE  SEEING  WHTON  HOUSE. 

From  Pembroke's  princely  dome,  where  mimic 

Art 
Decks  with  a  magic  hand  the  dazzling  bowers, 
Its  living  hues  where  the  warm  pencil  pours. 
And  breathing  forms  from  the  rude  marble  start, 
How  to  life's  humbler  scene  can  I  depart ! 
My  breast  all  glowing  from  those  gorgeous  towers. 
In  my  low  cell  how  cheat  the  sullen  hours ! 
Vain  the  complaint :  for  Fancy  can  impart 
(To  Fate  superior  and  to  Fortune's  doom) 
Whate'er  adorns  the  stately  storied  hall : 
She,  'mid  the  dungeon's  solitary  gloom, 
Can  dress  the  Graces  in  their  Attic  pall; 
Bid  the  green  landscape's  vernal  beauty  bloom, 
And  in  bright  trophies  clothe  the  twiUght  wall. 


THOMAS  BLACKLOCK. 


[Born,  1721.    Died,  1791.] 


Thomas  Blacklock  was  born  at  Annan,  in 
Dumfriesshire,  where  his  father  was  a  brick- 
layer. Before  he  was  six  months  old  he  was 
totally  deprived  of  sight  by  the  small-pox.  From 
an  early  age  he  discovered  a  fondness  for  listen- 
ing to  books,  especially  to  those  in  poetry ;  and 
by  the  kindness  of  his  friends  and  relations,  he 
acquired  a  slight  acquaintance  with  the  Latin 
tongue,  and  with  some  of  the  popular  English 
classics.     He  began  also,  when  very  young,  to 

[*  Glastonbury  Abbey,  said  to  be  founded  by  Joseph  of 
Arimathea,  in  a  spot  aiitleuUy  culled  the  island,  or  valley 
3f  Avalonia.] 

[t  The  bay  of  Dublin.  Huruld,  or  Harsaper,  the  Fair- 
haired  King  of  Norway,  is  said  to  have  conquered  Ireland, 
and  to  have  founded  IJubliu.J 


compose  verses  ;  and  some  of  these  having  been 
shown  to  Dr.  Stevenson,  an  eminent  physician 
of  the  Scottish  capital,  the  doctor  benevolently 
took  him  to  Edinburgh,  where  Blacklock  improved 
his  knowledge  of  Latin,  and  completed  his  studies 
at  the  university.  The  publication  of  his  poems 
excited  a  general  interest  in  his  favour,  and 
Professor  Spence,  of  Oxford,  having  prefixed  to 
them  an  account  of  his  life  and  character,  a 
second  edition  of  them  was  liberally  encouraged 
in  London.  In  1759,  he  was  licensed  as  a 
preacher  of  the  Scottish  church.  He  soon  after- 
ward married  a  Miss  Johnston,  a  very  worthy, 
but  homely  woman  ;  whose  beauty,  however,  he 
was  accustomed  to  extol  with  an  ecstasy  that 


THOMAS  BLACKLOCK. 


663 


made  his  friends  regard  his  blindness,  as,  in  one 
instance,  no  misfortune.  By  the  patronage  of 
the  Earl  of  Sellurk.  he  was  presented  to  the 
living  of  Kirkcudbright;  but  in  consequence  of 
the  violent  objections  that  were  made  by  the 
parishioners  to  having  a  blind  man  for  their 
clergyman,  he  resigned  the  living,  and  accepted 
of  a  small  annuity  in  its  stead.  With  this  slen- 
der provision  he  returned  to  Edinburgh,  and  sub- 
sisted, for  the  rest  of  his  life,  by  taking  young 
gentlemen  as  boarders  in  his  house,  whom  he 
occasionally  assisted  in  their  studies. 

He  published  an  interesting  article  on  Blind- 
ness in  the  Encyclopadia  Britannica,  and  a  work 
entitled  "  Paraclesis,  or  Consolations  of  Religion," 
in  two  dissertations,  the  one  original,  the  other 
translated  from  a  work  which  has  been  sometimes 
ascribed  to  Cicero,  but  which  is  more  generally 
believed  to  have  been  written  by  Vigonius  of 
Padua.  He  died  of  a  nervous  fever,  at  the  age 
of  seventy. 

Blacklock  was  a  gentle  and  social  being,  but 
prone  to  melancholy ;  probably  more  from  con- 
stitution than  from  the  circumstance  of  his 
blindness,  which  he  so  often  and  so  deeply  de- 
plores. From  this  despondent  disposition,  he 
sought  refuge  in  conversation  and  music     He 


was  a  tolerable  performer  on  the  flute,  and 
used  to  carry  a  flageolet  in  his  pocket,  on 
which  he  was  not  displeased  to  be  solicited  for  a 
tune. 

His  verses  are  extraordinary  for  a  man  blind 
from  his  infancy;  but  Mr.  Henry  Mackenzie,  in 
his  elegant  biographical  account  of  him,  has  cer- 
tainly over-rated  his  genius;  and  when  Mr. 
Spence,  of  Oxford,  submitted  Blacklock's  de- 
scriptive powers  as  a  problem  for  metaphysicians 
to  resolve,  he  attributed  to  his  writings  a  degree 
of  descriptive  strength  which  they  do  not  possess. 
Denina*  carried  exaggeration  to  the  utmost 
when  he  declared  that  Blacklock  would  seem  a 
fable  to  posterity,  as  he  had  been  a  prodigy  to 
his  contemporaries.  It  is  no  doubt  curious 
that  his  memory  should  have  retained  so  many 
forms  of  expression  for  things  which  he  had  never 
seen ;  but  those  who  have  conversed  with  intel- 
ligent persons  who  have  been  blind  from  their 
infancy,  must  have  often  remarked  in  them  a 
familiarity  of  language  respecting  the  objects  of 
vision  which,  though  not  easy  to  be  accounted  for, 
will  be  found  sufliciently  common  to  make  the 
rhymes  of  Blacklock  appear  far  short  of  mar- 
vellous. Blacklock,  on  more  than  one  occasion, 
betrays  something  like  marks  of  blindness.f 


THE  AUTHOR'S  PICTURE. 

While  in  my  matchless  graces  wrapt  I  stand. 
And  touch  each  feature  with  a  trembling  hand ; 
Deign,  lovely  self!  with  art  and  nature's  pride. 
To  mix  the  colours,  and  the  pencil  guide. 

Self  is  the  grand  pursuit  of  half  mankind; 
How  vast  a  crowd  by  self,  like  uie,  are  blind ! 
By  self  the  fop  in  magic  colours  shown. 
Though  scorn'd  by  every  eye,  delights  his  own  : 
When  age  and  wrinkles  seize  the  conqu'ring  maid. 
Self,  not  the  glass,  reflects  the  flattering  shade. 
Then,  wonder-working  self!  begin  the  lay; 
Thy  charms  to  others  as  to  me  display. 

Straight  is  my  person,  but  of  little  size ; 
Lean  are  my  cheeks,  and  hollow  are  my  eyes ; 
My  youthful  down  is,  like  my  talents,  rare ; 
Politely  distant  stands  each  single  hair. 
My  voice  too  rough  to  charm  a  lady's  ear; 
So  smooth  a  child  may  listen  without  fear ; 
Not  form'd  in  cadence  soft  and  warbling  lays, 
Tosoothe  the  fairthrough  pleasure's  wanton  ways. 
My  form  so  fine,  so  regular,  so  new. 
My  port  so  manly,  and  so  fresh  my  hue ; 
Oft,  as  I  meet  the  crowd,  they  laughing  say, 
«  See,  see  Memento  Mori  cross  the  way." 
The  ravish'd  Proserpine  at  last,  we  know, 
Grew  fondly  jealous  of  her  sable  beau  ; 
But,  thanks  to  nature!  none  from  me  need  fly; 
One  heart  the  devil  could  wound — so  cannot  I. 

Yet,  though  my  person  fearless  may  be  seen. 
There  is  some  danger  in  my  graceful  mien : 
For,  as  some  vessel  toss'd  by  wind  and  tide, 
Bounds  o'er  the  waves  and  rocks  from  side  to 
side; 


In  just  vibration  thus  I  always  move: 

This  who  can  view  and  not  be  forced  to  love  ! 

Hail !  charming  self!  by  whose  propitious  aid 
My  form  in  all  its  glory  stands  display'd : 
Be  present  still ;  with  inspiration  kind. 
Let  the  same  faithful  colours  paint  the  mind. 

Like  all  mankind,  with  vanity  I'm  bless'd. 
Conscious  of  wit  I  never  yet  possess'd. 
To  strong  desires  my  heart  an  easy  prey, 
Oft  feels  their  force,  but  never  owns  their  sway. 
This  hour,  perhaps,  as  death  I  hate  my  foe; 
The  next,  I  wonder  why  I  should  do  so. 
Though  poor,  the  rich  I  view  with  careless  eye 
Scorn  a  vain  oath,  and  hate  a  serious  lie. 
I  ne'er  for  satire  torture  common  sense; 
Nor  show  my  wit  at  God's  nor  man's  expense. 
Harmless  I  live,  unknowing  and  unknown ; 
Wish  well  to  all.  and  yet  do  good  to  none. 
Unmerited  contempt  I  hate  to  bear; 
Yet  on  my  faults,  like  others,  am  severe. 
Dishonest  flames  my  bosom  never  fire ; 
The  bad  I  pity,  and  the  good  admire; 
Fond  of  the  Muse,  to  her  devote  my  days. 
And  scribble — not  for  pudding,  but  for  praise. 

These  careless  lines,  if  any  virgin  bears, 
Perhaps,  in  pity  to  my  joyless  years. 
She  may  consent  a  generous  flame  to  own ; 
And  I  no  longer  sigh  the  nights  alone. 
But  should  the  fair,  affected,  vain,  or  nice. 
Scream  with  the  fears  inspired  by  fi'ogs  or  mice ; 

♦  In  his  Disc  )rso  della  Literatura. 

[t  BliwkldckV  pootry  sleops  seizure  io  undisturbed  me 
diitcrity,  aud  Blacklock  himself  is  best  rememt>ered  trom 
Johnson's  reve.reutial  look  and  the  influence  s  lettur  of  fait 
bud  upon  the  late  and  fortunes  of  Burns.] 


664 


WILLIAM  HAYWARD  ROBERTS. 


Cry,  "  Save  us,  heaven  !  a  spectre,  not  a  man ! 
Her  hartshorn  snatch  or  interpose  her  fan  : 
If  I  my  tender  overture  repeat; 
Oh  !  may  my  vows  her  kind  reception  meet ! 
May  she  new  graces  on  my  form  bestow, 
And  with  tall  honours  dignify  my  brow  ! 


ODE  TO  AURORA,  ON  MELISSA'S  BIRTH-DAY. 

Of  time  and  nature  eldest  born, 

Emerge,  thou  rosy-finger'd  morn, 

Emerge,  in  purest  dress  array 'd. 

And  chase  from  Heaven  night's  envious  shade 

That  I  once  more  may,  pleased,  survey, 

And  hail  Melissa's  natal  day. 

Of  time  and  nature  eldest  born, 
Emerge,  thou  rosy-finger'd  morn; 


In  order  at  the  eastern  gate 
The  Hours  to  draw  thy  chariot  wait ; 
Whilst  zephyr,  on  his  balmy  wings, 
Mild  nature's  fragrant  tribute  brings, 
With  odours  sweet  to  strew  thy  way, 
And  grace  the  bland  revolving  day. 

But  as  thou  lead'st  the  radiant  sphere. 

That  gilds  its  birth,  and  marks  the  year, 

And  as  his  stronger  glories  rise. 

Diffused  around  th'  expanded  skies. 

Till  clothed  with  beams  serenely  bright, 

All  Heaven's  vast  concave  flames  with  light; 

So,  when,  through  life's  protracted  day, 

Melissa  still  pursues  her  way. 

Her  virtues  with  thy  splendour  vie, 

Increasing  to  the  mental  eye : 

Though  less  conspicuous,  not  less  dear. 

Long  may  they  Bion's  prospect  cheer; 

So  shall  his  heart  no  more  repine, 

Bless'd  with  her  rays,  though  robb'd  of  thine. 


WILLIAM  HAYWARD  ROBERTS. 

CBom,  1715.    Died,  1791.] 


He  was  educated  at  Eton,  and  from  thence  was 
elected  to  King's  college,  Cambridge,  where  he 
took  the  degree  of  master  of  arts,  and  of  doctor 
in  divinity.  From  being  an  under-master  at 
Eton  he  finally  rose  to  be  provost  of  the  college, 
in  the  year  1781.  He  was  also  chaplain  to  the 
king,  and  rector  of  Farnham  Royal,  in  Bucking- 


hamshire. In  1771  he  published,  in  three  parts, 
"  A  Poetical  Essay  on  the  Attributes  and  Provi- 
dence of  the  Deity."  Two  years  afterward, 
"  A  Poetical  Epistle  to  Christopher  Anstey,  on 
the  English  Poets,  chiefly  those  who  had  written 
in  blank  verse ;"  and  in  1774,  his  poem  of 
"  Judah  Restored,"  a  work  of  no  common  merit. 


FROM  "JUDAH  RESTORED." 

BOOK  I. 

The  subject  proposed — State  of  the  Jewg  in  Captivity — 
Character  of  Belshazzar — Feast  of  Baal — Daniel  visited 
by  the  Angel  Gabriel. 

The  fall  of  proud  Belshazzar,  the  return 
Of  Benjamin,  and  Judah,  captive  tribes, 
I  sing.     Spirit  of  God,  who  to  the  eyes 
Of  holy  seers  in  vision  didst  reveal 
Events  far  distant;  thou  who  once  didst  touch 
Their  lips  with  heavenly  fire,  and  tune  their  harps 
To  strains  sublimer  than  the  Tuscan  stream 
Caught  from  his  Latian  bards,  or  echoed  round 
The  wide  .^Egean  from  Ionia's  shore. 
Inspire  my  soul ;  bless'd  spirit,  aid  my  song. 

The  sun  full  seventy  times  had  pass'd  the  realm 
Of  burning  Scorpius,  and  was  hastening  down 
The  steep  convex  of  heaven,  since  Babylon 
Received  her  mourning  prisoners.    Savage  taunts. 
And  the  rude  insult  of  their  barbarous  lords. 
Embitter  all  their  woe.     Meanwhile  the  Law, 
Proclaim'd  on  Horeb's  top,  neglected  lies; 
Nor  kid,  nor  evening  lamb,  nor  heifer  bleeds, 
Nor  incense  smokes,  nor  holy  Levite  claims 
Choice  fruits,  and  rich  oblations.     On  the  trees. 
That  o'er  the  waters  bend,  their  untuned  harps. 
Harps  which  their  fathers  struck  to  festal  hymns. 
Hang  useless.     'Twas  the  hill,  'twas  Sion's  bill. 


Which  yet  Jehovah  loved.    There  once  he  dwelt; 
There  stood  his  temple ;  there  from  side  to  side 
The  cherub  stretch'd  his  wings,  and  from  the  cloud 
Beam'd  bright  celestial  radiance.    Thence,  though 
In  early  childhood  to  a  stranger's  land,     [driven 
Or  born  sad  heirs  of  slavery,  still  they  cast 
An  anxious  look  from  Perath's  willowy  vale. 
Toward  Jordan,  sacred  stream  ;  and  when  the  sun 
Sunk  in  the  west,  with  eager  eye  pursued 
His  parting  beams;  and  pointed  to  the  place, 
Where  from  their  sight  the  faint  horizon  hid. 
Those  hills,  which  round  deserted  Salem's  walls 
Stood  like  a  bulwark.     And  as  some  tired  hart. 
Driven  by  keen  hunters  o'er  the  champain  wild, 
Pants  for  the  running  brook,  so  long  the  tribes 
Of  captive  Judah  for  their  native  clime, 
Again  to  sing  the  strains  of  Jesse's  son. 
Again  to  raise  a  temple  to  their  God. 

But,  oh  !  what  hope,  what  prospect  of  return. 
While  fierce  Belshazzar  reigns?  He,  undismay'd 
Though  hostile  banners  stream  near  Babel's  towers. 
Round  his  gall'd  prisoners  binds  the  griping  chain, 
And  scoffs  at  Judah's  God.     Even  now  a  shout 
Is  heard  through  every  street,  and  with  loud  voice 
Arioch,  an  herald  tall,  proclaims  a  feast 
To  Bel.  Chaldsean  idol  ;  and  commands 
That  when  the  morrow  dawns,  soon  as  is  heard 
The  sound  of  cornet,  dulcimer,  and  harp. 


WILLIAM  HAYWARD  ROBERTS. 


bw 


Rackbut,  and  psaltery,  each  knee  be  bent 
Before  the  mighty  dragon.     Silent  stand, 
With  eyes  dejected,  Solyma's  sad  sons. 
Shall  they  comply  1  but  will  Jehovah  then 
E'er  lead  them  back  to  Canaan,  pleasant  land  1 
Shall  they  refuse  1  but  who,  oh !  who  shall  check 
Belshazzar's  waken'd  wrath  1  who  shall  endure 
The  burning  cauldron,  or  what  lingering  death 
The  tyrant's  cruel  vengeance  may  devise  1 
Thus  they  irresolute  wait  the  fatal  hour. 

Now  night  invests  the  pole :  wrapt  is  the  world 
In  awful  silence ;  not  a  voice  is  heard. 
Nor  din  of  arms,  nor  sound  of  distant  foot. 
Through  the  still  gloom.  Euphrates  lulls  his  waves, 
Which  sparkle  to  the  moon's  reflected  beam  ; 
Nor  does  one  sage  from  Babylon's  high  towers 
Descry  the  planets,  or  the  fix'd,  and  mark 
Their  distance  or  their  number.     Sunk  to  rest,. 
With  all  her  horrors  of  the  morrow's  doom, 
Lies  Sion's  captive  daughter :  sleep,  soft  sleep, 
His  dusky  mantle  draws  o'er  every  eye. 
But  not  on  Daniel's  unpillow'd  head 
One  opiate  dew-drop  falls.     Much  he  revolves 
Dark  sentences  of  old  ;  much  pious  zeal 
For  great  Jehovah's  honour  fires  his  soul ; 
And  thus,  with  lifted  hands,  the  prophet  cries. 

"  Father  of  truth,  and  mercy,  thou  whose  arm 
Even  from  the  day  when  Abraham  heard  thy  voice, 
Stretch'd  o'er  thy  chosen  race,  protects  us  still, 
Though  now  awhile  thou  suffer  us  to  groan 
Beneath  a  tyrant's  yoke;  when,  gracious  Lord, 
Oh  when  shall  we  return  1  Oh  when  again 
Shall  Siloa's  banks,  and  Sion's  holy  top. 
Be  vocal  with  thy  name !     Said  not  thy  seer, 
When  seventy  tedious  moons  had  twelve  times 

waned. 
We  should  again  be  free?  Behold,  the  day 
Approaches.     God  of  Israel,  hath  ought  changed 
Thine  everlasting  counsel  1   wilt  thou  leave 
Thy  people  yet  in  sad  captivity. 
And  join  thy  prophet  with  the  despised  tribe 
Of  Babel's  false  diviners  ?    Not  to  thee, 
But  to  great  Bel,  Chaldsea's  frantic  priests 
Waft  clouds  of  incense.    Soon  as  morning  dawns. 
With  shouts  the  noisy  revellers  will  proclaim 
The  triumph  of  their  God  ;  nor  will  they  cease 
To  rouse  their  monarch's  rage,  should  Judah  dare 
Resist  his  impious  edict     Then,  oh  then, 
God  of  our  fathers,  rise ;  and  in  that  day. 
Even  before  night,  whose  vaulted  arch  now  shines 
With  clustering  stars,  shall  visit  earth  again. 
Confound  their  horrid  rites,  and  show  some  sign 
That  yet  again  thy  prisoners  shall  be  free." 

He  spake,  and  sudden  heard  a  rushing  noise, 
Vs  when  a  north-west  gale  comes  hovering  round 
Some  cape,  the  point  of  spacious  continent, 
Or  in  the  Indian  or  Pacific  main  ; 
The  sailor  hears  it  whistling  in  his  shrouds, 
And  bids  it  hail.     Bright  as  the  summer's  noon 
Shone  all  the  earth.     Before  the  prophet  stood 
Gabriel,  seraphic  form  ;  graceful  his  port. 
Mild  was  his  eye;  yet  such  as  might  command 
Reverence,  and  sacred  awe,  by  purest  love 
Soften'd,  but  not  impair'd.     In  waving  curls 
0'<»-  his  arch'd  neck  his  golden  tresses  hung; 


And   on   his  shoulders  two  broad  wings  were 

placed. 
Wings,  which  when  closed,  drew  up  in  many  a 

fold. 
But,  when  extended  to  their  utmost  length. 
Were  twice  ten  cubits.     Two  of  smaller  size 
Came  shadowing  round  his  feet,  with  which  he 

trod 
The  elastic  air,  and  walk'd  o'er  buoyant  space, 
As  on  firm  ground.     A  tunic  braced  his  limbs, 
Blanch'd  in  the  fields  of  light;  and  round  his  waist 
Was  clasp'd  an  azure  zone,  with  lucid  stars 
All  studded,  like  that  circle  broad  which  cuts 
The  equator,  burning  line.     The  astonish'd  seer 
With  low  obeisance  bow'd  his  hoary  head. 
While  thus  in  voice  benign  the  cherub  spake. 

"  Servant  of  God,  that  prayer  was  not  unheard 
In  heaven.     I  caught  it,  as  before  the  throne 
I  stood,  within  the  emerald  bow,  and,  mix'd 
With  fragrant  incense,  offer'd  it  to  him. 
The  white-robed  Ancient  of  eternal  days, 
Even  on  his  golden  altar.     Forthwith  sent 
To  thee,  with  speed  impetuous,  swifter  far 
Than  travels  light's  meridian  beam,  through  realms 
Of  space,  studded  with  worlds,  which  neither 

thought 
Of  mortal  can  conceive,  nor  numlicrs  count, 
I  come,  God's  messenger.     Not  twice  the  morn 
Shall  dawn,  ere  all  the  woes  which  Salem  felt 
Shall  fall  on  Babylon.     This,  this  is  he. 
Whose  streamers  now  round  these  devoted  towers 
Wave  to  the  western  wind,  whom  God  hath  raised 
His  instrument  of  vengeance.   Twice  hath  pass'd 
A  century,  since  him  the  prophet  styled 
Cyrus,  the  Lord's  anointed.     He  shall  say. 
Cities  of  Judah,  rise !     He  shall  command. 
And  Solyma's  unpeopled  streets  again 
Shall  throng  with  busy  multitudes.     To  him 
In  vision,  or  in  dream,  shall  God  reveal 
His  secret  purpose;  or  what  other  way 
His  power  shall  mould  the  victor's  ductile  will 
To  execute  his  promise.     One  day  more 
Shall  proud  Chaldsa  triumph.     In  that  day 
Let  not  a  knee  in  Benjamin  be  bow'd 
Save  to  Jehovah.     What  though  cruel  pride 
Inflame  Belshazzar's  soul !  what  though  his  wrath 
Torments  unknown  prepare;  asign  from  Heaven 
Shall  blast  each  vain  device,  a  sign  obscure. 
But  terrible.    Ask  not  what ;  for  in  that  hour 
Shall  beam  celestial  knowledge  on  thy  soul, 
And  thou  shalt  read  the  piystic  characters 
Of  dark  futurity.     Fear  not  his  frown  ; 
But  in  the  sight  of  his  assembled  peers 
Hurl  bold  defiance  at  his  throne;  and  speak 
As  fits  a  prophet  of  the  living  God." 

He  spake,  nor  ended  here ;  but  to  the  seer 
Matters  of  import  high  disclosed,  which  lay 
Deep  in  the  womb  of  time.    ''And  these,"  he 

cried, 
<'  Record  to  distant  ages,  but  conceal 
My  present  errand."     Daniel  prepared 
Obedient  answer ;  but  before  he  spake, 
Gabriel  had  furl'd  his  wings,  and  now  had  reach'd 
The    middle    space   'twixt   earth,    and    highest 

heaven. 

Sr2 


666 


WILLIAM  HAYWAllD  ROBERTS. 


FUOM  THE  SAME. 

Procession  of  the  CbaWean-i  to  the  Temple  of  Belus — ^Ro- 
fu=al  at  the  Jew^  to  worship  the  Idol — Rage  of  Bel.*haz- 
i:ir — The  hanJ-writiag  on  the  wall  of  his  palace — 
Daniel's  prophecy. 

Now  Morn,  with  rosy-colour'd  finger,  raised 
The  sable  pall,  which  provident  Night  had  thrown 
O'er  mortals,  and  their  works,  when  every  street, 
Straight   or    transverse,  that  toward   Euphrates 

turns 
Its  sloping  path,  resounds  with  festive  shouts, 
And  teems  with  busy  multitudes,  which  press 
With  zeal  impetuous  to  the  towering  fane 
Of  Bel,  Chaldsean  Jove;  surpassing  far 
That  Doric  temple,  which  the  Elean  chiefs 
Raised  to  their  thunderer  from  the  spoils  of  war. 
Or  that  Ionic,  where  the  Ephesian  bow'd 
To  Dian,  queen  of  heaven.     Eight  towers  arise. 
Each  above  each,  immeasurable  height, 
A  monument  at  once  of  eastern  pride 
And  slavish  superstition.     Round,  a  scale 
Of  circling  steps  entwines  the  conic  pile; 
And  at  the  bottom  on  vast  hinges  grate 
Fourbrazen  gates,  toward  the  fourwinds  of  heaven 
Placed  in  the  solid  square.     Hither  at  once 
Come  flocking  all  the  sons  of  Babylon, 
Chaldsean  or  Assyrian  ;  but  retire 
With  humblest  awe,  while  through  their  mar- 

shaird  ranks 
Stalks  proud  Belshazzar.  From  his  shoulders  flows 
A  robe,  twice  steep'd  in  rich  Sidonian  hues. 
Whose  skirts,  embroider'd  with  meand'ring  gold, 
Sweep   o'er  the  marble   pavement.     Round  his 

neck 
A  broad  chain  glitters,  set  with  richest  gems. 
Ruby,  and  amethyst.     The  priests  come  next, 
With  knives,  and  lancets  arm'd;  two  thousand 

sheep 
And  twice  two  thousand  lambs  stand  bleating 

round. 
Their  hungry  god's  repast :  six  loaded  wains 
With  wine,  and  frankincense,  and  finest  flour. 
Move  slowly.     Then  advance  a  tfallant  band, 
Provincial  rulers,  counsellors  and  chiefs. 
Judges  and  princes :  from  their  essenced  hair 
Steam  rich  perfumes,  exhaled  from  flower  or  herb, 
Assyrian  spices:  last,  the  common  train 
Of  humbler  citizens.     A  linen  vest 
Enfolds  their  limbs;  o'er  which  a  robe  of  wool 
Is  clasp'd,  while  yet  a  third  hangs  white  as  snow. 
Even  to  their  sandall'd  feet:   a  signet  each. 
Each  bears  a  polish'd  staflT,  on  whose  smooth  top 
In  bold  relief  some  well-carved  emblem  stands. 
Bird,  fruit,  or  flower.     Determined,  though  dis- 

may'd, 
Judaea's  mourning  prisoners  close  the  rear. 

And  now  the  unfolded  gates  on  every  side 
Admit  the  splendid  train,  and  to  their  eyes 
A  scene  of  rich  magnificence  display, 
('ensers,  and  cups,  and  vases,  nicely  wrought 
In  gold  with  pearls  and  glittering  gems  inlaid, 
The  fiirniture  of  Baal.     An  altar  stands 
Of  vast  dimensions  near  the  central  stone, 
^n  which  the  god's   high-priest  strews   frank- 

incense. 


!  In  weight  a  thousand  talents.     There  he  drags 
!  The  struggling  elders  of  the  flock;  while  near, 
Stretch'd  on  a  smaller  plate  of  unmix'd  gold, 
Bleed  the  reluctant  lambs.  The  ascending  smoke, 
Impregnate  with  perfumes,  fills  all  the  air. 

These  rites  perform'd,  his  votaries  all  advance 
Where  standi  their  idol ;  to  compare  with  whom 
That  earth-born  crew,  which  scaled  the  walls  of 

heaven. 
Or  that  vast  champion  of  Philistia's  host, 
Whom  in  the  vale  of  Elah  David  slew 
Un  arm'd,  were  'minish'd  to  a  span.     In  height 
Twice  twenty  feet  he  rises  from  the  ground ; 
And  every  massy  limb,  and  every  joint, 
Is  carved  in  due  proportion.     Not  one  mine, 
Though  branching  out  in  many  a  vein  of  gold, 
Sufficed  for  this  huge  column.     Him  the  priests 
Had  swept,  and  burnish'd,  and  perfumed  with  oils 
Essential  odours.     Now  the  sign  is  given, 
And  forthwith  strains  of  mixed  melody 
Proclaim  their  molten  thunderer;  cornet,  flute 
Harp,  sackbut,  psaltery,  dulcimer,  unite 
In  loud  triumphal  hymn,  and  all  at  once 
The  King,  the  nations,  and  the  languages 
Fall  prostrate  on  the  ground.     But  not  a  head, 
But  not  one  head  in  all  thy  faithful  bands, 
O  Judah,  bows.    As  when  the  full-orb'd  moon. 
What  time  the  reaper  chants  his  harvest  sowg. 
Rises  behind  some  horizontal  hill. 
Flaming  with  reddest  fire ;  still  as  she  moves. 
The  tints  all  soften,  and  a  yellower  light 
Gleams  through  the  ridges  of  a  purple  clouJ : 
At  length,  when  midnight  holds  her  silent  reign, 
Changed  to  a  silver  white,  she  holds  her  lamp 
O'er  the  belated  traveller ;  so  thy  face, 
Belshazzar,  from  the  crimson  glow  of  rage, 
Shifting  through  all  the  various  hues  between. 
Settles  into  a  wan  and  bloodless  pale. 
Thine  eyeballs  glare  with  fire.  "Now,  bygreat  Bel," 
Incensed,  exclaims  the  monarch,  "soon  as  morn 
Again  shall  dawn,  my  vengeance  shall  be  pour'd 
On  every  head  of  their  detested  race." 

He  spake,  and  left  the  fane  with  hasty  step. 
Indignant.    Him  a  thousand  lords  attend. 
The  minions  of  his  court.     And  now  they  reach 
The  stately  palace.     In  a  spacious  hall, 
From  whose  high  roof  .seven  sparkling  lustres  hang. 
Round  the  perpetual  board  high  sofas  ranged 
Receive  the  gallant  chiefs.     The  floor  is  spread 
With  carpels,  work'd  in  Babylonia's  looms. 
Exquisite  art ;  rich  vessels  carved  in  gold. 
In  silver,  and  in  ivory,  beam  with  gems. 
'Midst  these  is  placed  whate'er  of  massy  plate, 
Or  holy  ornament,  Nebassar  brought 
From  Sion's  ransack'd  temple  ;  lamps,  and  cups. 
And  bowls,  now  sparkling  with  the  richest  growth 
Of  Eastern  vineyards.     On  the  table  smokes 
All  that  can  rouse  the  languid  appetite. 
Barbaric  luxury.     Soft  minstrels  round 
Chant  songs  of  triumph  to  symphonious  harps. 
Propt  on  a  golden  couch  Belshazzar  lies. 
While  on  each  side  fair  slaves  of  Syrian  race 
By  turns  solicit  with  some  amorous  tale 
The  monarch's  melting  heart.     « Fill  me,"  he 
cries. 


WILLIAM  HAYWARD  ROBERTS. 


66< 


"  1  hat  largest  bowl,  with  which  the  Jewish  slaves 
Once  deck'd  the  altar  of  their  vanquish'd  God. 
Never  again  shall  this  capacious  gold 
Receive  their  victims'  blood.  Henceforth  the  kings 
Of  Babylon,  oft  as  this  feast  returns, 
Shall  crown  it  with  rich  wine,  nectarious  draught. 
Fill  high  the  foaming  goblet;  rise,  my  friends; 
And  as  I  quaff  the  cup,  with  loud  acclain^ 
Thrice  hail  to  Bel."    They  rose;  when  all  at  once 
Such  sound  was  heard,  as  when  the  roaring  winds 
Burst  from  their  cave,  and  with  impetuous  rage 
Sweep  o'er  the  Caspian  or  the  Chronian  deep. 
O'er  the  devoted  walls  the  gate  of  heaven 
Thunder'd,  an  hideous  peal ;  and,  lo  !  a  cloud 
Came  darkening  all  the  banquet,  whence  appear'd 
A  hand  (if  hand  it  were,  or  airy  form, 
Compound  of  light  and  shade)  on  the  adverse  wall 
Tracing  strange  characters.     Belshazzar  saw, 
And  trembled  :  from  his  lips  the  goblet  fell : 
He  look'd  again  ;  perhaps  it  was  a  dream ; 
Thrice,  four  times  did  he  look ;  and  every  time 
Still  plainer  did  the  mystic  lines  appear, 
Indelible.     Forthwith  he  summons  all 
The  wise  Chaldseans,  who  by  night  consult 
The  starry  signs,  and  in  each  planet  read 
The  dark  decrees  of  fate.     Silent  they  stand  ; 
Vain  are  their  boasted  charms.     With  eager  step 
Merodach's  royal  widow  hastes  to  cheer         ' 
Her  trembling  son.     "  O  king,  for  ever  live ; 
Why  (ifoops  thy  soull"  she  cries;  "what  though 

this  herd 
Of  sage  magicians  own  their  vanquish'd  art, 
Know'st  thou  not  Daniel  ?  In  his  heart  resides 
The  spirit  of  holy  Gods ;  'twas  he  who  told 
Thy  father  strange  events,  and  terrible; 
Nor  did  Nebassar  honour  one  like  him 
Through  ail  his  spacious  kingdom.    He  shall  soon 
Dispel  thy  doubts,  and  all  thy  fears  allay." 
She  <!pake,  and  with  obeisance  low  retired. 

"Then  be  it  so;  haste.  Arioch,  lead  him  here," 
Belshazzar  cries;  "if  he  interpret  right. 
Even  though  my  soul  in  just  abhorrence  holds 
His  hatred  race,  I  will  revoke  their  doom. 
And  shower  rich  honours  on  their  prophet's  head." 

Nor  long  he  waited,  when  with  graceful  step, 
And  awe-commanding  eye,  solemn  and  slow, 
As  conscious  of  superior  dignity, 
Daniel  advanced.     Time  o'er  his  hoary  hair 
Had  shed  his  white  snows.    Behind  him  stream'd 
A  mantle,  ensign  of  prophetic  powers. 
Like  that  with  which  inspired  Elisha  smote 
The  parting  waters,  what  time  on  the  bank 
Ot  Jordan  from  the  clouds  a  fiery  car 
Descended,  and  by  flaming  coursers  drawn 
Bore  the  sage  Tishbite  to  celestial  climes, 
Maugre  the  gates  of  death.     A  wand  he  bore — 
That  wapd  by  whose  mysterious  properties 
'J'he  shepherd  of  Horeb  call'd  the  refluent  waves 
O'ei  Pharaoh  and  his  host,  with  which  he  struck 
The  barren  flint,  when  from  the  riven  cliff 
Gush'd  streams,  and  water'd  all  the  thirsty  tribes 
Of  murmuring  Israel.     Through  many  an  age 
Within  the  temple's  unapproached  veil. 
Fast  by  the  rod,  which  bioom'd  o'er  Aaron's  name, 
Still  did  the  holy  relic  rest  Eecure. 


At  length,  when  Babylonia's  arms  prevail'd, 
Seraiah  saved  it  from  the  flaming  shrine. 
With  all  the  sacred  wardrobe  of  the  priest. 
And  bore  it  safe  to  Riblah.     Dying  there. 
The  priest  bcqueath'd  the  sacred  legacy 
To  Daniel.     He,  when  summon'd  to  explain. 
As  now,  God's  dark  decrees,  in  his  right  hand 
Brandish'd  the  mystic  emblem.     *'  Art  thou  he. 
Art  thou  that  Daniel,  whom  Nebassar  brought 
From  Salem,  whom  the  vanquish'd  tribes  adore. 
In  wisdom  excellent?   Look  there,  look  there; 
Read  but  those  lines,"  the  affrighted  monarch  cries, 
"  And  clothed  in  scarlet  wear  this  golden  chain, 
The  third  great  ruler  of  my  spacious  realm." 

He  spake,  and  thus  the  reverend  seer  replied. 
"  Thy  promises,  and  threats,  presumptuous  king, 
My  soul  alike  despises ;  yet,  so  wills 
That  spirit,  who  darts  his  radiance  on  my  mind, 
(Hear  thou,  and  tremble,)  will  I  speak  the  words 
Which  he  shall  dictate.    «  Number'd  is  thy  realm, 
And  finish'd  :  in  the  balance  art  thou  weigh'd, 
W  here  God  hath  found  thee  wanting :  to  the  Medea 
And  Persians  thy  divided  realm  is  given.' 
Thus  saith  the  Lord ;  and  thus  those  words  import, 
Graven  by  his  high  behest.    See'st  thou  this  wand  I 
Ne'er  has  it  borne,  since  first  it  left  the  trunk, 
Or  bud  or  blossom  :  all  its  shielding  rind 
The  sharp  steel  stripp'd,  and  to  dry  winds  exposed 
The  vegetative  sap ;  even  so  thy  race 
Shall  perish :  from  thy  barren  stock  shall  rise 
Nor  prince  nor  ruler ;  and  that  glittering  crown, 
Won  by  thy  valiant  fathers,  whose  long  line 
In  thee,  degenerate  monarch,  soon  must  end, 
Shall  dart  its  lustre  round  a  stranger's  brow." 

"  Prophet  of  evils  !  darest  thou  pour  on  me 
Thy  threats  ill-ominous,  and  judgments  dark  ?" 
Incensed  the  monarch  cries:  "Hence  to  thy  tribes 
Teach  them  obedience  to  their  sovereign's  will, 
Or  I  will  break  that  wand,  and  rend  in  twain 
The  mantle  of  thy  God. — Or  if  these  marks 
Thou  wilt  erase  from  that  accursed  wall. 
Take  half  my  realm."    He  spake,  and  fix'd  his  eyea 
Wild  staring  on  the  mystic  characters: 
His  rage  all  sunk  at  once;  his  fear  return'd 
Tenfold ;  when  thus  the  man  of  God  began. 

"Go  to  the  shady  vales  of  Palestine, 
Vain  prince,  or  Syrian  Lebanon,  and  tear 
The  palms  and  cedars  from  their  native  mould 
Uprooted ;  then  return,  and  break  this  rod. 
Believe  me,  far  more  arduous  were  the  task: 
For  it  was  harden'd  in  the  streams  of  heaven ; 
And  though  not  dedicate  to  sorcerers'  arts 
By  magic  incantation,  and  strange  spells ; 
Yet  such  a  potent  virtue  doth  reside 
In  every  part,  that  not  the  united  force 
Of  all  thy  kingdom  can  one  line,  one  g^ain, 
Of  measure,  or  of  solid  weight  impair. 
Wilt  thou  that  I  revoke  thy  destined  fate? 
Devoted  prince,  I  cannot.     Hell  beneath 
Is  moved  to  meet  thee.     See  the  mighty  dead, 
'I'he  kings,  that  sat  on  golden  thrones,  approach, 
The  chief  ones  of  the  earth.     '  O  Lucifer, 
Son  of  the  morning,  thou  that  vaunting  said'st, 
"  I  will  ascend  the  heavens;  I  will  exalt 
My  throne  above  the  stais  of  God;  the  clouds 


668 


WILLIAM  HAYWARD  ROBERTS. 


Shall  roll  beneath  my  feet,"  art  thou,  too,  weak 

As  we  1   art  thou  become  like  unto  us  1 

Where  now  is  all  thy  pompl  where  thesweetsound 

Of  viol,  and  of  harp  !'  with  curious  eye 

Tracing  thy  mangled  corse,  the  rescued  sons 

Of  Solyma  shall  say,  '  Is  this  the  man 

That  shook  the  pillars  of  the  trembling  earth, 

That  made  the  world  a  desert  1'  all  the  kings, 

Each  in  his  house  entomb'd,  in  glory  rest. 

While  unlamented  lie  thy  naked  limbs, 

'J'he  sport  of  dogs,  and  vultures.     In  that  day 

Shall  these  imperial  towers,  this  haughty  queen, 

That  in  the  midst  of  waters  sits  secure. 

Fall  prostrate  on  the  ground.     Ill-ominous  birds 

Shall  o'er  the   unwholesome  marshes  scream  for 

And  hissing  serpents  by  sulphureous  pools  [food  ; 

Conceal  their  filthy  brood.     The  traveller 

In  vain  shall  ask  where  stood  Assyria's  pride* 

No  trace  shall  guide  his  dubious  steps ;  nor  sage. 

Versed  in  historic  lore,  shall  mark  the  site 

Of  desolated  Babylon."     Thus  spake 

The  seer,  and  with  majestic  step  retired. 


FROM  BOOK  IV. 

The  City  of  Babylon  having  been  taken  by  the  Army  of 
Cyrus,  Belshazzar  is  found  in  his  Pleasure  Garden,  and 
slain. 

*  *  *  Within  the  walls 

Of  Babylon  was  raised  a  lofty  mound, 
Where  flowers  and  aromatic  shrubs  adorn'd 
The  pensile  garden.     For  Nebassar's  queen. 
Fatigued  with  Babylonia's  level  plains, 
Sigh'd  for  her  Median  home,  where  nature's  hand 
Had  scoop'd  the  vale,  and  clothed  the  mountain's 

side 
With  many  a  verdant  wood ;  nor  long  she  pined 
Till  that  usurious  monarch  call'd  on  art 
To  rival  nature's  sweet  variety. 
Forthwith  two  hundred  thousand  slaves  uprear'd 
This  hill,  egregious  work ;  rich  fruits  o'erhang 
The  sloping  walks,  and  odorous  shrubs  entwine 
Their  undulating  branches.     Thither  flocks 
A  multitude  unseen,  and,  'mid  the  groves 
And  secret  arbours  all  night  long  conceal'd. 
Silent,  and  sad,  escape  the  victor's  sword. 

Now  the  glad  sound  of  loud  triumphal  notes, 
Mix'd  with  the  yells  of  terror  and  dismay, 
Are  wafted  through  the  concave  arch  of  night 
To  that  imperial  mansion,  where  the  king 
Lies  revelling  with  his  minions.     Nitocris 
First  heard,  and  started.     In  that  spacious  room. 
On  whose  rich  sides  was  painted  many  a  chase, 
With  all  the  warlike  acts  of  Ninus  old. 
And  great  Semiramis,  she  sat,  and  wove 
Her  variegated  web.     Her  slaves  around 
With  sprightly  converse  cheer'd  the  midnight  hour} 
When  sudden,  ehill'd  with  horror,  in  their  arms 
She  sinks,  a  breathless  corse.    And  now  the  noise 
Invades  Belshazzar's  ear.     A  messenger, 
And  still  another  messenger  arrives. 
To  tell  him,  all  is  lost.     On  the  adverse  wall 
Instant  his  eye  is  fix'd:  the  characters, 
Which  yet  remain,  grow  blacker,  and  increase 
In  magnitude  tenfold : "  Where,  where,"  exclaims 


The  affrighted  prince,  "Oh  where  is  Daniel?  where 
Is  that  interpreter  of  Heaven's  decrees, 
W^hose  curse  prophetic  on  mine  ear  still  sounds 
More  horrible,  than  these  alarming  peals. 
Which,  as  I  speak,  nearer  and  nearer  roll, 
The  harbingers  of  slaughter.     Haste,  arise  ! 
Tell  him,  I  spare  the  tribes ;  tell  him,  I  bow 
To  his  Jehovah."     Thus  Belshazzar  spake, 
When  sudden,  with  impetuous  uproar. 
Through  the  wide  portals  rush'd  an  armed  band, 
Persians  and  Medes.     Gobryas,  and  Gadatas, 
Breathing  fierce  vengeance,  and  inveterate  hate, 
Conduct  the  bloody  troop.  Where,  monarch,  where 
Is  now  thy  cruel  wrath,  thy  pride,  thy  power] 
Sunk  on  his  knees  behold  Belshazzar  bows 
Before  his  rebel  exiles!   "Spare,  oh  spare 
My  life,"  the  coward  tyrant,  trembling,  cries ; 
"  Let  Cyrus  wear  my  crown.  To  barren  sand.s. 
To  regions  never  trod  by  human  foot. 
Banish  me,  where  I  ne'er  again  may  know 
Sweet  social  intercourse,  but  think,  oh  think. 
How  fearful  'tis  to  die."     Thus  while  he  spake, 
With  sword  uplifted,  o'er  the  bending  king 
The  victors  stood.    And  now  perhaps  his  prayers, 
And  eyes,  which  upward  rolling,  long'd  for  life 
Though  miserable,  had  stopp'd  the  fatal  blow, 
Had  not  his  murder'd  son  forbade  the  rage 
Of  Gobryas  to  subside.     On  his  arch'd  neck 
l^he  ponderous  falchion  falls,  and  at  one  stroke 
Smites  from  its  spouting  trunk  the  sever'd  head 
Of  Babylonia's  monarch.     Ever  thus       " 
Perish  fell  cruelty,  and  lawless  power ! 


FROM  BOOK  VI. 

After  the  Capture  of  Babylon,  the  Jews  having  been  per- 
mitted by  Cyrus  to  rebuild  their  Temple,  they  reach 
Jerusalem — Kenew  the  Feasts — Lay  the  Foundation  of 
the  Temple — The  old  Men  weep. 

Now  dawns  the  morn,  and  on  mount  Olivet 
The  hoar-frost  melts  before  the  rising  sun. 
Which  summons  to  their  daily  toil  the  world 
Of  beasts,  of  men ;  and  all  that  wing  the  air, 
And  all  that  swims  the  level  of  the  lake. 
Or  creeps  the  ground,  bid  universal  hail 
To  day's  bright  regent.   But  the  tribes  were  roused, 
Impatient  even  of  rest,  ere  yet  the  stars 
Withdrew  their  feeble  light.  Through  every  street 
They  bend  their  way  :  some  Ananiah  leads. 
Some  Phanuel,  or  what  elders  else  were  driven 
In  early  youth  from  Sion.     Not  a  spot 
Remains  unvisited ;  each  stone,  each  beam. 
Seems  sacred.     As  in  legendary  tale. 
Led  by  magician's  hand  some  hero  treads 
Enchanted  ground,  and  hears,  or  thinks  he  bears, 
Aerial  voices,  or  with  secret  dread 
Sees  unembodied  shades,  by  fancy  form'd,_ 
Flit  through  the  gloom;  so  rescued  Judah  walk'd. 
Amid  the  majesty  of  Salem's  dust, 
With  reverential  awe.     Howbeit  they  soon 
Remove  the  mouldering  ruins ;  soon  they  clear 
The  obstructed  paths,  and  every  mansion  raise, 
By  force,  or  time,  impair'd.     Then  Jeshua  rose 
With  all  his  priests;   nor  thou,  Zorobabel, 
Soul  of  the  tribes,  wast  absent.     To  the  God 


SIR  WILLIAM   JONES. 


669 


Of  Jacob,  oft  as  morn  and  eve  returns, 
\  new-built  altar  smokes.     Nor  do  they  not 
Observe  the  feast,  memorial  of  that  age 
When  Israel  dwelt  in  tents  ;  the  Sabbath,  too, 
New  moons,  and  every  ritual  ordinance, 
First-fruits, and  paschal  lamb,  and  rams,  and  goats, 
Offerings  of  sin  and  peace.     Nor  yet  was  laid 
The  temple's  new  foundation.     Corn  and  wine, 
Sweet  balm  and  oil,  they  mete  with  liberal  hand 
To  Tyrian  and  Sidonian.     To  the  sea 
Of  Joppa  down  they  heave  their  stately  trees 
From  Syrian  Lebanon.     And  now  they  square 
Huge  blocks  of  marble,  and  with  ancient  rites 
Anoint  the  corner-stone.     Around  the  priests, 
The  Levites,  and  the  sons  of  Asaph  stand 
With  trumpets,  and  with  cymbals.     Jeshua  first, 
Adorn'd  in  robes  pontifical,  conducts 
The  sacred  ceremony.     An  ephod  rich, 
Purple  and  blue,  comes  mantling  o'er  his  arms, 
Clasp'd  with  smooth  studs,  round  whose  mean- 
dering hem 


A  ginlle  twines  its  folds :  to  this  by  chains 
Of  gold  is  link'd  a  breastplate:  costly  gems, 
Jasper  and  diamond,  sapphire  amethyst, 
Unite  their  hues ;  twelve  stones,  memorial  apt 
Of  Judah's  ancient  tribes.     A  mitre  decks 
His  head,  and  on  the  top  a  golden  crown 
Graven,  like  a  signet,  by  no  vulgar  hand, 
Proclaims    him    priest    of  God.     Symphonious 

hymns 
Are  mix'd  with  instrumental  melody. 
And    Judah's   joyful    shouts.     But    down    tbj 

cheeks, 
O  Ananiah,  from  thine  aged  eye, 
O  Phaneul,  drops  a  tear ;  for  ye  have  seen 
The  house  of  Solomon  in  all  its  pride. 
And  ill  can  brook  this  change.     Nor  ye  alone, 
But  every  ancient  wept.     Loud  shrieks  of  grief, 
Mix'd  with  the  voice  of  joy,  are  heard  beyond 
The  hills  of  Salem.     Even  from  Gibeon's  walls 
The  astonish'd  peasant  turns  a  listening  ear. 
And  Jordan's  shepherds  catch  the  distant  sound. 


SIR  WILLIAM  JONES. 


[Born,  17«.    Died,  1794.] 


Sib  William  Jones  is  not  a  great  poet ;  but 
nis  name  recals  such  associations  of  worth,  in- 
tellect, and  accomplishments,  that  if  these  sketches 
were  not  necessarily  and  designedly  only  minia- 
tures of  biography,  I  should  feel  it  a  sort  of  sa- 
crilege to  consign  to  scanty  and  inadequate  bounds 
the  life  of  a  scholar  who,  in  feeding  the  lamp  of 
knowledge,  may  be  truly  said  to  have  prema- 
turely exhausted  the  lamp  of  life. 

He  was  born  in  London.  His  father,  who  it 
is  said  could  trace  his  descent  from  the  ancient 
princes  of  North  Wales,  and  who,  like  his  son, 
was  no  discredit  to  his  lineage,  was  so  eminent 
a  mathematician  as  to  be  distinguished  by  the 
esteem  of  Newton  and  Halley.  His  first  em- 
ployment had  been  that  of  a  schoolmaster,  on 
board  a  man-of-war ;  and  in  that  situation  he  at- 
tracted the  notice  and  friendship  of  Lord  Anson. 
An  anecdote  is  told  of  him,  that  at  the  siege  of 
Vigo  he  was  one, of  the  parly  who  had  the  liberty 
of  pillaging  the  captured  town.  With  no  very 
rapacious  views,  he  selected  a  bookseller's  shop 
for  his  share ;  but  finding  no  book  worth  taking 
away,  he  carried  off  a  pair  of  scissors,  which  he 
used  to  show  his  friends,  as  a  trophy  of  his  mili- 
tary success.  On  his  return  to  England,  he  esta- 
blished himself  as  a  teacher  of  mathematics,  and 
published  several  scientific  works,  which  were 
remarkable  for  their  neatness  of  illustration  and 
brevity  of  style.  By  his  labours  as  a  teacher  he 
acquired  a  small  fortune  ;  but  lost  it  through  the 
failure  of  a  banker.  His  friend.  Lord  Maccles- 
field, however,  in  some  degree  indemnified  him 
for  the  loss,  by  procuring  for  him  a  sinecure  place 
under  government.  Sir  William  Jones  lost  this 
valuable  parent  when  he  was  only  three  years 
old;  so  that  the  care  of  bis  first  education  de- 


volved upon  his  mother.  She,  also,  was  a  person 
of  superior  endowments,  and  cultivated  his  dawn- 
ing powers  with  a  sagacious  assiduity  which  un- 
doubtedly contributed  to  their  quick  and  sur- 
prising growth.  We  may  judge  of  what  a  pupil 
she  had,  when  we  are  told  that,  at  five  years  of 
age,  one  morning,  in  turning  over  the  leaves  of 
a  Bible,  he  fixed  his  attention  with  the  strongest 
admiration  on  a  sublime  passage  in  the  Reve- 
lation. Human  nature  perhaps  presents  no 
authentic  picture  of  its  felicity  more  pure  or 
satisfactory  than  that  of  such  a  pupil  superin- 
tended by  a  mother  capable  of  directing  him. 

At  the  age  of  seven  he  went  to  Harrow  school, 
where  his  progress  was  at  first  interrupted  liy  an 
accident  which  he  met  with,  in  having  his  thigh- 
bone broken,  and  he  was  obliged  to  be  taken 
home  for  about  a  twelvemonth.  But  after  his 
return,  his  abilities  were  so  distinguished,  that 
before  he  left  Harrow,  he  was  shown  to  strangers 
as  an  ornament  to  the  seminary.  Before  he  had 
reached  this  eminence  at  school,  it  is  a  fact,  dis- 
graceful to  one  of  his  teachers,  that  in  conse- 
quence of  the  ground  which  he  had  lost  by  the 
accident  already  mentioned,  be  was  frequently 
subjected  to  punishment,  for  exertions  which  he 
could  not  make ;  or,  to  use  his  own  expression, 
for  not  being  able  to  soar  before  be  had  been 
taught  to  fly.  The  system  of  severity  must  have 
been  merciless,  indeed,  when  it  applied  to  Jones, 
of  whom  his  master,  Dr.  Thackery,  used  to  say, 
that  he  was  a  boy  of  so  active  a  spirit,  that  if  left 
friendless  and  naked  on  Salisbury  Plain,  he  would 
make  his  way  to  fame  and  fortune.  It  is  related 
of  him,  that  while  at  Harrow,  his  fellow-scholars 
having  determined  to  act  the  play  of  the  Tem- 
pest, they  were  at  a  loss  for  a  copy,  and  that 


670 


SIR  WILLIAM   JONES. 


young  Jones  wrote  out  the  whole  from  memory. 
8uch  miracles  of  human  recollection  are  cer- 
tainly on  record ;  but  it  is  not  easy  to  conceive 
the  boys  at  Harrow,  when  permitted  by  their 
masters  to  act  a  play,  to  have  been  at  a  loss  for 
a  copy  of  Shakspeare ;  and  some  mistake  or  ex- 
aggeration may  be  suspected  in  the  anecdote. 
He  possibly  abridged  the  play  for  the  particular 
occasion.  Before  leaving  Harrow  school,  he 
learned  the  Arabic  characters,  and  studied  the 
Hebrew  language,  so  as  to  enable  him  to  read 
some  of  the  original  Psalms.  What  would  have 
been  labour  to  others  was  Jones's  amusement. 
He  used  to  relaxhls  mind  with  Philidor's  Lessons 
at  Chess,  and  with  studying  botany  and  fossils. 

In  his  eighteenth  year  he  was  entered  of  Uni- 
versity college,  Oxford,  where  his  residence  was 
rendered  more  agreeable  by  his  mother  taking 
up  her  abode  in  the  town.  He  was  also,  for- 
tunately, permitted  by  his  teachers  to  forsake  the 
study  of  dialectic  logic,  which  still  haunted  the 
college,  for  that  of  Oriental  literature;  and  he 
was  so  zealous  in  this  pursuit,  that  he  brought 
fi-om  London  to  Oxford  a  native  of  Aleppo, 
whom  he  maintained  at  his  own  expense,  for  the 
benefit  of  his  instruction  in  Arabic.  He  also  be- 
gan the  study  of  modern  Persic,  and  found  his 
exertions  rewarded  with  rapid  success.  His  va- 
cations were  spent  in  London,  where  he  attended 
schools  for  riding  and  fencing,  and  studied  Italian, 
Spanish,  and  Portuguese.  He  pursued  in  theory, 
and  even  exceeded  in  practice,  the  plan  of  educa- 
tion projected  by  Milton  ;  and  boasted,  that  with 
the  fortune  of  a  peasant,  he  could  give  himself  the 
education  of  a  prince.  He  obtained  a  fellowship 
at  Oxford ;  but  before  he  obtained  it,  whilst  he 
was  yet  fearful  of  his  success,  and  of  burdening 
the  slender  finances  of  an  affectionate  mother  for 
his  support,  he  accepted  the  situation  of  tutor  to 
Lord  Aithorp,  the  son  of  Earl  Spencer.  In  the 
summer  of  1765,  he  repaired  to  Wimbledon 
Park,  to  take  upon  himself  the  charge  of  his 
young  pupil.  He  had  not  been  long  in  Lord 
Spencer's  family,  when  he  was  flattered  by  an 
oHer  from  the  Duke  of  Grafton,  of  the  place  of 
interpreter  of  Eastern  languages.  This  situation, 
though  it  might  not  have  interfered  with  his 
other  pursuits,  he  thought  fit  to  decline ;  but 
earnestly  requested  that  it  might  be  given  to  his 
•Syrian  teacher,  Mirza,  whose  character  he  wrote. 
The  solicitation  was,  however,  unnoticed;  and 
the  event  only  gave  him  an  opportunity  of  re- 
gretting his  own  ignorance  of  the  world,  in  not 
accepting  the  proffered  office,  that  he  might  C4in- 
sign  its  emoluments  to  Mirza.  At  Wimbledon 
he  first  formed  his  acquaintance  with  the  daugh- 
ter of  Dr.  Shipley,  the  Dean  of  Winchester,  to 
which  he  owed  the  future  happiness  of  his  life. 
The  ensuing  winter,  1766,  he  removed  with  Lord 
Spencer's  family  to  London,  where  he  renewed 
his  pursuit  of  external  as  well  as  intellectual  ac- 
compl.shments,  and  received  lessons  from  Gallini 
as  well  as  Angelo.  It  is  amusing  to  find  hia 
oiographer  add  that  he  took  lessons  at  the  broad- 
»word  from  an  old  Chelsea  pensioner,  seamed 


with  scars,  to  whose  military  narrations  he  used 
to  listen  with  delight. 

In  1767  he  made  a  short  trip  with  the  family 
of  his  pupil  to  the  Continent,  where,  at  Spa,  he 
pursued  the  study  of  German,  and  availed  him- 
self of  the  opportunity  of  finding  an  incompara- 
ble teacher  of  dancing,  whose  name  was  Janson. 
In  the  following  year,  he  was  requested  by  the 
secretary  of  the  Duke  of  Graflon  to  undertake  a 
task  in  which  no  other  scholar  in  England  was 
found  willing  to  engage,  namely,  in  furnishing  a 
version  of  an  Eastern  MS.  a  life  of  Nadir  Shaw, 
which  the  King  of  Denmark  had  brought  with 
him  to  England,  and  which  his  Danish  majesty 
was  anxious  to  have  translated  into  French. 
Mr.  Jones  undertook  the  translation  from  a  lauda- 
ble reluctance  to  allow  the  MS.  to  be  carried  out 
of  the  country  for  want  of  a  translator;  although 
the  subject  was  dry,  and  the  style  of  the  original 
difficult,  and  although  it  obliged  him  to  submit 
his  translation  to  a  native  of  France,  in  order  to 
give  it  the  idioms  of  a  French  style.  He  was  at 
this  time  only  twenty-one  years  of  age.  The 
only  reward,  which  he  obtained  for  his  labour 
was  a  diploma  from  the  Koyal  Society  of  Copen- 
hagen, and  a  recommendation  from  the  court  of 
Denmark  to  his  own  sovereign.  To  the  "His- 
tory of  Nadir  Shaw"  he  added  a  treatise  of  his 
own  on  Oriental  poetry,  in  the  language  of  the 
translation.  In  the  same  year  he  began  the 
study  of  music,  and  took  some  lessons  on  the 
Welsh  harp. 

In  1770  he  again  visited  the  Continent  with 
the  Spencer  family,  and  travelled  into  Italy. 
The  genius  which  interests  us  at  home  redoubles 
its  interest  on  foreign  ground;  but  it  would  ap- 
pear, from  Jones's  letters,  that,  in  this  instance, 
he  was  too  assiduous  a  scholar  to  be  an  amusing 
traveller.  His  mind,  during  this  visit  to  the 
Continent,  was  less  intent  on  men  and  manners 
than  on  objects  which  he  might  have  studied 
with  equal  advantage  at  home.  We  find  him 
deciphering  Chinese,  and  composing  a  tragedy. 
I  The  tragedy  has  been  irrecoverably  lost.  Its 
subject  was  the  death  of  Mustapha,  the  son  of 
Soliman;  the  same  on  which  Fulke  Greville, 
Lord  Brooke,  composed  a  drama.* 

On  his  return  to  England,  |jje  determined  to 
embrace  the   law   as  a  profession,  the  study  of 
I  which  he  commenced  in  1771,  being  then  in  his 
I  twenty-fourth  year.     His   motives  for  choosing 
this  profession    are    best   explained   in   his   own 
i  word^s.     In  a  letter  to  his  friend  Schultens,  he 
I  avows  at  once  the  public  ambition  and  personal 
pride  which   bad  now  grown  up  with  the  mutu- 
!  rity  of  his  character.     "  'i'he  die"  (he  says)  "  is 
I  cast.     All  my  books  and  MSS.,  with   the  excep- 
j  tion  of  those  only  which  relate  to  law  and  ora 
tory,  are  locked   up  at  Oxford ;  and  I  have  de- 
termined, for  the  next  twenty  years  at  least,  to 
I  renounce  all  studies   but  those  which   are  con 
nected    with   my    profession.     It  is   needless   to 
trouble  you  with  my  reasons  at  length  for  this 

[*  Mallet  has  a  drama  on  the  same  subject,  but  it  is  still 
a  subject  to  let.J 


SIR   WILLIAM   JONES. 


671 


determination.  I  will  only  say,  that  if  I  had 
liveJ  at  Rome  or  Athens,  I  should  have  preferred 
the  labours,  studies,  and  dangers  of  their  ora- 
tors and  illustrious  citizens,  connected  as  they 
were  with  banishment  and  even  death,  to  the 
groves  of  the  poets,  or  the  gardens  of  the  philo- 
sophers. Here  I  adopt  the  same  resolution. 
•  *  •  •  •  •  If  Ihe  study  of  the  law 
were  really  unpleasant  and  disgusting,  which  is 
far  from  the  truth,  the  example  of  the  wisest  of 
the  ancients  and  of  Minerva  would  justify  me  in 
preferring  the  useful  olive  to  the  barren  laurel. 
To  tell  you  my  mind  freely,  I  am  not  of  a  disposi- 
tion to  bear  the  arrogance  of  men  of  rank,  to 
which  poets  and  men  of  letters  are  so  often 
obliged  to  submit." 

This  letter  was  written  some  years  after  he 
had  resigned  his  situation  in  Lord  Spencer's 
family,  and  entered  himself  of  the  Middle  Tem- 
ple. In  the  mean  time,  though  the  motives  which 
guided  him  to  the  choice  of  a  profession  un- 
d<)ubtedly  made  him  in  earnest  with  his  legal 
studies,  he  still  found  spare  hours  to  devote  to 
literature.  He  finished  his  tragedy  of  Mustapha, 
and  sketched  two  very  ambitious  plans ;  the  one 
of  an  epic  poem,  the  other  of  a  Turkish  history. 
That  he  could  have  written  a  useful  and  amusing 
history  of  Turkey,  is  easy  to  suppose;  but  the 
outline,  and  the  few  specimens  of  his  intended 
epic,  leave  little  room  for  regret  that  it  was  not 
finished.  Its  subject  was  the  discovery  of  Bri- 
tain ;  the  characters  Tyrian,  and  the  machinery 
allegorical,  in  the  manner  of  Spenser.  More 
unpromising  symptoms  of  a  poem  could  hardly 
be  announced. 

In  1772  he  published  his  French  letter  to  Du 
Perron  the  French  traveller,  who,  in  his  account 
of  his  travels  in  India,  had  treated  the  University 
of  Oxford,  and  some  of  its  members,  with  disre- 
spect. In  this  publication,  he  corrected  the 
French  writer,  perhaps,  with  more  asperity  than 
his  maturer  judgment  would  have  approved.  In 
the  same  year  he  published  a  small  volume  of 
poems  with  two  dissertations ;  one  on  Oriental 
literature,  and  another  on  the  arts  commonly 
called  imitative.  In  his  Essay  on  the  Arts,  he 
objects,  on  very  fair  grounds,  to  the  Aristotelian 
doctrine,  of  the  Universal  object  of  poetry  being 
imitation.  Certainly,  no  species  of  poetry  can 
strictly  be  said  to  be  imitative  of  nature  except 
that  which  is  dramatic.  Mr.  Twining,  the  trans- 
lator of  the  "Poetics,"  has,  however,  explained 
this  theory  of  Aristotle  pretty  satisfactorily,  by 
showing,  that  when  he  spoke  of  poetry  as  imita- 
tive, he  alluded  to  what  he  conceived  to  be  the 
highest  department  of  the  art,  namely,  the  drama; 
or  to  the  dramatic  part  of  epic  poetry,  the  dia- 
logue, which,  in  recitation,  afforded  an  actual 
imitation  of  the  passions  which  were  described. 

When  Mr.  Jones  had  been  called  to  the  bar, 
he  found  that  no  human  industry  could  effectively 
unite  the  pursuits  of  literature  with  the  practice 
of  the  profession.  He  therefore  took  the  resolu- 
tion, already  alluded  to  in  one  of  his  letters,  of 
abstaining  firoai  all  study,  but  that  of  the  science 


and  eloquence  of  the  bar.  He  thought,  however, 
that  consistently  with  this  resolution,  he  might 
translate  "The  Greek  Orations  of  Isseus,  in  cases 
relating  to  succession  to  doubtful  property."  This 
translation  appeared  in  1778.  In  the  interval, 
his  practice  became  considerable;  and  he  was 
made,  in  1776,  a  commissioner  of  bankrupts. 
He  was  at  this  time  a  member  of  the  Royal  So- 
ciety, and  maintained  an  epistolary  correspon- 
dence with  several  eminent  foreign  scholars. 
Among  those  correspondents,  his  fiivourite  seems 
to  have  been  Reviczk.,  an  Oriental  scholar,  whom 
he  met  in  England,  and  who  was  afterward  the 
Imperial  minister  at  Warsaw. 

From  the  commencement  of  the  American 
war,  and  during  its  whole  progress,  Mr.  Jones's 
political  principles  led  him  to  a  decided  disappro- 
bation of  the  measures  of  government  which 
were  pursued  in  that  contest.  But  though  po- 
litically opposed  to  Lord  North,  he  possessed  so 
much  of  the  personal  favour  of  that  minister,  as 
to  have  some  hopes  of  obtaining,  by  his  influence, 
a  seat  on  the  bench  of  Fort  William,  in  Bengal, 
which  became  vacant  in  the  year  1790.  While 
this  matter  was  in  suspense,  he  was  advised  to 
stand  as  a  candidate  for  the  representation  of 
the  University  of  Oxford ;  but  finding  there  was 
no  chance  of  success,  he  declined  the  contest  be- 
fore the  day  of  election;  his  political  principles, 
and  an  "  Ode  to  Liberty,"  which  he  had  pub- 
lished, having  offended  the  majority  of  the  acade- 
mic voters.  During  the  riots  of  1780,  he  pub- 
lished a  plan  for  security  against  insurrection, 
and  for  defence  against  invasion,  which  has  since 
been  realized  in  the  volunteer  system.  During 
the  same  year  he  paid  a  short  visit  to  Paris ;  and, 
at  one  time,  intended  to  have  proceeded  to  Ame- 
rica, for  a  professional  object,  namely,  to  procure 
for  a  client  and  friend  the  restitution  of  an  estate, 
which  the  government  of  the  United  States  had 
confiscated.  The  indisposition  of  his  friend, 
however,  prevented  him  from  crossing  the  At- 
lantic. On  his  return  to  England,  he  recurred 
to  his  favourite  Oriental  studies,  and  completed  a 
translation  of  the  seven  ancient  .\rabian  poems, 
famous  lor  having  been  once  suspended  in  the 
Temple  of  Mecca;  as  well  as  another  poem,  in 
the  same  language,  more  curious  than  inviting 
in  its  subject,  which  was  the  Mohammedan  law  of 
succession  to  intestates.  The  latter  work  had 
but  few  charms  to  reward  his  labour;  but  it  gave 
him  an  opportunity  for  displaying  his  literary 
and  legal  fitness  for  the  station  in  India  to  which 
he  still  aspired. 

Besides  retracing  his  favourite  studies  with  the 
Eastern  Muses,  we  find  him  at  this  period  warm- 
ly engaged  in  political  as  well  as  professional 
pursuiU.  An  •'  Essay  on  the  Law  of  Bailments," 
an  "Address  to  the  Inhabitants  of  Westminster 
on  Parliamentary  reform ;"  these  publications, 
together  with  occasional  pieces  of  poetry,  which 
he  wrote  within  the  la>t  years  of  his  residence  in 
England,  attest  at  once  the  vigour  and  elegance 
of  his  mind,  and  the  variety  of  its  application. 

On  the  succession  of  the  Shelburne  adminu>- 


672 


SIR  WILLIAM   JONES. 


tration,  he  obtained,  through  the  particular  inte- 
rest of  Lord  Ashburton,  the  judicial  office  in 
Bengal,  for  which  he  had  been  hitherto  an  un- 
successful competitor.  In  March,  1783,  he  re- 
ceived the  honour  of  knighthood.  In  the  April 
following  he  married  Anna  Maria  Shipley,  the 
daughter  of  the  Bishop  of  St.  Asaph,  to  whom  he 
had  been  so  many  years  attached.  He  immedi- 
ately sailed  for  India,  having  secured,  as  his 
friend  Lord  Ashburton  congratulated  him,  the 
two  first  objects  of  human  pursuit,  those  of  love 
and  ambition.  The  joy  with  which  he  contem- 
plated his  situation  is  strongly  testified  in  the  de- 
scriptions of  his  feelings  which  he  gives  in  his 
letters,  and  in  the  gigantic  plans  of  literature 
which  he  sketched  out.  Happily  married — still 
in  the  prime  of  life — leaving  at  home  a  reputa- 
tion which  had  reached  the  hemisphere  he  was 
to  visit,  he  bade  adieu  to  the  turbulence  of  party 
politics,  which,  though  it  had  not  dissolved  any 
of  his  friendships,  had  made  some  of  them  irk- 
some. The  scenes  which  he  had  delighted  to 
contemplate  at  a  distance  were  now  inviting  his 
closest  researches !  He  approached  regions  and 
manners  which  gave  a  living  picture  of  anti- 
quity ;  and,  while  his  curiosity  was  heightened, 
he  drew  nearer  to  the  means  of  its  gratification. 

In  December,  1783,  he  commenced  the  dis- 
charge of  his  duties  as  an  Indian  judge,  with  his 
characteristic  ardour.  He  also  began  the  study 
of  Satiscrit.  He  had  been  but  a  few  years  in 
India,  when  his  knowledge  of  that  ancient  lan- 
guage enabled  him,  under  the  auspices  of  the 
Governor,  to  commence  a  great  plan  for  adminis- 
tering justice  among  the  Indians,  by  compiling  a 
digest  of  Hindu  and  Mohammedan  laws,  similar  to 
that  which  Justinian  gave  his  Greek  and  Roman 
subjei  ts.  His  part  in  the  project  was  only  to 
survey  and  arrange  its  materials.  To  that  super- 
intendence the  Brahmins  themselves  submitted 
with  perfect  confidence.  To  detail  his  share  in 
the  labours  of  the  Society  of  Calcutta,  the  earliest, 
or  at  least  the  most  important,  philosophical  so- 
ciety established  in  British  India,  would  be  al- 
most to  abridge  its  Transactions  during  his  life- 
time. He  took  the  lead  in  founding  it,  and  lived 
to  see  three  volumes  of  its  Transactions  appear. 
In  1789  he  translated  the  ancient  Hindu  drama, 
"  Sacontala,  or  the  Fatal  Ring,"  by  Callidas,  an 
author  whom  Sir  William  Jones  calls  the  Shak- 
speare  of  India,  and  who  lived  about  the  time  of 
Terence,  in  the  first  century  before  the  Christian 
era.  This  antique  picture  of  Hindu  manners  is 
certainly  the  greatest  curiosity  which  the  study 
of  Oriental  literature  by  Europeans  has  brought 
to  light.  In  1794  he  published,  also  from  the 
Sanscrit,  a  translation  of  the  Ordinances  of  Menu, 
who  is  esteemed,  by  the  Hindoos,  to  be  the  ear- 
liest of  created  beings,  and  the  holiest  of  legisla- 
tors; but  who  appears,  by  the  English  translator's 
rontession,  to  have  lived  long  after  priests,  states- 
men, and  metaphysicians  had  learned  to  combine 
their  crafts. 

While  business  required  his  daily  attendance 
at  Calcutta,  his  usual  residence  was  on  the  banks 


of  the  Ganges,  at  the  distance  of  five  miles  from 
the  court.  To  this  spot  he  returned  every  even- 
ing after  sunset;  and,  in  the  morning,  rose  so 
early  as  to  reach  his  apartments  in  time,  by 
setting  out  on  foot  at  the  first  appearance  of 
dawn.  He  passed  the  months  of  vacation  at 
Chrishnagur,  a  country  residence,  sixty  miles 
from  Calcutta,  remarkable  for  its  beauty,  and  in- 
teresting, from  having  been  the  seat  of  an  ancient 
Hindu  college.  Here  he  added  botany  to  the 
other  pursuits  of  his  indefatigable  curiosity. 

In  the  burning  climate  of  Bengal,  it  is  not 
surprising  that  the  strongest  constitution  should 
have  sunk  under  the  weight  of  his  professional 
duties,  and  of  his  extensive  literary  labours.  The 
former  alone  occupied  him  seven  hours  during 
the  session  time.  His  health,  indeed,  seems  to 
have  been  early  aflfected  in  India.  In  1793,  the 
indisposition  of  Lady  Jones  rendered  it  necessary 
that  she  should  return  to  England.  Sir  William 
proposed  to  follow  her  in  179.5,  delaying  only  till 
he  should  complete  the  system  of  Indian  legisla- 
tion. But  they  parted  to  meet  no  more.  In 
1794  he  was  attacked  with  an  inflammation  of 
the  liver,  which  acted  with  uncommon  rapidity ; 
and,  before  a  physician  was  called  in,  had  ad- 
vanced too  far  to  yield  to  the  efficacy  of  medicine. 
He  expired  in  a  composed  attitude,  without  a 
groan,  or  the  appearance  of  a  pang ;  and  retained 
an  expression  of  complacency  on  his  features  to 
the  last. 

In  the  course  of  a  short  life.  Sir  William  Jones 
acquired  a  degree  of  knowledge  which  the  ordi- 
nary faculties  of  men,  if  they  were  blest  with 
antediluvian  longevity,  could  scarcely  hope  to 
surpass.  His  learning  threw  light  on  the  laws 
of  Greece  and  India,  on  the  general  literature  of 
Asia,  and  on  the  history  of  the  family  of  nations. 
He  carried  philosophy,  eloquence,  and  philan- 
thropy into  his  character  of  a  lawyer  and  a  judge. 
Amid  the  driest  toils  of  erudition,  he  retained  a 
sensibility  to  the  beauties  of  poetry,  and  a  talent 
for  transfusing  them  into  his  own  language, 
which  has  seldom  been  united  with  the  same 
degree  of  industry.  Had  he  written  nothing  but 
the  delightful  ode  from  Hafiz, 

"  Sweet  maid,  if  thou  wouldst  charm  my  sight," 
it  would  alone  testify  the  harmony  of  his  ear,  and 
the  elegance  of  his  taste.  When  he  went  abroad, 
it  was  not  to  enrich  himself  with  the  spoils  of 
avarice  or  ambition ;  but  to  search,  amid  the 
ruins  of  Oriental  literature,  for  treasures  which 
he  would  not  have  exchanged 

"  For  all  Bokhara's  Taunted  gold. 
Or  all  the  gems  of  Samarcand." 

It  is,  nevertheless,  impossible  to  avoid  supposing, 
that  the  activity  of  his  mind  spread  itself  in  too 
many  directions  to  be  always  employed  to  the 
best  advantage.  The  impulse  that  carried  him 
through  so  many  pursuits,  has  a  look  of  something 
restless,  inordinate,  and  ostentatious.  Useful  as 
he  was,  he  would  in  all  probability  have  been 
still  more  so,  had  his  powers  been  concentrated 
to  fewer  objects.     His  poetry  is  sometimes  ele- 


gant;  but  altogether,  it  has  too  much  of  the  florid 
luxury  of  the  Eas'.  His  taste  would  appear,  in 
his  latter  yearf;,  to  have  fallen  into  a  state  of 
Brahminical  idolatry,  when  he  recommends  to 
our  particular  admiration,  and  translates,  in 
pompous  lyrical  diction,  the  Indian  description 
of  Cumara,  the  d  lughter  of  Ocean,  riding  upon  a 
peacock;  and  enjoins  us  to  admire,  as  an  allegory 
equally  new  and  beautiful,  the  unimaginable  con- 
ceit of  Camdeo,  the  Indian  Cupid,  having  a  bow 
that  is  made  of  flowers,  and  a  bowstring  which 


is  a  string  of  bees.  Industrious  as  he  was,  hu 
history  is  full  of  abandoned  and  half-executed 
projects.  While  his  name  reflects  credit  on 
poetical  biography,  his  secondary  fame  as  a  com- 
poser, shows  that  the  palm  of  poetry  is  not  likely 
to  he  won,  even  by  great  genius,  without  exclu- 
sive devotion  to  the  pursuit.* 

'AXAa  oviTbin  Sfia  itavra  Svvfjireat  airdi  l\ta6ai ; 
''XXm  piiv  yUp  cStoKC  Beds  iroXtfiiji'u  cpya, 
"AAA?;)  Si  dpx'jo'T'i'n',  Itcpoi  KiSapm  xai  doiSiiv. 

IUAJ>,  xlv.  729. 


A  PERSIAN  SONG  OF  HAFIZ. 

Sweet  maid,  if  thou  wouldst  charm  my  sight, 
And  bid  these  arms  thy  neck  infold ; 
That  rosy  cheek,  that  lily  hand. 
Would  give  thy  poet  more  delight 
Than  all  Bokhara's  vaunted  gold. 
Than  all  the  gems  of  Samarcand. 

Boy,  let  yon  liquid  ruby  flow. 
And  bid  thy  pensive  heart  be  glad, 
Whate'er  the  frowning  zealots  say : 
Tell  them,  their  Eden  cannot  show 
A  stream  so  clear  as  Kocnabad, 
A  bower  so  sweet  as  Mosellay. 

Oh !  when  these  fair  perfidious  maids, 
Whose  eyes  our  secret  haunts  infest. 
Their  dear  destructive  charms  display ; 
Rach  glance  my  tender  breast  invades, 
And  robs  my  wounded  soul  of  rest. 
As  Tartars  seize  their  destined  prey. 

In  vain  with  love  our  bosoms  glow : 
Can  all  our  tears,  can  all  our  sighs. 
New  lustre  to  those  charms  impart] 
Can  cheeks,  where  living  roses  blow, 
Where  nature  spreads  her  richest  dyes, 
Require  the  borrow'd  gloss  of  art  1 

Speak  not  of  fate :  ah !  change  the  theme, 

And  talk  of  odours,  talk  of  wine. 

Talk  of  the  flowers  that  round  us  bloom: 

'Tis  all  a  cloud,  'tis  all  a  dream  ; 

To  love  and  joy  thy  thoughts  confine, 

Nor  hope  to  pierce  the  sacred  gloom. 

Beauty  has  such  resistless  power. 
That  even  the  chaste  Egyptian  dame 
Sigh'd  for  the  blooming  Hebrew  boy: 
For  her  how  fatal  was  the  hour. 
When  to  the  banks  of  Nilus  came 
A  youth  so  lovely  and  so  coy ! 

But,  ah !  sweet  maid,  my  counsel  hear 
(Youth  should  attend  when  those  advise 
Whom  long  experience  renders  sage;) 
While  music  charms  the  ravish'd  ear; 
While  sparkling  cups  delight  our  eyes. 
Be  gay ;  and  scorn  the  frowns  of  age. 

What  cruel  answer  have  I  heard  1 
And  yet,  by  Heaven,  I  love  thee  still : 
Can  aught  be  cruel  from  thy  lip  1 
86 


Yet  say,  how  fell  that  bitter  word 

From  lips  which  streams  of  sweetness  fill. 

Which  nought  but  drops  of  honey  sip  1 

Go  boldly  forth,  my  simple  lay. 
Whose  accents  flow  with  artless  ease. 
Like  orient  pearls  at  random  strung : 
Thy  notes  are  sweet,  the  damsels  say  ; 
But,  oh  !  far  sweeter,  if  they  please 
The  nymph  for  whom  these  notes  are  sung. 


AN  ODE. 


nr  IMITATION  OF  AICiEUB. 

What  constitutes  a  state  1 
Not  high-raised  battlement  or  labour'd  mound, 

Thick  wall  or  moated  gate  ; 
Not  cities  proud  with  spires  and  turrets  crown'd; 

Not  bays  and  broad-arm'd  ports, 
Where,  laughing  at  the  storm,  rich  navies  ride  ; 

Not  starr'd  and  spangled  courts. 
Where  low-brow'd  baseness  wafts  perfume  to  pride. 

No : — men,  high-minded  men, 
With  powers  as  far  above  dull  brutes  endued 

In  forest,  brake,  or  den, 
As  beasts  excel  cold  rocks  and  brambles  rude ; 

Men,  who  their  duties  know, 
Butknow  their  riKhts,and,  knowing,  daremaintain, 

Prevent  the  long-aim'd  blow. 
And  crush  the  tyrant  while  they  rend  the  chain : 

These  constitute  a  state, 
And  sovereign  Law,  that  state's  collected  will. 

O'er  thrones  and  globes  elate 
Sits  Empress,  crowning  good,  repressing  ill ; 

Smit  by  her  sacred  frown. 
The  fiend  Discretion  like  a  vapour  sinks, 

And  e'en  th'  all-dazzling  Crown 
Hides  his  faint  rays,  and  at  her  bidding  shrinks. 

Such  was  this  heaven-loved  isle. 
Than  Lesbos  fairer  than  the  Cretan  shore ! 

No  more  shall  Freedom  smile  1 
Shall  Britons  languish,  and  be  men  no  more  ? 

Since  all  must  life  resign. 
Those  sweet  rewards,  which  decorate  the  brave, 

'Tis  folly  to  decline, 
And  steal  inglorious  to  the  eilent  grave. 


[*  It  is  DOt  Sir  William  Jones's  poetry  that  can  perpet* 
ate  bU  n&me. — Soutuet,  Qttarterly  Sevieto,  vol.  xi.  p.  ftOU.] 
3Q 


SAMUEL   BISHOP. 


[Born,  1731.    Died,  1795.] 


Samuel  Bishop  was   a  clergyman,  and  for  i  Latin  pieces,  entitled  «« Ferise  Poeticse."     A  vo- 


many  years  the  head  master  of  Merchant  Tailors' 
school.  He  wrote  several  essays  and  poems  for 
the  Public  Ledger,  and  published  a  volume  of 


lume  of  his  sermons,  and  two  volumes  of  his 
poetry,  were  published  after  his  death. 


TO  MRS.  BISHOP. 

WITH  A  PRESENT  OP  A  KNIFE. 

"  A  KNIFE,"  dear  girl,  "  cuts  love,"  they  say  ! 

Mere  modish  love,  perhaps  it  may — 

— For  any  tool,  of  any  kind. 

Can  separate what  was  never  join'd. 

The  knife,  that  cuts  our  love  in  two, 
Will  have  much  tougher  work  to  do  ; 
Must  cut  your  softness,  truth,  and  spirit, 
Down  to  the  vulgar  size  of  merit ; 
To  level  yours,  with  modern  taste, 
Must  cut  a  world  of  sense  to  waste ; 
And  from  your  single  beauty's  store, 
Clip,  what  would  dizen  out  a  score. 

That  self-same  blade  from  me  must  sever 
Sensation,  judgment,  sight,  for  ever : 
All  memory  of  endearments  past. 
All  hope  of  comforts  long  to  last ; — 
All  that  makes  fourteen  years  with  you, 
A  summer; — and  a  short  one  too; — 
All,  that  affection  feels  and  fears, 
When  hours  without  you  seem  like  years. 

Till  that  be  done,  (and  I'd  as  soon 
Believe  this  knife  will  chip  the  moon,) 
Accept  my  present,  undeterr'd, 
And  leave  their  proverbs  to  the  herd. 

If  in  a  kiss — delicious  treat ! — 
Your  lips  acknowledge  the  receipt, 
Love,  fond  of  such  substantial  fare. 
And  proud  to  play  the  glutton  there, 
All  thoughts  of  cutting  will  disdain, 
Save  only — "  cut  and  come  again." 


TO  THE  SAME 

ON  THE  ANNIVER8ART  OF  HER  WEDDING-DAT,  WHICH  WAS  ALSO 
HER   BIRTH-DAT,  WITH  A  RING 

«'  Thee,  Mary,  with  this  ring  I  wed"—' 

So,  fourteen  years  ago,  I  said. 

Behold  another  ring ! — "  for  what  1" 
"  To  wed  thee  o'er  again  1" — Why  noti 

With  that  first  ring  I  married  youth, 
Grace,  beauty,  innocence,  and  truth ; 
Taste  long  admired,  sense  long  revered. 
And  all  my  Molly  then  appear'd. 

If  she,  by  merit  since  disclosed. 
Prove  twice  the  woman  I  supposed, 
674 


I  plead  the  double  merit  now, 
To  justify  a  double  vow. 

Here  then  to-day,  (with  faith  a&  sure, 
With  ardour  as  intense,  as  pure. 
As  when,  amidst  the  rites  divine, 
I  took  thy  troth,  and  plighted  mine,) 
To  thee,  sweet  girl,  my  second  ring 
A  token  and  a  pledge  I  bring : 
With  this  I  wed,  till  death  us  part, 
Thy  riper  virtues  to  my  heart ; 
Those  virtues,  which  before  untried, 
The  wife  has  added  to  the  bride : 
Those  virtues,  whose  progressive  claim. 
Endearing  wedlock's  very  name. 
My  soul  enjoys,  my  song  approves. 
For  conscience'  sake,  as  well  as  love's. 

And  why  ? — They  show  me  every  hour, 
Honour's  high  thought.  Affection's  power, 
Discretion's  deed,  sound  Judgment's  sentence,- 
And  teach  me  all  things — but  repentance. 


EPIGRAM. 

QUOD  PETIS,  HIC  EST. 

No  plate  had  John  and  Joan  to  hoard, 
Plain  folk,  in  humble  plight ; 

One  only  tankard  crown'd  their  board ; 
And  that  was  fill'd  each  night; — 

Along  whose  inner  bottom  sketch'd, 

In  pride  of  chubby  grace, 
Some- rude  engraver's  hand  had  etch'd 

A  baby  angel's  face. 

John  swallow'd  first  a  moderate  sup; 

But  Joan  was  not  like  John ; 
For  when  her  lips  once  touch'd  the  cup, 

She  swill'd,  till  all  was  gone. 

John  often  urged  her  to  drink  fair; 

But  she  ne'er  changed  a  jot; 
She  loved  to  see  the  angel  there, 

And  therefore  drain'd  the  pot. 

When  John  found  all  remonstrance  vain, 

Another  card  he  play'd  ; 
And  where  the  Angel  stood  so  plain. 

He  got  a  Devil  portray'd. 

Joan  saw  the  horns,  Joan  saw  the  tail. 

Yet  Joan  as  stoutly  quaff'd  ; 
And  ever,  when  she  seized  her  ale. 

She  clear'd  it  at  a  draught. — 


JOHN    BAMPFYLDE. 


676 


John  stared,  with  wonder  petrified ; 

His  hair  stood  on  his  pate ; 
And  "  why  dost  guzzle  now,"  he  cried, 

«  At  this  enormous  rate  1" — 

"  Oh !  John,"  she  said,  "  am  I  to  blame  1 

I  can't  in  conscience  stop : 
For  sure  'twould  be  a  burning  shame, 

To  leave  the  Devil  a  drop !" 


EPIGRAM, 

SPLENSEAT  USO. 

See!  stretch'd  on  nature's  couch  of  grass, 

The  foot-sore  traveller  lies ! 
Vast  treasures  let  the  great  amass ; 
A  leathern  pouch,  and  burning-glass. 

For  all  his  wants  suffice. 

For  him  the  sun  its  power  displays. 
In  either  hemisphere ; 


Pours  on  Virginia's  coast  its  blaze. 
Tobacco  for  his  pipe  to  raise ; 
And  shines  to  light  it — here! 


QUOCVNQUE  MOOO  REM. 

A  VETERAN  gambler,  in  a  tempest  caught. 
Once  in  his  life  a  church's  shelter  sought; 
Where  many  an  hint,  pathetically  grave, 
On  life's  precarious  lot,  the  preacher  gave. 
The  sermon  ended,  and  the  storm  lall  spent. 
Home    trudged    old    Cog-die,   reasoning    as   he 

went; 
"Strict  truth,"   quoth  he,  "this  reverend  sage 

declared ; 
I  feel  conviction — and  will  be  prepared^ 
Nor  e'er  henceforth,  since  life  thus  steals  away. 
Give  credit  for  a  bet  beyond  a  day  !" 


JOHN  BAMPFYLDE. 


CB<l«p,175«.     Di«l,1796.] 


John  Bampftldb  was  the  younger  brother  of 
Sir  Charles  Bampfylde.  He  was  educated  at 
Cambridge,  and  published  his  Sqnnets*  in  1776, 
when  very  young.     He  soon  after  fell  into  mental 


derangement,  and  passed  the  last  years  of  his 
nfe  in  a  private  madhouse.  After  twenty  years' 
confinement  he  recovered  his  senses,  but  not  till 
he  was  in  the  last  gasp  of  consumption. 


SONNET. 

As  when,  to  one,  who  long  hath  watch'd  the  mom 
Advancing,  slow  forewarns  th'  approach  of  day, 
(What  time  the  young  and  flow'ry-kirtled  May 
Decks  the  green  hedge,  and  dewy  grass  unshorn 

With  cowslips  pale,  and  many  a  whitening  thorn ;) 
And  now  the  sun  comes  forth,  with  level  ray 
Gilding  the  high  wood-top,  and  mountain  gray; 
And,  as  he  climbs,  the  meadows  'gins  adorn ; 

The  rivers  glisten  to  the  dancing  beam, 

Th'  awaken'd  birds  begin  their  amorous  strain, 
And  bill  and  vale  with  joy  and  fragrance  teem ; 

Such  is  the  sight  of  thee ;  thy  wish'd  return 
To  eyes,  like  mine,  that  long  have  waked  to 

mourn, 
That  long  have  watch'd  for  light,  and  wept  in 


SONNET. 


TO  THE  REDBSEAST. 


When  that  the  fields  put  on  their  gay  attire, 
Thou  silent  sitt'st  near  brake  or  river's  brim. 
Whilst  the  gay  thrush  sings  loud  from  covert  dim; 

But  when  pale  Winter  lights  the  social  fire, 

•  Censura  Literaria,  vol.  iv.  p.  30X.  [See  a  very  interest- 
ing account  of  Itampfylde.  in  a  letter  from  Mr.  Southey 
to  Sir  Kgerton  Urydges,  priiiteil  in  Brydges'  Autobiography, 
Tol.  ii  p.  257,  and  Id  Mr.  Dyce's  Specimen  Sonnets,  p.  217.J 


And  meads  with  slime  are  sprent  and  ways  with 
mire. 

Thou  charm'st  us  with  thy  soft  and  solemn 
hymn. 

From  battlement  or  barn,  or  hay-stack  trim ; 
And  now  not  seldom  tunest,  as  if  for  hire. 

Thy  thrilling  pipe  to  me,  waiting  to  catch 
The  pittance  due  to  thy  well-warbled  song ; 

Sweet  bird,  sing  on  !  for  oft  near  lonely  hatch. 
Like  thee,  myself  have  pleased  the  rustic  throng. 

And  oft  for  entrance  'neath  the  peaceful  thatch. 
Full  many  a  tale  have  told  and  ditty  long. 


SONNET. 


ON  A  WKT  SUMMER. 

All  ye,  who  far  from  town,  in  rural  hall, 
Like  me,  were  wont  to  dwell  near  pleasant  field, 
Enjoying  all  the  sunny  day  did  yield. 

With  me  the  change  lament,  in  irksome  thrall. 
By  rains  incessant  held  ;  for  now  no  call 

From  early  swain  invites  my  hand  to  wield 

The  scythe ;  in  parlour  dim  I  sit  conceal'd. 
And  mark  the  lessening  sand  from  hour-glass  tall; 

Or  'neath  my  window  view  the  wistful  train 
Of  dripping  poultry,  whom  the  vine's  broad  lea\t.6 

Shelter  no  more. — Mute  is  the  mournful  plain. 
Silent  the  swallow  sits  beneath  the  thatch. 
And  vacant  hind  hangs  pensive  o'er  his  hatch. 
Counting  the  frequent  drop  from  reeded  eaves. 


676 


EGBERT   BURNS. 


SONNET. 
Cold  is  the  senseless  heart  that  never  strove. 
With  the  mild  tumult  of  a  real  flame; 
Rugged  the  breast  that  beauty  cannot  tame, 
Nor  youth's  enlivening  graces  teach  to  love 

The  pathless  vale,  the  long  forsaken  grove, 
The  rocky  cave  that  bears  the  fair  one's  name, 
With  ivy  mantled  o'er — For  empty  fame, 


Let  him  amid  the  rabble  toil,  or  rove 
In  search  of  plunder  far  to  western  clime. 

Give  me  to  waste  the  hours  in  amorous  play 
With  Delia,  beauteous  maid,  and  build  the  rhyme 
Praising  her  flowing  hair,  her  snowy  arms, 
And  all  that  prodigality  of  charms 

Form'd  to  enslave  my  heart  and  grace  my  lay. 


ROBERT  BURNS. 


[Born,  1758.    Died,  1796.] 


Robert  Burns  was  bom  near  the  town  of  Ayr, 
within  a  few  hundred  yards  of  "  Alloway's  auld 
haunted  kirk,"  in  a  clay  cottage,  which  his  father, 
who  was  a  small  farmer  and  gardener,  had  built 
with  his  own  hands.  A  part  of  this  humble 
edifice  gave  way  when  the  poet  was  but  a  few 
days  old  ;  and  his  mother  and  he  were  carried, 
at  midnight,  through  the  storm,  to  a  neighbour's 
house,  that  gave  them  shelter.  Afler  having  re- 
ceived some  lessons  in  his  childhood,  from  the 
schoolmaster  of  the  village  of  Alloway,  he  was, 
at  seven  years  of  age,  put  under  a  teacher  of  the 
name  of  Murdoch,  who  instructed  him  in  reading 
and  English  grammar.  This  good  man,  who  is 
still  alive,  and  a  teacher  of  languages  in  London, 
boasts,  with  a  very  natural  triumph,  of  having 
accurately  instructed  Burns  in  the  first  principles 
of  composition.*  At  such  an  age,  Burns's  study 
of  principles  could  not  be  very  profound ;  yet  it  is 
due  to  his  early  instructor  to  observe  that  his  prose 
style  is  more  accurate  than  we  should  expect  even 
from  the  vigour  of  an  untutored  mind,  and  such 
as  would  lead  us  to  suppose  that  he  had  been 
early  initiated  in  the  rules  of  grammar.  His 
father's  removal  to  another  farm  in  Ayrshire,  at 
Mount  Oliphant,  unfortunately  deprived  him  of 
the  benefit  of  Murdoch  as  an  instructor,  after  he 
had  been  about  two  years  under  his  care;  and 
for  a  long  time  he  received  no  other  lessons  than 
those  which  his  father  gave  him  in  writing  and 
arithmetic,  when  he  instructed  his  family  by  the 
fireside  of  their  cottage  in  winter  evenings.  About 
the  age  of  thirteen  he  was  sent,  during  a  part  of 
the  summer,  to  the  parish-school  in  Dairy mple, 
in  order  to  improve  his  hand-writing.  In  the 
following  year  he  had  an  opportunity  of  passing 
several  weeks  with  his  old  friend  Murdoch,  with 
whose  assistance  he  began  to  study  French  with 
intense  ardour  and  assiduity.  His  proficiency  in 
that  language,  though  it  was  wonderful  consider- 
ing his  opportunities,  was  necessarily  slight;  yet 
it  was  in  showing  this  accomplishment  alone, 
that  Burns's  weakness  ever  took  the  shape  of 
vanity. 

One  of  his  friends,  who  carried  him  into  the 
company  of  a  French  lady,  remarked,  with  sur- 

[*  Murdoch  lUed  about  the  year  182^  respected  and 


prise,  that  he  attempted  to  converse  with  her  in  her 
own  tongue.  Their  French,  however,  was  soon 
found  to  be  almost  mutually  unintelligible.  As 
far  as  Burns  could  make  himself  understood,  he 
unfortunately  offended  the  foreign  lady.  He 
meant  to  tell  her,  that  she  was  a  charming 
person,  and  delightful  in  conversation;  but  ex- 
pressed himself  so  as  to  appear  to  her  to  mean, 
that  she  was  fond  of  speaking ;  to  which  the 
Gallic  dame  indignantly  replied,  that  it  was  quite 
as  common  for  poets  to  be  impertinent,  as  for 
women  to  be  loquacious."!" 

At  the  age  of  nineteen  he  received  a  few 
months'  instruction  in  land  sur\'eying.  Such  is 
the  scanty  history  of  his  education,  which  is  in- 
teresting simply  because  its  opportunities  were 
so  few  and  precarious,  and  such  as  only  a  gifted 
mind  could  have  turned  to  any  account. 

Of  his  early  reading,  he  tells  us,  that  a  life  of 
Hannibal,  which  Murdoch  gave  him  when  a  boy, 
raised  the  first  stirrings  of  his  enthusiasm ;  and, 
he  adds,  with  his  own  fervid  expression,  "that 
the  life  of  Sir  William  Wallace  poured  a  tide  of 
Scottish  prejudices  into  his  veins,  which  would 
boil  along  there  till  the  floodgates  of  life  were  shut 
in  eternal  rest."J  In  his  sixteenth  year  he  had 
read  some  of  the  plays  of  Shakspeare,  the  works 
of  Pope  and  Addison,  and  of  the  Scottish  poets 
Ramsay  and  Fergusson.  From  the  volumes  of 
Locke,  Ray,  Derham,  and  Stackhouse,  he  also 
imbibed  a  smattering  of  natural  history  and 
theology ;  but  his  brother  assures  us,  that  until 
the  time  of  his  being  known  as  an  author,  he 
continued  to  be  but  imperfectly  acquainted  with 
the  most  eminent  of  our  English  writers.  Thanks 
to  the  songs  and  superstition  of  his  native  country, 
his  genius  had  some  fostering  aliments,  which 
perhaps  the  study  of  classical  authors  might  have 
led  him  to  neglect.  His  inspiration  grew  up  like 
the  flower,  which  owes  to  heaven,  in  a  barren 
soil,  a  natural  beauty  and  wildness  of  fragrance 
that  would  be  spoiled  by  artificial  culture.  He 
learned  an  infinite  number  of  old  ballads,  from 
hearing  his  mother  sing  them  at  her  wheel ;  and 
he  was  instructed  in  all  the  venerable  heraldry 

[t  This  ftory  is  in  no  account  of  Burns'.'*  life  that  we  have 
ever  seen,  before  or  since  Mr.  lampbeli  wrote.] 
t  From  his  letter  to  Dr.  >Ioore. 


X^^^^^^^^^^^C^  -^i^-^^^^^-r 


J.B.Ia- 


.p3^i.r^o.x:  a:   .  '   ;'XiTia-L'. 


ROBERT   BURNS. 


670 


I  which  unrolls  the  diversities  of  human  manner?, 


i  advciituics,  ami  cliaraclers  to  a  poet's  stuily,  .he 
11  couTJ  luiNC  no  great  share ;  although  he  stamped 
//  the  little  treasure  which  he  possessed  in  the 
//  oaiptage  of  sovereign  genius.  It  has  heen  as- 
serted, that  he  received  all  the  education  which 
is  requisite  for  a  poet ;  he  had  learned  i£9di.ngi 
writing  and  arithmetic ;  and  he  had  dipped  into 
F'rench  and  geometry.  To  a  poet,  it  must  be 
owned,  the  three  last  of  those  acquisitions  were 
quite  superfluous.  His  ed  ucation,  it  is  also  affirmed, 
was  equal  to  Shakspeare's ;*  but,  without  in- 
tending to  make  any  comparison  between  the 
genius  of  the  two  bards,  it  should  be  recollected 
that  Shakspeare  lived  in  an  age  within  the  verge  of 
chivalry,  an  age  overflowing  with  chivalrous  and 
romantic  reading ;  that  he  was  led  by  his  voca- 
tion to  have  daily  recourse  to  that  kind  of  read- 
ing ;  that  be  dwelt  on  a  spot  which  gave  him 
cpnstaht  access  to  it;  and  was  in  habitual  inter- 
course with  men  of  genius.  Burns,  after  grow- 
ing up  to  manhood  under  toils  which  exhausted 
his  physical  frame,  acquired  a  scanty  knowledge 
of  modern  books,  of  books  tending  for  the  most 
part  to  regulate  the  judgment  more  than  to  ex- 
ercise the  fancy.  In  the  whole  tract  of  his  read- 
ing, there  seems  to  be  little  that  could  cherish 
his  inventive  faculties.  One  material  of  poetry 
he  certainly  possessed,  independent  of  books,  in 
tne  legendary  superstitions  of  his  native  country. 
But  with  all  that  he  tells  us  of  his  early  love  of 
those  superstitions,  they  seem  to  have  come  home 
to  his  mind  with  so  many  ludicrous  associations 
of  vulgar  tradition,  that  it  may  be  doubted  if  he 
could  have  turned  them  to  account  in  an  ele- 
vated work  of  fiction.  Strongly  and  admirably 
as  he  paints  the  supernatural  in  "  Tam  o'  Shan- 
ter,"  yet  there,  as  every  where  else,  he  makes  it 
subservient  to  comic  effect.  The  fortuitous  wild- 
ness  and  sweetness  of  his  strains  may,  after  all, 
set  aside  every  regret  that  he  did  not  attempt 
more  superb  and  regular  structures  of  fancy. 
He  describes,  as  he  says,  the  sentiments  which 
he  saw  and  felt  in  himself  and  his  rustic  com- 
peers around  him.  His  page  is  a  lively  image 
of  the  contemporary  life  and  country  from  which 
he  sprung.  He  brings  back  old  Scotland  to  us 
with  all  her  homefelt  endearments,  her  simple 
customs,  her  festivities,  her  sturdy  prejudices,  and 
orthodox  zeal,  with  a  power  that  excites,  alter- 
nately, the  most  tender  and  mirthful  sensations. 
After  the  full  account  of  his  pieces  which  Dr. 
Currie  has  given,  the  English  reader  can  have 
nothing  new  to  learn  respecting  them.f  On 
one  powerfully  comic  piece  Dr.  Currie  has  not 
disserted,   namely,    "  The   Holy    Fair."      It  is 


[*  Kven,  if  Shakspeare's  education  was  as  humble  as 
what  Farmer  suppoi^d  it  to  have  been,  it  was  beyond 
Burns's.] 

[t  iiince  this  was  written,  much  has  bven  done  to  illus- 
trate the  life,  writings,  and  cenius  of  Burns;  edition  after 
edition  has  been  called  for  of  his  works,  and  memoir  after 
memoir.  The  lives  by  Mr.  Lookbart  and  Mr.  Allan  Cun- 
ningham are  too  well  known  for  eulogy  or  quotation;  the 
yigoroua  rindieatoiy  tona  of  the  former,  and  the  calm, 


enough,  however,  to  mention  the  humour  of  thii 
production,  without  recommending  its  subject 
Burns,  indeed,  only  laughs  at  the  abuses  of  a 
sacred  institution;  but  the  theme  was  of  unsafe 
approach,  and  he  ought  to  hove  avoided  it. 

He  meets  us,  in  his  compositions,  undis- 
guisedly  as  a  peasant.  At  the  same  time,  his 
observations  go  extensively  into  life,  like  those 
of  a  man  who  felt  the  proper  dignity  of  human 
nature  in  the  character  of  a  peasant.  The  writer 
of  some  of  the  severest  strictures  that  ever  have 
been  passed  upon  his  poetryj  conceives  that  his 
beauties  are  considerably  defaced  by  a  portion  of 
false  taste  and  vulgar  sentiment,  which  adhere  to 
him  from  his  low  education.  That  Burns's  edu- 
cation, or  rather  the  want  of  it,  excluded  him 
from  much  knowledge,  which  might  have  fos- 
tered his  inventive  ingenuity,  seems  to  be  clear ; 
but  his  circumstances  cannot  be  admitted  to  have 
communicated  vulgarity  to  the  tone  of  his  senti- 
ments. They  have  not  the  sordid  taste  of  low 
condition.  It  is  objected  to  him,  that  he  boasts 
too  much  of  his  own  independence ;  but,  in 
reality,  this  boast  is  neither  frequent  nor  obtru- 
sive ;  and  it  is  in  itself  the  expression  of  a  manly 
and  laudable  feeling.  So  far  from  calling  up 
disagreeable  recollections  of  rusticity,  his  senti- 
ments triumph,  by  their  natural  energy,  over 
those  false  and  fastidious  distinctions  which  the 
mind  is  but  too  apt  to  form  in  allotting  its  sym- 
pathies to  the  sensibilities  of  the  rich  and  poor. 
He  carries  us  into  the  humble  scenes  of  life,  not 
to  make  us  dole  out  our  tribute  of  charitable  com- 
passion to  paupers  and  cottagers,  but  to  make  us 
feel  with  them  on  equal  terms,  to  make  us  enter 
into  their  passions  and  interests,  and  share  our 
hearts  with  them  as  with  brothers  and  sisters  of 
the  human  species. 

He  is  taxed,  in  the  same  place,  with  perpetu- 
ally affecting  to  deride  the  virtues  of  prudence, 
regularity,  and  decency ;  and  with  being  imbued 
with  the  sentimentality  of  German  novels.  Any 
thing  more  remote  from  German  sentiment  than 
Burns's  poetry  could  not  easily  be  mentioned. 
But  is  he  depraved  and  licentious  in  a  compre- 
hensive view  of  the  moral  character  of  his 
pieces  1  The  over-genial  freedom  of  a  few  as- 
suredly ought  not  to  fix  this  character  upon  the 
whole  of  them.  It  is  a  charge  which  we  should 
hardly  expect  to  see  preferred  against  the  author 
of  "The  Cotter's  Saturday  Night."  He  is  the 
enemy,  indeed,  of  that  selfish  and  niggardly 
spirit  which  shelters  itself  under  the  name  of 
prudence;  but  that  pharisaical  disposition  has 
seldom  been  a  favourite  with  poets.  Nor  should 
his  maxims,  which  inculcate  charity  and  can- 


clear,  and  earnest  language  of  the  latter,  with  the  fullness 
of  its  information,  leave  little  for  succeeding  writers  to  say 
by  way  of  justification  or  illustration.] 

J  Critique  on  the  character  of  Burns,  in  the  Kdinburgh 
Review,  .\rlicle,  Cromfk's  RtUques  of  Bums.  [By  Lord 
Jeffrey.  Mr.  Campbell's  reply  to  Lord  Jeffrey  is  thought 
by  the  Kdinburgh  Reviewer  of  the.»e  Specimens  to  ba 
lubstantially  succei^uL  See  Edinburgh  Review,  vol 
xxjd.  p.  492.J 


680 


ROBERT   BURNS. 


Jour  in  judging  of  human  frailties,  be  interpreted 
as  a  serious  defence  of  them,  as  when  he  says, 

"Then  gently  scan  your  brother  man, 
Still  gentlier  sister  woman, 
Though  they  may  gang  a  kennin'  wrang; 
To  step  aside  is  human. 

"  Who  made  the  heart,  'tis  He  alone 
Decidedly  can  try  ua ; 
He  knows  each  chord,  its  yarious  tone. 
Each  spring,  its  various  bias." 

It  is  still  more  surprising,  that  a  critic,  capable 
of  so  eloquently  developing  the  traits  of  Burns's 
genius,  should  have  found  fault  with  his  amatory 
strains  for  want  of  polish,  and  "of  that  chivalrous 
tone  of  gallantry,  which  uniformly  abases  itself 
in  the  presence  of  the  object  of  its  devotion." 
Every  reader  must  recall  abundance  of  thoughts 
in  his  love  songs,  to  which  any  attempt  to  super- 
add a  tone  of  gallantry  would  not  be 

"  To  gild  refined  gold,  to  paint  the  rose. 
Or  add  fresh  perfume  to  the  violet  ;"• 

but  to  debase  the  metal,  and  to  take  the  odour 
and  colour  from  the  flower.  It  is  exactly  this 
superiority  to  "  abasement"  and  polish  which  is 


the  charm  that  distinguishes  Burns  from  the 
herd  of  erotic  songsters,  from  the  days  of  the 
troubadours  to  the  present  time.  He  wrote  from 
impulses  more  sincere  than  the  spirit  of  chivalry ; 
and  even  Lord  Surrey  and  Sir  Philip  Sidney  are 
cold  and  uninteresting  lovers  in  comparison  with 
the  rustic  Burns. 

The  praises  of  his  best  pieces  I  have  abstained 
from  re-echoing,  as  there  is  no  epithet  of  admira- 
tion which  they  deserve  which  has  not  been  be- 
stowed upon  them.  One  point  must  be  conceded 
to  the  strictures  on  his  poetry,  to  which  I  have 
already  alluded, — that  his  personal  satire  was 
fierce  and  acrimonious.  I  am  not,  however,  dis- 
posed to  consider  his  attacks  on  Rumble  John, 
and  Holy  Willie,  as  destitute  of  wit;  and  his 
poem  on  the  clerical  settlements  at  Kilmarnock 
blends  a  good  deal  of  ingenious  metaphor  with 
his  accustomed  humour.  Even  viewing  him  as 
a  satirist,  the  last  and  humblest  light  in  which 
he  can  be  regarded  as  a  poet,  it  may  still  be  said 
of  him, 

"His  style  was  witty,  though  it  had  some  gall; 
Something  he  migbt  have  mended — so  may  all." 


THE  TWA  DOGS. 

A  TALE. 

'TwAS  in  that  place  o'  Scotland's  isle. 
That  bears  the  name  o'  Auld  King  Coil, 
Upon  a  bonnie  day  in  June, 
When  wearing  through  the  afternoon, 
Twa  dogs  that  were  na  thrang  at  hame, 
Forgalher'd  ance  upon  a  time. 

The  first  I'll  name,  they  ca'd  him  Ciesar, 
Was  keepit  for  his  Honour's  pleasure : 
His  hair,  his  size,  his  mouth,  his  lugs, 
Show'd  he  was  nane  o'  Scotland's  dogs ; 
But  whalpit  some  place  far  abroad. 
Where  sailors  gang  to  fish  for  cod. 

His  locked,  letter'd,  braw  brass  collar 
Show'd  him  the  gentleman  and  scholar: 
But  though  he  was  o'  high  degree. 
The  fient  a  pride  na  pride  had  he ; 
But  wad  hae  spent  an  hour  caressin, 
Ev'n  with  a  tinker-gipsy's  messin. 
At  kirk  or  market,  mill  or  smiddie, 
Nae  tawted  tyke,  though  e'er  sae  duddie. 
But  he  wad  stan't,  as  glad  to  see  him, 
And  stroan't  on  stanes  an'  hillocks  wi'  him. 

The  tither  was  a  ploughman's  collie, 
A  rhyming,  ranting,  raving  biilie, 
Wha  for  his  friend  an'  comrade  had  him. 
And  in  his  freaks  had  Luath  ca'd  him. 
After  some  dog  in  Highland  sang. 
Was  made  lang  syne — Lord  knows  how  lang. 

[*Thi8  version  by  no  means  improves  the  original, 
which  is  as  follows : 

To  gild  refined  gold,  to  paint  the  lUy, 
To  throw  a  perfume  on  the  violet. 

King  John,  Act.  iv.  Scene  ii. 
A  great  poet  quoting  another  should  be  correct. — ^Btron, 
IKori*,  vol.  xvi.i.l24.] 


He  was  a  gash  an'  faithful  tyke, 
As  ever  lap  a  sheugh  or  dyke. 
His  honest,  sonsie,  bawsn't  face. 
Ay  gat  him  friends  in  ilka  place. 
His  breast  was  white,  his  towzie  back 
Weel  clad  wi'  coat  o'  glossy  black ; 
His  gawcie  tail,  wi'  upward  curl. 
Hung  o'er  his  hurdles  wi'  a  swirl. 

Nae  doubt  but  they  were  fain  o'  ither. 
An'  unco  pack  an'  thick  thegither ; 
Wi'  social  nose  whiles  snufTd  and  snowkit; 
Whyles  mice  an'  moudieworts  they  howkit; 
Whyles  scour'd  awa  in  lang  excursion. 
An'  worry'd  ither  in  diversion; 
Until  wi'  datfin  weary  grown, 
Upon  a  knowe  they  sat  them  down, 
And  there  began  a  lang  digression. 
About  the  lords  o'  the  creation. 


I've  aften  wonder'd,  honest  Luath, 
What  sort  o'  life  poor  dogs  like  you  have ; 
An'  when  the  gentry's  life  I  saw, 
What  way  poor  bodies  lived  ava. 

Our  Laird  gets  in  his  racked  rents, 
His  coals,  his  kain.  and  a'  his  stents : 
He  rises  when  he  likes  himsel' ; 
His  flunkies  answer  at  the  bell; 
He  ca's  his  coach,  he  ca's  his  horse ; 
He  draws  a  bonnie  silken  purse 
As  lang's  my  tail,  whare,  through  the  steeks. 
The  yellow  letter'd  Geordie  keeks. 

Frae  morn  to  e'en  it's  naught  but  toilin;. 
At  baking,  roasting,  frying,  boiling ; 
An'  though  the  gentry  first  are  stechin. 
Yet  ev'n  the  ha'  folk  fill  their  pechan 


ROBERT  BURNS. 


681 


Wi'  sauce,  ragouts,  and  sic  like  trashtrie, 
That's  little  short  o'  downright  wastrie. 
Our  Whipper-in,  wee  blastit  wonner, 
Poor  worthless  elf,  it  eats  a  dinner, 
Better  than  Ony  tenant  man 
His  Honour  has  in  a'  the  Ian': 
An'  what  poor  cot-folk  pit  their  painch  in, 
I  own  it's  past  my  comprehension. 

LUATH. 

Trowth,  CsBsar.  why  les  they're  fash't  enough; 
A  cottar  howkin  in  a  sheugh, 
Wi'  dirty  stanes  biggin  a  dyke. 
Baring  a  quarry,  and  sic  like. 
Himself,  a  wife,  he  thus  sustains, 
A  smytrie  o'  wee  duddie  weans. 
An'  naught  but  his  han'  darg,  to  keep 
Them  right  and  tight  in  thack  an'  rape. 

An'  when  they  meet  wi'  sair  disasters, 
Like  loss  o'  health,  or  want  o'  masters. 
Ye  maist  wad  think,  a  wee  touch  langer. 
An'  they  maun  starve  o'  cauld  and  hunger; 
But,  how  it  comes,  I  never  kenn'd  it. 
They're  maistly  wonderfu'  contented; 
An'  buirdly  chiels,  an'  clever  hizzies. 
Are  bred  in  sic  a  way  as  this  is. 

CXUAR, 

But  then  to  see  how  ye're  negleckit. 
How  hufTd,  and  cuff'd,  and  disrespeckit ! 
L — d,  man,  our  gentry  care  as  little 
For  del  vers,  ditchers,  an'  sic  cattle; 
They  gang  as  saucy  by  poor  fo'k. 
As  I  wad  by  a  stinking  brock. 

I've  noticed,  on  our  Laird's  court-day, 
An'  mony  a  time  my  heart's  been  wae. 
Poor  tenant  bodies,  scant  o'  cash. 
How  they  maun  thole  a  factor's  snash ; 
He'll  stamp  an'  threaien,  curse  an'  swear 
He'll  apprehend  them,  poind  their  gear ; 
While  they  maun  stan',  wi'  aspect  humble. 
An'  hear  it  a',  an'  fear  an'  tremble ! 

I  see  how  folk  live  that  hae  riches ; 
But  surely  poor  folk  maun  be  wretches ! 


They're  nae  sae  wretched's  ana  wad  think; 
Though  constantly  on  poortith's  brink : 
They're  sae  accustom'd  wi'  the  sight. 
The  view  o't  gies  them  little  fright. 

Then  chance  an'  fortune  are  sae  guided, 
They're  aye  in  less  or  mair  provided ; 
An'  though  fatigued  with  close  employment, 
A  blink  o'  rest's  a  sweet  enjoyment. 

The  dearest  comfort  o'  their  lives. 
Their  grushie  weans  an'  faithfu'  wives ; 
The  prattling  things  are  just  their  pride, 
That  sweetens  a'  their  tire-side. 

An'  whyles  twalpennie  worth  o'  nappy 
Can  mak  the  bodies  unco  happy ; 
They  lay  aside  their  private  cares. 
To  mind  the  kirk  and  state  affairs : 
They'll  talk  o'  patronage  and  priests, 
Wi'  kindling  fury  in  their  breasts, 
Or  tell  what  new  taxation's  comin, 
Au'  ferlie  at  the  folk  in  Lon'oa 
88 


As  bleak-faced  Hallowmass  returns, 
They  get  the  jovial,  ranting  kirns, 
When  rural  life,  o'  every  station, 
Unite  in  common  recreation; 
Love  blinks.  Wit  slaps,  an'  social  Mirth, 
Forgets  there's  Care  upo'  the  earth. 

That  merry  day  the  year  begins. 
They  bar  the  door  on  frosty  winds ; 
The  nappy  reeks  wi'  mantling  ream. 
An'  sheds  a  heart-inspiring  steam ; 
The  luntin  pipe,  an'  sneeshin  mill. 
Are  handed  round  wi'  right  guid  will; 
The  cantie  auld  folks  crackin'  crouse, 
The  young  anes  ranting  through  the  house, — 
My  heart  has  been  sae  fain  to  see  them, 
■  That  I  for  joy  hae  barkit  wi'  them. 

Still  it's  owrc  true  that  ye  hae  said. 
Sic  game  is  now  owre  aflen  play'd. 
There's  monie  a  creditable  stock 
O'  decent,  honest,  fawsont  fo'k. 
Are  riven  out  baith  root  and  branch. 
Some  rascal's  pridefu'  greed  to  quench, 
Wha  thinks  to  knit  himsel  the  faster 
In  favour  wi'  some  gentle  master, 
Wha  aiblins,  thrang  a  parliamentin. 
For  Britain's  guid  his  saul  indentin — 

CJESAR. 

Haith,  lad,  ye  little  ken  about  it : 
For  Britain's  guid! — guid  faith,  I  doubt  it! 
Say  rather,  gaun  as  Premiers  lead  him. 
An'  saying  ay  or  no 's  they  bid  him : 
At  operas  an'  plays  parading. 
Mortgaging,  gambling,  masquerading ; 
Or  may  be,  in  a  frolic  daft, 
To  Hague  or  Calais  takes  a  waft. 
To  make  a  tour,  and  tak  a  whirl. 
To  learn  bon  ton  an'  see  the  worl'. 

There,  at  Vienna  or  Versailles, 
He  rives  his  father's  auld  entails! 
Or  by  Madrid  he  takes  the  rout. 
To  thrum  guitars,  and  fecht  wi'  nowt; 
Or  down  Italian  vista  startles, 
■•■     *     hunting  among  groves  o' myrtles: 
Then  bouses  drumly  German  water. 
To  mak  himsel  look  fair  and  falter. 
An'  clear  the  consequential  sorrows, 
Love-gifts  of  Carnival  signoras. 
For  hritain's  guid! — for  her  destruction! 
Wi'  dissipation,  feud,  an'  faction. 

LUATH. 

Hech  man  !  dear  sirs  I  is  that  the  gate 
They  waste  sae  mony  a  braw  estate  ! 
Are  we  sae  foughten  and  harass'd 
For  gear  to  gang  that  gate  at  last ! 

Oh  would  they  stay  aback  frae  courts. 
An'  please  themselves  wi'  countra  sports, 
It  wad  for  every  ane  be  better, 
The  Laird,  the  Tenant,  an'  the  Cotter ! 
For  thae  frank,  rantin,  ramblin  billies, 
Fient  haet  o'  them's  ill-hearted  fellows; 
Except  for  breaking  o'er  their  timmer. 
Or  speakin  lightly  o'  their  limmer. 
Or  shooting  o'  a  hare  or  moor-cock. 
The  ne'er  a  bit  they're  ill  to  poor  folk. 


682 


ROBERT  BURNS. 


But  will  ye  tell  me,  Master  Caesar, 
Sure  great  folk's  life  's  a  life  o'  pleasure ! 
JNae  cauld  or  hunger  e'er  can  steer  them, 
The  vera  thought  o't  need  na  fear  them. 

C^SAR. 

L — d,  man,  were  ye  but  whyles  whare  I  am, 
The  gentles  ye  wad  ne'er  envy  'em. 

It's  true,  they  need  na  starve  or  sweat, 
Thro'  winter's  cauld,  or  simmer's  heat ; 
They've  nae  sair  wark  to  craze  their  banes, 
An'  fill  auld  age  with  grips  an'  granes: 
But  human  bodies  are  sic  fools. 
For  a'  their  colleges  and  schools. 
That  when  nae  real  ills  perplex  them. 
They  mak  enow  themsels  to  vex  them; 
An'  ay  the  less  they  hae  to  sturt  them ; 
In  like  proportion  less  will  hurt  them; 
A  country  fellow  at  the  pleugh, 
His  acres  till'd,  he's  right  enough ; 
A  country  girlie  at  her  wheel. 
Her  dizzens  done,  she's  unco  weel: 
But  gentlemen,  an'  ladies  warst, 
Wi'  evendown  want  o'  wark  are  curst. 
They  loiter,  lounging,  lank,  an'  lazy ; 
Tho'  deil  haet  ails  them,  yet  uneasy; 
Their  days  insipid,  dull,  an'  tasteless: 
'J'heir  nights  unquiet,  lang,  an'  restless; 
An'  even  their  sports,  their  balls,  an'  races, 
Their  galloping  through  public  places. 
There's  sic  parade,  sic  pomp,  an'  art, 
The  joy  can  scarcely  reach  the  heart. 
The  men  cast  out  in  party  matches. 
Then  sowther  a'  in  deep  debauches : 
Ae  night  they're  mad  wi'  drink  an'     *     * 
Neist  day  their  life  is  past  enduring. 
The  ladies  arm-in-arm  in  clusters. 
As  great  and  gracious  a'  as  sisters ; 
But  hear  their  absent  thoughts  o'  ither, 
They're  a'  run  deils  an'  jads  thegither. 
Whyles,  o'er  the  wee  bit  cup  an'  platie, 
They  sip  the  scandal  potion  pretty ; 
Or  lee-lang  nights,  wi'  crabbit  leuks 
Pore  owre  the  devil's  pictured  beuks ; 
Stake  on  a  chance  a  farmer's  stackyard. 
An'  cheat  like  onie  unhanged  blackguard. 

There's  some  exception,  man  an'  woman  ; 
But  this  is  Gentry's  life  in  common. 

By  this,  the  sun  was  out  o'  sight. 
An'  darker  gloaming  brought  the  night; 
The  bum-clock  humm'd  wi'  lazy  drone; 
The  kye  stood  rowtin  i'  the  loan  ; 
When  up  they  gat,  and  shook  their  lugs, 
Rejoiced  they  were  na  men  but  dogs  ; 
An'  each  took  affhis  several  way, 
Resolved  to  meet  some  ither  day. 


ADDRESS  TO  THE  DEIL. 
O  THOU !  whatever  title  suit  thee, 
Auld  Horiiie,  Satan,  Nick,  or  Clootie, 
Wha  in  yon  cavern  grim  an'  sootie. 

Closed  under  hatches, 
Spairges  about  the  brunstane  cootie. 

To  Bcaud  poor  wretches ! 


Hear  me,  auld  Hangie,  for  a  wee, 
An'  let  poor  damned  bodies  be ; 
I'm  sure  sma'  pleasure  it  can  gie. 

E'en  to  a  deil. 
To  skelp  an'  scaud  poor  dogs  like  me. 

An'  bear  us  squeel ! 

Great  is  thy  power,  an'  great  thy  fame ; 
Far  kend  and  noted  is  thy  name ; 
An'  iho'  yon  lowin  heugh's  thy  hame. 

Thou  travels  far; 
An'  faith !  thou's  neither  lag  nor  lame, 
V    Nor  blate  nor  scaur. 

Whyles,  ranging  like  a  roarin  lion. 
For  prey,  a'  holes  an'  corners  tryin ; 
Whyles  on  the  strong-wing'd  tempest  flyui, 

Tirling  the  kirks ; 
Whyles,  in  the  human  bosom  pry  in. 

Unseen  thou  lurks. 

I've  heard  my  reverend  Graunie  say, 
In  lanely  glens  ye  like  to  stray  ; 
Or  where  auld-ruin'd  castles,  gray. 

Nod  to  the  moon. 
Ye  fright  the  nightly  wanderer's  way, 

Wi'  eldritch  croon. 

When  twilight  did  my  Graunie  summon, 
To  say  her  prayers,  douce,  honest  woman ! 
Aft  yont  the  dyke  she's  heard  you  bummin, 

Wi'  eerie  drone ; 
Or,  rustlin'  thro'  the  boortries  comin, 

Wi'  heavy  groan. 

Ae  dreary,  windy,  winter  night, 

I'he  stars  shot  down  wi'  sklentin'  light, 

Wi'  you,  mysel,  I  gat  a  fright, 

Ayont  the  lough ; 
Ye,  like  a  rash-bush  stood  in  sight, 

Wi'  waving  sugh. 

The  cudgel  in  my  nieve  did  shake. 

Each  bristled  hair  stood  like  a  stake. 

When  wi'  an  eldritch  stour,  quaick — quaick- 

Amang  the  springs, 
Awa  ye  squatter'd  like  a  drake. 

On  whistling  wings. 

Let  warlocks  grim,  an'  wither'd  hags. 
Tell  how  wi'  you  on  ragweed  nags. 
They  skim  the  muirs,  an'  dizzy  crags, 

Wi'  wicked  speed ; 
And  in  kirk-yards  renew  their  leagues, 

Owre  howkit  dead. 

Thence  countra  wives,  wi'  toil  an'  pain. 
May  plunge  an'  plunge  the  kirn  in  vain; 
For,  oh  !  the  yellow  treasure's  taen 

By  witching  skill; 
An  dawtit,  twal-pint  Hawkie's  gaen 

As  yell's  the  Bill. 

Thence  mystic  knots  mak  great  abuse. 

On  young  Guidman,  fond,  keen,  an'  crouse; 

When  the  best  wark-lume  i'  the  house. 

By  cantrip  wit. 
Is  instant  made  no  worth  a  louse. 

Just  at  the  bit. 


ROBERT  BURNS. 


6»8 


When  fhowes  dissolve  the  snawy  hoord, 
An'  float  the  jinglin  icy-boord, 
Then  Water-kelpies  haunt  the  foord 

By  your  direction, 
An'  nighted  travellers  are  allured, 

To  their  destruction 

An'  aft  your  moss-traversing  Spunkies 
Decoy  the  wight  that  late  an'  drunk  is : 
The  bleezin,  curst,  mischievous  monkeys 

Delude  his  eyes. 
Till  in  some  miry  slough  he  sunk  is. 

Ne'er  mair  to  rise. 

When  Masons'  mystic  word  an'  grip. 
In  storms  an'  tempests  raise  you  up. 
Some  cock  or  cat  your  rage  maun  stop, 

Or,  strange  to  tell ! 
The  youngest  Brother  ye  wad  whip 

Affstraught  to  hell! 

Lang  syne,  in  Eden's  bonnie  yard, 
When  youthfu'  lovers  first  were  pair'd, 
An'  all  the  soul  of  love  they  shared. 

The  raptured  hour. 
Sweet  on  the  fragrant,  flowery  swaird ; 

In  shady  bow'r: 

Then  you,  ye  auld,  snick-drawing  dog  ! 

Ye  came  to  Paradise  incog. 

An'  play'd  on  man  a  cursed  brogue, 

(Black  be  your  fa  !) 
An'  gied  the  infant  warld  a  shog, 

'Maist  ruin'd  a'. 

D'ye  mind  that  day,  when  in  a  bizz, 
Wi'  reekit  duds,  an'  reestit  gizz. 
Ye  did  present  your  smoutie  phiz 

'Mang  better  fo'k. 
An'  sklented  on  the  man  of  Uz 

Your  spitefu'  joke  1 

An'  how  ye  gat  him'  i'  your  thrall. 
An'  brak  him  out  o'  house  an'  hall. 
While  scabs  an'  blotches  did  him  gnll, 

Wi'  bitter  claw. 
An'  lows'd  his  ill  tongued,  wicked  Scawl, 

Was  warst  ava  1 

But  a'  your  doings  to  rehearse. 
Your  wily  snares  an'  fechtin  fierce, 
Sin'  that  day  Michael  did  you  pierce, 

Down  to  this  time, 
Wad  ding  a  Lallan  tongue,  or  Erse, 

In  prose  or  rhyme. 

An'  now,  auld  Cloots,  I  ken  ye're  thinkin, 
A  certnin  Bardie's  rantin,  drinkin. 
Some  luckless  hour  will  send  him  linkin. 

To  your  black  pit ; 
But,  faith !  he'll  turn  a  corner  jinkin, 

An'  cheat  you  yeU 

But,  fare  you  weel.  auld  Nickie-beu! 
Oh  wad  ye  tak  a  thought  an'  men' ! 
Ye  aiblins  might — I  dinna  ken — 

Still  hae  a  stake — 
I'm  wae  to  think  upo'  yon  den. 

Even  for  your  sake  I 


TO  A  MOUNTAIN  DAISY, 

01*  lURMSO  ONE  DOWN  WITH  TH«  PLOCOH 

Wee,  modest,  crimson-tipped  flower, 
Thou's  met  me  in  an  evil  hour  ; 
For  I  maun  crush  amang  the  stoure 

Thy  slender  stem ; 
To^  spare  thee  now  is  past  my  power, 

Thou  bonnie  gem. 

Alas !  it's  no  thy  neebor  sweet. 
The  bonnie  Lark,  companion  meet! 
Bending  thee  'mang  the  dewy  weet! 

Wi'  spreckled  breast. 
When  upward-springing,  blithe,  to  greet 

The  purpling  east 

Cauld  blew  the  bitter-biting  north 
Upon  thy  early,  humble  birth ; 
Yet  cheerfully  thou  glinted  forth 

Amid  the  storm, 
Scarce  rear'd  above  the  parent  earth 

Thy  tender  form. 

The  flaunting  flowers  our  gardens  yield. 
High  sheltering  woods  and  wa's  maun  shield ; 
But  thou  beneath  the  random  bield 

O'  clod  or  stane. 
Adorns  the  histie  stibble-field. 

Unseen,  alane. 

There,  in  thy  scanty  mantle  clad. 
Thy  snawie  bosom  sun-ward  spread, 
Thou  lifts  thy  unassuming  head 

In  humble  guise; 
But  now  the  share  uptears  thy  bed. 

And  low  thou  lies! 

Such  ie  the  fate  of  artless  Maid, 
Sweet  floweret  of  the  rural  shade ! 
By  love's  simplicity  betray'd. 

And  guileless  trust. 
Till  she,  like  thee,  all  soil'd,  is  laid 

Low  i'  the  dust. 

Such  is  the  fate  of  simple  Bard, 

On  life's  rough  ocean  luckless  starr'd  ' 

Unskilful  he  to  note  the  card 

Of  prudent  lore. 
The  billows  rage,  and  gales  blow  hard. 

And  whelm  him  o'er ! 

Such  fate  to  suffering  worth  is  given, 
Who  long  with  wants  and  woes  has  striven) 
By  human  pride  or  cunning  driven. 

To  misery's  brink. 
Till  wrench'd  of  every  stay  but  Heaven, 

He,  ruin'd,  sink ! 

Even  thou  who  mourn 'st  the  Daisy's  fate, 
That  fate  is  thine — no  distant  date  ; 
Stem  Ruin's  plough-share  drives,  elate. 

Full  on  thy  bloom. 
Till  crush'd  beneath  the  furrow's  weight, 

SLall  be  thy  doom  ! 


C84 


ROBERT   BURNS. 


TAM  0'  SIIANTER. 

A  TALE. 

When  chapman  billies  leave  the  street, 
And  drouthy  neebors,  neebors  meet, 
As  market  days  are  wearing  late. 
An'  folk  begin  to  tak  the  gate  ; 
While  we  sit  bousing  at  the  nappy, 
An'  gettin  fou  and  unco  happy, 
We  think  na  on  the  lang  Scots  miles, 
The  mosses,  waters,  slaps  and  styles, 
That  lie  between  us  and  our  hame. 
Where  sits  our  sulky  sullen  dame, 
Gathering  her  brows  like  gathering  storm. 
Nursing  her  wrath  to  keep  it  warm. 

This  truth  fand  honest  Tarn  o'  Shanter, 
As  he  frae  Ayr  ae  night  did  canter, 
(Auld  Ayr,  wham  ne'er  a  town  surpasses. 
For  honest  men  and  bonny  lasses.) 

O  Tarn!  had'st  thou  but  been  sae  wise. 
As  ta'en  thy  ain  wife  Kate's  advice ! 
She  tauld  thee  weel  thou  was  a  skellum, 
A  blethering,  blustering,  drunken  blellum  ; 
That  frae  November  till  October, 
Ae  market-day  thou  was  nae  sober; 
That  ilka  melder,  wi'  the  miller. 
Thou  sat  as  lang  as  thou  had  siller; 
That  every  naig  was  ca'd  a  shoe  on. 
The  smith  and  Ihee  gat  roaring  fou  on  ; 
That  at  the  L — d's  house,  even  on  Sunday, 
Thou  drank  wi'  Kirton  Jean  till  Monday. 
She  prophesied,  that  late  or  soon, 
Thou  would  be  found  deep  drown'd  in  Doon; 
Or  catch'd  wi'  warlocks  in  the  mirk. 
By  AUoway's  auld  haunted  kirk. 

Ah,  gentle  dames  !  it  gars  me  greet, 
To  think  how  mony  counsels  sweet. 
How  mony  lengthen'd  sage  advices. 
The  husband  frae  the  wife  despises ! 

But  to  our  tale :  Ae  market  night. 
Tarn  had  got  planted  unco  right; 
Fast  by  an  ingle,  bleezing  finely, 
Wi'  reaming  swats,  that  drank  divinely ; 
And  at  his  elbow,  souter  Johnny, 
His  ancient,  trusty,  drouthy  crony  ; 
Tarn  lo'ed  him  like  a  vera  brither ; 
They  had  been  fou  for  weeks  thegither. 
The  night  drave  on  wi'  sangs  an'  clatter: 
And  ay  the  ale  was  growing  better: 
The  landlady  and  Tam  grew  gracious ; 
Wi'  favours,  secret,  sweet,  and  precious: 
The  souter  tauld  his  queerest  stories  ; 
The  landlord's  laugh  was  ready  chorus: 
The  storm  without  might  rair  and  rustle, 
Tam  did  na  mind  the  storm  a  whistle. 
Care,  mad  to  see  a  man  sae  happy. 
E'en  drown'd  himself  amang  the  nappy ; 
As  bees  flee  hame  wi'  lades  o'  treasure. 
The  minutes  wing'd  their  way  wi'  pleasure: 
Kings  may  be  bless'd,  but  Tam  was  glorious. 
O'er  a'  the  ills  o'  life  victorious ! 

But  pleasures  are  like  poppies  spread. 
You  seize  the  flower,  its  bloom  is  shed ! 
Or  like  the  snow-falls  in  the  river, 
A  moment  white — then  melts  for  ever ; 


Or  like  the  borealis  race, 

That  flit  ere  you  can  point  their  place; 

Or  like  the  rainbow's  lovely  form 

Evanishing  amid  the  storm. — 

Nae  man  can  tether  time  or  tide ; 

The  hour  approaches  Tam  maun  ride ; 

That  hour,  o'  night's  black  arch  the  key-stane, 

That  dreary  hour  he  mounts  his  beast  in; 

And  sic  a  night  he  taks  the  road  in. 

As  ne'er  poor  sinner  was  abroad  in. 

The  wind  blew  as  'twad  blawn  its  last ; 

The  rattlin  showers  rose  on  the  blast : 

The  speedy  gleams  the  darkness  swallow'J  ; 

Loud,  deep,  and  lang,  the  thunder  bellow'd ; 

That  night,  a  child  might  understand. 

The  deil  had  business  on  his  hand. 

Weel  mounted  on  his  gray  mare,  Meg, 

A  better  never  lifted  leg, 

Tam  skelpit  on  through  dub  and  mire, 

Despising,  wind,  and  rain,  and  fire; 
Whiles  holding  fast  his  guid  blue  bonnet; 
W  hiles  crooning  o'er  some  auld  Scots  sonnet; 
Whiles  glowering  round  wi'  prudent  cares, 
Lest  bogles  catch  him  unawares ; 
Kirk-Alloway  was  drawing  nigh, 
Whare  ghaist  and  houlets  nightly  cry — 

By  this  time  he  was  cross  the  ford, 
Whare  in  the  snaw  the  chapman  smoor'd] 
And  past  the  birks  and  meikle  stane, 
Whare  drunken  Charlie  brak  's  neck-bane ; 
And  through  the  whins,  and  by  the  cairn, 
Whare  hunters  fand  the  murder'd  bairn; 
And  near  the  thorn,  aboon  the  well, 
Whare  Mungo's  mither  hang'd  hersel. — 
Before  him  Doon  pours  all  his  floods ; 
I'he  doubling  storm  roars  through  the  woods! 
The  lightnings  flash  from  pole  to  pole; 
Near  and  more  near  the  thunders  roll; 
When,  glimmering  through  the  groaning  trees, 
Kirk-Alloway  seem'd  in  a  bleeze ; 
Through  ilka  bore  the  beams  were  glancing ; 
And  loud  resounded  mirth  and  dancing. — • 

Inspiring  bold  John  Barleycorn  ! 
What  dangers  thou  canst  make  us  scorn! 
Wi'  tippenny,  we  fear  nae  evil; 
Wi'  usquabae  we'll  face  the  devil ! — 
The  swats  sae  ream'd  in  Tammie's  noddle, 
Fair  play,  he  cared  na  delis  a  boddle. 
But  Maggie  stood  rigbt  sair  astonish'd. 
Till,  by  the  heel  and  hand  admonish'd, 
She  ventured  forward  on  the  light; 
And,  vow  !  Tam  saw  an  unco  sight; 
Warlocks  and  witches  in  a  dance; 
Nae  cotillion  brent  new  frae  France, 
But  hornpipes,  jigs,  strathspeys,  and  reels, 
Put  life  and  mettle  in  their  heels. 
A  vvinnock-bunker  in  the  east. 
There  sat  auld  Nick,  in  shape  o'  beast; 
A  towzie  tyke,  black,  grim,  and  large. 
To  gie  them  music  was  his  charge  : 
He  screw'd  the  pipes  and  gart  them  skirl, 
Till  roof  and  rafters  a'  did  dirl. — 
CoflSns  stood  round,  like  open  presses, 
That  shaw'd  the  dead  in  their  last  dresses ; 


ROBERT  BURNS. 


686 


And  by  some  devilish  cantrip  slight. 
Each  in  its  cauld  hand  held  a  light, — 
By  which  heroic  Tarn  was  able 
To  note  upon  the  haly  table, 
A  murderer's  banes  in  gibbet  aims; 
Twa  span-lang,  wee  unchristen'd  bairns; 
A  thief  new-cutted  frae  a  rape, 
Wi'  his  last  gasp  his  gab  did  gape : 
Five  tomahawks,  wi'  bluid  red-rusted  ; 
Five  scimitars  wi'  murder  crusted  ; 
A  garter,  which  a  babe  had  strangled  ; 
A  knife,  a  father's  throat  had  mangled, 
Whom  his  ain  son  o'  life  bereft. 
The  gray  hairs  yet  stack  to  the  heft ; 
Wi'  mair  o'  horrible  and  awfu', 
Which  even  to  name  wad  be  unlawfu'. 

As  Tammie  glowr'd,  amazed  and  curious, 
The  mirth  and  fun  grew  fast  and  furious: 
The  piper  loud  and  louder  blew ; 
The  dancers  quick  and  quicker  flew; 
They  reel'd,  they  set,  they  cross'd,  they  cleekit, 
Till  ilka  carlin  swat  and  reekit. 
And  coost  her  duddies  to  the  wark. 
And  linket  at  it  in  her  sark  ! 

Now  Tam,  O  Tam  !  had  they  been  queans 
A'  plump  and  strapping,  in  their  teens; 
Their  sarks,  instead  o'  creshie  flannen. 
Been  snaw-white  seventeen  hunder  linen ! 
Thir  breeks  o'  mine,  my  only  pair, 
That  ance  were  plush,  o'  guid  blue  hair, 
I  wad  hae  gi'en  them  off  my  hurdies! 
For  ae  blink  o'  the  bonnie  burdies ! 

But  wither'd  beldams,  auld  and  droll, 
Rigwoodie  hags  wad  spean  a  foal, 
Lowping  and  flinging  on  a  crummock, 
I  wonder  didiia  turn  thy  stomach. 

But  Tam  kenn'd  what  was  what  fu'  brawlie, 
There  was  ae  winsome  wench  and  walie, 
That  night  inlisted  in  the  core, 
(Lang  after  kenn'd  on  Carrick  shore ! 
For  mony  a  beast  to  dead  she  shot, 
And  perish'd  mony  a  bonnie  boat, 
And  shook  baith  meikle  corn  and  bear, 
And  kept  the  country-side  in  fear) 
Her  cutty  sark,  o'  Paisley  ham, 
That  while  a  lassie  she  had  worn, 
In  longitude  tho'  sorely  scanty, 
It  was  her  best,  and  she  was  vauntie. — 
Ah  !  little  kenn'd  thy  reverend  grannie. 
That  sark  she  coft  for  her  wee  Nannie, 
Wi'  twa  pund  Scots  ('twas  a'  her  riches), 
Wad  ever  graced  a  dance  of  witches ! 

But  here  my  muse  her  wing  maun  cower; 
Sic  flights  are  far  beyond  her  power : 
To  sing  how  Nannie  lap  and  flang, 
(A  souple  jade  she  was  and  Strang,) 
And  how  Tam  stood,  like  ane  bewitch'd, 
And  thought  his  very  een  enrich'd; 
Even  Satan  glowr'd,  and  fidged  fu'  fain, 
And  hotch'd  and  blew  wi'  might  and  main: 
Till  first  ae  caper,  sync  anither, 
Tam  tint  his  reason  a'  thegither, 
And  roars  out,  "  Weel  done,  Cutty-sark!" 
And  in  an  instant  all  was  dark : 


And  scarcely  had  he  Maggie  rallied, 
When  out  the  hellish  legion  sallied. 

As  bees  bizz  out  wi'  angry  fyke. 
When  plundering  herds  assail  their  byke; 
As  open  pussie's  mortal  foes. 
When,  pop !  she  starts  before  their  nose ; 
As  eager  runs  the  market-crowd. 
When  "Catch  the  thief!"  resounds  aloud; 
So  Maggie  runs,  the  witches  follow, 
Wi'  mony  an  eldritch  skreech  and  hollow. 

Ah, Tam!  ah, Tam!  thou'll  get  thy  fairin! 
In  hell  they'll  roast  thee  like  a  herrin ! 
In  vain  thy  Kate  awaits  thy  comin ! 
Kate  soon  will  be  a  woefu'  woman ! 
Now,  do  thy  speedy  utmost,  Meg, 
And  win  the  key-stane  of  the  brig ; 
There  at  them  thou  thy  tail  may  toss, 
A  running  stream  they  dare  na  cross. 
But  ere  the  key-stane  she  could  make, 
The  fient  a  tale  she  had  to  shake ! 
For  Nannie,  far  before  the  rest, 
Hard  upon  noble  Maggie  prest. 
And  flew  at  Tam  wi'  furious  ettic; 
But  little  wist  she  Maggie's  mettle — 
Ae  spring  brought  off  her  master  hale, 
But  left  behind  her  ain  gray  tail : 
The  carlin  claught  her  by  the  rump. 
And  left  poor  Maggie  scarce  a  stump. 

Now,  wha  this  tale  o'  truth  shall  read. 
Ilk  man  and  mother's  son,  take  heed : 
Whene'er  to  drink  you  are  inclined. 
Or  cutty-sarks  run  in  your  mind. 
Think,  ye  may  buy  the  joys  o'er  dear. 
Remember  Tam  o'  Shanter's  mare. 


SONG. 
0  POORTiTH  cauld,  and  restless  love, 

Ye  wreck  my  peace  between  ye ; 
Yet  poortith  a'  I  could  forgive, 

An'  'twere  na  for  my  Jeanie. 
0  why  should  fate  sic  pleasure  have, 

Life's  dearest  bands  untwining  t 
Or  why  sae  sweet  a  flower  as  love. 

Depend  on  Fortune's  shining  1 

This  warld's  wealth  when  I  think  on, 
Its  pride,  and  a'  the  lave  o't ; 

Fie,  fie,  on  silly  coward  man. 
That  he  should  be  the  slave  o't. 
0  why,  &c 

Her  een  sae  bonnie  blue  betray, 
How  she  repays  my  passion  ; 

But  prudence  is  her  o'erword  ay. 
She  talks  of  rank  and  fashion. 
O  why,  &c. 

0  wha  can  prudence  think  upon. 

And  sic  a  lassie  by  him  1 
O  wha  can  prudence  think  upon. 
And  sae  in  love  as  I  am  ? 
O  why,  «Stc 
8U 


S86 


ROBERT  BURNS. 


How  blest  the  humble  cotter's  fate ! 

He  vvoos  his  simple  dearie; 
The  sillie  bogles,  wealth  and  state, 

Can  never  make  them  eerie. 
O  why  should  fate  sic  pleasure  have, 

Life's  dearest  bands  untwining] 
Or  why  sae  sweet  a  flower  as  love, 

Depend  on  Fortune's  shining  1 


TO  MARY  IN  HEAVEN. 
Thou  lingering  star,  with  lessening  ray, 

That  lovest  to  greet  the  early  morn, 
Again  thou  usher'st  in  the  day 

My  Mary  from  my  soul  was  torn. 
O  Mary  !  dear  departed  shade  ! 

Where  is  thy  place  of  blissful  rest  ! 
Seest  thou  thy  lover  lowly  laid  1 

Hear'st  thou  the  groans  that  rend  his  breast  1 

That  sacred  hour  can  I  forget, 

Can  I  forget  the  hallow'd  grove, 
Where  by  the  winding  Ayr  we  met. 

To  live  one  day  of  parting  love ! 
Eternity  will  not  efface 

Those  records  dear  of  transports  past; 
Thy  image  at  our  last  embrace  ; 

Ah  !  little  thought  we  'twas  our  last ! 

Ayr  gurgling  kiss'd  his  pebbled  shore, 

O'erhung  with  wild  woods,  thick'ning,  green; 
'I'he  fragrant  birch,  and  hawthorn  hoar. 

Twined  amorous  round  the  raptured  scene. 
The  flowers  sprang  wanton  to  be  prest. 

The  birds  sang  love  on  every  spray, 
'Till  too,  too  soon,  the  glowing  west 

Proclaim'd  the  speed  of  winged  day. 

Still  o'er  these  scenes  my  memory  wakes, 

And  fondly  broods  with  miser  care ; 
Time  but  the  impression  stronger  makes, 

As  streams  their  channels  deeper  wear. 
My  Mary,  dear  departed  shade  ! 

Where  is  thy  place  of  blissful  resti 
Seest  thou  thy  lover  lowly  laid  ^ 

Hear'st  thou  the  groans  that  rend  his  breast  1 


soxo. 

CHORUS. 

Here's  a  health  to  ane  I  lo'e  dear, 

Here's  a  health  to  ane  I  lo'e  dear, 
Thou  art  sweet  as  the  smile  when  fond  lovers  meet, 

And  soft  as  their  parting  tear — Jessy  ! 

Although  thou  maun  never  be  mine, 

Although  even  hope  is  denied  ; 
'Tis  sweeter  lor  thee  despairing 

Than  aught  in  the  world  beside — Jessy ! 

1  mourn  through  the  gay,  gaudy  day, 
As,  hopeless,  I  muse  on  thy  charms; 

But  welcome  the  dream  o'  sweet  slumber, 
For  then  I  am  lock'd  in  thy  arms — Jessy ! 

I  guess  by  the  dear  angel  smile, 

I  guess  by  the  love-rolling  ee ; 
But  why  urge  the  tender  confession 

'Gainst  Fortune's  fell  cruel  decree  1 — Jessy  ! 


Here's  a  health  ane  I  lo'e  dear, 

Here's  a  health  to  ane  I  lo'e  dear. 
Thou  art  sweet  as  the  smile  when  fond  lovers  meet. 

And  sofl  as  their  parting  tear — Jessy ! 


BRUCE  TO  HIS  MEN  AT  BANNOCKBURN. 
Scots,  wha  hae  wi'  Wallace  bled, 
Scots,  wham  Bruce  has  aften  led ; 
Welcome  to  your  gory  bed. 
Or  to  victorie! 

Now's  the  day,  and  now's  the  hovtx. 
See  the  front  o'  battle  lour: 
See  approach  proud  Edward's  power- 
Chains  and  slaverie ! 

Wha  will  be  a  traitor-knave  ? 
Wha  can  fill  a  coward's  grave  1 
Wha  sae  base  as  be  a  slave  ? 

Let  him  turn  and  flee ! 

Wha  for  Scotland's  king  and  law 
Freedom's  sword  will  strongly  draw. 
Freeman  stand  or  freeman  fa'  1 
Let  him  follow  me ! 

By  oppression's  woes  and  pains  !   . 
By  our  sons  in  servile  chains ! 
We  will  drain  our  dearest  veins. 
But  they  shall  be  free ! 

Lay  the  proud  usurpers  low  ! 
Tyrants  fall  in  every  foe ! 
Liberty's  in  every  blow  ! — 
Let  us  do  or  die  ! 


SONG. 


0  Mary,  at  thy  window  be, 

It  is  the  wish'd,  the  trysted  hour ! 
Those  smiles  and  glances  let  me  see, 

That  make  the  miser's  treasure  poor : 
How  blithely  wad  I  bide  the  stoure, 

A  weary  slave  frae  sun  to  sun; 
Could  I  the  rich  reward  secure. 

The  lovely  Mary  Morison. 

Yestreen,  when  to  the  trembling  string. 
The  dance  gaed  thro'  the  lighted  ha'. 

To  thee  my  fancy  took  its  wing, 
I  sat,  but  neither  heard  nor  saw ; 

Tho'  this  was  fair,  and  that  was  braw, 
And  yon  the  toast  of  a'  the  town, 

1  sigh'd,  and  said  amang  them  a', 

"  Ye  are  na  Mary  Morison." 

O  Mary,  canst  thou  wreck  his  peace, 

Wha  for  thy  sake  wad  gladly  die? 
Or  canst  thou  break  that  heart  of  hit. 

Whose  only  faut  is  loving  thee '.' 
If  love  for  love  thou  wilt  nae  gie, 

At  least  be  pity  to  me  shown  ! 
A  thought  ungentle  canna  be 

The  thought  o'  Mary  Morison. 


WILLIAM   MASON. 


687 


SONG. 
Oh,  were  I  on  Parnassus'  hill  ! 
Or  had  of  Helicon  my  fill ; 
That  I  might  catch  poetic  skill. 

To  sing  how  dear  I  love  thee. 
But  Nith  maun  be  my  Muse's  well, 
My  Muse  maun  be  thy  bonnie  sel' ; 
On  Corsincon  I'll  glower  and  spell. 

And  write  how  dear  I  love  thee. 
Then  come,  sweet  Muse,  inspire  my  lay ! 
For  a'  the  lee-lang  simmer's  day 
I  coudna  sing,  I  coudna  say. 

How  much,  how  dear,  I  love  thee. 
I  see  thee  dancing  o'er  the  green. 
Thy  waist  sae  jimp,  thy  limbs  sae  clean, 
Thy  tempting  lips,  thy  roguish  een — 

By  heaven  and  earth  I  love  thee ! 
By  night,  by  day,  a-field,  at  hame, 
The  thoughts  o'  thee  my  breast  inflame ; 
And  aye  I  muse  and  sing  thy  name — 

I  only  live  to  love  thee. 


Tho'  I  were  doom'd  to  wander  on 
Beyond  the  sea,  beyond  the  sun, 
Till  my  last  weary  sand  was  run ; 

Till  then — and  then  I'll  love  thee- 


SONG. 


Had  I  a  cave  on  some  wild,  distant  shore, 

Where  the  winds  howl  to  the  waves' dashing  roar, 
There  would  I  weep  my  woes, 
There  seek  my  lost  repose, 
Till  grief  my  eyes  should  close. 
Ne'er  to  wake  more. 

Falsest  of  womankind,  canst  thou  declare, 
All  thy  fond  plighted  vows — fleeting  as  air! 
To  thy  new  lover  hie, 
Laugh  o'er  thy  perjury, 
Then  in  thy  bosom  try 

What  peace  is  there ! 


WILLIAM  MASON. 


[Born,  im.    Died,  1797.] 


William  Mason  was  the  son  of  the  vicar  of 
St.  Trinity,  in  the  East  Riding  of  Yorkshire. 
He  was  entered  of  8t.  John's  College,  Cambridge, 
in  his  eighteenth  year,  having  already,  as  he  in- 
forms us,  blended  some  attention  to  painting  and 
poetry  with  his  youthful  studies— 

•  noon  my  hand  the  mimic  colours  spread, 


And  vainly  strove  to  snatch  a  double  wreath 
From  Fame's  unfading  laurels." 

English  Garden,  B.  1. 

At  the  university  he  distinguished  himself  by 
his  Monody  on  the  death  of  Pope,  which  was 
published  in  1747.*  Two  years  afterward  he 
obtained  his  degree  of  master  of  arts,  and  a  fel- 
lowship of  Pembroke-hall.  For  his  fellowship 
he  was  indebted  to  the  interest  of  Gray,  whose 
acquaintance  with  him  was  intimate  and  lasting; 
and  who  describes  him,  at  Cambridge,  as  a  young 
man  of  much  fancy,  little  judgment,  and  a  good 
deal  of  modesty  ;  in  simplicity  a  child,  a  little 
vain,  but  sincere,  inoffensive,  and  indolent.  At 
a  later  period  of  his  life,  Thomas  Warton  gave 
him  the  very  opposite  character  of  a  "  buckram 
man." 

He  was  early  attached  to  Whig  principles,  and 
wrote  his  poem  of  «'  Isis,"  as  an  attack  on  the 
Jacobitism  of  Oxford.  When  Thomas  Warton 
produced  his  "  Triumph  of  Isis,"  in  reply,  the 
two  poets  had  the  liberality  to  compliment  the 

[♦  In  one  of  his  first  poemii  Mason  had,  in  a  puerile 
fiction,  ranked  Chaucer  and  Spenser  aud  Milton  below 
Pope,  wlilch  is  like  comparing  a  garden  shrub  with  the 
oaks  of  the  forest.  But  he  would  have  niuintaincd  no 
»uch  abfrurdity  in  his  riper  years,  for  Mason  lived  to  per- 
eeivj  aud  correct  both  his  errors  of  opinion  and  his  faults 
of  style.— SouTHtT,  Cuwper,  vol.  ii.  p.  177.J 
[t  The  ancients  were  perpetually  confined  and  ham- 
wad  by  the  necessity  of  using  the  chorus :  and  if  they 


productions  of  each  other ;  nor  were  their  rival 
strains  much  worthy  of  mutual  envy.  But  Ma- 
son, though  he  was  above  envy,  could  not  detach 
his  vanity  from  the  subject.  One  evening,  on 
entering  Oxford  with  a  friend,  he  expressed  his 
happiness  that  it  was  dark.  His  friend  not  per- 
ceiving any  advantage  in  the  circumstance, 
"  What !"  said  Mason,  "  don't  you  remember 
my  Isis  ?" 

In  1753  he  published  his  "  Elfrida."  in  which 
the  chorys  is  introduced  after  the  model  of  the 
Greek  drama.  The  general  unsuitableness  of 
that  venerable  appendage  of  the  ancient  theatre 
for  the  modern  stage  seems  to  be  little  dis- 
puted.f  The  two  predominant  features  of  the 
Greek  chorus  were,  its  music  and  its  abstract 
morality.  Its  musical  character  could  not  be 
revived,  unless  the  science  of  music  were  by 
some  miracle  to  be  made  a  thousand  years 
younger,  and  unless  modern  ears  were  restored 
to  a  taste  for  its  youthful  simplicity.  If  music 
were  as  freely  mixed  with  our  tragedy  as  with 
that  of  Greece,  the  elTect  would  speedily  be,  to 
make  harmony  predominate  over  words,  sound 
over  sense,  as  in  modern  operas,  and  the  result 
would  be  not  a  resemblance  to  the  drama  of 
Greece,  but  a  thing  as  opposite  to  it  as  possible. 
The  moral  use  of  the  ancient  chorus  is  also  super- 
seded by  the  nature  of  modern  dramatic  imitation, 

have  done  wonders  notwithstanding  this  clog,  sure  I 
am  they  would  have  performed  rtUl  greater  wonders 
without  it.— (JKAr.  Remarki  m  Elfrida,  WnrLi  hy  Mii- 
ford,  vol.  iv.  p.  2. 

It  is  impos.'.lble  to  conceive  that  Phaxlra  trusted  hei 
incestuou-s  passion,  or  Medea  her  murderous  revenge,  to 
a  whole  troop  of  attendants. — UoR.  Waipole.  Royal  and 
Noldt  Aulhort.\ 


688 


WILLIAM  MASON. 


which  incorporates  sentiment  and  reflection  so 
freely  with  the  speeches  of  the  represented  cha- 
racters, as  to  need  no  suspension  of  the  dialog-ue 
for  the  sake  of  lyrical  bursts  of  morality  or  reli- 
gious invocation. 

The  chorus  was  the  oldest  part  of  Greek  tra- 
gedy;  and  though  Mr.  Schlegel  has  rejected  the 
idea  of  its  having  owed  its  preservation  on  the 
Greek  stage  to  its  antiquity,  I  cannot  help  think- 
ing that  that  circumstance  was  partly  the  cause 
of  its  preservation.*  Certainly  the  Greek  drama, 
having  sprung  from  a  choral  origin,  would  always 
retain  a  character  congenial  with  the  chorus. 
The  Greek  drama  preserved  a  religious  and 
highly  rj'thmical  character.  It  took  its  rise  from 
a  popular  solemnity,  and  continued  to  exhibit  the 
public,  as  it  were,  personified  in  a  distinct  charac- 
ter upon  the  stage.  In  this  circumstance  we  may 
perhaps  recognise  a  trait  of  the  democratic  spirit 
of  Athenian  manners,  which  delighted  to  give 
the  impartial  spectators  a  sort  of  image  and  repre- 
sentative voice  upon  the  stage.  Music  was  then 
simple  ;  the  dramatic  representation  of  character 
and  action,  though  bold,  was  simple;  and  this 
simplicity  left  in  the  ancient  stage  a  space  for  the 
chorus,  which  it  could  not  obtain  (permanently) 
on  that  of  the  moderns.  Our  music  is  so  compli- 
cated, that  when  it  is  allied  with  words  it  over- 
whelms our  attention  to  words.  Again,  the 
Greek  drama  gave  strong  and  decisive  outlines 
of  character  and  passion,  but  not  their  minute 
phadings;  our  drama  gives  all  the  play  of  moral 
physiognomy.  The  great  and  awful  characters 
of  a  Greek  tragedy  spoke  in  pithy  texts,  without 
commentaries  of  sentiment ;  while  the  flexible 
eloquence  of  the  moderns  supplies  both  text  and 
commentary.  Every  moral  feeling,  calm  or  tumul- 
tuous, is  expressed  in  our  soliloquies  or  dialogues. 
The  Greeks  made  up  for  the  want  of  soliloquy, 
and  for  the  short  simplicity  of  their  dialogue, 
which  often  consisted  in  interchanties  of  single 
lines,  by  choral  speeches,  which  commented  on 
the  passing  action,  explained  occurring  motives, 
and  soothed  or  deepened  the  moral  impressions 
arising  out  of  the  piece.  With  us  every  thing  is 
different.  The  dramatic  character  is  brought, 
both  physically  and  morally,  so  much  nearer  to 
our  perception,  with  all  its  fluctuating  motives 
and  feelings,  as  to  render  it  as  unnecessary  to 
have  interpreters  of  sentiment  or  motives,  such 
as  the  chorus,  to  magnify,  or  soothe,  or  prolong 
our  moral  impressions,  as  to  have  buskins  to  in- 
crease the  size,  or  brazen  faces  to  reverberate  the 
voice  of  the  speaker.  Nor  has  the  mind  any 
preparation  for  such  juries  of  reflectors,  and  pro- 
cessions and  confidential  advisers. 

There  is,  however,  no  rule  without  a  possible 
exception.     To   make   the   chorus   an   habitual 


*  Mr.  Schlpgel  alludes  to  the  tradition  of  Sophocles  hav- 
ing written  a  prose  defence  of  the  cho;  us  agninst  the  objeo 
tioiis  of  contemporaries,  who  blamed  this  continuance  of  it. 
Admitting  this  tradition,  what  does  it  prove?  Sophocles 
found  the  1  horua  in  his  native  druma,  and  no  doubt  found 
the  genius  t  f  that  drama  congenial  with  the  chorus  from 
vhieti  it  had  tprung.    In  the  opiniou  of  the  great  Qerman 


part  of  the  modern  drama  would  be  a  chimerical 
attempt.  There  are  few  subjects  in  which  every 
part  of  a  plot  may  not  be  fulfilled  by  individuals. 
Yet  it  is  easy  to  conceive  a  subject,  in  which  it 
may  be  required,  or  at  least  desirable  to  incor- 
porate a  group  of  individuals  under  one  common 
part.  And  where  this  grouping  shall  arise  not 
capriciously,  but  necessarily  out  of  the  nature  of 
the  subject,  our  minds  will  not  be  offended  by 
the  circumstance,  but  will  thank  the  dramatist 
for  an  agreeable  novelty.  In  order  to  reconcile 
us,  however,  to  this  plural  personage,  or  chorus, 
it  is  necessary  that  the  individuals  composing  it 
should  be  knit  not  only  by  a  natural  but  dignified 
coalition.  The  group,  in  fact,  will  scarcely  please 
or  interest  the  imagination  unless  it  has  a  solemn 
or  interesting  community  of  character.  8uch  are 
the  Druids  in  "  Caractacus ;"  and,  perhaps,  the 
chorus  of  Israelites  in  Racine's  "  Esther."  In 
such  a  case  even  a  inodern  audience  would  be 
likely  to  suspend  their  love  of  artificial  harmony, 
and  to  listen  with  delight  to  simple  music  and 
choral  poetry,  where  the  words  were  not  drowned 
in  the  music.  At  all  events,  there  would  exist  a 
fair  apology  for  introducing  a  chorus,  from  the 
natural  and  imposing  bond  of  unity  belonging  to 
the  group.  But  this  apology  will  by  no  means 
apply  to  the  tragedy  of  Elfrida.  The  chorus  is 
there  composed  of  persons  who  have  no  other 
community  of  character  than  their  being  the 
waiting  women  of  a  baroness.  They  are  too  un- 
important personages  to  be  a  chorus.  'J'hey  have 
no  right  to  form  so  important  a  ring  around  El- 
frida, in  the  dramatic  hemisphere ;  and  the  ima- 
gination is  puzzled  to  discover  any  propriety  in 
those  young  ladies,  who,  according  to  history, 
ought  to  have  been  good  Christians,  striking  up  a 
hymn,  in  Harewood  Forest,  to  the  rising  sun: 

"  Hail  to  the  living  light,"  &c. 

In  other  respects  the  tragedy  of  Elfrida  is 
objectionable.  It  violates  the  traditional  truth 
of  history,  without  exhibiting  a  story  sufficiently 
powerful  to  triumph  over  our  historical  belief. 
The  whole  concludes  with  Elfrida's  self-devotion 
to  widowhood  ;  but  no  circumstance  is  contrived 
to  assure  us,  that,  like  many  other  afflicted  widows, 
she  may  not  marry  again.  An  irreverend  and 
ludicrous,  but  involuntary,  recollection  is  apt  to 
cross  the  mind  respecting  the  fragility  of  widows' 
vows — 

"  Vows  made  in  pain,  as  violent  and  void." 

Elfrida  was  acted  at  Covent  Garden  in  1772 
under  the  direction  of  Colman,  who  got  it  up 
with  splendid  scenery,  and  characteristic  music, 
composed  by  Dr.  Arne;  but  he  made  some  altera- 
tions in  the  text,  which  violently  offended  its 
author.     Mason  threatened  the  manager  with  an 


critic,  he  used  the  chorus,  not  from  regard  to  habit,  but 
principle.  But  have  not  many  persons  of  the  liighest 
genius  defended  customs  on  the  score  of  principle,  to 
which  they  were  secretly,  perhaps  unconsciou.«ly,  attiiched 
from  the  power  of  habit  f  Custom  is,  in  fa'-t,  stronger  than 
principle. 


WILLIAM  MASON. 


689 


appeal  to  the  public;  and  the  manager,  in  turn, 
threatened  the  poet  with  introducing  a  chorus  of 
Grecian  washerwomeo  on  the  stage.  At  the  dis- 
tance of  several  years  it  waa  revived  at  the  same 
theatre,  witli  the  author's  own  alterations,  but 
with  no  better  success.  The  play,  in  spite  of  its 
theatrical  failure,  was  still  acknowledged  to  pos- 
sr.-s  poetical  beauties.* 

In  1751  Mason  went  into  orders;  and,  through 
the  patronage  of  l.ord  Holdernesse,  was  appointed 
one  of  the  chaplains  to  the  king.  He  was  also 
domestic  chaplain  to  the  nobleman  now  men- 
tioned, and  accompanied  him  to  Germany,  where 
he  speaks  of  having  met  with  his  friend  White- 
head, the  future  laureate,  at  Hanover,  in  the 
year  17.55.  About  the  same  time  he  received 
the  living  of  Aston.  He  again  courted  the  atten- 
tion of  the  public  in  1756,  with  four  Odes,  the 
themes  of  which  were  Independence,  Memory, 
Melancholy,  and  the  Fall  of  Tyranny.  Smollett 
and  Shenstone,  in  their  strains  to  Independence 
and  Memory  have  certainly  outshone  our  poet,  as 
well  as  anticipated  him  in  those  subjects.  The 
glittering  and  alliterative  style  of  those  four  odes 
of  Mason  was  severely  parodied  by  Lloyd  and 
Colman ;  and  the  public,  it  is  said,  were  more 
entertained  with  the  parodies  than  with  the  origi- 
nals. On  the  death  of  Gibber,  he  was  proposed  to 
succeed  to  the  laurel ;  but  he  received  an  apology 
for  its  not  being  offered  to  him  because  he  was  a 
clergyman.  The  apology  was  certainly  both  an 
absurd  and  false  one;  for  Warton,  the  succeeding 
laureate,  was  in  orders.f  There  seems,  however, 
to  be  no  room  for  doubting  the  sincerity  of  Ma- 
son's declaration,  that  he  was  indifferent  about 
the  office. 

His  reputation  was  considerably  raised  by  the 
appearance  of  "  Caractacus,"  in  1759.  Many 
years  after  its  publication  it  was  performed  at 
Covent  Gariien  with  applause;  though  the  im- 
pression it  produced  was  not  sufficient  to  make 
it  permanent  on  the  stage.  This  chef-d'ceuvre  of 
Mason  may  not  exhibit  strong  or  minute  delinea- 
tion of  human  character;  but  it  has  enough  of 
dramatic  interest  to  support  our  admiration  of 
virtue  and  our  suspense  and  emotion  in  behalf 
of  its  cause :  and  it  leads  the  imagination  into 
scenes,  delightfully  cast  amidst  the  awfulness  of 
superstition,  the  venerable  antiquity  of  history, 
and  the  untamed  grandeur  of  external  nature. 
In  this  last  respect  it  may  be  preferred  to  the 
tragedy  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher  on  the  same 
Bulject;  that  it  brings  forward  the  persons  and 
abodes  of  the  Druids  with  more  magnificent  effect. 
There  is  so  much  of  the  poet's  eye  displayed  in 

[*  It  was  fiomething  in  thut  xirkly  nge  of  tragedy  to 
pra.luro  two  Rui-li  dniuiiis  ng  Klfrida  and  Cnractncus ;  the 
nieces'^  of  which,  when  Colman  much  to  his  honour)  mnde 
th'-  bold  exi  crliiicntdf  briii;;iiij;  them  on  the  utiige,  iirovj-d 
thut.  although  the  public  liad  lonirhocn  ilieteU  upon  trash, 
they  could  reli.-h  snmutl;in'i  of  a  wortliicr  kind  thnn  Ta- 
merlane.  The  Revenge,  and  The  Grecian  Dau):htcr.  Mason 
compo.-ed  his  plays  upon  an  artificial  moild.  and  in  a  gor- 
geous diction,  because  he  thought  Shnkspeare  hnd  pre- 
cluded all  hope  of  excellence  in  any  other  form  of  drama. 
SouTHKY.  Omoprr.  vol.  li.  p.  177.1 

[t  This  is  far  from  correct.  M  faitebead  succeeded  Gibber, 
87 


the  choice  of  his  ground,  and  in  the  outline  of 
his  structure,  that  Mason  seems  to  challenge 
something  like  a  generous  preposse.'ssion  on  the 
mind  in  judging  of  his  drama.  It  is  the  work  of 
a  man  of  genius,  that  calls  for  regret  on  its  .imper- 
fections. Even  in  the  lyrical  passages,  which  are 
most  of  all  loaded  with  superfluous  ornament  and 
alliteration,  we  meet  with  an  enthusiasm  that 
breaks  out  from  amidst  encumbering  faults.  The 
invocat'on  of  the  Druids  to  Snowdon,  for  which 
the  min  1  is  so  well  prepared  by  the  preceding 
scene,  begins  with  peculiar  harmony : 

"  Mona  on  Snowdon  calls : 
Hear,  thou  king  of  mountains,  hearl" 

and  the  ode  on  which  Gray  bestowed  so  much 
approbation,  opens  with  a  noble  personification, 
and  an  impetuous  spirit — 

"  Hark !  heard  ye  not  yon  footstep  dread. 
That  shook  the  earth  with  thundering  tread? 
'Twas  Death.    In  ha«te  the  warrior  pa-st. 
High  tower'd  bis  helmed  head." 

In  1764  he  published  a  collection  of  his  works 
in  one  volume,  containing  four  elegies,  which  had 
been  written  since  the  appearance  of  Caractacus. 
The  language  of  those  elegies  is  certainly  less 
stiffly  embroidered  than  that  of  his  odes;  and 
they  contain  some  agreeable  passages,  such  as 
Dryden's  character  in  the  first;  the  description 
of  a  friend's  happiness  in  country  retirement  in 
the  second ;  and  of  Lady  Coventry's  beauty  in 
the  fourth ;  but  they  are  not  altogether  free  from 
the  "  buckram,"  and  are  studies  of  the  head  more 
than  the  heart. 

In  1762  he  was  appointed  by  his  fi-iend  Mr. 
Montagu  to  the  canonry  and  prebend  of  Driffield, 
in  the  cathedral  of  York,  and  by  Lord  Holder- 
nesse to  the  precentorship  of  the  church  ;  but 
his  principal  residence  continued  still  to  be  at 
Aston,  where  he  indulged  his  taste  in  adorning 
the  grounds  near  his  parsonage,  and  was  still 
more  honourably  distinguished  by  an  exemplary 
fulfilment  of  his  clerical  duties.  In  1765  he 
married  a  Miss  Sherman,  the  daughter  of 
William  Sherman,  Esq.  of  Kingston-upon-HuU. 
From  the  time  of  his  marriage  with  this  amiable 
woman,  he  had  unhappily  little  intermission  from 
anxiety  in  watching  the  progress  of  a  consump- 
tion which  carried  her  off  at  the  end  of  two 
years,  at  the  early  age  of  twenty-eight.  He  has 
commemorated  her  virtues  in  a  well-known  and 
elegant  sepulchral  inscription. 

By  the  death  of  his  beloved  friend  Gray,  he 
was  left  a  legacy  of  d£500,  together  with  the 
books  and  MSS.  of  the  poet  His  "  Memoirs 
and  Letters  of  Gray"  were  published  in   1775, 

who  was  sucteeded  by  Warton.  Whitehead  was  not  in 
orders;  but  Kusden.  a  parson,  and  a  drunken  cne.  had 
worn  the  laurel.  Mason  being  in  orders  was  thought  by 
the  then  Lord  Chamberlain  les"  eligible  than  a  layuian. 

Drj'den  was  the  last  laureate  appointed  by  the  king; 
the  successors  of  Charles  II..  with  a  noble  regard  for 
poetry,  left  the  election  to  the  Lord  Chamberlain.  To 
Gray  and  Sir  Walter  Scott  the  situation  was  offered  as  a 
sinecure,  but  refused,  and  by  Mr.  Southey  was  a<'ceptc<i 
conditionally — not  to  sing  annually,  but  upon  oci^sioo, 
that  is,  when  the  sut^ect  was  fit  for  song  and  *>>•■  moM 
consenting.] 

Sh3 


690 


WILLIAM  MASON. 


upon  a  new  plan  of  biography,  which  has  since 
been  followed  in  several  instances.*  The  first 
book  of  his  "  English  Garden"  made  its  ap- 
pearance in  1772;  the  three  subsequent  parts 
came  out  in  1777,  1779,  and  1782.  The  first 
book  contains  a  few  lines  beautifully  descriptive 
of  woodland  scenery. 

"  Many  a  glade  is  found. 
The  haunt  of  wood-gods  only;  where,  if  Art 
E'er  dared  to  tread,  'twas  with  unsandall'd  foot, 
Printless,  as  if  the  place  were  holy  ground."' 

There  may  be  other  fine  passages  in  this  poem ; 
but  if  tliere  be,  I  confess  that  the  somniferous 
effect  of  the  whole  has  occasioned  to  me  the 
fault  or  misfortune  of  overlooking  them.  What 
value  it  may  possess,  as  an  "  Art  of  Ornamental 
Gardening,"  I  do  not  presume  to  judge ;  but 
if  this  be  the  perfection  of  didactic  poetry,  as 
Warton  pronounced  it,  it  would  seem  to  be  as 
difficult  to  teach  art  by  poetry,  as  to  teach  poetry 
by  art.  He  begins  the  poem  by  invoking 
Simplicity ;  but  she  never  comes.  Had  her 
power  condescended  to  visit  him,  I  think  she 
would  have  thrown  a  less  "  dileltante"  air  upon 
his  principal  episode,  in  which  the  tragic  event 
of  a  woman  expiring  suddenly  of  a  broken 
heart,  is  introduced  by  a  conversation  between 
her  rival  lovers  about  "  Palladian  bridges,  Panini's 
pencil,  and  Piranesi's  hand."  At  all  events. 
Simplicity  would  not  have  allowed  the  hero  of 
the  story  to  construct  his  barns  in  imitation  of  a 
Norman  fortress ;  and  to  give  his  dairy  the  re- 
semblance of  an  acient  abbey ;  nor  the  poet 
himself  to  address  a  flock  of  sheep  with  as 
much  solemnity  as  if  he  had  been  haranguing  a 
senate. 

During  the  whole  progress  of  the  American 
war.  Mason  continued  unchanged  in  his  Whig 
principles;  and  took  an  active  share  in  the  as- 
sociation for  parliamentary  reform,  which  began 
to  be  formed  in  the  year  1779.  Finding  that 
bis  principles  gave  offence  at  court,  he  resigned 
his  oflSce  of  chaplainship  to  the  king.  His  Muse 
was  indebted  to  those  politics  for  a  new  and 
lively  change  in  her  character.  In  the  pieces 
which  he  wrote  under  the  name  of  Malcolm 
Mac  Gregor,  there  is  a  pleasantry  that  we  should 


little  expect  from  the  solemn  hand  which  had 
touched  the  harp  of  the  Druids.  Thomas  War- 
ton  was  the  first  to  discover,  or  at  least  to  an- 
nounce, him  as  the  author  of  the  "  Heroic 
Epistle  to  Sir  William  Chambers;"  and  Mason's 
explanation  left  the  suspicion  uncontradicted.f 

Among  his  acconiplishments,  his  critical  know- 
ledge of  painting  must  have  been  considerable, 
for  his  translation  of  Du  Fresnoy's  poem  on  that 
art,  which  appeared  in  1783,  was  finished  at  the 
particular  suggestion  of  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds, 
who  furnished  it  with  illustrative  notes.  One  of 
his  last  publications  was,  "  An  Ode  on  the  Com- 
memoration of  the  British  Revolution."  It  was 
his  very  last  song  in  praise  of  liberty.  Had 
Soame  Jenyns,  whom  our  poet  rallies  so  face- 
tiously for  his  Toryism,  lived  to  read  his  palinode 
after  the  French  Revolution,  he  might  have  re- 
torted on  him  the  lines  which  Mason  put  in  the 
mouth  of  Dean  Tucker,  in  his  "  Dialogue  of  the 
Dean  and  the  Squire." 

"  Squire  Jenyns,  since  with  like  intent 
We  both  have  writ  on  government." 

But  he  showed  that  his  philanthropy  had  suffered 
no  abatement  from  the  change  of  his  politics,  by 
delivering  and  publishing  an  eloquent  sermon 
against  the  slave  trade.  In  the  same  year  that 
gave  occasion  to  his  Secular  Ode,  he  conde- 
scended to  be  the  biographer  of  his  friend  White- 
head, and  the  editor  of  his  works. 

Mason's  learning  in  the  arts  was  of  no  ordi- 
nary kind.  He  composed  several  devotional 
pieces  of  music  for  the  choir  of  York  cathedral; 
and  Dr.  Burney  speaks  of  an  "Historical  and 
Critical  Essay  on  English  Church  Music,"  which 
he  published  in  1795,  in  very  respectful  terms. 
It  is  singular,  however,  that  the  fault  ascribed  by 
the  same  authority  to  his  musical  theory,  should 
be  that  of  Calvinistical  plainness.  In  verse  he 
was  my  Lord  Peter;  in  his  taste  for  sacred 
music,  Dr.  Burney  compares  him  to  Jack,  in  the 
"  Tale  of  a  Tub." 

His  death  was  occasioned,  in  his  seventy- 
second  year_,  by  an  accidental  hurt  on  his  leg, 
which  he  received  in  stepping  out  of  a  carriage, 
and  which  produced  an  incurable  mortification. 


OPENING  SCENE  OF  «  CARACTACUS." 

AuLUS  DiDius,  with  Romans ;  Vellinus  and  Eudukus,  ton* 
of  the  British  Queen  Cartismandua. 

Jiul.  Did.  This  is  the  secret  centre  of  the  isle : 
Here,  Romans,  pause,  and  let  the  eye  of  wonder 
Gaze  on  the  solemn  scene ;  behold  yon  oak, 
How  stern  he  frowns,  and  with  his  broad  brown 

arms 
Chills  the  pale  plain  beneath  him :  mark  yon  altar, 

[•  iTWtead  of  melting  down  my  materials  into  one  mass, 
and  constantly  speaking  in  my  own  person,  by  which  I 
might  have  appeared  to  have  more  merit  in  the  execution 
of  the  work,  I  have  resolved  to  adopt  and  enlarge  upon 
the  excellent  plan  of  Mr.  Mason  in  iia  Memoirs  of  Gray. — 

60SW£LL. 


The  dark  stream  brawling  round  its  rugged  base; 
These  cliffs,  these  yawning  caverns,  this  wide 

circus. 
Skirted  with  unhewn  stone:  they  awe  my  soul, 
As  if  the  very  genius  of  the  place 
Himself  appear'd,  and  with  terrific  tread  [friends, 
Stalk'd  through  his  drear  domain.     And  yet,  my 
(If  shapes  like  his  be  but  the  fancy's  coinage) 
Surely  there  is  a  hidden  power,  that  reigns 

Mason's  plan  has  been  further  honoured  by  Hayley's 
imitation  of  it  in  his  life  of  Cowper,  by  Mr.  Moore  in  hia 
life  of  Lord  Byron,  and  by  Mr.  Lockbart  in  his  life  of  Sir 
Walter  Scott.] 

[t  Mason's  right  to  the  poem  is  now  put  beyond  all  ques- 
tion by  the  collected  edition  of  Walpole's  Letters.] 


WILLIAM   MASON. 


69 1 


'Mid  the  lone  majesty  of  untamed  nature, 
Controlling  sol)er  reason  ;  tell  me  else, 
Why  do  these  haunts  of  barb'rous  superstition 
O'ercome  me  thus  1  I  scorn  them, yet  they  awe  me. 
Call  forth  the  British  princes:  in  this  gloom 
I  mean  to  school  them  to  our  enterprise. 

Enkr  Velusus  and  Eudurus. 

Ye  pledges  dear  of  Cartismandua's  faith. 
Approach!  and  to  mine  uninstructed  ear 
Explain  this  scene  of  horror. 

Elid.  Daring  Roman, 

Know  that  thou  stand'st  on  consecrated  ground : 
These  mighty  piles  of  magic-planted  rock. 
Thus  ranged  in  mystic  order,  mark  the  place 
Whej^  but  at  times  of  holiest  festival 
The  Druid  leads  his  train. 

jiiil.  Did.  Where  dwells  the  seer? 

Vel.  In  yonder  shaggy  cave ;  on  which  the  moon 
Now  sheds  a  sidelong  gleam.     His  brotherhood 
Possess  the  neighb'ring  cliils. 

Jut.  Did.  Yet  up  the  hill 

Mine  eye  descries  a  distant  range  of  caves, 
Delved  in  the  ridges  of  the  craggy  steep  ; 
And  this  way  still  another. 

Elid.  On  the  left 

Reside  the  sages  skill'd  in  nature's  lore : 
The  changeful  universe,  its  numbers,  powers. 
Studious  they  measure,  save  when  meditation 
Gives  place  to  holy  rites :  then  in  the  grove 
Each  hath  his  rank  and  function.     Yonder  grots 
Are  tenanted  by  Bards,  who  nightly  thence. 
Robed  in  their  flowing  vests  of  innocent  white, 
Descend  with  harps  that  glitter  to  the  moon, 
Hymning  immortal  strains.     The  spirits  of  air. 
Of  earth,  of  water,  nay  of  Heaven  itself, 
Do  listen  to  their  lay ;  and  oft,  tis  said. 
In  visible  shapes  dance  they  a  magic  round 
To  the  high  minstrelsy. — Now,  if  thine  eye 
Be  sated  with  the  view,  haste  to  thy  ships, 
And  ply  thine  oars;  for,  if  the  Druids  learn 
This  bold  intrusion,  thou  wilt  tind  it  hard 
To  foil  their  fury. 

JuL  Did.  Prince,  I  did  not  moor 

My  light-arm'd  shallops  on  this  dangerous  strand 
To  soothe  a  fruitless  curiosity  ; 
I  come  in  quest  of  proud  Garactacus  ; 
Who,  when  our  veterans  put  his  troops  to  flight, 
Found  refuge  here. 

Elid.  If  here  the  monarch  rests. 

Presumptuous  chief!  thou  might'st  as  well  assay 
To  pluck  him  from  yon  stars:  Earth's  ample  range 
Contains  no  surer  refuge:  underneath 
The  soil  we  tread,  a  hundred  secret  paths, 
Scoop'd  through  the  living  rock  in  windmgmaze, 
Lead  to  as  many  caverns,  dark,  and  deep: 
In  which  the  hoary  sages  act  their  rites 
Mysterious,  rites  of  such  strange  potency. 
As,  done  in  open  day,  would  dim  the  sun,  [dens 
Though  throned  in  noontide  brightness.  In  such 
He  may  for  life  lie  hid. 

Jul.  Did.  We  know  the  task 

Most  difficult,  yet  has  thy  royal  mother 
Furnish'd  the  means. 

Elid.  My  mother,  say'st  thou,  Roman  1 


Jul.  Did.  In  proof  of  that  firm  faith  she  lends 
to  Rome, 
She  gave  you  up,  her  honour's  hostages. 

Elid.  She  did :  and  we  submit. 

Jul.  Did.  To  Rome  we  bear  you ; 

From  your  dear  country  bear  you ;  from  your  joys. 

Your  loves,  your  friendships,  all  your  souls  hold 

precious.  [fate  ? 

Elid.  And  dost  thou  taunt  us,  Roman,  with  our 

Jul.  Did,    No,  youth,   by    Heaven,   I   would 
avert  that  fate. 
Wish  ye  for  liberty  1 

Vel.  and  Elid.  More  than  for  life. 

Jul.  Did.  And  would  do  much  to  gain  it  1 

Vel.  Name  the  task. 

JuL  Did.  The  task  is  easy.    Haste  ye  to  these 
Druids: 
Tell  them  ye  come,  commission'd  by  your  queen, 
To  seek  the  great  Caractacus ;  and  call 
His  valour  to  her  aid,  against  the  legions, 
Which,  led  by  our  Ostorius,  now  assail 
Her  frontiers.     The  late  treaty  she  has  seal'd 
Is  yet  unknown  :  and  this  her  royal  signet. 
Which  more  to  mask  our  purpose  was  obtain'd. 
Shall  be  your  (iledge  of  faith.     The  eager  king 
W^ill  gladly  take  the  charge ;  and,  he  consenting, 
What  else  remains,  but  to  the  Mcnai's  shore 
Ye  lead  his  credulous  step  1  there  will  we  seize  him. 
Bear  him  to  Rome,  the  substitute  for  you. 
And  give  you  back  to  freedom. 

Vel.  If  the  Druids — 

Jul.  Did.  If  they,  or  he,  prevent  this  artifice, 
Then  force  must  take  its  way :  then  flaming  brands, 
And  biting  axes,  wielded  by  our  soldiers. 
Must  level  these  thick  shades,  and  so  unlodge 
The  lurking  savage. 

Elid.  Gods,  shall  Mona  perish  1 

Jul.  Did.   Princes,  her  every   trunk  shall  on 
the  ground 
Stretch  its  gigantic  length ;  unless,  ere  dawn, 
Ye  lure  this  untamed  lion  to  our  toils. 
Go  then,  and  prosper ;  I  shall  to  the  ships. 
And  there  expect  his  coming.    Youths,  remember. 
He  must  to  Rome  to  grace  great  Cajsar's  triumph : 
Csesar  and  fate  demand  him  at  your  hand. 

^ExeuiU  AuLUS  Didius  and  Romans. 


FROM  THE  SAME. 

CAIUCTACCS   AMOXO   THE   DRCIDS,  WHERE   HE   IS   TO  BE  CONSB- 
CRATED  ONE  OF  THEIR  NUMBER. 

Caractacds  ;    Eveuna,   daughter   of   Caractacus  ;    and 
Chorus. 

Car.  This    holy   place,   methinks,   doth   this 
night  wear 
More  than  its  wonted  gloom  :  Druid,  these  grovet 
Have  caught  the  dismal  colouring  of  my  soul. 
Changing  their  dark  dun  garbs  to  very  sable. 
In  pity  to  their  guest.     Hail  hallow'd  oaks! 
Hail,  British  born  !  who,  last  of  British  race. 
Hold  your  primeval  rights  by  Nature's  charter; 
Not  at  the  nod  of  Ctesar.     Happy  foresters, 
Ye  wave  your  bold  heads  in  the  liberal  air; 
Nor  ask,  for  privilege,  a  pretor's  edict 
Ye,  with  your  tough  and  intertwisted  roots. 


G92 


WILLIAM  MASON. 


Grasp  the  firm  rocks  ye  sprung  from;  and,  erect, 
In  knotty  hardihood,  still  proudly  spread 
Your  leafy  banners  'gainst  the  tyrannous  north, 
Who,  Roman  like,  assails  you.     Tell  me,  Druid, 
Is  it  not  better  to  be  such  as  these, 
Than  be  the  thing  I  am  1 

Cho);  To  be  the  thing 

Eternal  Wisdom  wills,  is  ever  best. 

Car.  But  I  am  lost  to  that  predestined  use 
Eternal  Wisdom  will'd,  and  fitly  therefore 
May  wish  a  change  of  being.     I  was  born 
A  king ;  and  Heaven,  who  bade  these  warrior  oaks 
Lift  their  green  shields  against  the  fiery  sun. 
To  fence  their  subject  plain,  did  mean  that  I 
Should,  with  as  firm  an  arm,  protect  my  people 
Against  the  pestilent  glare  of  Rome's  ambition. 
I  fail'd ;  and  how  I  fail'd,  thou  know'st  too  well : 
So  does  the  babbling  world  :  and  therefore,  Druid, 
I  would  be  any  thing  save  what  I  am. 

Chor.  See,  to  thy  wish,  the  holy  rites  prepared. 
Which,  if  Heaven   frowns  not,   consecrate  thee 

Druid  : 
See  to  the  altar's  base  the  victim  led. 
From  whose  free  gushing  blood  ourself  shall  read 
Its  high  behests;  which  if  assenting  found, 
These  hands  around  thy  chosen  limbs  shall  wrap 
The  vest  of  sanctity ;  while  at  the  act, 
Yon  white-robed  Bards,  sweeping  their  solemn 

harps, 
Shall  lift  their  choral  warblings  to  the  skies, 
And  call  the  gods  to  witness.    Meanwhile,  prince. 
Bethink  thee  well,  if  aught  on  this  vain  earth 
Still  holds  too  firm  a  union  With  thy  soul. 
Estranging  it  from  peace. 

Car.  I  had  a  queen  : 

Bear  with  my  weakness,  Druid  !  this  tough  breast 
Must  heave  a  sigh,  for  she  is  unrevenged. 
And  can  I  taste  true  peace,  she  unrevenged  1 
So  chaste,  so  loved  a  queen  1   Ah,  Evelina  ! 
Hang  not  thus  weeping  on  the  feeble  arm 
That  could  not  save  thy  mother. 

Evel.  To  hang  thus 

Softens  the  pang  of  grief;  and  the  sweet  thought. 
That  a  fond  father  still  supports  his  child, 
Sheds,  on  my  pensive  mind,  such  soothing  balm, 
As  doth  the  blessing  of  these  pious  seers. 
When  most  they  wish  our  welfare.      Would  to 

Heaven 
A  daughter's  presence  could  as  much  avail. 
To  ease  her  father's  woes,  as  his  doth  mine ! 

Car.  Ever  most  gentle  !  come  unto  my  bosom: 
Dear  pattern  of  the  precious  prize  I  lost. 
Lost,  so  inglorious  lost : — my  friends,  these  eyes 
Did  see  her  torn  from  my  defenceless  camp; 
Whilst  I,   hemm'd   round   by   squadrons,  could 

not  save  her : 
My  boy,  still  nearer  to  the  darling  pledge, 
Beheld  her  shrieking  in  the  ruffian's  arm ; 
Beheld,  and  fled. 

Evel.  Ah!  sir,  forbear  to  wound 

My  brother's  fame  ;  he  fled,  but  to  recall 
His  scatter'd  forces  to  pursue  and  save  her. 

Car.  Daughter,  he  fled.     Now,  by  yon  gra- 
cious moon. 
That  rising  saw  the  deed,  and  instant  hid 


Her  blushing  face  in  twilight's  dusky  vail, 
The  flight  was  parricide. 

Evel.  Indeed,  indeed, 

I  know  him  valiant;  and  not  doubt  he  fell 
'Mid  slaughter'd  thousands  of  the  haughty  foe, 
Victim  to  filial  love.     Arviragus! 
Thou  hadst  no  sister  near  the  bloody  field, 
Whose  sorrowing  search,  led  by  yon  orb  of  night, 
Might  find  thy  body,  wash, with  tears  thy  wounds, 
And  wipe  them  with  her  hair. 

Chor.  Peace,  virgin,  peace : 

Nor  thou,  sad  prince,  reply ;  whate'er  he  is. 
Be  he  a  captive,  fugitive,  or  corse, 
He  is  what  Heaven  ordain'd  :  these  holy  groves 
Permit  no  exclamation  'gainst  Heaven's  will 
To  violate  their  echoes  :  Patience  here. 
Her  meek  hands  folded  on  her  modest  breast, 
In  mute  submission  lifts  the  adoring  eye. 
Even  to  the  storm  that  wrecks  her. 

Evel.  Holy  Druid, 

If  aught  my  erring  tongue  has  said  pollutes 
This  sacred  place,  I  from  my  soul  abjure  it, 
And  will  these  lips  bar  with  eternal  silence. 
Rather  than  speak  a  word,  or  act  a  deed 
Unmeet  for  thy  sage  daughters;  blessing  first 
This  hallow'd  hour,  that  takes  me  from  the  world 
And  joins  me  to  their  sober  sisterhood.        [maid, 

Chor,  'Tis  wisely  said.  See,  prince,  this  prudent 
Now,  while  the  ruddy  flame  of  sparkling  youth 
Glows  on  her  beauteous  cheek,  can  quit  the  world 
Without  a  sigh,  whilst  thou 

Car.  Would  save  my  queen 

From  a  base  ravisher ;  would  wish  to  plunge 
This  falchion  in  his  breast,  and  so  avenge 
Insulted  royalty.     Oh,  holy  men! 
Ye  are  the  sons  of  piety  and  peace  ; 
Ye  never  felt  the  sharp  vindictive  spur. 
That  goads  the  injured  warrior ;  the  hot  tide 
That  flushes  crimson  on  the  conscious  cheek 
Of  him  who  burns  for  glory  ;  else  indeed 
Ye  much  would  pity  me  ;  would  curse  the  fate 
That  coops  me  here  inactive  in  your  groves, 
Robs  me  of  hope,  tells  me  this  trusty  steel 
Must  never  cleave  one  Roman  helm  again ; 
Never  avenge  my  queen,  nor  free  my  country. 

Chor.  'Tis  Heaven's  high  will 

Car.  I  know  it,  reverend  fathers  ! 

'Tis  Heaven's  high  will,  that  these  poor  aged  eyes 
Shall  never  more  behold  that  virtuous  woman. 
To  whom  my  youth  was   constant;  'twas   Hea- 
ven's will 
To  take  her  from  me  at  that  very  hour,       fhour. 
When  best  her  love  might  soothe  me  ;  that  black 
(May  memory  ever  rase  it  from  her  records,) 
When  all  my  squadrons  fled,  and  left  their  king 
Old  and  defenceless  :  him,  who  nine  whole  years 
Had  taught  them  how  to  conquer :  yes,  my  friends, 
For  nine  whole  years  against  the  sons  of  rapine 
I  led  my  veterans,  ofl  to  victory. 
Never  till  then  to  shame.    Bear  with  me,  Druid ; 
I've  done  :   begin  the  rites. 

Chen:  Oh,  would  to  Heaven 

A  frame  of  mind  more  fitted  to  these  rites 
Possess'd  thee,  prince  !  that  Resignation  meek, 
That  dove-eyed  Peace,  handmaid  of  Sanctity 


WILLIAM   MASON. 


ess 


A  pproach'd  this  altar  with  thee :  'stead  of  these, 
See  I  not  gaunt  Revenge,  ensanguined  Slaughter, 
And  mad  Ambition,  clinging  to  thy  soul. 
Eager  to  snatch  thee  back  to  their  domain, 
Back  to  a  vain  and  miserable  world  ; 
Whose  misery,  and  vanity,  though  tried. 
Thou  still  hold'st  dearer  than  these  solemn  shades. 
Where  Quiet  reigns  with  Virtue?  try  we  yet 
What  holiness  can  do !  for  much  it  can : 
Much  is  the  potency  of  pious  prayer: 
And  much  the  sacred  influence  convey'd 
By  sage  mysterious  office :  when  the  soul, 
Snatch'd  by  the  power  of  music  from  her  cell 
Of  fleshly  thraldom,  feels  herself  upborne 
On  plumes  of  ecstasy,  and  boldly  springs, 
'Mid  swelling  harmonies  and  pealing  hymns, 
Up  to  the  porch  of  Heaven.  Strike,  then, ye  Bards! 
Strike  all  your  strings  symphonious ;  wake  a  strain 
May  penetrate,  may  purge,  may  purify, 
His  yet  unhallow'd  bosom  ;  call  ye  hither 
The  airy  tribe,  that  on  yon  mountain  dwell. 
Even  on  majestic  Snowdon:  they,  who  never 
Deign  visit  mortal  men,  save  on  some  cause 
Of  highest  import,  but,  sublimely  shrined 
On  its  hoar  top  in  domes  of  crystalline  ice, 
Hold  converse  with  those  spirits  that  possess 
The  skies'  pure  sapphire,  nearest  Heaven  itself. 

AN  ODE. 

Mona  on  Snowdon  calls : 
Hear,  thou  king  of  mountains,  hear ! 

Hark,  she  speaks  from  all  her  strings ; 

Hark,  her  loudest  echo  rings  ; 
King  of  mountains,  bend  thine  ear: 

Send  thy  spirits,  send  them  soon. 

Now,  when  midnight  and  the  moon 
Meet  upon  thy  front  of  snow  : 

See  their  gold  and  ebon  rod. 

Where  the  sober  sisters  nod, 
And  greet  in  whispers  sage  and  slow. 
Snowdon,  mark  !   'tis  magic's  hour; 
Now,  the  mutter'd  spell  hath  power; 
Power  to  rend  thy  ribs  of  rock. 
And  burst  thy  base  with  thunder's  shock; 
But  to  thee  no  ruder  spell 
Shall  Mona  use,  than  those  that  dwell 
[n  music's  secret  cells,  and  lie 
Steep'd  in  the  stream  of  harmony. 

Snowdon  has  heard  the  strain  : 
Hark,  amid  the  wondering  grove 

Other  harpings  answer  clear, 

Other  voices  meet  our  ear. 
Pinions  flutter,  shadows  move. 

Busy  murmurs  hum  around, 

Rustling  vestments  brush  the  ground  ; 
Round,  and  round,  and  round  they  go. 

Through  the  twilight,  through  the  shade, 

Mount  the  oak's  majestic  head. 
And  gild  the  tufted  mistletoe. 
Cease,  ye  glittering  race  of  light, 
Close  your  wings,  and  check  your  flight: 
Here,  arranged  in  order  due. 
Spread  your  robes  of  safi'ron  hue; 
For  lo,  with  more  than  mortal  fire. 
Mighty  Mador  smites  the  lyre  ; 


Hark,  he  sweeps  the  master-strings ; 
Listen  all 

Chor.  Break  ofT;  a  sullen  smoke  involves  the 
altar ; 
The  central  oak  doth  shake;  I  hear  the  sound 
Of  steps  profane ;  Caractacus,  retire ; 
Bear  hence  the  victims ;   Mona  is  polluted. 

Semirh.  Father,  as  we  did  watch  the  eastern  side, 
We  spied  and  instant  seized  two  stranger  youths, 
Who,  in  the  bottom  of  a  shadowy  dell. 
Held  earnest  cenverse  :  Britons  do  they  seem. 
And  of  Brigantian  race. 

Cfvor.  Haste,  drag  them  hither. 


FROM  THE  SAME. 

Vellinus,  the  treacherous  brother  of  Klidums,  having  fled 
to  the  Komans,  Klidurus  is  sentenced  to  die — Evelina 
pleads  for  liia  life. 

Chorus,  Evelina,  Eudurus,  and  Bard. 

Chor.  What  may  his  flight  portend?      Say, 
Evelina, 
How  came  this  youth  to  'scape  1 

Evel.  And  that  to  tell 

Will  fix  much  blame  on  my  impatient  folly : 
For,  ere  your  hallow'd  lips  had  given  permission, 
I  flew  with  eager  haste  to  bear  my  father 
News  of  his  son's  return.     Inflamed  with  that. 
Think  how  a  sister's  zealous  breast  must  glow ! 
Your  looks  give  mild  assent.     I  glow'd  indeed 
With  the  dear  tale,  and  sped  me  in  his  ear 
To  pour  the  precious  tidings:  but  my  tongue 
Scarce  named  Arviragus,  ere  the  false  stranger 
(As  I  bethink  me  since)  with  stealthy  pace 
Fled  to  the  cavern's  mouth. 

Chor.  The  king  pursued  1 

EveL  Alas !  he  mark'd  him  not,  for  'twas  the 
moment. 
When  he  had  all  to  ask  and  all  to  fear. 
Touching  tny  brother's  valour.     Hitherto 
His  safety  only,  which  but  little  moved  him, 
Had  reach'd  his  ears:  but  when  mytongueunfolded 
The  story  of  his  bravery  and  his  peril,     Tcheeks  ! 
Oh  how  the   tears  coursed   plenteous  down  his 
How  did  he  lift  unto  the  Heavens  his  hands 
In  speechless  transport!  Yet  he  soon  bethought  him 
Of  Rome's  invasion,  and  with  fiery  glance 
Survey'd   the  cavern   round;   then   snatch'd   his 
And  menaced  to  pursue  the  flying  traitor:  [spear, 
But  I  with  prayers  (oh  pardon,  if  they  err'd) 
Withheld  his  step,  for  to  the  left  the  youth 
Had  wing'd  his  way,  where  the  thick  underwood 
Aflforded  sure  retreat.      Besides,  if  found. 
Was  age  a  match  for  youth  ? 

( 'hor.  Maiden,  enough : 

Better  perchance  for  us,  if  he  were  captive ; 
But  in  the  justice  of  their  cause,  and  Heaven, 
Do  Mona's  sons  confide. 

Jiiird.  Druid,  the  rites 

Are  finish'd,  all  save  that  which  crowns  the  rest. 
And  which  pertains  to  thy  bless'd  hand  alone: 
For  that  he  kneels  before  thee. 

Chor.  Take  him  hence. 

\We  may  not  trust  him  forth  to  fighfour  cause 


694 


WILLIAM  MASON. 


FAid.  Now  by  Andraste's  throne 

Chof.  Nay,  swear  not,  youth. 

The  tie  is  broke  that  held  thy  fealty  : 
Thy  brother's  fled. 

Elid.  Fled ! 

Chor.  To  the  Romans  fled; 

Yes,  thou  hast  cause  to  tremble. 

Eltd.  Ah,  Vellinus! 

Does  thus  our  love,  does  thus  our  friendship  end  ! 
Was  I  thy  brother,  youth,  and  hast  thou  left  me  ! 
Yes ;  and  how  left  me,  cruel  as  thou  art, 
The  victim  of  thy  crimes ! 

Chor.  True,  thou  must  die. 

Elid.  I  pray  ye  then  on  your  best  mercy,  fathers, 
It  may  be  speedy.     I  would  fain  be  dead, 
If  this  be  life.     Yet  I  must  doubt  even  that : 
For  falsehood  of  this  strange  stupendous  sort 
Sets  firm-eyed  reason  on  a  gaze,  mistrusting, 
That  what  she  sees  in  palpable  plain  form. 
The  stars  in  yon  blue  arch,  these  woods,  these 

caverns. 
Are  all  mere  tricks  of  cozenage,  nothing  real. 
The  vision  of  a  vision.     If  he's  fled, 
I  ought  to  hate  this  brother. 

Chor.  Yet  thou  dost  not. 

Elid.  But  when  astonishment  will  give  me  leave. 
Perchance  I  shall. — And  yet  he  is  my  brother, 
And  he  was  virtuous  once.     Yes,  ye  vile  Romans, 
Yes,  I  must  die,  before  my  thirsty  sword 
Drinks  one  rich  drop  of  vengeance.  Yet,  ye  robbers, 
Yet  will  I  curse  you  with  my  dying  lips : 
'Twas  you  that  stole  away  my  brother's  virtue. 

Chor.  Now  then  prepare  to  die. 

Elid.  I  am  prepared. 

Yet,  since  I  cannot  now  (what  most  I  wish'd) 
By  manly  prowess  guard  this  lovely  maid ; 
Permit  that  on  your  holiest  earth  I  kneel. 
And  pour  one  fervent  prayer  for  her  protection. 
Allow  me  this,  for  though  you  think  me  false. 
The  gods  will  hear  me.  , 

Evel.  I  can  hold  no  longer! 

Oh  Druid,  Druid,  at  thy  feet  I  fall : 
Yes,  I  must  plead,  (away  with  virgin  blushes,) 
For  such  a  youth  must  plead.  I'll  die  to  save  him  ; 
Oh  take  my  life,  and  let  him  fight  for  Mona. 

Chor.  Virgin,  arise.     His  virtue  hath  redeem'd 
him, 
And  he  shall  fight  for  thee,  and  for  his  country. 
Youth,  thank  us  with  thy  deeds.  The  time  is  short, 
And  now  with  reverence  take  our  high  lustration ; 
Thrice  do  we  sprinkle  thee  with  day-break  dew 
Shook  from  the  may-thorn  blossom ;    twice  and 

thrice 
Touch  we  thy  forehead  with  our  holy  wand  : 
Now  thou  art  fully  purged.     Now  rise  restored 
To  virtue  and  to  us.     Hence  then,  my  son, 
Hie  thee,  to  yonder  altar,  where  our  Bards 
Shall  arm  thee  duly  both  with  helm  and  sword 
For  warlike  enterprise. 


FROM  THE  SAME. 

IHE  CAFIURE  OF  CAItACTArrS. 

.^ul.  Did.  Ye  bloody  priests, 

Behold  we  burst  on  your  infernal  rites. 
And  bid  you  pause.     lustant  restore  our  soldiers, 


Nor  hope  that  superstition's  ruthless  step 
Shall  wade  in  Roman  gore.     Ye  savage  men, 
Did  not  our  laws  give  license  to  all  faiths, 
We  would  o'erturn  your  altars,  headlong  heave 
These  shapeless  symbols  of  your  barbarous  gods, 
And  let  the  golden  sun  into  your  caves. 

Chor.  Servant    of  Caesar,  has    thine    impious 
tongue 
Spent  the  black  venom  of  its  blasphemy  1 
It  has.     Then  take  our  curses  on  thine  head, 
Even  his  fell  curses,  who  doth  reign  in  Mona, 
Vicegerent  of  those  gods  thy  pride  insults. 

w4m/.  Did.  Bold  priest,  I  scorn  thy  curses,  and 
thyself. 
Soldiers,  go  search  the  caves,  and  free  the  prisoners. 
Take  heed,  ye  seize  Caractacus  alive. 
Arrest  yon  youth ;  load  him  with  heaviest  irons. 
He  shall  to  Cssar  answer  for  his  crime. 

Elid.  I  stand  prepared  to  triumph  in  my  crime. 

^ul.  Did.  'Tis  well,  proud  boy — Look  to  the 

beauteous  maid,  [To  the  Soldiers. 

That  tranced  in  grief,  bends  o'er  yon  bleeding 

Respect  her  sorrows.  [corse  : 

Evel.  Hence,  ye  barbarous  men  ! 

Ye  shall  not  take  him  welt'ring  thus  in  blood. 
To  show  at  Rome  what  British  virtue  was. 
Avaunt !  the  breathless  body  that  ye  touch 
Was  once  Arviragus ! 

.Aul.  Did.  Fear  us  not,  princess ; 

We  reverence  the  dead. 

Chor.  Would  too  to  Heaven, 

Ye  reverenced  the  gods  but  even  enough 
Not  to  debase  with  slavery's  cruel  chain 
What  they  created  free. 

Jul.  Did.  The  Romans  fight 

Not  to  enslave,  but  humanize  the  world. 

Chor.  Go  to !   we  will  not  parley  with  thee, 
Roman : 
Instant  pronounce  our  doom. 

j3ul.  Did.  Hear  it,  and  thank  us. 

This  once  our  clemency  shall  spare  your  groves. 
If  at  our  call  you  yield  the  British  king  : 
Yet  learn,  when  next  ye  aid  the  foes  of  Ctesar, 
That  each  old  oak,  whose  solemn  gloom  ye  boast, 
Shall  bow  beneath  our  axes. 

Chor.  Be  they  blasted. 

Whene'er  their  shade  forgets  to  shelter  virtue ! 
Enter  Bard. 

Bard.  Mourn,  Mona,  mourn.     Caractacus  is 
captive ! 
And  dost  thou  smile,  false  Roman  1    Do  not  think 
He  fell  an  easy  prey.     Know,  ere  he  yielded, 
'J'hy  bravest  veterans  bled.     He  too,  thy  spy. 
The  base  Brigantian  prince,  hath  seal'd  his  fraud 
With  death.    Bursting  through  arm'd  ranks,  that 

hemm'd 
The  caitiff  round,  the  brave  Caractacus 
Seized  his  false  throat;  and  as  he  gave  him  death 
Indignant  thunder'd,  "  Thus  is  my  last  stroke 
The  stroke  of  justice."    Numbers  then  oppress'd 
I  saw  the  slave,  that  cowardly  behind  [him: 

Pinion'd  his  arms;  I  saw  the  sacred  sword 
Writhed  from  his  grasp :  I  saw,  what  now  ye  see. 
Inglorious  sight !    those  barbarons    bonds    upon 
him. 


WILLIAM  MASON. 


695 


EntKT  CArACTACCS. 

Car.  Romans,  methinksthemalireofyourtyrant 
Might  furnish  heavier  chains.     Old  as  I  ain, 
And  wither'd  as  you  see  these  war-worn  limbs. 
Trust  me  they  shall  support  the  weightiest  load 

Injustice  dares  impose 

Proud-created  soldier, 
[5fb  Duaus. 
Who  seem'st  the  master-mover  in  this  business, 
Say,  dost  thou  read  less  terror  on  my  brow. 
Than  when  thou  inet'st  me  in  the  fields  of  war 
Heading  my  nations  1    No !  my  free-lwrn  soul 
Has  scorn  still  left  to  sparkle  through  these  eyes, 

And  frown  defiance  on  thee. Is  it  thus? 

[Set^ng  hit  !-on't  body. 
Then  I'm  indeed  a  captive.     Mighty  gods ! 
My  soul,  my  soul  submits  :  patient  it  bears 
The  ponderous  load  of  grief  ye  heap  upon  it. 
Yes,  it  will  grovel  in  this  shatter'd  breast, 
And  be  the  sad  tame  thing,  it  ought  to  be, 
Coop'd  in  a  servile  body. 

Jiul.  Did.  Droop  not,  king. 

When  Claudius,  the  great  master  of  the  world, 
Shall  hear  the  noble  story  of  thy  valour, 

His  pity 

Cur.  Can  a  Roman  pity,  soldier  1 

And  if  he  can,  gods!  must  a  Briton  bear  iti 
Arviragus,  my  bold,  my  breathless  boy. 
Thou  hast  escaped  such  pity  ;  thou  art  free. 
Here  in  high  Mona  shall  thy  noble  limbs 
Rest  in  a  noble  grave ;  posterity 
Shall  to  thy  tomb  with  annual  reverence  bring 
Sepulchral  stones,  and  pile  them  to  the  clouds ; 

WhiM  mine 

.Aul.  Did.  The  morn  doth  hasten  our  departure. 
Prepare  thee,  king,  to  go :  a  fav'ring  gale 
Now  swells  our  sails. 

Car.  Inhuman,  that  thou  art ! 

Dost  thou  deny  a  moment  for  a  father 
To  shed  a  few  warm  tears  o'er  his  dead  son  ! 
I  tell  thee,  chief,  this  act  might  claim  a  life, 
To  do  it  duly  ;  even  a  longer  life 
Than  sorrow  ever  sufler'd.     Cruel  man  ! 
And  thou  deniest  me  moments.     Be  it  so. 
I  know  you  Romans  weep  not  for  your  children; 
Ye  triumph  o'er  your  tears,  and  think  it  valour; 
I  triumph  in  my  tears.    Yes,  best-loved  boy, 
Yes,  I  can  weep,  can  fall  upon  thy  corse. 
And  I  can  tear  my  hairs,  these  few  gray  hairs, 
The  only  honours  war  and  age  hath  left  me. 
Ah  son!  thou  mightst  have  ruled  o'er  many  nations, 
As  did  thy  royal  ancestry :  but  I, 
Rash  that  I  was,  ne'er  knew  the  golden  curb 
Discretion  hangs  on  bravery  :  else  perchance 
These  men,  that  fasten  fetters  on  thy  father, 
Had  sued  to  him  for  peace,  and  claim'd  his  friend- 
ship. 
^id.  Did.  But  thou  wast  still  implacable  to  Rome, 
And  scorn'd  her  friendship. 

Car.  {starting  up  from  the  body.)  Soldier,  I  had 
Had  neighing  steeds  to  whirl  my  iron  cars,    ["arms. 
Had  wealth,  dominion.  Dost  thou  wonder,  Roman, 
I  fought  to  save  them  1   What  if  Cssar  aims. 
To  lord  it  universal  o'er  the  world. 
Shall  the  world  tamely  crouch  at  Csesar's  footstool  1 


Yet 


./3u/.  Did.  Read  in  thy  fate  our  answer, 
if  sooner 

Thy  pride  had  yielded 

Car.  Thank  thy  gods,  I  did  not 

Had  it  been  so,  the  glory  of  thy  master, 
Like  my  misfortunes,  had  been  short  and  trivial, 
Oblivion's  ready  prey :  now,  after  struggling 
Nine   years,  and  that   right   bravely   'gainst   a 

tyrant, 
I  am  his  slave  to  treat  as  seems  him  good  ; 
If  cruelly,  'twill  be  an  easy  task 
To  bow  a  wretch,  alas !  how  bow'd  already ! 
Down  to  the  dust :  if  well,  his  clemency. 
When  trick'd  and  varnish'd  by  your  glossing  pen- 
men. 
Will  shine  in  honour's  annals,  and  adorn 
Himself;  it  boots  not  me.    Look  there,  look  there ! 
The  slave  that  shot  that  dart  kill'd  every  hope 
Of  lost  Caractacus  !  Arise,  my  daughter ; 
Alas  !  poor  prince,  art  thou  too  in  vile  fetters  1 

[lb  KUDUROS. 

Come  hither,  youth  :  be  thou  to  me  a  son. 
To  her  a  brother.     Thus  with  trembling  arms 
I  lead  you  forth ;  children,  we  go  to  Rome. 
Weep'st   thou,  my  girl?     I  prithee  hoard   thy 

tears 
For  the  sad  meeting  of  thy  captive  mother  : 
For  we  have  much  to  tell  her,  much  to  say 
Of  these  good  men,  who  nurtured  us  in  Mona ; 
Much  of  the  fraud  and  malice  that  pursued  us ; 
Much  of  her  son,  who  pour'd  his  precious  blood 
To  save  his  sire  and  sister :  think'st  thou,  maid, 
Her  gentleness  can  hear  the  tale,  and  live  1 
And  yet  she  must     Oh  gods,  I  grow  a  talker ! 
Grief  and  old  age  are  ever  full  of  words : 
But  I'll  be  mute.     Adieu,  ye  holy  men ; 
Yet  one  look  more — Now  lead  us  hence  for  ever. 


EPITAPH  ON  MRS.  MASON, 

m  THE  CATHEDRAL  OF  BRISTOL. 

Take,  holy  earth  !  all  that  my  soul  holds  dear : 
Take  that  best   gift  which   Heaven  so  lately 
gave: 
To  Bristol's  fount  I  bore  with  trembling  care 

Her  faded  form  ;  she  bow'd  to  taste  the  wave. 
And  died.     Does  youth,  does  beauty,  read  the 
line  1 
Does  sympathetic  fear  their  breasts  alarm  1 
Speak,  dead  Maria  !  breathe  a  strain  divine  : 
Even  from  the  grave  thou  shalt  have  power  to 
charm. 

Bid  them  be  chaste,  be  innocent  like  thee : 

Bid  them  in  duty's  sphere  as  meekly  move , 
And  if  so  fair,  from  vanity  as  free ; 

As  firm  in  friendship,  and  as  fond  in  love. 
Tell  them,  though  'tis  an  awful  thing  to  die, 

('Twas  even  to  thee)  yet  the  dread  path  on<» 
trod. 
Heaven  lifts  its  everlasting  portals  high. 

And   bids    "  the    pure    in    heart  beholJ  their 
God." 


696 


WILLIAM   MASON. 


AN  HEROIC  EPISTLE.* 
TO  SIR  WILLIAM  CHAMBERS,  KNIGHT, 

OOMPTBOtLER-OENERAL  OP  HIS  MAJESTT'S  WORKS,  AND  AUTHOR 
OF  A    LATE   "DISSERTATION  ON  ORIENTAL  GARDENING." — EN- 
RICHED WITH  EXPLANATORY  NOTES,  CHIEFLY  EXTRACTED  FROM 
THAT  ELABORATE  PERFORMANCE. 
1773. 

Knight  of  the  Polar  star !  by  fortune  placed 
To  shine  the  Cynosure  of  British  taste  ;f 
Whose  orb  collects  in  one  refulgent  view 
The  scatter'il  glories  of  Chinese  virtii ; 
And  spread  their  lustre  in  so  broad  a  blaze, 
That  kings  themselves  are  dazzled  while  they  gaze. 
Oh  let  the  muse  attend  thy  march  sublime, 
And,  v^ith  thy  prose,  caparison  her  rhyme ; 
Teach  her,  like  thee,  to  gild  her  splendid  song. 
With  scenes  of  Yven-Ming,  and  sayings  of  Li- 

Tsong  ;J 
Like  thee  to  scorn  dame  Nature's  simple  fence ; 
Leap  each  ha-ha  of  truth  and  common  sense ; 
And  proudly  rising  in  her  bold  career, 
Demand  attention  from  the  gracious  ear 
Of  him,  whom  we  and  all  the  world  admit. 
Patron  supreme  of  science,  taste,  and  wit. 
Does  envy  doubt  1    Witness  ye  chosen  train, 
Who  breathe  the  sweets  of  his  Saturnian  reign  ; 
Witness  ye  Hills,  ye  Johnsons,  Scots,  Sheabeares, 
Hark  to  my  call,  for  some  of  you  have  ears. 
Let  David  Hume,  from  the  remotest  north, 
In  see-saw  sceptic  scruples  hint  his  worth ; 
David,  who  there  supinely  deigns  to  lie 
The  fattest  hog  of  Epicurus'  sty  ; 
Though  drunk  with  Gallic  wine,  and  Gallic  praise, 
David  shall  bless  Old  England's  halcyon  days; 
The  mighty  home,  bemired  in  prose  so  long. 
Again  shall  stalk  upon  the  stilts  of  song: 
While  bold  Mac-Ossian,  wont  in  ghosts  to  deal, 
Bids  candid  Smollett  from  his  coffin  steal; 
Bids  Mallock  quit  his  sweet  Elysian  rest, 
Sunk  in  St.  John's  philosophic  breast. 


[*  Of  this  Epistle,  which  came  so  opportunely  to  the  suc- 
cour of  niitive  taste  against  the  Chinese  invasion,  personal 
spleen  was  undoubtedly  the  main  infipiration.  Chambers 
had  offended  M  a.»on  by  publishing  the  Dissertation  so  soon 
after  his  •'  i:ngli«h  Garden ;"  and  his  crime,  in  the  eyes  of 
Walpole,  was  no  less  than  using  his  elaborate  work  as  a 
weapon  to  deter  the  king  from  introducing  classic  improve- 
ments into  the  gardens  of  i;ichmond. — Allan  Cunningham, 
Lives  of  Britisli  ArlisU,  vol.  iv.  p.  347.] 

t  Cynosure,  an  affected  phrase.  '•  Cynosura  is  the  con- 
stellation of  Ursa  Minor,  or  the  Lesser  Bear,  the  next  star 
to  the  pole." — Dr.  Newton,  on  the  word  in  Milton. 

J  '•  ilany  trees,  shrubs  and  flowers,"  sayeth  Li-Tsong,  a 
Chinese  author  of  great  antiquity,  "  thrive  best  in  low, 
moist  situations;  many  on  hills  and  mountains;  some  re- 
quire a  rich  soil;  but  others  will  grow  on  clay,  in  sand,  or 
even  upon  rocks,  and  in  the  water :  to  some  a  sunny  ex- 
position i«  necessary ;  but  for  others  the  shade  Ls  prefer- 
able. There  are  plants  which  thrive  best  in  exposed  situar 
tions,  but,  in  geueral,  shelter  is  requisite.  The  skUful 
gardener,  to  whom  study  and  experience  have  taught 
these  qualities,  carefully  attends  to  them  in  his  operations; 
knowing  that  thereon  depend  the  health  and  growth  of 
his  plants,  and  consequently  the  beauty  of  his  plantations." 
Vide  Diss.  p.  77.  The  reader,  I  preoume.  will  readily  allow, 
that  he  never  met  with  so  much  recondite  truth  as  this 
ancient  Chinese  here  exhibits. 

((Vide  (if  it  be  extant)  a  poem  under  this  title,  for 
which  (or  for  the  publication  of  Lord  Bolingbroke's  philo- 
gophicaJ  writings)  the  person  here  mentioned  received  a 
lonsiderable  pension  in  the  time  of  Lord  Bute's  adminis- 
tration. 

II  This  is  the  great  and  fundamental  axiom,  on  which 
nrieutal  ta«tr  is  founded.    It  is  therefore  expressed  bere 


And,  like  old  Orpheus,  make  some  strong  effort 
To  come  from  Hell,  and  warble  Truth  at  Court.§ 
There  was  a  time,  "  in  Esher's  peaceful  grove. 
When  Kent  and  Nature  vied  for  Pelham's  love," 
That  Pope  beheld  them  with  auspicious  smile. 
And  own'd  that  beauty  blest  their  mutual  toil. 
Mistaken  bard  !  could  such  a  pair  design 
Scenes  fit  to  live  in  thy  immortal  line  1 
Hadst  thou  been  born  in  this  enlighten'd  day, 
Felt,  as  we  feel,  taste's  oriental  ray, 
Thy  satire  sure  had  given  them  both  a  stab, 
Call'd  Kent  a  driveller,  and  the  nymph  a  drab. 
For  what  is  Nature  1     Ring  her  changes  round, 
Her  three  flat  notes  are  water,  plants,  and  ground  ;|| 
Prolong  the  peal,  yet  spite  of  all  your  clatter. 
The  tedious  chime  is  still  ground,  plants  and  water. 
So,  when  some  John  his  dull  invention  racks, 
To  rival  Boodle's  dinners,  or  Almack's; 
Three  uncouth  legs  of  mutton  shock  our  eyes, 
Three  roasted  geese,  three  butter'd  apple-pies. 
Come  then,  prolific  Art,  and  with  thee  bring 
The  charms  that  rise  from  thy  exhaustless  spring; 
To  Richmond  come,  for  see,  untutor'd  Browne 
Destroys  those  wonders  which  were  once  thy  owo.. 
Lo,  firom  his  melon-ground  the  peasant  slave 
Has  rudely  rush'd,  and  levell'd  Merlin's  cave ; 
Knock'd  down  the  waxen  wizard,  seized  his  wand, 
Transform'd  to  lawn  what  late  was  fairy  land  ; 
And  marr'd,  with  impious  hand,  each  sweet  design 
Of  Stephen  Duck,  and  good  Queen  Caroline. 
Haste,  bid  yon  livelong  terrace  re-ascend. 
Replace  each  vista,  straighten  every  bend  ; 
Shut  out  the  Thames  ;  shall  that  ignoble  thing 
Approach  the  presence  of  great  Ocean's  kingi 
No  !  let  barbaric  glories  feast  his  eyes,ir 
August  pagodas  round  his  palace  rise. 
And  finish  d  Richmond  open  to  his  view, 
"  A  work  to  wonder  at.  perhaps  a  Kew." 
Nor  rest  we  here,  but  at  our  magic  call, 
Monkeys  shall  climb  our  trees,  and  lizards  crawl  ;*  • 

with  the  greatest  precision,  and  in  the  identical  phrase  of 
the  great  original.  The  figurative  terms,  and  even  the 
explanatory  simile,  are  entirely  borrowed  from  Sir  AVil- 
liam's  Dissertation.  "  Nature"  (says  the  Chinese,  or  Sir 
■\Mlliam  tor  them)  "affords  us  but  few  materials  to  work 
with.  Plants,  grounds  and  water,  are  her  only  produc- 
tions; and  though  both  the  forms  and  arrangements  of 
these  may  be  varied  to  an  increilible  degree,  yet  they  have 
but  few  striking  varieties,  the  rest  being  of  the  nature  of 
changes  rung  upon  bells,  which,  though  in  reality  diffe- 
rent, still  produce  the  same  uniibrm  kind  of  jingling;  the 
variation  being  too  minute  to  be  easily  perceived."  "  Art 
must  therefore  supply  the  scantiness  of  Nature,"  Ac.  &c 
page  14.  And  again,  "  Our  larger  works  are  only  a  repeti- 
tion of  the  small  ones,  like  the  honest  bachelor's  feast, 
which  consisted  in  nothing  but  a  multijilication  of  his 
own  dinner;  three  legs  of  mutton  and  turnips,  three 
roasted  geese,  and  three  buttered  applo-ples."  Preface, 
page  7. 
%  So  Milton. 

"  Where  the  gorgeous  East  with  richest  hand 
Showers  on  her  kings  barbaric  pearl  and  gold." 

**  "  In  their  lofty  woods,  serpents  and  lizards,  of  many 
beautiful  sorts,  crawl  upon  the  ground.  Innumerable 
monkeys,  cats,  and  parrots  clamber  upon  the  trees."  Page 
40.  "  In  their  lakes  are  many  islands,  some  small,  some 
large,  among  which  are  often  seen  stalking  along,  the 
elephant,  the  rhinoceros,  the  dromedary,  ostrich,  and  the 
giant  baboon."  Page  66.  '•  They  keep  in  their  onchanted 
scenes  a  surprising  variety  of  monstrous  birds,  reptiles, 
and  animals,  which  are  tamed  by  art,  and  guarded  by 
enormous  dogs  of  Tibet,  and  African  giants,  in  the  habita 
of  magicians."   Page  42.    <■  Sometimes,  in  this  romartio 


lb. 


WILLIAM   MASON. 


697 


Huge  dogs  of  Tibet  bark  in  yonder  grove, 
Here  parrots  prate,  there  cats  make  cruel  love ; 
Ip  some  fair  island  will  we  turn  to  grass 
(With  the  queen's  leave)  her  elephant  and  ass. 
Giants  from  Africa  shall  guard  the  glades, 
Where  hiss  our  snakes,  where  sport  our  Tartar 

maids ; 
Or,  wanting  these,  from  Charlotte  Hayes  we  bring 
Damsels  alike  adroit  to  sport  and  sting. 
Now  to  our  lawns  of  dalliance  and  delight, 
Join  we  the  groves  of  horror  and  affright ; 
This  to  achieve  no  foreign  aids  we  try, — 
Thy  gibbets,  Bagshot !  shall  our  wants  supply  ;• 
Houiislow,  whose  heath  sublimer  terror  fills, 
Shall  with  her  gibbets  lend  her  powder-mills. 
Here  too,  O  king  of  vengeance,  in  thy  fane.f 
Tremendous  Wilkes  shall  rattle  his  gold  chain  ;J 
And  round  that  fane,  on  many  a  Tyburn  tree. 
Hang  fragments  dire  of  Newgate  history  ; 
On  this  shall  Holland's  dying  speech  be  read, 
Here  Bute's  confession,  and  his  wooden  head ; 
While  all  the  minor  plunderers  of  the  age, 
(Too  numerous  far  for  this  contracted  page,) 
The  Rigbys,  Calcrafts,  Dysons,  Bradshaws  there, 
In  straw-stuff  d  effigy,  shall  kick  the  air. 
But  say,  ye  powers,  who  come  when  fancy  calls. 
Where  shall  our  mimic  London  rear  her  walls  1§ 
That  Eiistern  feature,  art  must  next  produce. 
Though  not  for  present  yet  for  future  nse. 
Our  sons  some  slave  of  greatness  may  behold. 
Cast  in  the  genuine  Asiatic  mould: 
Who  of  three  realms  shall  condescend  to  know 
No  more  than  he  can  spy  from  Windsor's  brow; 
For  him  that  blessing  of  a  better  time. 
The  Muse  shall  deal  awhile  in  brick  and  lime; 
Surpass  the  bold  AAEa*1  in  design. 
And  o'er  the  Thames  fling  one  stupendous  line 
Of  marble  arches,  in  a  bridge  that  cuts|| 
From  Richmond  Fetry  slant  to  Brentford  Butts. 

excursion,  the  passenger  finds  himself  in  extensive  re- 
cesses, surrounded  with  arbours  of  jessamine,  vine,  and 
roses ;  where  beauteous  Tartarean  damsels,  in  loose  trans- 
parent robes  that  flutter  in  the  air,  present  him  with 
rich  wines,  &c..  and  invite  him  to  taste  the  sweets  of 
retirement,  on  Persian  carpets,  and  beds  of  Camusakin 
down."  Page  40. 

•"Their  scenes  of  terror  are  composed  of  gloomy  woods, 
4c.;  gibbets,  cra^se?,  wheels,  and  the  whole  apparatus  of 
torture  are  seen  from  the  roads.  Here  too  thoy  conceal 
in  cavities,  on  the  summits  of  the  highest  mountains, 
founderies.  lime-kilns,  and  glass-works,  which  send  forth 
large  volumes  of  flame,  and  continued  columns  of  thick 
smoke,  that  give  to  these  mountains  the  appearance  of 
volcanoes."  Page  37.  "  Here  the  passenger  from  time  to 
time  Is  surprised  with  repeated  shocks  of  electrical  im- 
pulse: the  earth  trembles  under  him  by  the  power  of 
confined  air."  Ac.  Page  39.  Now  to  produce  both  these 
effe<-t8.  viz.  the  appearance  of  volcanoes  and  earthquakes, 
we  have  here  substituted  the  occa.>^ional  explosion  of  a 
powder-mill,  which  ilf  there  be  not  too  much  simplicity 
in  tlie  contrivance^  it  is  apprehended  will  at  once  answer 
all  the  purposes  of  lime-kilns  and  electrioal  machines,  and 
imitate  thunder  and  the  explosion  of  cannon  into  the 
bargain.    Vide  page  40. 

t  ••  I  n  the  most  dismal  recesses  of  the  woods,  are  tem- 
ples dedicated  to  the  king  of  vengeance,  near  which  are 
placed  pillars  of  stone,  with  pathetic  descriptions  of  tragical 
events:  and  many  acts  of  cruelty  perpetrated  there  by 
outlaws  and  robliers."  Page  37. 

JThis  was  written  while  Mr.  Wilkes  was  sheriff  of 
London,  and  when  it  was  to  be  feared  he  would  rattle  his 
chain  a  year  longer  as  lord  mayor. 

2  "  There  U  likewise  in  the  same  garden,  vix.  Yven-Ming- 
88 


Brentford  with  London's  charms  will  we  adorn ; 
Brentford,  the  bishopric  of  parson  Home. 
There,  at  one  glance,  the  royal  eye  shall  meet 
Each  varied  beauty  of  St.  James's  street; 
Stout  Talbot  there  shall  ply  with  hackney  chair.lT 
And  patriot  Betty  fix  her  fruit-shop  there.*  • 
Like  distant  thunder,  now  the  coach  of  state 
Rolls  o'er  the  bridge,  that  groans  beneath  its  weight. 
The  court  hath  crost  the  stream  ;  the  sports  begin ; 
Now  Noel  preaches  of  rebellion's  sin  : 
And  as  the  powers  of  his  strong  pathos  rise, 
Lo,  brazen  tears  fall  from  Sir  Fletcher's  eyes.ft 
While  skulking  round  the  pews,  that  babe  of 

grace. 
Who  ne'er  before  at  sermon  show'd  his  face, 
See    Jemmy    Twitcher    shambles ;    stop !    stop 

thieflfl: 
He's  stolen  the  Earl  of  Denbigh's  handkerchief. 
Let  Barrington  arrest  him  in  mock  fury,§§ 
And  Mansfield  hang  the  knave  without  a  jury. |||| 
But  hark,  the  voice  of  battle  shouts  from  far,TIir 
The  Jews  and  maccaronis  are  at  war: 
The  Jews  prevail,  and,  thundering  from  the  stocks. 
They  seize,  they  bind,  they  circumcise  Charles 

Fox.»*» 
Fair  Schwellenbergen  smiles  the  sport  to  see. 
And  all  the  maids  of  honour  cry  Te !  He  Iftt 
Be  these  the  rural  pastimes  that  attend 
Great  Brunswick's  leisure:  these  shall  best  unbend 
His  royal  mind,  whene'er  from  state  withdrawn, 
He  treads  the  velvet  of  his  Richmond  lawn ; 
These  shall  prolong  his  Asiatic  dream. 
Though  Europe's  balance  trembles  on  its  beam. 
And  thou.  Sir  William  !  while  thy  plastic  hand 
Creates  each  wonder,  which  thy  bard  has  plann'd, 
While,  as  thy  art  commands,  obsequious  rise 
W^hate'er  can  please,  or  frighten,  or  surprise. 
Oh  !  let  that  bard  his  knight's  protection  claim. 
And  share,  like  faithful  Sancho,  Quixote's  fame.JJJ 

Yveri.  near  Pekin,  a  fortified  town,  with  its  ports,  streets, 
public  squares,  temples,  markets,  shops,  and  tribunals  of 
justice :  in  short,  with  every  thing  that  is  at  i'ekin,  only 
on  a  smaller  scale." 

"  In  this  town  the  Kmperors  of  China,  who  are  too  much 
the  slaves  of  their  greatness  to  appear  in  public,  and  their 
women,  who  are  excluded  from  it  by  custom,  are  frequently 
diverted  with  the  hurry  and  bustle  of  the  capital,  which  is 
there  represented,  several  times  in  the  year,  by  the  eunuclis 
of  the  palace."  Page  32. 

ll  Sir  William's  euormous  account  of  Chinese  bridges,  too 
long  to  he  here  inserted.  Vide  page  53. 

f  •'  Some  of  these  eunuchs  personate  porters."  Page  32. 

**  •'  Kruits  and  all  .«orts  of  refreshments  are  cried  about 
the  streets  in  this  mock  city."— The  nameof  a  woman  whc 
kept  a  fruit-shop  in  St.  James's  street. 

■ft  "Drew  iron  tears  down  Pluto's  cheek."  Milton. 

tt  "  Neither  are  thieves,  pickpockets,  and  sharpers  forgot 
in  these  festivals ;  that  noble  profession  is  usually  allotted 
to  a  good  number  of  the  most  dexterous  eunuch*."  Vide 
ibid. 

^  "  The  watch  seizes  on  the  culprit."  Vide  ibid. 

I  li  "  He  l«  conveyed  before  the  judge,  and  sometimes  se- 
verely bastinadoed."   Ibid. 

ire  "Quarrels  happen— battles  ensue."  Ibid. 

**♦  "  Every  liberty  is  permitted,  there  is  no  distinction 
of  persons."  Ibid. 

ttt  "This  is  done  lo  divert  his  imperial  mtnesty,  and  the 
ladies  of  his  train."  Vide  ibid. 

ttt  (The  laugh  raised  by  these  satiric  rhymes  in  due  sea- 
son died  quietly  away:  and  Chambers.  at>andoning  Chinese 
pago<)as  and  Kastern  bowers.  confine<l  himself  to  Kouan 
architecture. — Axlax  Ccsningh^m,  Lives  of  Brit.  Art.  vol. 
iv.  p.  350.] 

81 


JOSEPH  WARTON. 


[Born,  1722.    Diod,  1800.] 


Doctor  Joseph  Warton,  son  to  the  vicar  of 
Basingstoke,  and  elder  brother  to  the  historian 
of  English  poetry,  was  born  in  the  house  of  his 
maternal  grandfather,  the  Rev.  Joseph  Richardson, 
rector  of  Dunsfold,  in  Surrey.  He  was  chiefly 
educated  at  home  by  his  father,  Dr.  Warton,  till 
his  fourteenth  year,  when  he  was  admitted  on  the 
foundation  of  Winchester  College.  He  was  there 
the  schoolfellow  and  intimate  of  Collins,  the 
poet;  and,  in  conjunction  with  him  and  another 
youth,  whose  name  was  Tonikyns,  he  sent  to  the 
Gentleman's  Magazine  three  pieces  of  poetry, 
which  were  highly  commended  in  that  miscel- 
lany.* In  1740,  being  superannuated,  he  left 
Winchester  school,  and  having  missed  a  presenta- 
tion to  New  College,  Oxford,  was  entered  a  com- 
moner at  that  of  Oriel.  At  the  university  he 
composed  his  two  poems,  "  The  Enthusiast,"  and 
''  The  Dying  Indian,"  and  a  satirical  prose  sketch, 
in  imitation  of  Le  Sage,  entitled  "  Ranelagh," 
which  his  editor,  Mr.  Wooll,  has  inserted  in  the 
volume  that  contains  his  life,  letters,  and  poems. 
Having  taken  the  degree  of  bachelor  of  arts  at 
Oxford,  in  1744,  he  was  ordained  on  his  father's 
curacy  at  Basingstoke.  At  the  end  of  two  years 
he  removed  from  thence  to  do  duty  at  Chelsea, 
where  he  caught  the  small-pox.  Having  left 
that  place  for  change  of  air,  he  did  not  return  to 
it,  on  account  of  some  disagreement  with  the 
parishioners,  but  officiated  for  a  few  months  at 
Chawton  and  Droxford,  and  then  resumed  his 
residence  at  Basingstoke.  In  the  same  year, 
1746,  he  published  a  volume  of  his  odes,  in  the 
preface  to  which  he  expressed  a  hope  that  they 
would  be  regarded  as  a  fair  attempt  to  bring 
poetry  back  from  the  moralizing  and  didactic 
taste  of  the  age,  to  the  truer  channels  of  fancy 
and  description.  Collins,  our  author's  immortal 
contemporary,  also  published  his  odes  in  the  same 
month  of  the  same  year.  He  realized,  with  the 
hand  of  genius,  that  idea  of  highly  personified 
and  picturesque  composition,  which  Warton  con- 
templated with  the  eye  of  taste.  But  CoUins's 
works  were  ushered  in  with  no  manifesto  of  a 
design  to  regenerate  the  taste  of  the  age,  with 
no  pretensions  of  erecting  a  new  or  recovered 
standard  of  excellence. 

In  1748  our  author  was  presented  by  the  Duke 
of  Bolton  to  the  rectory  of  Winslade,  when  he 


•  The  piece  which  Collins  contributed  was  entitled  A 
Sonnet : — 

"  When  Phoehe  form'd  a  wanton  smile. 
My  soul !  it  reach'd  not  here : 
Strange  that  thy  peace,  thou  trembler,  flies 

Before  a  rising  tear. 
From  'midst  the  drops,  my  love  is  horn, 

That  o'er  those  eyelids  rove : 

Thus  issued  from  a  teeming  wave 

The  &bled  Queen  of  liOve." 

(Signed)  DEUUTians. 


immediately  married  a  lady  of  that  neighbour- 
hood. Miss  Daman,  to  whom  he  had  been  for 
some  time  attached.  He  had  not  been  long 
settled  in  his  living,  when  he  was  invited  by  his 
patron  to  accompany  him  to  the  south  of  France. 
The  Duchess  of  Bolton  was  then  in  a  confirmed 
dropsy,  and  his  Grace,  anticipating  her  death, 
wished  to  have  a  protestant  clergyman  with  him 
on  the  Continent,  who  might  marry  him,  on  the 
first  intelligence  of  his  consort's  death,  to  the  lady 
with  whom  he  lived,  and  who  was  universally 
known  by  the  name  of  Polly  Peachum.  Dr. 
Warton  complied  with  this  proposal,  to  which 
(as  his  circumstances  were  narrow)  it  must  be 
hoped  that  his  poverty  consented  rather  than  his 
will.  "  To  those"  (says  Mr.  W^ooll)  "  who  have 
enjoyed  the  rich  and  varied  treasures  of  Dr.  War- 
ton's  conversation,  who  have  been  dazzled  by 
the  brilliancy  of  his  wit,  and  instructed  by  the 
acuteness  of  his  understanding,  I  need  not  sug- 
gest how  truly  enviable  was  the  journey  which 
his  fellow-travellers  accomplished  through  the 
French  provinces  to  Montauban."  It  may  be 
doubted,  however,  if  the  French  provinces  were 
exactly  the  scene,  where  his  fellow-travellers  were 
most  likely  to  be  instructed  by  the  acuteness  of 
Dr.  Warton's  observations  ;  as  he  was  unable  to 
speak  the  language  of  the  country,  and  could 
have  no  information  from  foreigners,  except  what 
he  could  now  and  then  extort  from  the  barba- 
rous Latin  of  some  Irish  friar.  He  was  himself 
so  far  from  being  delighted  or  edified  by  his 
pilgrimage,  that  ibr  private  reasons,  (as  his  bio- 
grapher states,)  and  from  impatience  of  being  re- 
stored to  his  family,  he  returned  home,  without 
having  accomplished  the  object  for  which  the 
Duke  had  taken  him  abroad.  He  set  out  for 
Bordeaux  in  a  courier's  cart;  but  being  dread- 
fully jolted  in  that  vehicle,  he  quitted  it,  and, 
having  joined  some  carriers  in  Brittany,  came 
home  by  way  of  St.  Maloes.  A  month  after  his 
return  to  England,  the  Duchess  of  Bolton  died; 
and  our  author,  imagining  that  his  patron  would, 
possibly,  have  the  decency  to  remain  a  widower 
for  a  few  weeks,  wrote  to  his  Grace,  offering  to 
join  him  immediately.  But  the  Duke  had  no 
mind  to  delay  his  nuptials ;  he  was  joined  to 
Polly  by  a  protestant  clergyman,  who  was  found 
upon  the  spot ;  and  our  author  thus  missed  the 


[Collins's  other  signature  wa*  Amasius.  But  only  one 
of  the  poems  with  that  name  in  the  Gentleman's  Magazine 
of  that  time  was  by  Collins.  Of  the  other  verses,  Mr.  Dyce 
says,  "their  mediocrity  convinces  me  that  they  did  not 
proceed  from  the  pen  of  Collins."  (p.  207.)  There  was  no 
necessity  to  de<  ide  this  by  their  mediocrity ;  for  Cave,  in  a 
note  at  the  end  of  the  poetry  for  that  month,  says.  "  The 
poems  signed  Amasius  in  this  Magazine  are  from  different 
correspondents:"  and  Dr.  Johnson  says,  in  one  cf  his  littl* 
notes  to  >  ichols,  omitted  by  Boswell,  that  the  other  Amar- 
siu£  wafi  Br.  Swan,  the  translator  of  tydenhasi.] 


JOSEPH  WARTON. 


699 


reward  of  the  only  action  of  his  life  which  can 
be  said  to  throw  a  blemish  on  his  respectable 
memory. 

In  the  year  1748-9  he  had  begun,  and  in  1753 
he  finished  and  published,  an  edition  of  Virgil  in 
English  and  Latin.  'I'o  this  work  Warhurton 
contributed  a  dissertation  on  the  sixth  book  of 
the^Sneid;  Atteibury  lurnished  a  commentary 
on  the  character  of  lapis ;  and  the  laureate 
Whitehead,  another  on  the  shield  of  ^neas. 
Many  of  the  notes  were  taken  from  the  best 
commentators  on  Virgil,  particularly  Catrou  and 
Segrais :  some  were  supplied  by  Mr.  Spence  ;  and 
others,  relating  to  the  soil,  climate,  and  customs 
of  Italy,  by  Mr.  Holdsworth,  who  had  resided  (or 
many  years  in  that  country.  For  the  English 
of  the  ^-Eneid,  he  adopted  the  translation  by  Pitt. 
The  life  of  Virgil,  with  three  essays  on  pastoral,* 
didactic,  and  epic  poetry,  and  .a  poetical  version 
of  the  Eclogues  and  Georgics,  constituted  his 
own  part  of  the  work.  This  translation  may, 
in  many  instances,  be  found  more  faithful  and 
concise  than  Dryden's;  but  it  wants  that  elastic 
and  idiomatic  freedom,  by  which  Dryden  re- 
conciles us  to  his  faults;  and  exhibits  rather 
the  diligence  of  a  scholar  than  the  spirit  of  a 
poet.  Dr.  Harewood,  in  his  view  of  the  classics, 
accuses  the  Latin  text  of  incorrectness.f  Shortly 
after  the  appearance  of  his  Virgil,  he  took  a  share 
in  the  periodical  paper,  The  Adventurer,  and 
contributed  twenty-four  numbers,  which  have 
been  generally  esteemed  the  most  valuable  in  the 
work. 

In  1754,  he  was  instituted  to  the  living  of  Tun- 
worth,  on  the  presentation  of  the  Jervoise  family  ; 
and  in  1755  was  elected  second  master  of  Win- 
chester School,  with  the  management  and  advan- 
tage of  a  boarding-house.  In  the  following  year 
Lord  Lyttelton,  who  had  submitted  a  part  of  his 
"  History  of  Henry  II."  to  his  revisal,  bestowed  a 
scarf  upon  him.  He  found  leisure,  at  this  pe- 
riod, to  commence  his  "  Essay  on  the  Writings 
and  genius  of  Pope,"  which  he  dedicated  to 
Young,  without  subscribing  his  name.  But  he 
was  soon,  and  it  would  appear  with  his  own  tacit 
permission,  generally  pronounced  to  be  its  author. 
Twenty-six  years,  however,  elapsed  before  he 
ventured  to  complete  it.  Dr.  Johnson  said,  that 
this  was  owing  to  his  not  having  been  able,  to 
bring  the  public  to  be  of  his  opinion  as  to  Pope. 
Another  reason  has  been  assigned  for  his  inac- 
tivity.J  Warburton,  the  guardian  of  Pope's 
fame,  was  still  alive ;  and  he  was  the  zealous 
and  useful  friend  of  our  author's  brother.  The 
prelate  died  in  1779,  and  in  1782  Dr.  Warton 
published  his  extended  and  finished  Essay.  If 
the  supposition  that  he  abstained  from  embroiling 
himself  by  the  question  about  Po[>e  with  War- 

*  His  reflections  on  pastoral  poetry  are  limited  to  a  few 
Fentcnces :  but  lie  subjoins  an  essay  on  the  subject,  by  Dr. 
Joliiisnn.  from  the  I; ambler. 

t  N\  itii  what  justice  1  will  not  pretend  to  say:  but  after 
lomparing  a  few  pages  of  his  etlition  with  Maittaire,  he 
seems  to  me  to  be  lew  attentive  to  punctuation  than  the 
editor  of  the  (.Corpus  I'oetarum,  and  sometimes  to  omit  the 
miixks  by  which  it  is  customary  to  distinguish  adverlu 


burton  be  true,  it  will  at  least  impress  us  with 
an  idea  of  his  patience ;  for  it  was  no  secrvt  that 
Rufifhead  was  supplied  by  Warburton  with  ma- 
terials for  a  life  of  Pope,  in  which  he  attacked 
Dr.  Warton  with  abundant  severity ;  but  in 
which  he  entangled  himself  more  than  his  ad- 
versary, in  the  coarse-spun  ropes  of  his  special 
pleading.  The  Essay,  for  a  time,  raised  up  to 
him  another  enemy,  to  whom  his  conduct  has 
even  an  air  of  submissiveness.  In  commenting 
on  a  line  of  Pope,  he  hazarded  a  remark  on  Ho- 
garth's propensity  to  intermix  the  ludicrous  with 
attempts  at  the  sublime.  Hogarth  revengefully 
introduced  Dr.  Warton's  works  into  one  of  his 
satirical  pieces,  and  vowed  to  bear  him  eternal 
enmity.  Their  mutual  friends,  however,  inter- 
fered, and  the  artist  was  pacified.  Dr.  Warton, 
in  the  next  edition,  altered  his  just  animadver- 
sion on  Hogarth  into  an  ill-merited  compliment. 
By  delaying  to  re-publish  his  Essay  on  Pope, 
he  ultimately  obtained  a  more  dispassionate  bear- 
ing  from  the  public  for  the  work  in  its  finished 
state.  In  the  mean  time,  he  enriched  it  with  ad- 
ditions, digested  from  the  reading  of  half  a  life- 
time. The  author  of  «  The  Pursuits  of  Litera- 
ture" has  pronounced  it  a  common-place  book ; 
and  Richardson,  the  novelist,  used  to  call  it  a 
literary  gossip :  but  a  testimony  in  its  favour  of 
more  authority  than  any  individual  opinion,  will 
be  found  in  the  popularity  with  which  it  con- 
tinues to  be  read.  It  is  very  entertaining,  and 
abounds  with  criticism  of  more  research  than 
Addison's,  of  more  amenity  than  Hurd's  or  War- 
burton's,  and  of  more  insinuating  attack  than 
Johnson's.  At  the  same  time,  while  much  inge- 
nuity and  many  truths  are  scattered  over  the 
Essay,  it  is  impossible  to  admire  it  as  an  entire 
theory,  solid  and  consistent  in  all  its  parts.  It  is 
certainly  setting  out  from  unfortunate  premises 
to  begin  his  Remarks  on  Pope  with  grouping 
Dryden  and  Addison  in  the  same  class  of  poets; 
and  to  form  a  scale  for  estimating  poetical  genius, 
which  would  set  Elijah  Fenton  in  a  higher  sphere 
than  Butler.  He  places  Pope,  in  the  scale  of 
our  poets,  next  to  Milton,  and  above  Dryden  ;  yet 
he  applies  to  him  the  exact  character  which  Vol- 
taire gives  to  the  heartless  Boileau — that  of  a 
writer,  "  perhaps,  incapable  of  the  sublime  which 
elevates,  or  of  the  feeling  which  afiects  the  soul." 
With  all  this,  he  tells  us,  that  our  poetry  and 
our  language  are  everlastingly  indebted  to  Pope : 
he  attributes  genuine  tenderness  to  the  "  Elegy 
on  an  Unfortunate  Lady  ;"  a  strong  degree  of 
passion  to  the  "  Epistle  of  Eloise ;"  invention  and 
fancy  to  "  The  Rape  of  the  Lock ;"  and  a  pic- 
turesque conception  to  some  parts  of  "  Windsor 
Forest,"  which  he  pronounces  worthy  of  the 
pencil  of  Rubens  or  Julio  Romano.     There  is 


trom  pronouns.  I  dblilie  his  interpretation  of  one  line  in 
the  first  Kcloj?ue  of  Virpl,  which  seems  to  me  peculiar^ 
tasteless ;  namely,  where  he  trauslate.-<  "  J^'fl  aliquot  arit- 
tat'  ••  after  a  few  years."  'the  picture  of  Melibiaus's  cottaga 
"  behind  a  few  ears  of  corn."  so  simply  and  exiiui-^ttely 
touched,  is  thus  exchanged  for  a  forced  phrase  with  T^gud 
to  time. 
X  Chalmers's  Life  of  J.  Warton,  British  foets. 


700 


JOSEPH  WARTON. 


something  like  April  weather  in  these  transi- 
tioi.s. 

In  May,  1766,  he  was  advanced  to  the  head- 
mastership  of  Winchester  School.  In  conse- 
quence of  this  promotion,  he  once  more  visited 
Oxford,  and  proceeded  to  the  degree  of  bachelor 
and  doctor  in  divinity.  After  a  union  of  twenty 
years,  he  lost  his  first  wife,  by  whom  he  had  six 
children ;  but  his  family  and  his  professional 
situation  requiring  a  domestic  partner,  he  had 
been  only  a  year  a  widower,  when  he  married  a 
Miss  Nicholas,  of  Winchester. 

He  now  visited  London  more  frequently  than 
before.  The  circle  of  his  friends,  in  the  metro- 
polis, comprehended  all  the  members  of  Burke's 
and  Johnson's  Literary  Club.  With  Johnson 
himself  he  was  for  a  long  time  on  intimate  terms; 
but  their  friendship  suffered  a  breach  which  was 
never  closed,  in  consequence  of  an  argument 
which  took  place  between  them,  during  an  even- 
ing spent  at  the  house  of  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds. 
The  concluding  words  of  their  conversation  are 
reported,  by  one  who  was  present,  to  have  been 
these:  Johnson  said,  "Sir,  I  am  not  accustomed 
to  be  contradicted."  Warton  replied,  "  Better, 
sir,  for  yourself  and  your  friends  if  you  were; 
our  respect  could  not  be  increased,  but  our  love 
might." 

In  1782  he  was  indebted  to  his  friend.  Dr. 
Lowth,  Bishop  of  London,  for  a  prebend  of  St. 
Paul's,  and  the  living  of  Thorley  in  Hertford- 
shire, which,  after  some  arrangements,  he  ex- 
changed for  that  of  Wickham.  His  ecclesiastical 
preferments  came  too  late  in  life  to  place  him  in 
that  state  of  leisure  and  independence  which 
might  have  enabled  him  to  devote  his  best  years 
to  literature,  instead  of  the  drudgery  of  a  school. 
One  great  project,  which  he  announced,  but  never 
ii]lfilled,  namely,  "A  General  History  of  Learn- 
ing,"* was.  in  all  probability,  prevented  by  the 
pressure  of  his  daily  occupations.  In  1788, 
through  the  interest  of  Lord  Shannon,  he  ob- 
tained a  prebend  of  Winchester;  and,  through 
the  interest  of  Lord  Malmsbury,  was  appointed 
to  the  rectory  of  Euston,  which  he  was  afterward 
allowed  to  exchange  for  that  of  Upham.  In  1793 
he  resigned  the  fatigues  of  his  mastership  of  Win- 
chester; and  having  received,  from  the  superin- 
tendents of  the  institution,  a  vote  of  well-earned 


[*  IMd  Warton  ever  announce  his  intention  of  writing 
"  A  General  History  of  Learning?"  We  thinli  not.  though 
Hume,  in  a  letter  to  l!oberti«n.  speaks  of  such  a  work  as 
coming  from  Warton's  pen.  Collins  had  such  an  inten- 
tion, and  Warton  mention.s  it  in  his  Es.say.  in  a  passage 
which  has  been  overlooked  by  every  writer  on  the  subject. 
(Essai/,  ed.  1762,  p.  186,)  IVo  copy  of  Collins's  published 
prop>osals  Ls  known  to  exist,  and  it  is  now  perhaps  hope- 
less to  obtain  the  exact  title  of  his  projected  work.  John- 
Bon  calls  it.  A  HUtnry  nj  the  Revival  of  Leurning ;  a  cor- 
respcndent  in  the  Gentleman's  Magazine,  and  an  acquain- 
tance of  Collins's,  A  HUUiry  nf  the  Darl.er  Agi-s;  Thomas 
Warton,  A  Hislnry  nf  tlie  Hestnriition  nf  Learning;  and 
Joseph  Warton,  The  HiKlory  of  the  Age  of  Len  JC.  Wal- 
pols  mentioas  it  in  a  letter  to  Sir  David  Dalrymple.] 

[tOur  Knglish  poets  may,  I  think,  be  disposed  In 
four  different  classes  and  degrees.  In  the  first  class  I 
would  place,  our  only  three  sublime  and  pathetic  poets, 
?pcnser,  .>-hakspeare,  Milton.  In  the  second  class  should 
be  ranked,  such  as  possessed  the  true  poetical  genius,  in  a 


thanks,  for  his  long  and '  meritorious  services,  he 
went  to  live  at  his  rectory  of  Wickham. 

During  his  retirement  at  that  place,  he  was 
induced,  by  a  liberal  offer  of  the  booksellers,  to 
superintend  an  edition  of  Pope,  which  he  pub- 
lished in  1797.  It  was  objected  to  this  edition, 
that  it  contained  only  his  Essay  on  Pope,  cut 
down  into  notes  ;  his  biographer,  however,  repels 
the  objection,  by  alleging  that  it  contains  a  con- 
siderable portion  of  new  matter.  In  his  zeal  to 
present  every  thing  that  could  be  traced  to  the 
pen  of  Pope  he  introduced  two  pieces  of  indeli- 
cate humour,  "  The  Double  Mistress,"  and  the 
second  satire  of  Horace.  For  the  insertion  of 
those  pieces,  he  received  a  censure  in  the  "  Pur- 
suits of  Literature,"  which,  considering  his  gray 
hairs  and  services  in  the  literary  world,  was  un- 
becoming, and  which  my  individual  partiality  for 
Mr.  Matthias  makes  me  wish  that  I  bad  not  to 
record. 

As  a  critic,  Dr.  Warton  is  distinguished  by 
his  love  of  the  fanciful  and  romantic.  He  ex- 
amined our  poetry  at  a  period  when  it  appeared 
to  him  that  versified  observations  on  familiar  life 
and  manners  had  usurped  the  honours  which 
were  exclusively  due  to  the  bold  and  inventive 
powers  of  imagination.  He  conceived,  also,  that 
the  charm  of  description  in  poetry  was  not  suffi- 
ciently appreciated  in  his  own  day  :  not  that  the 
age  could  be  said  to  be  without  descriptive  writers; 
but  because,  as  he  apprehended,  the  tyranny  of 
Pope's  reputation  had  placed  moral  and  didactic 
verse  in  too  pre-eminent  a  light.  He,  therefore, 
strongly  urged  the  principle,  '•  that  the  most 
solid  observations  on  life,  expressed  with  iJie 
utmost  brevity  and  elegance,  are  morality,  and 
not  poetry ."t  Without  examining  how  far  this 
principle  applies  exactly  to  the  character  of  Pope, 
whom  he  himself  owns  not  to  have  been  without 
pathos  and  imagination,  I  think  his  proposition  is 
so  worded,  as  to  be  liable  to  lead  to  a  most  un- 
sound distinction  between  morality  and  poetry. 
If  by  "  the  most  solid  observations  on  life"  are 
meant  only  those  which  relate  to  its  prudential 
management  and  plain  concerns,  it  is  certainly 
true,  that  these  cannot  be  made  poetipal,  by  the 
utmost  brevity  or  elegance  of  expression.  It  is 
also  true,  that  even  the  nobler  tenets  of  morality 
are -comparatively  less  interesting,  in  an  insulated 


more  moderate  degree,  but  who  had  noble  talents  for 
moral,  ethical,  and  panegyrical  poesy.  At  the  head  of 
these  are,  Dryden,  Prior,  .\ddison,  Cowley,  Waller,  Garth, 
Fenton,  Gay,  Denham,  Parnell.  In  the  third  class  may 
be  placed  men  of  wit.  of  elegant  taste,  and  lively  fancy  in 
describing  familiar  life,  though  not  the  higher  scenes  ol 
poetry.  Here  may  be  numbered,  Hutler,  t>wifl,  Rochester, 
Donne,  Dorset,  tjldham.  In  the  fourth  class,  the  mere 
versifiers,  however  smootlj  and  mellifluous  some  of  then- 
nay  be  thought,  should  be  disposed.  Such  as  Pitt,  Sandys 
Fairfax,  Broome,  Ituckingham.  Lansdowne.  This  enu 
meration  is  not  intended  as  a  complete  catalogue  of  writers 
but  only  to  mark  out  briefly  the  different  species  of  our 
celebrated  authors.  In  which  of  these  classes  Pope  de- 
serves to  be  placed,  the  following  work  is  intended  to 
determine. — Joskph  Wakton,  Dedication  to  Dr.  Young, 

The  position  of  Pope  among  our  poets,  and  the  que.stion 
generally  of  classification.  .Mr.  Campbell  has  argued  at 
some  length  in  the  Introductory  Kssay  to  this  volume.] 


JOSEPH  WARTON. 


701 


and  didactic  shape,  than  when  they  are  blended 
with  strong  imitations  of  life,  where  passion,  cha- 
racter, and  situation  bring  them  deeply  home  to 
our  attention.  Fiction  is  on  this  account  so  far 
the  soul  of  poetry,  that,  without  its  aid  as  a  ve- 
hicle, poetry  can  only  give  us  morality  in  an  ab- 
stract and  (comparatively)  uninteresting  shape. 
But  why  does  Fiction  please  us?  surely  not  be- 
cause it  is  false,  but  because  it  seems  to  be  true ; 
because  it  spreads  a  wider  field,  and  a  more  bril- 
liant crowd  of  objects  to  our  moral  perceptions, 
than  reality  affords.  Morality  (in  a  high  sense 
of  the  term,  and  not  speaking  of  it  as  a  dry  sci- 
ence) is  the  essence  of  poe'ry.  We  fly  from  the 
injustice  of  this  world  to  the  poetical  justice  of 
Fiction,  where  our  sense  of  right  and  wrong  is 
either  satisfied,  or  where  our  sympathy,  at  least, 
reposes  with  less  disappointment  and  distraction, 
than  on  the  characters  of  life  itself.  Fiction,  we 
may  indeed  be  told,  carries  us  into  "  a  tvorld  of 
gayer  tincl  and  grace"  the  laws  of  which  are  not 
to  be  judged  by  solid  observations  on  the  real 
world. 

But  this  is  not  the  case,  for  moral  truth  is  still 
the  light  of  poetry,  and  fiction  is  only  the  refract- 
ing atmosphere  which  diffuses  it ;  and  the  laws 
of  moral  truth  are  as  essential  to  poetry,  as  those 
of  physical  truth  (Anatomy  and  Optics,  for  in- 
stance) are  to  painting.    Allegory,  narration,  and 


the  drama  make  their  last  appeal  to  the  ethics  of 
the  human  heart.  It  is  therefore  unsafe  to  draw 
a  marked  distinction  between  morality  and  poetry ; 
or  to  speak  of  "  solid  observations  on  life''^  as  of 
things  in  their  nature  unpoetical ;  for  we  do  meet 
in  poetry  with  observations  on  life,  which,  for  the 
charm  of  their  solid  truth,  we  should  exchange 
with  reluctance  for  the  most  ingenious  touches 
of  fancy. 

The  school  of  the  Wartons,  considering  them 
as  poets,  was  rather  too  studiously  prone  to  de 
scription.  The  doctor,  like  his  brother,  certainly 
so  far  realized  his  own  ideas  of  inspiration,  as  to 
burden  his  verse  with  few  observations  on  life 
which  oppress  the  mind  by  their  solidity.  To  his 
brother  he  is  obviously  inferior  in  the  graphic  and 
romantic  style  of  composition,  at  which  he  aimed ; 
but  in  which,  it  must  nevertheless  be  owned,  that 
in  some  parts  of  his  "Ode  to  Fancy"  he  has  been 
pleasingly  successful.  From  the  subjoined  speci- 
mens, the  reader  will  probably  be  enabled  to  judge 
as  favourably  of  his  genius,  as  fi-om  the  whole  of 
his  poems ;  for  most  of  them  are  short  and  occa- 
sional, and  (if  I  may  venture  to  differ  from  the 
opinion  of  his  amiable  editor,  Mr.  Wooll,)  are  by 
no  means  marked  with  originality.  The  only 
poem  of  any  length,  entitled  "  The  Enthusiast," 
was  written  at  too  early  a  period  of  his  life,  to  b« 
a  fair  object  of  criticism. 


ODE  TO  FANCY. 

O  PARENT  of  each  lovely  Muse, 
Thy  spirit  o'er  my  soul  diffuse, 
O'er  all  my  artless  songs  preside. 
My  footsteps  to  thy  temple  guide, 
To  offer  at  thy  turf-built  shrine, 
In  golden  cups  no  costly  wine. 
No  murder'd  fatling  of  the  flock. 
But  flowers  and  honey  from  the  rock. 
O  nymph  with  loosely-flowing  hair. 
With  buskin'd  leg.  and  bosom  bare. 
Thy  waist  with  myrtle-girdle  bound, 
Thy  brows  with  Indian  feathers  crown'd, 
Waving  in  thy  snowy  hand 
An  all-commanding  magic  wand. 
Of  power  to  bid  fresh  gardens  blow, 
'Mid  cheerless  Lapland's  barren  snow, 
Whose  rapid  wings  thy  flight  convey 
Through  air,  and  over  earth  and  sea. 
While  the  vast  various  landscape  lies 
Conspicuous  to  thy  piercing  eyes. 
O  lover  of  the  desert,  hail ! 
Say,  in  what  deep  and  pathless  vale, 
Or  on  what  hoary  mountain's  side, 
'Mid  fall  of  waters,  you  reside, 
'Mid  broken  rocks,  a  rugged  scene. 
With  green  and  grassy  dales  between, 
'Mid  forests  dark  of  aged  oak. 
Ne'er  echoing  with  the  woodman's  stroke, 
Where  never  human  art  appear'd, 
Nor  even  one  straw-roof'd  cot  was  rear'd. 


Where  Nature  seems  to  sit  alone. 
Majestic  on  a  craggy  throne ; 
Tell  me  the  path,  sweet  wanderer,  tell, 
To  thy  unknown  sequester'd  cell. 
Where  woodbines  cluster  round  the  door, 
Where  shells  and  moss  o'erlay  the  floor, 
And  on  whose  top  an  hawthorn  blows, 
Amid  whose  thickly-woven  boughs 
Some  nightingale  still  builds  her  nest, 
Each  evening  warbling  thee  to  rest: 
Then  lay  me  by  the  haunted  stream, 
Rapt  in  some  wild,  poetic  dream. 
In  converse  while  methinks  I  rove 
With  Spenser  through  a  fairy  grove; 
Till,  sutldenly  awaked,  I  hfear 
Strange  whisper'd  music  in  my  ear. 
And  my  glad  soul  in  bliss  is  drown'd 
By  the  sweetly-soothing  sound! 
Me,  goddess,  by  the  right  hand  lead 
Sometimes  through  the  yellow  mead, 
Where  Joy  and  white-robed  Peace  resort, 
And  Venus  keeps  her  festive  court; 
Where  Mirth  and  Youth  each  evening  meet, 
And  lightly  trip  with  nimble  feet. 
Nodding  their  lily-crowned  heads. 
Where  Laughter  rose-lipp'd  Hebe  leads; 
Where  Echo  walks  steep  hills  among, 
List'ning  to  the  shepherd's  song : 
Yet  not  these  flowery  fields  of  joy 
Can  long  my  pensive  mind  employ; 
Haste,  Fancy,  from  the  scenes  of  foUy, 
To  meet  the  matron  Melancholy, 
3i2 


702 


JOSEPH  WARTON. 


Goddess  of  the  tearful  eye, 

That  loves  to  fold  her  arms,  and  sigh ; 

Let  us  with  silent  footsteps  go 

To  charnels  and  the  house  of  woe. 

To  Gothic  churches,  vaults,  and  tombs. 

Where  each  sad  night  some  virgin  comes, 

With  throbbing  breast  and  faded  cheek, 

Her  promised  bridegroom's  urn  to  seek; 

Or  to  some  abbey's  mould'ring  towers. 

Where,  to  avoid  cold  wintry  showers. 

The  naked  beggar  shivering  lies. 

While  whistling  tempests  round  her  rise, 

And  trembles  lest  the  tottering  wall 

Should  on  her  sleeping  infants  fall. 

Now  let  us  louder  strike  the  lyre. 

For  my  heart  glows  with  martial  fire, — 

I  feel,  I  feel,  with  sudden  heat, 

My  big  tumultuous  bosom  beat; 

The  trumpet's  clangors  pierce  my  ear, 

A  thousand  widows'  shrieks  I  hear. 

Give  me  another  horse,  I  cry, 

Lo  !  the  base  Gallic  squadrons  fly  ; 

Whence  is  this  rage  1 — what  spirit,  sa^, 

To  battle  hurries  me  away  1 

'Tis  Fancy,  in  her  fiery  car. 

Transports  me  to  the  thickest  war, 

There  whirls  me  o'er  the  hills  of  slain. 

Where  Tumult  and  Destruction  reign; 

Where,  mad  with  pain,  the  wounded  steed 

Tramples  the  dying  and  the  dead ; 

Where  giant  Terror  stalks  around. 

With  sullen  joy  surveys  the  ground. 

And,  pointing  to  the  ensanguined  field. 

Shakes  his  dreadful  gorgon  shield  ! 

Oh  guide  me  from  this  horrid  scene. 

To  high-arch'd  walks  and  alleys  green. 

Which  lovely  Laura  seeks,  to  shun 

The  fervours  of  the  mid-day  sun; 

The  pangs  of  absence,  oh  remove ! 

For  thou  canst  place  me  near  my  love, 

Canst  fold  in  visionary  bliss. 

And  let  me  think  I  steal  a  kiss, 

W  hile  her  ruby  lips  dispense 

Luscious  nectar's  quintessence  ! 

When  young-eyed  Spring  profusely  throws 

From  her  green  lap  the  pink  and  rose, 

When  the  soft  turtle  of  the  dale 

To  Summer  tells  her  tender  tale  ; 

W^hen  Autumn  cooling  caverns  seeks. 

And  stains  with  wine  his  jolly  cheeks  ; 

When  Winter,  like  poor  pilj-jrim  old, 

Shakes  his  silver  beard  with  cold  ; 

At  every  season  let  my  ear 

Thy  solemn  whispers.  Fancy,  hear. 

O  warm,  enthusiastic  maid. 

Without  thy  powerful,  vital  aid. 

That  breathes  an  energy  divine. 

That  gives  a  soul  to  every  line, 

Ne'er  may  I  strive  with  lips  profane 

To  utter  an  unhallow'd  strain, 

Nor  dare  to  touch  the  sacred  string. 

Save   when   with    sm  les    thou    bidd'st    me 

sing. 
Oh  hear  our  prayer,  oh  hither  come 
From  thy  lamented  Shakspeare's  tomb. 


On  which  thou  lovest  to  sit  at  eve. 
Musing  o'er  thy  darling's  grave; 
O  queen  of  numbers,  once  again 
Animate  some  chosen  swain. 
Who,  fill'd  with  unexhausted  fire. 
May  boldly  strike  the  sounding  lyre. 
Who  with  some  new  unequall'd  song 
May  rise  above  the  rhyming  throng, 
O'er  all  our  list'ning  passions  reign, 
O'erwhelm  our  souls  with  joy  and  pain, 
With  terror  shake,  and  pity  move. 
Rouse  with  revenge,  or  melt  with  love ; 
Oh  deign  t'  attend  his  evening  walk, 
With  him  in  groves  and  grottoes  talk ; 
Teach  him  to  scorn  with  frigid  art 
Feebly  to  touch  th'  unraptured  heart; 
Like  lightning,  let  his  mighty  verse 
The  bosom's  inmost  foldings  pierce ; 
With  native  beauties  win  applause 
Beyond  cold  critics'  studied  laws; 
Oh  let  each  Muse's  fame  increase, 
Oh  bid  Britannia  rival  Greece. 


THE  DYING  INDIAN. 
The  dart  of  Izdabel  prevails  !  'twas  dipp'd 
In  double  poison — I  shall  soon  arrive 
At  the  bless'd  island,  where  no  tigers  spring 
On  heedless  hunters;  where  ananas  bloom 
Thrice  in  each  moon ;  where  rivers  smoothly  glide, 
Nor  thundering  torrents  whirl  the  light  canoe 
Down  to  the  sea ;  where  my  forefathers  feast 
Daily  on  hearts  of  Spaniards  ! — Oh,  my  son, 
I  feel  the  venom  busy  in  my  breast ! 
Approach.and  bring  mycrown,deck'd  with  the  teeth 
Of  that  bold  Christian  who  first  dared  deflower 
The  virgins  of  the  Sun  ;  and,  dire  to  tell ! 
Robb'd  Pachacamac's  altar  of  its  gems  ! 
I  mark'd  the  spot  where  they  interr'd  this  traitor, 
And  once  at  midnight  stole  I  to  his  tomb, 
And  tore  his  carcass  from  the  earth,  and  left  it 
A  prey  to  poisonous  flies.     Preserve  this  crown 
With  sacred  secrecy  :  if  e'er  returns 
Thy  much-loved  mother  from  the  desert  woods. 
Where,  as  I  hunted  late,  I  hapless  lost  her. 
Cherish  her  age.  Tell  her,  I  ne'er  have  worshipp'd 
With  those  that  eat  their  God.    And  when  disease 
Preys  on  her  languid  limbs,  then  kindly  stab  her 
With  thine  own  hands,  nor  suffer  her  to  linger. 
Like  Christian  cowards,  in  a  life  of  pain. 
I  go !  great  Copac  beckons  me  !    Farewell ! 

TO  MUSIC. 
Queen  of  every  moving  measure. 
Sweetest  source  of  purest  pleasure, 
Music!   why  thy  power  employ 
Only  for  the  sons  of  joy! 
Only  for  the  smiling  guests 
At  natal  or  at  nuptial  feasts? 
Rather  thy  lenient  numbers  pour 
On  those  whom  secret  griefs  devour; 
Bid  be  still  the  throbbing  hearts 
Of  those  whom  Death  or  .\bsence  parts* 
And,  with  some  softly-whisper'd  air. 
Smooth  the  brow  of  dumb  Despair. 


WILLIAM  COWPER. 


CBorn,  1T3I.    Died,  1800.] 


William  Cowper  was  bom  at  Berkharostead, 
in  Hertfordshire.  His  grandfather  was  Spencer 
Cowper,  a  judge  of  the  Court  of  Common  Pleas, 
and  a  younger  brother  of  the  Lord  Chancellor 
Cowper.  His  father  was  the  rector  of  Great 
Berkhamstead,  and  chaplain  to  George  H.  At 
six  years  of  age,  he  was  taken  from  the  care  of 
an  indulgent  mother,  and  placed  at  a  school  in 
Bedfordshire.*  He  there  endured  such  hard- 
ships as  imbittered  his  opinion  of  public  educa- 
tion for  all  his  life.  His  chief  affliction  was,  to 
be  singled  out,  as  a  victim  of  secret  cruelty,  by  a 
young  monster,  about  fifteen  years  of  age ;  whose 
barbarities  were,  however,  at  last  detected,  and 
punished  by  his  expulsion.  Cowper  was  also 
taken  from  the  school.  From  the  age  of  eight 
to  nine,  he  was  boarded  with  a  famous  ocuIist,t 
on  account  of  a  complaint  in  his  eyes,  which, 
during  his  whole  life,  were  subject  to  inflamma- 
tion. He  was  sent  from  thence  to  Westminster, 
and  continued  there  till  the  age  of  eighteen,  when 
he  went  into  the  office  of  a  London  solicitor.  His 
account  of  himself  in  this  situation  candidly  ac- 
knowledges his  extreme  idleness.  "  I  did  actually 
live,"  he  says,  in  a  letter  to  Lady  Hesketh, 
"  three  years  with  Mr.  Chapman,  a  solicitor ;  that 
is  to  say,  I  slept  three  years  in  his  house.  I  spent 
my  days  in  Southampton-row,  as  you  very  well 
remember.  There  was  I,  and  the  future  Lord 
Chancellor  Thurlow,  constantly  employed  from 
morning  to  night  in  giggling  and  making  giggle." 
From  the  solicitor's  house  he  went  into  chambers 
in  the.  Temple  ;  but  seems  to  have  made  no  ap- 
plication to  the  study  of  law.  "  Here  he 
rambled,"  says  Mr.  Hayley.  "  to  use  his  own 
colloquial  expression,  from  the  thorny  road  of 
jurisprudence  to  the  primrose  paths  of  litera- 
ture," a  most  uncolloquial  expression  indeed,  and 
savouring  much  more  of  Mr.  Hayley 's  genius 
than  his  own.  At  this  period  he  wrote  some 
verse  translations  from  Horace,  which  he  gave  to 
the  Buncombes ;  and  assisted  Lloyd  and  Colman 
with  some  prose  papers  for  their  periodical 
works.J  It  was  only  at  this  time  that  Cowper 
could  ever  be  said  to  have  lived  as  a  man  of  the 
world.  Though  shy  to  strangers,  he  was  highly 
valued  for  his  wit  and  pleasantry,  amid  an  in- 
timate and  gay  circle  of  men  of  talents.     But 

*  In  Ilayley's  Life  bL<<  flntt  school  is  said  to  have  been  in 
Hertfordshire.  Tlic  Memoir  of  hLi  early  life.  puhlLshed  in 
1816,  gays  in  Bedfordshire.  [In  Cowper's  account  of  his 
own  early  life,  this  pchool  Is  said  to  have  bt-en  in  Betiford- 
shire;  hut  llayloy  says  Hertfordshire,  mentioning  also  the 
place  and  name  of  the  master ;  and  as  Cowper  was  only  nt 
one  private  school,  subsequent  bioirraphers  have  properly 
followed  Hayley.  The  mistake  probably  orijciuatod  in  the 
pre<is,  ("owpcr's  own  Memoirs  having  apparently  been 
printed  from  an  ill-written  manuscript.  Of  this  there  is  a 
whim.-ical  proof,  (p.  36,)  where  the  I'ersian  Letters  of  Mon- 
tesquieu are  spoken  o^  and  the  compositor,  unable  to  de- 


though  he  was  then  in  (he  focus  of  convivial  so- 
ciety, he  never  partook  of  its  intemperance. 

His  patrimony  being  well  nigh  spent,  a  power- 
ful friend  and  relation  (Major  Cowper)  obtained 
for  him  the  situation  of  Clerk  to  the  Committees 
of  the  House  of  Lords ;  but,  on  account  of  his 
dislike  to  the  publicity  of  the  situation,  the  ap- 
pointment was  changed  to  that  of  Clerk  of  the 
Journals  of  the  same  House.§  The  path  to  an 
easy  maintenance  now  seemed  to  lie  open  before 
him  ;  but  a  calamitous  disappointment  was  im- 
pending, the  approaches  of  which  are  best  ex- 
plained in  his  own  words.  "  In  the  beginning," 
(he  says)  <•  a  strong  opposition  to  my  friend's 
right  of  nomination  began  to  show  itself.  A 
powerful  party  was  formed  among  the  Lords  to 
thwart  it.  *  *  *  Every  advantage,  I  was 
told,  would  be  sought  for,  and  eagerly  seized,  to 
disconcert  us.  I  was  bid  to  expect  an  examina- 
tion at  the  bar  of  the  house,  touching  my  suffi- 
ciency for  the  post  I  had  taken.  Being  necessa- 
rily ignorant  of  the  nature  of  that  business,  it 
became  expedient  that  I  should  visit  the  office 
daily,  in  order  to  qualify  myself  for  the  strictest 
scrutiny.  All  the  horror  of  my  fears  and  per- 
plexities now  returned.  A  thunderbolt  would 
have  been  as  welcome  to  me  as  this  intelligence. 
I  knew  to  demonstration,  that  upon  these  terms 
the  Clerkship  of  the  Journals  was  no  place  for 
me.  To  require  my  attendance  at  the  bar  of  the 
house,  that  I  might  there  publicly  entitle  myself 
to  the  office,  was,  in  effect,  to  exclude  me  from 
it.  In  the  mean  time,  the  interest  of  my  frien<l, 
the  honour  of  his  choice,  my  own  reputation  and 
circumstances,  all  urged  me  forward,  all  pressed 
me  to  undertake  that  which  I  saw  to  be  imprac- 
ticable. They  whose  spirits  are  formed  like 
mine,  to  whom  a  public  exhibition  of  themselves, 
on  any  occasion,  is  mortal  poison,  may  have  some 
idea  of  the  horrors  of  my  situation — others  can 
have  none.  My  continual  misery  at  length 
brought  on  a  nervous  fever ;  quiet  forsook  me  by 
day,  and  peace  by  night ;  a  finger  raised  against 
me  was  more  than  I  could  stand  against.  In 
this  posture  of  mind  I  attended  regularly  at  the 
office,  where,  instead  of  a  soul  upon  the  rack,  the 
most  active  spirits  were  essentially  necessary  for 
my  purpose.     I  expected  no  assistance  from  any- 

dpher  that  author's  name,  has  converted  it  into  Mula 
Quince. — SouTiii.Y,  Life  of  Oitvjjer,  vol.  i.  p.  7.) 

f  He  does  not  inform  us  whure,«but  calls  the  oculist  Mr. 
D. — Hayley,  by  mistake,  1  suppose,  saye  that  he  was 
boarded  with  a  female  oculist.  [He  was  placed  in  the 
house  of  an  eminent  oculist,  whose  wife  also  had  oDtaiaed 
great  celebrity  in  the  same  branch  of  medical  science. — 

SOL'THET.) 

[t  The  Connoisseur,  and  St.  James's  Chronicle.] 
[J  His  kinsman  Major  Cowper  was  the  patentee  of  these 
appointments.! 

703 


704 


WILLIAM   COWPER. 


body  there,  all  the  inferior  cJerks  being  under  the 
influence  of  my  opponent,  and  accordingly  I  re- 
ceived none.  The  Journal  books  were  indeed 
thrown  open  to  me ;  a  thing  which  could  not  be 
refused,  and  from  which  perhaps  a  man  in  health, 
and  with  a  head  turned  to  business,  might  have 
gained  all  the  information  he  wanted;  but  it  was 
not  so  with  me.  I  read  without  perception ;  and 
was  so  distressed,  that  had  every  clerk  in  the 
office  been  my  friend,  it  could  have  availed  me 
but  little ;  for  I  was  not  in  a  condition  to  receive 
instruction,  much  less  to  elicit  it  out  of  MSS. 
without  direction.  Many  months  went  over  me 
thus  employed ;  constant  in  the  use  of  means, 
despairing  as  to  the  issue.  The  feelings  of  a 
man  when  he  arrives  at  the  place  of  execution 
are  probably  much  like  mine  every  time  I  set  my 
foot  in  the  office,  which  was  every  day  for  more 
than  half  a  year  together."  These  agonies  at 
length  unsettled  his  brain.  When  his  benevo- 
lent friend  came  to  him,  on  the  day  appointed 
for  his  examination  at  Westminster,  he  found 
him  in  a  dreadful  condition.  He  had,  in  fact, 
the  same  morning,  made  an  attempt  at  self- 
destruction  ;  and  showed  a  garter,  which  had 
been  broken,  and  an  iron  rod  across  his  bed, 
which  had  been  bent  in  the  effort  to  accomplish 
his  purpose  by  strangulation.  From  the  state  of 
his  mind,  it  liecame  necessary  to  remove  him  to 
the  house  of  Dr.  Cotton,  of  St.  Albans,*  with 
whom  he  continued  for  about  nineteen  months. 
Within  less  than  the  half  of  that  time,  his  fa- 
culties began  to  return  ;  and  the  religious  despair, 
which  constituted  the  most  tremendous  circum- 
stance of  his  malady,  had  given  way  to  more 
consoling  views  of  faith  and  piety."}"  On  his  re- 
covery, he  determined  to  renounce  London  for 
ever;  and,  that  he  might  have  no  temptation  to  re- 
turn thither,  gave  up  the  office  of  commissioner  of 
bankrupts,  worth  about  60/.  a  year,  which  he  had 
held  for  some  years.  He  then,  in  June  176.5, 
repaired  to  Huntingdon,  where  he  settled  in 
lodgings,  attended  by  a  man-servant,  who  fol- 
lowed him  from  Dr.  Cotton's  out  of  pure  attach- 
ment. His  brother,  who  had  accompanied  him 
thither,  had  no  sooner  left  him,  than  being  alone 
among  strangers,  his  spirits  began  again  to  sink ; 
and  he  found  himself,  he  says,  "  like  a  traveller 
in  the  midst  of  an  inhospitable  desert,  without  a 
friend  to  comfort  or  a  guide  to  direct  him."  For 
four  months  he  continued  in  his  lodging.  Some 
few  neighbours  came  to  see  him;  but  their  visits 
were  not  very  frequent,  and  he  rather  declined 
than  sought  society.  At  length,  however,  young 
Mr.  Unwin,  the    son    of  the   clergyman  of  the 

[*  Author  of  Visions  in  Verse — The  Fireside,  &c.  See 
ante.  p.  Co2.] 

1+  The  crisis  of  his  recovery  seems  to  have  been  accele- 
rated by  the  conversation  of  his  brother,  who  visited  him 
at  Or.  Cotton's.  "  As  soon  as  we  were  left  alone,"  he  says, 
'*  my  brother  asked  me  how  I  found  myself.  I  answered, 
'  As  much  better  as  despair  can  make  me.'  We  went  to- 
gether into  the  garden.  Here,  on  expressing  a  settled  as- 
surance of  sudden  judgment,  he  protested  to  me  that  it 
was  all  a  delusion,  and  protested  so  stronRly  that  I  could 
not  help  giving  some  attention  to  him.  1  burst  into  tears, 
and  cried  out,  '  if  it  be  a  delusion,  then  1  am  one  of  the 


place,  having  been  struck  by  his  interesting  ap- 
pearance at  church,  introduced  himself  to  his 
acquaintance,  and  brought  him  to  visit  at  his 
father's  house.  A  mutual  friendship  was  very 
soon  formed  between  Cowper  and  this  amiable 
family,  whose  religious  sentiments  peculiarly  cor- 
responded with  the  predominant  impressions  of 
his  mind.  The  Unwins,  much  to  his  satisfaction, 
agreed  to  receive  him  as  a  boarder  in  their  house. 
His  routine  of  life  in  this  devout  circle  is  best  de- 
scribed by  himself.  "  We  breakfast,"  he  says,  in 
one  of  his  letters,  "  commonly  between  eight  and 
nine ;  till  eleven  we  read  either  the  Scriptures  or 
the  sermons  of  some  faithful  preacher  of  those 
holy  mysteries.  At  eleven  we  attend  divine  ser- 
vice, which  is  performed  here  twice  every  day ; 
and  from  twelve  to  three  we  separate  and  amuse 
ourselves  as  we  please.  During  that  interval,  I 
either  read  in  my  own  apartment,  or  walk,  or 
ride,  or  work  in  the  garden.  We  seldom  sit  an 
hour  after  dinner,  but,  if  the  weather  permits, 
adjourn  to  the  garden,  where,  with  Mrs.  Unwin 
and  her  son,  I  have  generally  the  pleasure  of  re- 
ligious conversation.  If  it  rains,  or  is  too  windy 
for  walking,  we  either  converse  within  doors,  or 
sing  some  hymns  of  Martin's^  collection,  and,  by 
the  help  of  Mrs.  Unwin's  harpsichord,  make  up 
a  tolerable  concert,  in  which  our  hearts,  I  hope, 
are  the  most  musical  performers.  After  tea,  we 
sally  forth  to  walk  in  good  earnest,  and  we  gene- 
rally travel  four  miles  before  we  see  home  again. 
At  night,  we  read  and  converse  as  before  till 
supper,  and  commonly  finish  the'  evening  with 
hymns  or  a  sermon." 

After  the  death  of  Mr.  Unwin,  senior,  in  1767, 
he  accompanied  Mrs.  Unwin  and  her  daughter  to 
a  new  residence  which  they  chose  at  Olney,  in 
Buckinghamshire.  Here  he  formed  an  intimate 
friendship  with  Mr.  Newton,  then  curate  of 
Olney,  with  whom  he  voluntarily  associated  him- 
self in  the  duty  of  visiting  the  cottages  of  the  poor, 
and  comforting  their  distresses.  Mr.  Newton  and 
he  were  joint  almoners  in  the  secret  donations 
of  the  wealthy  and  charitable  Mr.  Thornton,  who 
transmitted  200/.  a  year  for  the  poor  of  Olney.  At 
Mr.  Newton's  request  he  wrote  some  hymns, 
which  were  published  in  a  collection,  long  before 
he  was  known  as  a  poet. 

His  tremendous  malady  unhappily  returned  in 
1773,  attended  with  severe  paroxysms  of  religious 
despondency,  and  his  faculties  were  again  eclipsed 
for  about  five  years.  During  that  period  .Mrs. 
Unwin  watched  over  him  with  a  patience  and 
tenderness  truly  maternal.  After  his  second  re- 
covery, some  of  his  amusements,  such  as  taming 

happiest  of  beings  I'  Something  like  a  ray  of  hope  waa 
shot  into  my  heart,  but  still  I  was  afraid  to  indulge  it.  W« 
dined  together,  and  spent  the  afternoon  in  a  more  cheer- 
ful manner  ***«*.  I  went  to  bed,  and  slept  well.  In 
the  morning  I  dreamt  that  the  sweetest  boy  1  ever  saw 
came  dancing  up  to  my  bed-side ;  he  seemed  just  out  of 
leading-strings ;  yet  I  took  particul.ir  notice  of  the  firm- 
ness and  steadiness  of  his  tread.  The  sight  affected  me 
with  plea-sure.  and  served  at  least  to  harmonize  my  spirits. 
!?o  that  1  awoke  for  the  first  time  with  a  sensation  of  de- 
light on  my  mind." — Memoir publisheii  in  1816. 
X  Martin  Madan,  a  cousin  of  the  poet. 


WILLIAM  COWPER. 


705 


hares,  and  making  bird-cages,  would  seem  to  in- 
dicate  no  great  confidence  in  the  capacity  of  his 
mind  for  mental  employment.  But  he  still  con- 
tinued to  be  a  cursory  reader;  he  betook  himself 
also  to  drawing  landscapes ;  and,  what  might 
have  been  still  less  expected  at  fifty  years  of  age, 
began  in  earnest  to  cultivate  his  poetical  talents. 
These  had  lain,  if  not  dormant,  at  least  so  slightly 
employed,  as  to  make  his  poetical  progress,  in 
the  former  part  of  his  life,  scarcely  capable  of 
being  traced."  He  spent,  however,  the  winter 
of  1780-1  in  preparing  his  first  volume  of  Poems 
for  the  press,  consisting  of  "  'i'able  Talk,"  "  Hope," 
««The  Progress  of  Error,"  "Charity,"  &c.,  and 
it  was  published  in  1782.  Its  reception  was  not 
equal  to  its  merit,  though  his  modest  expectations 
were  not  upon  the  whole  disappointed;  and  he 
had  the  satisfaction  of  ranking  Dr.  Johnson  and 
Benjamin  Franklin  among  his  zealous  admirers. 
The  volume  was  certainly  good  fruit  under  a  rough 
rind,  conveying  manly  thoughts,  but  in  a  tone  of 
enthusiasm  which  is  often  harsh  and  forbidding. 
In  the  same  year  that  he  published  his  first 
volume,  an  elegant  and  accomplished  visitant 
came  to  Olney,  with  whom  Cowper  formed  an 
acquaintance  that  was  for  some  time  very  delight- 
ful to  him.  This  was  the  widow  of  Sir  Robert 
Austen.  She  had  wit,  gayety.  agreeable  manners, 
and  elegant  taste.  While  she  enlivened  Cowper's 
unequal  spirits  by  her  conversation,  she  was  also 
the  task-mistress  of  his  Muse.  He  began  his 
great  original  poem  at  her  suggestion,  and  was 
exhorted  by  her  to  undertake  the  translation  of 
Homer.  So  much  cheerfulness  seems  to  have 
beamed  upon  his  sequestered  life  from  the  in- 
fluence of  her  society,  that  he  gave  her  the  en- 
dearing appellation  of  Sister  Anne,  and  ascribed 
the  arrival  of  so  pleasing  a  friend  to  the  direct 
interposition  of  Heaven.  But  his  devout  old 
friend,  Mrs.  Unwin,  saw  nothing  very  providen- 
tial in  the  ascendency  of  a  female  so  much  more 
fascinating  than  herself  over  Cowper's  mind ; 
and,  appealing  to  his  gratitude  for  her  past  ser- 
vices, she  gave  him  his  choice  of  either  renouncing 
Lady  Austen's  acquaintance  or  her  own.  Cowper 
decided  upon  adhering  to  the  friend  who  had 
watched  over  him  in  his  deepest  afflictions,  and 
sent  Lady  Austen  a  valedictory  letter,  couched  in 
terms  of  regret  and  regard,  but  which  necessarily 
put  an  end  to  their  acquaintance.  Whether  in 
making  this  decision  he  sacrificed  a  passion,  or 
only  a  friendship  for  Lady  Austen,  it  must  be  im- 
possible to  tell ;  but  it  has  been  said,  though  not 
by  Mr.  Hayley,  that  the  remembrance  of  a  deep 
and  devoted  attachment  of  his  youth  was  never  ' 
effaced  by  any  succeeding  impression  of  the  same 
nature,  and  that  his  fondness  for  Lady  Austen 
was  as  platonic  as  for  Mary  Unwin.  The  sacrifice, 
however,  cost  him  much  pain,  and  is,  perhaps,  as 
much  to  be  admired  as  regretted.'l' 


*  At  the  age  of  eighteen,  he  wrote  rome  tolerable  verses 
on  finding  the  heel  of  a  shoe ;  a  cubject  wlilch  is  not  un- 
characti'ristic  of  his  disposition  to  moralise  on  whimsical 
^utgects.  [These  verses  have  an  imitative  resemblance  to 
the  style  oi  "  The  Splendid  Shilling."  Philips  was  a  great 
89 


Fortunately,  the  jealousy  of  Mrs.  Unwin  did 
not  extend  to  his  cousin,  Lady  Hesketh.  Hia 
letters  to  that  lady  give  the  most  pleasing  view 
of  Cowper's  mind,  exhibiting  all  the  warmth  of 
his  heart  as  a  kinsman,  and  his  simple  and  un- 
studied elegance  as  a  correspondent.  His  inter- 
course with  this  relation,  after  a  separation  of 
nearly  thirty  years,  was  revived  by  her  writing 
to  congratulate  him  on  the  appearance  of  his 
"  Task,"  in  1784.  Two  years  after.  Lady  Hesketh 
paid  him  a  visit  at  Olney;  and  settling  at  Weston, 
in  the  immediate  neighbourhood,  provided  a  house 
for  him  and  Mrs.  Unwin  there,  which  was  more 
commodious  than  their  former  habitation.  She 
also  brought  her  carriage  and  horses  with  her, 
and  thus  induced  him  to  survey  the  country  in  a 
wider  range  than  he  had  been  hitherto  accustomed 
to  take,  as  well  as  to  mix  a  little  more  with  its 
inhabitants.  As  soon  as  "  The  Task"  had  been 
sent  to  the  press,  he  began  the  "Tirocinium,"  a 
poem  on  the  subject  of  education,  the  purport  of 
which  was  (in  his  own  words)  to  censure  the 
want  of  discipline  and  the  inattention  to  morals 
which  prevail  in  public  schools,  and  to  recom- 
mend private  education  as  preferable  on  all  ac- 
counts. In  the  same  year,  1784,  he  commenced 
his  translation  of  Homer,  which  was  brought  to  a 
conclusion  and  published  by  subscription  in  1791. 
The  first  edition  of  Homer  was  scarcely  out  of 
his  hands,  when  he  embraced  a  proposal  fi-om  a 
bookseller  to  be  the  editor  of  Milton's  poetry,  and 
to  furnish  a  version  of  his  Italian  and  Latin  poems, 
together  with  a  critical  commentary  on  his  whole 
works.  Capable  as  he  was  of  guiding  the  reader's 
attention  to  the  higher  beauties  of  Milton,  his 
habits  and  recluse  situation  made  him  peculiarly 
unfit  for  the  more  minute  functions  of  an  editor. 
In  the  progress  of  the  work,  he  seems  to  have 
been  constantly  drawn  away,  by  the  anxious  cor- 
rection of  his  great  translation ;  insomuch,  that 
his  second  edition  of  Homer  was  rather  a  new 
work  than  a  revisal  of  the  old.  The  subsequent 
history  of  his  life  may  make  us  thankful  that  the 
powers  of  his  mind  were  spared  to  accomplish  so 
great  an  undertaking.  Their  decline  was  fast 
approaching.  In  1792,  Mr.  Hayley  paid  him  a 
visit  at  Olney,  and  was  present  to  console  him 
under  his  affliction,  at  seeing  Mrs.  Unwin  attacked 
by  the  palsy.  The  shock  subsided,  and  a  journey, 
which  he  undertook  in  company  with  Mrs.  Unwin, 
to  Mr.  Hayley's  at  Eartham,  contributed,  with  the 
genial  air  of  the  south,  and  the  beautiful  scenery 
of  the  country,  to  revive  his  spirits;  but  they 
drooped  and  became  habitually  dejected,  on  his 
return  to  Olney.  In  a  moment  of  recovered  cheer- 
fulness, he  projected  a  poem  on  the  four  ages  of 
man — infancy,  youth,  manhood,  and  old  age ;  but 
he  only  finished  a  short  fragment  of  it.  Mr.  Hay- 
ley paid  him  a  second  visit  in  the  November  of 
1793  ;  he  found  him  still  possessed  of  all  his  ex- 


fayourite  with  Cowper,  as  with  Thomson.   It  is  remarkable 
that  •'  The.  Tisk"  should  open  in  Philips's  style.] 

[t  "  Both  Lady  Austen  and  Mrs.  Unwin."  says  Southey, 
"  appear  to  me  to  hare  been  wronged  by  the  causes  assigned 
for  the  difference  between  them."] 


706 


WILLIAM  COWPER. 


quisite  feelk  gs;  but  there  was  something  unde- 
Bcribable  in  his  appearance,  which  foreboded  his 
relapsing  into  hopeless  desponden(^y.  Lady  Hes- 
keth  repaired  once  more  to  Olney,  and  with  a 
noble  friendship  undertook  the  care  of  two  inva- 
lids, who  were  now  incapable  of  managing  them- 
selves, Mrs.  Unwin  being,  at  this  time,  entirely 
helpless  and  paralytic.  Upon  a  third  visit,  Mr. 
Hayley  found  him  plunged  into  a  melancholy 
torpor,  which  extinguished  even  his  social  feelings. 
He  met  Mr.  Hayley  with  apparent  in(i;f!erence ; 
and  when  it  was  announced  to  him  that  his  Ma- 
jesty had  bestowed  on  him  a  pension  of  300/.  a 
year,  the  intelligence  arrived  too  late  to  give  him 
pleasure.  He  continued  under  the  care  of  Lady 
Hesketh  until  the  end  of  July,  1795,  when  he 
was  removed,  together  with  Mrs.  Unwin,  to  the 
house  of  his  kinsman,  Mr.  Johnson,  at  North 
Tuddenham,  in  Norfolk.  Stopping  on  the  journey 
at  the  village  of  Eaton,  near  St.  Neots,  Cowper 
walked  with  Mr.  Johnson  in  the  churchyard  of 
that  village  by  moonlight,  and  talked  with  more 
composure  than  he  had  shown  for  many  months. 
The  subject  of  their  conversation  was  the  poet 
Thomson.  Some  time  after,  he  went  to  see  his 
cousin,  Mrs.  Bodham,  at  a  village  near  the  resi- 
dence of  Mr.  Johnson.  When  he  saw,  in  Mrs. 
Bodham's  parlour,  a  portrait  of  himself,  which 
had  been  done  by  Abbot,  he  clasped  his  hands  in 
a  paroxysm  of  distress,  wishing  that  he  could  now 
be  what  he  was  when  that  likeness  was  taken. 

In  December,  1796,  Mrs.  Unwin  died,  in  a 
house  to  which  Mr.  Johnson  had  removed,  at 
Dunham,  in  the  same  county.  Cowper,  who  had 
seen  her  half  an  hour  before  she  expired,  attended 
Mr.  Johnson  to  survey  her  remains  in  the  dusk 
of  the  evening ;  but,  after  looking  on  her  for  a 
few  moments,  he  started  away  with  a  vehement, 
unfinished  exclamation  of  anguish ;  and,  either 
forgetting  her  in  the  suspension  of  his  faculties, 
or  not  daring  to  trust  his  lips  with  the  subject,  he 
never  afterward  uttered  her  name. 

In  1799  he  resumed  some  power  of  exertion  ; 
he  finished  the  revision  of  his  Homer,  translated 
some  of  Gay's  fables  into  Latin,  and  wrote  his  last 
original  poem,  «  The  Cast-away."*  But  it  seems, 
from  the  utterly  desolate  tone  of  this  production, 
that  the  finishing  blaze  of  his  fancy  and  intellects 
had  communicated  no  warmth  of  joy  to  his  heart. 
The  dropsy,  which  had  become  visible  in  his  per- 
son, assumed  an  incurable  aspect  in  the  following 
year ;  and,  after  a  rapid  decline,  he  expired  on 
the  5th  of  April,  1800. 

The  nature  of  Cowper's  works  makes  us  pecu- 
liarly identify  the  poet  and  the  man  in  perusing 
them.  As  an  individual,  he  was  retired  and 
weaned  from  the  vanities  of  the  world  ;  and  as  an 
original  writer,  he  left  the  ambitious  and  luxu- 
riant subjects  of  fiction  and  passion,  for  those  of 


[*  Founded  upon  an  incident  related  in  Anson's  Voyages. 
It  is  the  last  original  piece  he  composed,  and,  all  circum- 
stance? considered,  one  of  the  most  affecting  that  ever  was 
wimposed. — Southet.] 

+  Vide  his  story  of  Misagnthus,  ["The  Task,"  B.  vi.,] 
whicii  is  meant  to  record  the  miraculous  punishment  of  a 


real  life  and  simple  nature,  and  for  the  develop- 
ment of  his  own  earnest  feelings,  in  behalf  of 
moral  and  religious  truth.  His  language  has 
such  a  masculine  idiomatic  strength,  and  his 
manner,  whether  he  rises  into  grace  or  falls  into 
negligence,  has  so  much  plain  and  familiar  free- 
dom, that  we  read  no  poetry  with  a  deeper  con- 
viction of  its  sentiments  having  come  from  the 
author's  heart,  and  of  the  enthusiasm,  in  what- 
ever he  describes,  having  been  unfeigned  and  un- 
exaggerated.  He  impresses  us  with  the  idea  of 
a  being  whose  fine  spirit  has  been  long  enough 
in  the  mixed  society  of  the  world  to  be  polished 
by  its  intercourse,  and  yet  withdrawn  so  soon 
as  to  retain  an  unworldly  degree  of  purity  and 
simplicity.  He  was  advanced  in  years  before  he 
became  an  author;  but  his  compositions  display  a 
tenderness  of  feeling  so  youthfully  preserved,  and 
even  a  vein  of  humour  so  far  from  being  extin- 
guished by  his  ascetic  habits,  that  we  can  scarcely 
regret  his  not  having  written  them  at  an  earlier 
period  of  life.  For  he  blends  the  determination 
of  age  with  an  exquisite  and  ingenuous  sensi- 
bility ;  and  though  he  sports  very  much  with  his 
subjects,  yet  when  he  is  m  earnest,  there  is  a 
gravity  of  long-felt  conviction  in  his  sentiments, 
which  gives  an  uncommon  ripeness  of  character 
to  his  poetry. 

It  is  due  to  Cowper  to  fix  our  regard  on  this 
unaffectedness  and  authenticity  of  his  works,  con- 
sidered as  representations  of  himself,  because  he 
forms  a  striking  instance  of  genius  writing  the 
history  of  its  own  secluded  feelings,  reflections, 
and  enjoyments,  in  a  shape  so  interesting  as.  to 
engage  the  imagination  like  the  work  of  fiction. 
He  has  invented  no  character  in  fable,  nor  in  the 
drama ;  but  he  has  left  a  record  of  his  own  cha- 
racter, which  forms  not  only  an  object  of  deep 
sympathy,  but  a  subject  for  the  study  of  human 
nature.  His  verse,  it  is  true,  considered  as  such 
a  record,  abounds  with  opposite  traits  of  severity 
and  gentleness,  of  playfulness  and  superstition,* 
of  solemnity  and  mirth,  which  appear  almost 
anomalous ;  and  there  is,  undoubtedly,  sometimes 
an  air  of  moody  versatility  in  the  extreme  con- 
trasts of  his  feelings.  But  looking  to  his  poetry 
as  an  entire  structure,  it  has  a  massive  air  of 
sincerity.  It  is  founded  in  steadfast  principles  of 
belief;  and  if  we  may  prolong  the  architectural 
metaphor,  though  its  arches  may  be  sometimes 
gloomy,  its  tracery  sportive,  and  its  lights  and 
shadows  grotesquely  crossed,  yet  altogether  it  still 
forms  a  vast,  various,  and  interesting  monument 
of  the  builder's  mind.  Young's  works  are  as  de- 
vout, as  satirical,  sometimes  as  merry,  as  those  of 
Cowper,  and  undoubtedly  more  witty.  But  the 
melancholy  and  wit  of  Young  do  not  make  up  to 
us  the  idea  of  a  conceivable  or  natural  being.  He 
has  sketched  in  his  pages  the  ingenious  but  incon- 


sinner  by  his  own  horse.  Mlsagathus,  a  wicked  fellow,  as 
his  name  denotes,  is  riding  abroad,  and  overtakes  a  sober- 
minded  traveller  on  the  road,  whose  ears  he  assails  with 
the  most  improper  language;  till  his  horse,  out  of  all  pai- 
tience  at  his  owner's  impiety,  approaches  the  brink  of  a 
precipice,  and  fairly  tosses  his  reprobate  rider  into  the  sea. 


WILLIAM  COWPER. 


707 


gruous  form  of  a  fiftitious  mind — Cowper's  soul 
speaks  from  his  volumes. 

At  the  same  time,  while  there  is  in  Cowper  a 
power  of  simple  expression — of  solid  thought — 
and  sincere  feeling,  which  may  be  said,  in  a  gene- 
ral view,  to  make  the  harsher  and  softer  traits  of 
his  genius  harmonize,  I  cannot  but  recur  to  the 
observation,  that  there  are  occasions  when  his 
contrarieties  and  asperities  are  positively  unpleas- 
ing.  Mr.  Hayley  commends  him  for  possessing, 
above  any  ancient  or  modern  auther,  the  nice 
art  of  passing,  by  the  most  delicate  transition, 
from  subjects  to  subjects,  which  might  otherwise 
seem  to  be  but  little,  or  not  at  all,  allied  to  each 
other : 

"  From  grave  to  gay,  from  lively  to  severe." 

With  regard  to  Cowper's  art  of  transition,  I  am 
disposed  to  agree  with  Mr.  Hayley,  that  it  was 
very  nice.  In  his  own  mind,  trivial  and  solemn 
subjects  were  easily  associated,  and  he  appears 
to  make  no  effort  in  bringing  them  together.  The 
transition  sprang  from  the  peculiar  habits  of  his 
imagination,  and  was  marked  by  the  delicacy  and 
subtlety  of  his  powers.  But  the  general  taste 
and  frame  of  the  human  mind  is  not  calculated  to 
receive  pleasure  from  such  transitions,  however 
dexterously  they  may  be  made.  The  reader's 
imagination  is  never  so  passively  in  the  hands  of 
an  author,  as  not  to  compare  the  different  im- 
pressions arising  from  successive  passages ;  and 
there  is  no  versatility  in  the  writer's  own  thoughts, 
that  will  give  an  air  of  natural  connection  to  sub- 
jects, if  it  does  not  belong  to  them.  Whatever 
Cowper's  art  of  transition  may  be,  the  effect  of 
it  is  to  crowd  into  close  contiguity  his  Dutch 
painting  and  Divinity.  This  moment  we  view 
him,  as  if  prompted  by  a  disdain  of  all  the  gaudy 
subjects  of  imagination,  sporting  agreeably  with 
every  trifle  that  comes  in  his  way ;  in  the  next, 
a  recollection  of  the  most  awful  concerns  of  the 
human  soul,  and  a  belief  that  four-fiflhs  of  the 
species  are  living  under  the  ban  of  their  Creator's 
displeasure,  come  across  his  mind  ;  and  we  then, 
in  the  compass  of  a  page,  exchange  the  facetious 
satirist,  or  the  poet  of  the  garden  or  the  green- 
house, for  one  who  speaks  to  us  in  the  name  of 
the  Omnipotent,  and  who  announces  to  us  all  his 
terrors.  No  one,  undoubtedly,  shall  prescribe 
limits  to  the  association  of  devout  and  ordinary 
thoughts ;  but  still  propriety  dictates,  that  the 
aspect  of  composition  shall  not  rapidly  turn  from 
the  smile  of  levity  to  a  frown  that  denounces  eter- 
nal perdition. 

He  not  only  passes,  within  a  short  compass, 
from  the  jocose  to  the  awful,  but  he  sometimes 
blends  them  intimately  together.  It  is  fair  that 
blundering  commentators  on  the  Bible  should  be 
exposed.  The  idea  of  a  drunken  postdion  for- 
getting to  put  the  linchpin  in  the  wheel  of  his 
carriage,  may  also  be  very  entertaining  to  those 
whose  safety  is  not  endangered  by  his  negligence; 
but  still  the  comparison  of  a  false  judgment  which 
a  perverse  commentator  may  pass  on  the  Holy 
Scriptures,  with  the  accident  of  Tom  the  driver 


being  in  his  cups,  is  somewhat  too  familiar  for  so 
grave  a  subject.  The  force,  the  humour,  and 
picturesqueness  of  those  satirical  sketches,  which 
are  interspersed  with  his  religious  poems  on  Hope, 
Truth,  Charity,  &c.  in  his  first  volume,  need  not 
be  disputed.  One  should  be  sorry  to  lose  them, 
or  indeed  any  thing  that  Cowper  has  written, 
always  saving  and  excepting  the  story  of  Misaga- 
thus  and  his  horse,  which  might  be  mistaken  for 
an  interpolation  by  Mrs.  Unwin.  But  in  those 
satirical  sketches  there  is  still  a  taste  of  some- 
thing like  comic  sermons ;  whether  he  describes 
the  antiquated  prude  going  to  church,  followed 
by  her  footboy,  with  the  dew-drop  hanging  at  his 
nose,  or  Vinoso,  in  the  military  mess-room,  thus 
expounding  his  religious  belief: 

"  Afljeu  to  all  morality!  if  Grace 
Make  works  a  vain  ingredient  in  the  ease. 
The  Christian  hope  is — Waiter,  draw  the  cork — 
If  J  mistake  not— lilockhead !  with  a  fork  I 
AVithwit  ;:ood  works,  whatever  some  may  boast, 
Mere  folly  and  delusion — t'ir,  your  toast. 
My  firm  p<Tsuasion  is.  at  least  sometimes, 
That  Heaven  will  weigh  man's  Mirtues  and  his  crimes. 

****** 
I  glide  and  steal  along  with  Heaven  in  view. 
And, — pardon  me,  the  bottle  stands  with  you." — Bbpe. 

The  mirth  of  the  above  lines  consists  chiefly  in 
placing  the  doctrine  of  the  importance  of  good 
works  to  salvation  in  the  mouth  of  a  drunkard. 
It  is  a  Calvinistic  poet  making  game  of  an  anti- 
Calvinistic  creed,  and  is  an  excellent  specimen 
of  pious  bantering  and  evangelical  raillery.  But 
Religion,  which  disdains  the  hostility  of  ridicule, 
ought  also  to  be  above  its  alliance.  Against  this 
practice  of  compounding  mirth  and  godliness,  we 
may  quote  the  poet's  own  remark  upon  St.  Paul : 

"  So  did  not  Paul.    Direct  me  to  a  quip, 
Or  merry  turn,  in  all  he  ever  wrote ; 
And  1  consent  you  take  it  for  your  text." 

And  the  Christian  poet,  by  the  solemnity  of  his 
subject,  certainly  identifies  himself  with  the  Chris- 
tian preacher;  who,  as  Cowper  elsewhere  re- 
marks, should  be  sparing  of  his  smile.  The  noble 
efl'ect  of  one  of  his  religious  pieces,  in  which  he 
has  scarcely  in  any  instance  descended  to  the 
ludicrous,  proves  the  justice  of  his  own  advice. 
His  "  Expostulation"  is  a  poetical  sermon — an 
eloquent  and  sublime  one.  But  there  is  no  Ho- 
garth-painting in  this  brilliant  Scripture  piece. 
Lastly,  the  ol>jects  of  his  satire  are  sometimes  su 
unskilfully  selected,  as  to  attract  either  a  scanty 
portion  of  our  indignation,  or  none  at  all.  When 
he  exposes  real  vice  and  enormity,  it  is  with  a 
power  that  makes  the  heart  triumph  in  their  ex- 
posure. But  we  are  very  little  interested  by  his 
declamations  on  such  topics  as  the  effeminacy  of 
modern  soldiers;  the  prodigality  of  poor  gentle- 
men giving  cast  clothes  to  their  valets ;  or  the 
finery  of  a  country  girl,  whose  head-dress  is 
"  indebted  to  some  smart  wig-weaver's  hand." 
There  is  also  much  of  the  querulous  laudator 
temporis  acti  in  reporaching  the  English  youths 
of  his  own  day,  who  beat  the  French  in  trials  oi 
horsemanship,  for  not  being  like  their  forefathers, 
who  beat  the  same  people  in  contests  for  crowns, 
as  if  there  were  any  thing  more  laudable  in  meu 


708 


WILLIAM  COWPER. 


butchering  their  fellow-creatures  for  the  purposes 
of  unprincipled  amhition,  than  employing  them- 
selves in  the  rivalship  of  manly  exercise.  One 
would  have  thought  too,  that  the  gentle  recluse 
of  Olney,  who  had  so  often  employed  himself  in 
making  boxes  and  bird-cages,  might  have  had  a 
little  more  indulgence  for  such  as  amuse  them- 
selves with  chess  and  billiards,  than  to  inveigh  so 
bitterly  against  those  pastimes.* 

In  the  mean  time,  while  the  tone  of  his  satire 
becomes  rigid,  that  of  his  poetry  is  apt  to  grow 
relaxed.  The  saintly  and  austere  artist  seems  to 
be  so  much  afraid  of  making  song  a  mere  fasci- 
nation to  the  ear,  that  he  casts,  now  and  then,  a 
little  roughness  into  his  versification,  particularly 
his  rhymes ;  not  from  a  vicious  ear,  but  merely  to 
show  that  he  despises  being  smooth ;  forgetting 
that  our  language  has  no  superfluous  harmony 
to  throw  away,  and  that  the  roughness  of  verse  is 
not  its  strength,  but  its  weakness — the  stagnation 
of  the  stream,  and  not  its  forcible  current.  Ap- 
parently, also,  from  the  fear  of  ostentation  in 
language,  he  occasionally  sinks  his  expression 
into  flatness.  Even  in  his  high-toned  poem  of 
"  Expostulation,"  he  tells  Britain  of  the  time 
when  she  was  a  "  puling  starveling  chit."t 

Considering  the  tenor  and  circumstances  of  his 
life,  it  is  not  much  to  be  wondered  at,  that  some 
asperities  and  peculiarities  should  have  adhered 
to  the  strong  stem  of  his  genius,  like  the  moss 
and  fungus  that  cling  to  some  noble  oak  of  the 
forest,  amid  the  damps  of  its  unsunned  retire- 
ment. It  is  more  surprising  that  he  preserved,  in 
such  seclusion,  so  much  genuine  power  of  comic 
observation.  Though  he  himself  acknowledged 
having  written  "  many  things  with  bile"  in  his 
first  volume,J  yet  his  satire  has  many  legitimate 
objects  :  and  it  is  not  abstracted  and  declamatory 
satire;  but  it  places  human  manners  before  us 
in  the  liveliest  attitudes  and  clearest  colours. 
There  is  much  of  the  full  distinctness  of  Theo- 
phrastus,  and  of  the  nervous  and  concise  spirit  of 
La  Bruye,  in  his  piece  entitled  "  Conversation," 
with  a  cast  of  humour  superadded,  which  is  pecu- 
liarly English,  and  not  to  be  found  out  of  England. 
Nowhere  have  the  sophist — the  dubious  man, 
whose  evidence, 

"For  want  of  prominence  and  jiist  relief, 
Would  bang  an  honest  man,  and  pave  a  thier' — 
Conversation. 

the  solemn  fop,  an  oracle  behind  an  empty  cask-— 
the  sedentary  weaver  of  long  tales — the  emphatic 
speaker, 

•  who  dearly  loves  t'  oppose. 


In  contact  inconvenient,  nose  to  no^e" 

Uonversation. 

nowhere  have  these  characters,  and  all  the  most 
prominent  nuisances  of  colloquial  intercourse, 
together  with  the  bashful  man,  who  is  a  nuisance 
to  himself,  been   more  happily  delineated.     One 

I*  See  "  The  Task,"  B.  vl.  1.  265  to  1. 277.] 
[\  "While  yet  thou  wast  a  groveling  puling  chit. 
Thy  boneii  not  fashiou'd,  and  thy  joints  not  knit." 
Jixpogtulation.] 
It  Southty'*  Oowper,  vol.  i.  p.  261,  and  vol.  ii.  p.  183.] 


species  of  purity  his  satires  possess,  which  is,  that 
they  are  never  personaI.§  To  his  high-minded 
views, 

"  An  individual  was  a  sacred  mark, 
Not  to  be  struck  in  sport,  or  in  the  dark." 

Every  one  knows  from  how  accidental  a  cir- 
cumstance his  greatest  original  work,  "  The 
Task,"  took  its  rise,  namely,  from  his  having  one 
day  complained  to  Lady  Austen  that  he  knew 
not  what  subject  of  poetry  to  choose,  and  her 
Ijaving  told  him  to  take  her  sofa  as  a  theme. 
The  mock-heroic  commencement  of  "  The  Task" 
has  been  censured  as  a  blemish. ||  The  general 
taste,  I  believe,  does  not  find  it  so.  Mr.  Hayley's 
commendation  of  his  art  of  transition  may,  in 
this  instance,  be  fairly  admitted,  for  he  quits  his 
ludicrous  history  of  the  sofa,  and  glides  into  a 
description  of  other  objects,  by  an  easy  and  na- 
tural association  of  thoughts.  His  whimsical 
outset  in  a  work  where  he  promises  so  little  and 
performs  so  much,  may  even  be  advantageously 
contrasted  with  those  magnificent  commencements 
of  poems  which  pledge  both  the  reader  and  the 
writer,  in  good  earnest,  to  a  task.  Cowper's 
poem,  on  the  contrary,  is  like  a  river,  which  rises 
from  a  playful  little  fountain,  and  which  gathers 
beauty  and  magnitude  as  it  proceeds. 

"  velut  tenui  nascens  de  fomite  rivus 


Per  tacitas,  primum  nuUo  cum  murmure,  valles 
Serpit ;  et  ut  patrii  se  sensim  e  margiue  fontis 
Largius  effudit;  pluvios  modo  colligit  imbres, 
Et  postquam  spatio  vires  accepit  et  undas,"  &c 

Bdchanan. 

He  leads  us  abroad  into  his  daily  walks ;  he  ex- 
hibits the  landscapes  which  he  was  accustomed 
to  contemplate,  and  the  trains  of  thought  in  which 
he  habitually  indulged.  No  attempt  is  made  to 
interest  us  in  legendary  fictions,  or  historical  re- 
collections connected  with  the  ground  over  which 
he  expatiates;  all  is  plainness  and  reality;  but 
we  instantly  recognise  the  true  poet,  in  the  clear- 
ness, sweetness,  and  fidelity  of  his  scenic  draughts; 
in  his  power  of  giving  novelty  to  what  is  com- 
mon;  and  in  the  high  relish,  the  exquisite  en- 
joyment of  rural  sights  and  sounds  which  he 
communicates  to  the  spirit.  "  His  eyes  drink  the 
rivers  with  delight."ir  He  excites  an  idea,  that 
almost  amounts  to  sensation,  of  the  freshness  and 


§  A  single  exception  may  be  made  to  this  remark,  in  the 
instance  of  Occiduus,  whose  musical  S^unday  parties  he  re- 
prehended, and  wlio  was  known  to  mean  the  Kev.  G.  Wes- 
ley.   [See  "  The  Progress  of  Error." 

"  Beneath  well-sounding  Greek 
I  slur  a  name  a  poet  must  not  speak." — Hope."] 
I  kbow  not  to  whom  he  alludes  in  these  lines, 

"  Nor  he  who,  for  the  bane  of  thousands  bom, 
Built  God  a  church,  and  Inugh'd  His  word  to  scorn." 

["The  Calvinist  meant  Voltaire,  and  the  church  of 
Ferney,  with  its  inscription,  Den  erexit  Voltaire." — Bybon. 
Wori.s  vol.  xvi.  p.  124.  See  also  Soatlw.y's  Cowjxv,  vol.  viii. 
p.  305.] 

II  In  the  Edinburgh  Review.  [The  fox-hunting  scene 
in  Thomson's  Autumn  wa«  cut  away  by  Lord  Lyttelton 
from  every  edition  of  "  The  Seasons"  between  1750  and 
1762,  when  Murdoch  restored  the  scene  to  its  proper  posi- 
tion. Lyttelton  thought  that  an  imitation  of  Philipg  was 
not  in  keeping  with  the  tone  of  the  poem.] 

f  An  expression  In  one  of  his  le'^ters. 


WILLIAM    COWPER. 


709 


delight  of  a  rural  walk,  even  when  he  leads  us  to 
the  wasteful  common,  which, 

"  overgrown  with  fern,  and  rough 

With  prickly  goes,  that,  shapeless  and  deform. 
And  dangerous  to  the  touch,  has  yet  its  bloom 
And  decks  itself  with  ornaments  of  gold. 
Yields  no  unpleasing  ramble ;  there  the  turf 
Smells  fresh,  and,  rich  in  odoriferous  herbs 
And  fungous  fruits  of  earth,  regales  the  sense 
With  luxury  of  unexpected  sweets." 

3%e  Task,  B.  L 

His  rural  prospects  have  far  less  variety  and 
compass  than  those  of  Thomson ;  but  his  graphic 
touches  are  more  close  and  minute:  not  that 
Thomson  was  either  deficient  or  undeiightful  in 
circumstantial  traits  of  the  beauty  of  nature,  but 
he  looked  to  her  as  a  whole  more  than  Cowper. 
His  genius  was  more  excursive  and  philosophical. 
The  poet  of  Olney,  on  the  contrary,  regarded 
human  philosophy  with  something  of  theological 
contempt.  To  his  eye,  the  great  and  little  things 
of  this  world  were  levelled  into  an  equality,  by 
his  recollection  of  the  power  and  purposes  of  Him 
who  made  them.  They  are,  in  his  view,  only  as 
toys  spread  on  the  lap  and  carpet  of  nature,  for 
the  childhood  of  our  immortal  being.  This  reli- 
gious indifference  to  the  world,  is  far,  indeed, 
from  blunting  bis  sensibility  to  the  genuine  and 
simple  beauties  of  creation  ;  but  it  gives  his  taste 
a  contentment  and  fellowship  with  humble  things. 
It  makes  him  careless  of  selecting  and  refining 
his  views  of  nature,  beyond  their  casual  appear- 
ance. He  contemplated  the  face  of  plain  rural 
English  life,  in  moments  of  leisure  and  sensi- 
bility, till  its  minutest  features  were  impressed 
upon  his  fancy  ;  and  he  sought  not  to  embellish 
what  he  loved.  Hence  his  landscapes  have  less 
of  the  ideally  beautiful  than  Thomson's;  but 
they  have  an  unrivalled  charm  of  truth  and 
reality. 

The  flat  country  where  he  resided  certainly 
exhibited  none  of  those  wilder  graces  of  nature 
which  he  had  sufficient  genius  to  have  delineated; 
and  yet  there  are  perhaps  few  romantic  descrip- 
tions of  rocks,  precipices,  and  torrents,  which  we 
should  prefer  to  the  calm  English  character  and 
familiar  repose  of  the  following  landscape.  It  is 
in  the  finest  manner  of  Cowper,  and  unites  all 
his  accustomed  fidelity  and  distinctness  with  a 
softness  and  delicacy  which  are  not  always  to  be 
found  in  his  specimens  of  the  picturesque. 

"  How  oft  upon  yon  eminence  our  pace 
Has  slaekenM  to  a  pause,  and  we  have  borne 
The  ruflting  wind,  scarce  conscious  that  it  blew, 
While  Admiration,  feeding  at  the  eye. 
And  still  unsated,  dwelt  upon  the  scene. 
Thence  with  what  pleasure  have  we  just  dlscem'd 
The  distant  plough  slow  moving,  and  beside 
His  lab'ring  team,  that  swerved  not  from  the  track. 
The  sturdy  swain  diminisb'd  to  a  boy  )X 

[{  "  Yon  tall  anchoring  bark 

Diminish'd  to  her  cock,  her  cock  a  buoy 
Almost  too  small  for  sight." — King  Leur. 
The  origin.al  of  Cowper's  line, 

"Qod  made  the  country  and  man  made  the  town," 

Tlie  Task. 
is  not  in  Hawkins  Browne,  as  Cowper's  friend  Rose  imv 
gined,  but  in  Cowley : 
"God  the  first  garden  made,  and  the  first  city  Cain" — 
Rifays. — T/ie  Garden. 


Here  Ouse,  slow  winding  through  a  level  plain 
Of  spacious  meads  with  cattle  sprinkled  o'er. 
Conducts  the  eye  along  his  sinuous  course. 
Delighted.    There,  fiuit  rooted  in  their  bank. 
Stand,  never  overlook'd,  our  fiiv'rite  elms. 
That  screen  the  herdsman's  solitary  liut; 
While  far  beyond,  and  overthwart  the  stream, 
That,  as  with  molten  glass,  inlays  the  viUe, 
The  sloping  land  recedes  into  the  clouds; 
Displaying  on  its  varied  side  the  grace 
Of  hedge-row  beauties  'numberless,  square  tower. 
Tall  spire,  from  which  the  sound  of  cheerful  bells 
Just  undulates  upon  the  listening  ear, 
0  roves,  heaths,  and  smoking  villages,  remote." 

The  l\isk,  B.  L 

The  whole  scene  is  so  defined,  that  one  longs  to 
see  it  transferred  to  painting. 

He  is  one  of  the  few  poets  who  have  indulged 
neither  in  descriptions  nor  acknowledgments  of 
the  passion  of  love  ;  but  there  is  no  poet  who  has 
given  us  a  finer  conception  of  the  amenity  of  fe- 
male influence.  Of  all  the  verses  that  have  beeit 
ever  devoted  to  the  subject  of  domestic  happiness, 
those  in  his  Winter  Evening,  at  the  opening  of 
the  fourth  book  of  »'  The  Task,"  are  perhaps  the 
most  beautiful.  In  perusing  that  scene  of  "inti- 
mate delights,"  "fireside  enjoyments,"  and  "home- 
born  happiness,"  we  seem  to  recover  a  part  of 
the  forgotten  value  of  existence,  when  we  recog- 
nise the  means  of  its  blessedness  so  widely  dis- 
pensed and  so  cheaply  attainable,  and  find  them 
susceptible  of  description  at  once  so  enchanting 
and  so  faithful 

Though  the  scenes  of  «  The  Task"  are  laid  in 
retirement,  the  poem  affords  an  amusing  per- 
spective of  human  affairs.f  Remote  as  the  poet 
was  from  the  stir  of  the  great  Babel — from  the 
" confusee  sonus  urbis  el  illatabile  murmur"  he 
glances  at  most  of  the  subjects  of  public  interest 
which  engaged  the  attention  of  his  contempo- 
raries. On  those  subjects,  it  is  but  faint  praise 
to  say,  that  he  espoused  the  side  of  justice  and 
humanity.  Abundance  of  mediocrity  of  talent 
is  to  be  found  on  the  same  side,  rather  injuring 
than  promoting  the  cause,  by  its  officious  decla- 
mation. But  nothing  can  l>e  further  from  the 
stale  common-place  and  cuckooism  of  sentiment, 
than  the  philanthropic  eloquence  of  Cowper — he 
speaks  "  like  one  having  authority."  Society  is 
his  debtor.  Poetical  expositions  of  the  horrors 
of  slavery  may,  indeed,  seem  very  unlikely  agents 
in  contributing  to  destroy  it;  and  it  is  possible 
that  the  most  refined  planter  in  the  West  Indies 
may  look,  with  neither  shame  nor  compunction, 
on  his  own  image  in  the  pages  of  Cowper,  ex- 
posed as  a  being  degraded  by  giving  stripes  and 
tasks  to  his  fellow-creature.  But  such  appeals  to 
the  heart  of  the  community  are  not  lost.  They 
fix  themselves  silently  in  the  popular  memory, 
and  they  become,  at  last,  a  part  of  that  public 

a  more  vigorous  though  a  quainter  line.  This  is  not 
among  the  parallel  passages  produced  by  .Mr.  I'enoe,  and 
printed  in  Mr.  ."^uthey's  edition  of  Cowper.  (See  vol.  vL 
p.  227,  and  vol.  ix.  p.  92.)  Is  this  a  resemblance  or  a 
theft?  Cowley's  thought  oould  take  no  other  shane  in 
Cowper's  mind.] 

I*  Is  not  "The  Task"  a  glorious  poem?  The  religion  of 
"'The  Task."  bating  a  few  scraps  of  Calvinistic  Jivinity,  Is 
the  religion  of  Cioii  and  .Nature;  the  religion  that  exalts 
and  eniii>bles  man. — Bukns,  to  Mrs.  Durdop,  23(A  Deeem' 
ber,  1796.1 

SK 


710 


WILLIAM  COWPER. 


opinion  which  must,  sooner  or  later,  wrench  the 
lash  from  the  hand  of  the  oppressor. 

I  should  have  ventured  to  offer  a  few  remarks 
on  the  shorter  poems  of  Cowper,  as  well  as  on 
his  translation  of  Homer,  if  I  had  not  been  fear- 
ful, not  only  of  trespassing  on  the  reader's  pa- 
tience, but  on  the  boundaries  which  I  have  been 
obliged  to  prespribe  to  myself,  in  the  length  of 
these  notices.     There  are  many  zealous  admirers 


of  the  poet,  who  will  possibly  refuse  all  quarter 
to  the  observations  on  his  defects,  which  I  have 
freely  made  ;  but  there  are  few  who  have  read 
him,  I  conceive,  who  have  been  so  slightly  de- 
lighted, as  to  think  I  have  over-rated  his  descrip- 
tions of  external  nature,  his  transcripts  of  human 
manners,  or  his  powers,  as  a  moral  poet,  of  incul- 
cating those  truths  and  affections  which  make 
the  heart  feel  itself  better  and  more  happy.* 


FROM   "THE  TASK." 


Colonnades  commended — Alcove,  and  the  view  from  it — 
The  Wilderness — The  Grove — The  Thresher — The  neoes- 
sity  and  benefits  of  Exercise. 

Not  distant  far,  a  length  of  colonnade 
Invites  us.     Monument  of  ancient  taste. 
Now  scorn'd,  but  worthy  of  a  better  fate. 
Our  fathers  knew  the  value  of  a  screen 
From  sultry  suns  :  and,  in  their  shaded  walks 
And  long-protracted  bowers,  enjoy'd  at  noon 
The  gloom  and  coolness  of  declining  day. 
We  bear  our  shades  about  us :  self-deprived 
Of  other  screen,  the  thin  umbrella  spread, 
And  range  an  India  waste  without  a  tree. 
Thanks  to  Benevolus — he  spares  me  yet 
These  chestnuts  ranged  in  corresponding  lines; 
And,  though  himself  so  polish'd,  still  reprieves 
The  obsolete  prolixity  of  shade. 

Descending  now  (but*  cautious  lest  too  fast) 
A  sudden  steep  upon  a  rustic  bridge. 
We  pass  a  gulf,  in  which  the  willows  dip 
Their  pendent  boughs,  stooping  as  if  to  drink. 
Hence,  ancle-deep  in  moss  and  flowery  thyme, 
We  mount  again,  and  feel  at  every  step 
Our  foot  half  sunk  in  hillocks  green  and  soft, 
Raised  by  the  mole,  the  miner  of  the  soil. 
He,  not  unlike  the  great  ones  of  mankind, 
Disfigures  earth  :  and  plotting  in  the  dark, 
Toils  much  to  earn  a  monumental  pile. 
That  may  record  the  mischiefs  he  has  done. 

The  summit  gain'd,  behold  the  proud  alcove 
That  crowns  it !  yet  not  all  its  pride  secures 
The  grand  retreat  from  injuries  impress'd 
By  rural  carvers,  who  with  knives  deface 
The  pannels,  leaving  an  obscure,  rude  name, 
In  characters  uncouth,  and  spelt  amiss. 
So  strong  the  zeal  t'  immortalize  himself 
Beats  in  the  breast  of  man.  that  even  a  few. 
Few  transient  years,  won  from  the  abyss  abhorr'd 
Of  blank  oblivion,  seem  a  glorious  prize, 

[*  Cowper  is,  as  he  deserves  to  be,  the  most  popular 
poet  of  his  age.  IIU  translation  of  Homer  is  the  be.st 
English  version ;  nor  is  it  likely  that  a  better  can  ever  be 
produced,  because  it  represents  the  original  failhl'ully  and 
fully,  except  in  that  magnificent  measure  for  which 
noliiing  either  like  or  equivalent  in  this  case  can  be  sub- 
stituted in  our  language.  The  letters  have  a  charm  which 
is  never  attained  in  those  that  are  written  with  the  re- 
motest view  to  publiciition :  they  come  from  the  heart, 
and  therefore  they  find  the  way  to  it. — SouTHtY,  Prospe.clits 
'o  Cmcpe.r's  Wrks. 

Tjord  Byron  speaks  of  Cnwper  as  a  writer,  but  no  poet; 
«ii'l  talks  of  his  Dutch  delineation  of  a  wood,  drawn  up 


And  even  to  a  clown.     Now  roves  the  eye ; 
And,  posted  on  this  speculative  height, 
Exults  in  its  command.     The  sheepfold  here 
Pours  out  its  fleecy  tenants  o'er  the  glebe. 
At  first  progressive  as  a  stream,  they  seek 
The  middle  ;  but  scatter'd  by  degrees. 
Each  to  his  choice,  soon  whiten  all  the  land. 
There    from   the   sunburnt    hayfield   homeward 

creeps 
The  loaded  wain  ;  while  lighten'd  of  its  charge, 
The  wain  that  meets  it  passes  swiftly  by ; 
The  boorish  driver  leaning  o'er  his  team 
Vociferous,  and  impatient  of  delay. 
Nor  less  attractive  is  the  woodland  scene, 
Diversified  with  trees  of  every  growth. 
Alike,  yet  various.     Here  the  gray  smooth  trunks 
Of  ash,  or  Hme,  or  beech,  distinctly  shine. 
Within  the  twilight  of  their  distant  shades; 
There,  lost  behind  a  rising  ground,  the  wood 
Seems  sunk  and  shorten'd  to  its  topmost  boughs. 
No  tree  in  all  the  grove  but  has  its  charms. 
Though  each  its  hue  peculiar ;  paler  some. 
And  of  a  wannish  gray  ;  the  willow  such. 
And  poplar,  that  with  silver  lines  his  leaf, 
And  ash  far-stretching  his  umbrageous  arm  ; 
Of  deeper  green  the  elm  ;  and  deeper  still. 
Lord  of  the  woods,  the  long-surviving  oak. 
Some  glossy-leaved,  and  shining  in  the  sun. 
The  maple,  and  the  beech  of  oily  nuts 
Prolific,  and  the  lime  at  dewy  eve 
Diffusing  odours  :  nor  unnoted  pass 
The  sycamore,  capricious  in  attire. 
Now  green,  now  tawny,  and,  ere  autumn  yet 
Have  changed  the  woods,  in  scarlet  honours  brighu 
O'er  these,  but  far  beyond,  (a  spacious  map 
Of  hill  and  valley  interposed  between,) 
The  Ouse,  dividing  the  well-water'd  land. 
Now  glitters  in  the  sun,  and  now  retires. 
As  bashful,  yet  impatient  to  be  seen. 

Hence  the  declivity  is  sharp  and  short, 
And  such  the  re-ascent ;  between  them  weeps 
A  little  naiad  her  impoverish'd  urn 

like  a  seedsman's  catalogue.  Still  stranger  than  this,  ho 
asks  if  any  human  render  ever  succeeded  in  reading  his 
Homer.  Many,  we  would  answer,  have  succeeded  in  read- 
ing the  Homer  of  this  maniacal  Gilvinint  and  coddled  pnet, 
as  he  is  called  in  another  place  by  Lord  Byron.  It  is  to 
be  regretted  that  Mr.  Campbell  has  not  given  his  opinion 
of  Pope's  Homer  in  comparison  with  Cowper  and  with  the 
original.  In  his  memoir  of  Mickle,  he  has.  however,  casu- 
ally remarked  that  i'ope  has  departed  widely  from  the 
majestic  simplicity  of  the  Greek,  and  has  given  us  the 
shakes  and  floui  ishiugs  of  the  fJute  for  the  deep  sounds 
of  the  trumpet.] 


WILLIAM   COWPER. 


711 


All  summer  long,  which  winter  fills  again. 
The  folded  gates  would  bar  my  progress  now, 
But  that  the  lord  of  this  enclosed  demesne, 
Communicative  of  the  good  he  owns. 
Admits  me  to  a  share  ;  the  guiltless  eye 
Commits  no  wrong,  nor  wastes  what  it  enjoys. 
Refreshing  change  !  where  now  the  blazing  sun  ! 
By  short  transition  we  have  lost  his  glare, 
And  stepp'd  at  once  into  a  cooler  clime. 
Ye  fallen  avenues!  once  more  I  mourn 
Your  fate  unmerited,  once  more  rejoice. 
That  yet  a  remnant  of  your  race  survives. 
How  airy  and  how  light  the  graceful  arch, 
Yet  awful  as  the  consecrated  roof 
Re-echoing  pious  anthems !  while  beneath 
The  checker'd  earth  seems  restless  as  a  flood 
Brush'd  by  the  wind.     So  sportive  is  the  light 
Shot  through  the  boughs,  it  dances  as  they  dance, 
Shadow  and  sunshine  intermingling  quick. 
And  darkening  and  enlightening,  as  the  leaves 
Play  wanton,  every  moment,  every  spot. 

And  now  with  nerves  new-braced  and  spirita 
cheer'd 
We  tread  the  wilderness,  whose  well-roll'd  walks. 
With  curvature  of  slow  and  easy  sweep — 
Deception  innocent — give  ample  space 
To  narrow  bounds.    The  grove  receives  us  next; 
Between  the  upright  shafts  of  whose  tall  elms 
We  may  discern  the  thresher  at  his  task. 
Thump  afler  thump  resounds  the  constant  flail. 
That  seems  to  swing  uncertain,  and  yet  falls 
Full  oa  the  destined  ear.      Wide  flies  the  chaff. 
The  rustling  straw  sends  up  a  frequent  mist 
Of  atoms,  sparkling  in  the  noonday  beam. 
Come  hither,  ye  that  press  your  beds  of  down. 
And  sleep  not ;  see  him  sweating  o'er  his  bread 
Before  he  eats  it. — 'Tis  the  primal  curse. 
But  soften'd  into  mercy ;  made  the  pledge 
Of  cheerful  days,  and  nights  without  a  groan. 

By  ceaseless  action  all  that  is  subsists. 
Constant  rotation  of  the  unwearied  wheel, 
That  Nature  rides  upon,  maintains  her  health. 
Her  beauty,  her  fertility.     She  dreads 
An  instant's  pause,  and  lives  but  while  she  moves. 
Its  own  revolvency  upholds  the  World. 
Winds  from  all  quarters  agitate  the  air, 
And  fit  the  limpid  element  for  use, 
Else  noxious ;  oceans,  rivers,  lakes,  and  streams. 
All  feel  the  freshening  impulse,  and  are  cleansed 
By  restless  undulation  :  even  the  oak 
'i'hrives  by  the  rude  concussion  of  the  storm: 
He  seems  indeed  indignant,  and  to  feel 
The  impression  of  the  blast  with  proud  disdain, 
Frowning,  as  if  in  his  unconscious  arm 
He  held  the  thunder ;  but  the  monarch  owes 
His  firm  stability  to  what  he  scorns. 
More  fix'd  below,  the  more  disturb'd  above. 
The  law  by  which  all  creatures  else  are  bound, 
Binds  man,  the  lord  of  all.     Himself  derives 
No  mean  advantage  from  a  kindred  cause, 
From  strenuous  toil  his  hours  of  sweetest  ease. 
The  sedentary  stretch  their  lazy  length 
When  custom  bids,  but  no  refreshment  find. 
For  none  they  need ;  the  languid  eye,  the  cheek 
Deserted  of  its  bloom,  the  flaccid,  shrunk. 


And  wither'd  muscle,  and  the  vapid  soul, 
Reproach  their  owner  with  that  love  of  rest, 
To  which  he  forfeits  even  the  rest  he  loves. 
Not  such  the  alert  and  active.     Measure  life 
By  its  true  worth,  the  comforts  it  affords, 
And  theirs  alone  seems  worthy  of  the  name. 
Good  health,  and,  its  associate  in  the  most. 
Good  temper;  spirits  prompt  to  undertake, 
And  not  soon  spent,  though  in  an  arduous  task , 
The  powers  of  fancy   and  strong  thought   are 

theirs ; 
Even  age  itself  seems  privileged  in  them 
With  clear  exemption  from  its  own  defects. 
A  sparkling  eye  beneath  a  wrinkled  front 
The  veteran  shows,  and,  gracing  a  gray  beard 
With  youthful  smiles,  descends  toward  the  grave 
Sprightly,  and  old  almost  without  decay. 


OPENING  OF  THE  SECOND  BOOK  OF  "THE  TASK." 

Oh  for  a  lodge  in  some  vast  wilderness, 
Some  boundless  contiguity  of  shade, 
Where  rumour  of  oppression  and  deceit. 
Of  unsuccessful  or  successful  war. 
Might  never  reach  me  more.     My  ear  is  pain'd. 
My  soul  is  sick,  with  every  day's  report 
Of  wrong  and  outrage,  with  which  earth  is  fill'A 
There  is  no  flesh  in  man's  obdurate  heart, 
It  does  not  feel  for  man  ;  the  natural  bond 
Of  brotherhood  is  sever'd  as  the  flax, 
That  falls  asunder  at  the  touch  of  fire. 
He  finds  his  fellow  guilty  of  a  skin 
Not  colour'd  like  his  own ;  and  having  power 
T'  enforce  the  wrong,  for  such  a  worthy  cause 
Dooms  and  devotes  him  as  his  lawful  prey. 
Lands  intersected  by  a  narrow  frith 
Abhor  each  other.     Mountains  interposed 
Make  enemies  of  nations,  whf>  had  else. 
Like  kindred  drops,  been  mingled  into  one. 
Thus  man  devotes  his  brother,  and  destroys; 
And,  worse  than  all,  and  most  to  be  deplored 
As  human  nature's  broadest,  foulest  blot. 
Chains  him,  and  tasks  him,  and  exacts  his  sweat 
With  stripes,  that  Mercy  with  a  bleeding  heart 
Weeps,  when  she  sees  inflicted  on  a  beast. 
Then  what  is  man  T     And  what  man,  seeing  this, 
And  having  human  feeling,  does  not  blush,    ' 
And  hang  his  head,  to  think  himself  a  man? 
I  would  not  have  a  slave  to  till  my  ground. 
To  carry  me,  to  fan  me  while  I  sleep. 
And  tremble  when  I  wake,  for  all  the  wealth 
That  sinews  bought  and  sold  have  ever  earn'd. 
No :  dear  as  freedom  is,  and  in  my  heart's 
Just  estimation  prized  above  all  price, 
I  had  much  rather  be  myself  the  slave. 
And  wear  the  bonds,  than  fasten  them  on  him. 
We  have  no  slaves  at  home — Then  why  abroad } 
And  they  themselves  once  ferried  o'er  the  wave 
That  parts  us,  are  emancipate  and  loosed. 
Slaves  cannot  breathe  in  England ;  if  their  lung* 
Receive  our  air,  that  moment  they  are  free; 
They  touch  our  country,  and  their  shackles  fall. 
That's  noble,  and  bespeaks  a  nation  proud 


712 


WILLIAM   COWPER. 


And  jealius  of  the  blessing.     Spread  it  then, 
And  let  i;  circulate  through  every  vein 
Of  all  your  empire ;  that,  where  Britain's  power 
Is  felt,  mankind  may  feel  her  mercy  too. 


FROM  BOOK  rV. 

Arrival  of  the  Post  In  a  Winter  Evening— The  Newspaper 
— The  World  contemplated  at  a  distance — Address  to 
Winter — The  rural  Amusements  of  a  Winter  Evening 
compared  with  fashionable  ones. 

Hark  !  'tis  the  twanging  horn  o'er  yonder  bridge, 
That  with  its  wearisome  but  needful  length 
Bestrides  the  wintry  flood,  in  which  the  moon 
Sees  her  unwrinkled  face  reflected  bright; — 
He  comes  the  herald  of  a  noisy  world. 
With  spatter'd  boots,  strapp'd  waist,  and  frozen 

locks ; 
News  from  all  nations  lumbering  at  his  back. 
True  to  his  charge,  the  close-pack'd  load  behind, 
Yet  careless  what  he  brings,  his  one  concern 
Is  to  conduct  it  to  the  destined  inn ; 
And,  having  dropp'd  the  expected  bag,  pass  on. 
He  whistles  as  he  goes,  light-hearted  wretch. 
Cold,  and  yet  cheerful :  messenger  of  grief 
Perhaps  to  thousands,  and  of  joy  to  some ; 
To  liim  indifferent  whether  grief  or  joy. 
Houses  in  ashes,  and  the  fall  of  stocks. 
Births,  deaths,  and  marriages,  epistles  wet 
With  tears,  that  trickled  down  the  writer's  cheeks 
Fast  as  the  periods  from  his  fluent  quill, 
Or  charged  with  amorous  sighs  of  absent  swains, 
Or  nymphs  responsive,  equally  affect 
His  horse  and  him,  unconscious  of  them  all. 
But  oh  the  important  budget !  usher'd  in 
With  such  heart-shaking  music,  who  can  say 
What  are  its  tidings  1   have  our  troops  awaked  1 
Or  do  they  still,  as  if  with  opium  drugg'd. 
Snore  to  the  murmurs  of  the  Atlantic  wave  1 
Is  India  free  1  and  does  she  wear  her  plumed 
And  jewell'd  turban  with  a  smile  of  peace. 
Or  do  we  grind  her  still  1     The  grand  debate, 
The  popular  harangue,  the  tart  reply. 
The  logic,  and  the  wisdom,  and  the  wit, 
And  the  loud  laugh — I  long  to  know  them  all ; 
I  burn  to  set  the  imprison'd  wranglers  free. 
And  give  them  voice  and  utterance  once  again. 

Now  stir  the  fire,  and  close  the  shutters  fast, 
Let  fall  the  curtains,  wheel  the  sofa  round, 
And  while  the  bubbling  and  loud  hissing  urn 
Throws  up  a  steamy  column,  and  the  cups, 
That  cheer  but  not  inebriate,  wait  on  each, 
So  let  us  welcome  peaceful  evening  in. 
Not  such  his  evening,  who  with  shining  face 
Sweats  in  the  crowded  theatre,  and,  squeezed 
And  bored  with  elbow-points  through  both  his 

sides, 
Outscolds  the  ranting  actor  on  the  stage : 
Nor  his,  who  patient  stands  till  his  feet  throb. 
And  his  head  thumps,  to  feed  upon  the  breath 
Of  patriots,  bursting  with  heroic  rage. 
Or  placemen,  all  tranquillity  and  smiles. 
This  folio  of  four  pages,  happy  work  ! 
Which  not  even  critics  criticise ;  that  holds 
Inquisitive  attention,  while  T  read, 


Fast  bound  in  chains  of  silence,  which  the  fair, 

Though  eloquent  themselves,  yet  fear  to  break; 

What  is  it,  but  a  map  of  busy  life. 

Its  fluctuations,  and  its  vast  concerns  1 

Here  runs  the  mountainous  and  craggy  ridge, 

That  tempts  Ambition.    On  the  summit  see 

The  seals  of  office  glitter  in  his  eyes  ; 

He  climbs,  he  pants,  he  grasps  them !  At  his  heels, 

Close  at  his  heels,  a  demagogue  ascends. 

And  with  a  dexterous  jerk  soon  twists  him  down, 

And  wins  them,  but  to  lose  them  in  his  turn. 

Here  rills  of  oily  eloquence  in  soil 

Meanders  lubricate  the  course  they  take : 

The  modest  speaker  is  ashamed  and  grieved 

To  engross  a  moment's  notice;  and  yet  begs, 

Begs  a  propitious  ear  for  his  poor  thoughts. 

However  trivial  all  that  he  conceives. 

Sweet  bashfulness !  it  claims  at  least  this  praise ; 

The  dearth  of  information  and  good  sense. 

That  it  foretells  us,  always  comes  to  pass. 

Cataracts  of  declamation  thunder  here  ; 

There  forests  of  no  meaning  spread  the  page, 

In  which  all  comprehension  wanders  lost ; 

While  fields  of  pleasantry  amuse  us  there 

With  merry  descants  on  a  nation's  woes. 

The  rest  appears  a  wilderness  of  strange 

But  gay  confusion ;  roses  for  the  cheeks. 

And  lilies  for  the  brows  of  faded  age. 

Teeth  for  the  toothless,  ringlets  for  the  bald ; 

Heaven,  earth,  and  ocean,  plunder'd  of  their  sweets ; 

Nectareous  essences,  Olympian  dews. 

Sermons,  and  city  feasts,  and  fav'rite  airs, 

iEthereal  journeys,  submarine  exploits, 

And  Katerfelto,  with  his  hair  on  end 

At  his  own  wonders,  wondering  for  his  bread. 

"J'is  pleasant  through  the  loopholes  of  retreat. 
To  peep  at  such  a  world ;  to  see  the  stir 
Of  the  great  Babel,  and  not  feel  the  crowd ; 
To  hear  the  roar  she  sends  through  all  her  gates 
At  a  safe  distance,  where  the  dying  sound 
Falls  a  sofl  murmur  on  the  uninjured  ear. 
Thus  sitting,  and  surveying  thus  at  ease 
The  globe  and  its  concerns,  I  seem  advanced 
To  some  secure  and  more  than  mortal  height, 
That  liberates  and  exempts  me  from  them  all. 
It  turns  submitted  to  my  view,  turns  round 
With  all  its  generations :  I  behold 
The  tumult,  and  am  still.     The  sound  of  war 
Has  lost  its  terrors  ere  it  reaches  me ; 
Grieves,  but  alarms  me  not.     I  mourn  the  pride 
And  avarice,  that  make  man  a  wolf  to  man ; 
Hear  the  faint  echo  of  those  brazen  throats. 
By  which  he  speaks  the  language  of  his  heart. 
And  sigh,  but  never  tremble,  at  the  sound. 
He  travels  and  expatiates,  as  the  bee 
From  flower  to  flower,  so  he  from  land  to  land ; 
The  manners,  customs,  policy,  of  all 
Pay  contribution  to  the  store  he  gleans ; 
He  sucks  intelligence  in  every  chme. 
And  spreads  the  honey  of  his  deep  research 
At  his  return — a  rich  repast  for  me. 
He  travels,  and  I  too.     I  tread  his  deck. 
Ascend  his  top-mast,  through  his  peering  eyes 
Discover  countries,  with  a  kindred  heart 
Suffer  his  woes,  and  share  in  his  escapes  ;* 


WILLIAM  COWPER. 


713 


While  fancy,  like  the  finger  of  a  clock, 
Runs  the  great  circuit,  and  is  still  at  home. 

0  Winter,  ruler  of  the  inverted  year. 
Thy  scatter'd  hair  with  sleet  like  ashes  fill'd, 
Thy  breath  congeal'd  upon  thy  lips,  thy  cheeks 
Fringed  with  a  beard  made  white  with  other  snows 
Than  those  of  age,  thy  forehead  wrapp'd  in  clouds, 
A  leafless  branch  thy  sceptre,  and  thy  throne 
A  sliding  car,  indebted  to  no  wheels. 
But  urged  by  storms  along  its  slippery  way, 
I  love  thee,  all  unlovely  as  thou  seem'st, 
And  dreaded  as  thou  art!     Thou  hold'st  the  sun 
A  pris'ner  in  the  yet  undawning  east. 
Shortening  his  journey  between  morn  and  noon, 
And  hurrying  him,  impatient  of  his  stay, 
Down  to  the  rosy  west ;  but  kindly  still 
Compensating  his  loss  with  added  hours 
Of  social  converse  and  instructive  ease, 
And  gathering,  at  short  notice,  in  one  group, 
The  family  dispersed,  and  fixing  thought. 
Not  less  dispersed  by  daylight  and  its  cares. 
I  crown  thee  king  of  intimate  delights. 
Fireside  enjoyments,  home-born  happiness. 
And  all  the  comforts  that  the  lowly  roof 
Of  undisturb'd  Retirement,  and  the  hours 
Of  long  uninterrupted  evening  know. 
No  rattling  wheels  stop  short  before  these  gates ; 
No  powder'd  pert,  proficient  in  the  art 
Of  sounding  an  alarm,  assaults  these  doors 
Till  the  street  rings ;  no  stationary  steeds 
Cough  their  own  knell,  while,  heedless  of  the  sound, 
The  silent  circle  fan  themselves,  and  quake : 
But  here  the  needle  plies  its  busy  task, 
The  pattern  grows,  the  well-depicted  flower, 
Wrought  patiently  into  the  snowy  lawn, 
Unfolds  its  bosom  ;  buds,  and  leaves,  and  sprigs. 
And  curling  tendrils,  gracefully  disposed, 
Follow  the  nimble  finger  of  the  fair ; 
A  wreath,  that  cannot  fade,  of  flowers  that  blow 
With  most  success  when  all  besides  decay. 
The  poet's  or  historian's  page  by  one 
Made  vocal  for  the  amusement  of  the  rest ; 
The  sprightly  lyre,  whose  treasure  of  sweet  sounds 
The  touch  from  many  a  trembling  chord  shakes  out; 
And  the  clear  voice  symphonious,  yet  distinct. 
And  in  the  charming  strife  triumphant  still; 
Beguile  the  night,  and  set  a  keener  edge 
On  female  industry  :  the  threaded  steel 
Flies  swiftly,  and  unfelt  the  task  proceeds. 
The  volume  closed,  the  custoniary  rites 
Of  the  last  meal  commence.     A  Roman  meal : 
Such  as  the  mistress  of  the  world  once  found 
Delicious,  when  her  patriots  of  high  note. 
Perhaps  by  moonlight,  at  their  humble  doors, 
And  under  an  old  oak's  domestic  shade, 
Enjoy'd,  spare  feast!  a  radish  and  an  egg. 
Discourse  ensues,  not  trivial,  yet  not  dull. 
Nor  such  as  with  a  frown  forbids  the  play 
Of  fancy,  or  proscribes  the  sound  of  mirth : 
Nor  do  we  madly,  like  an  im]>iou8  world. 
Who"  deem  religion  frenzy,  and  the  God, 
That  made  them,  an  intruder  on  their  joys. 
Start  at  his  awful  name,  or  deem  his  praise 
A  jarring  note.    Themes  of  a  graver  tone, 
Exciting  oft  our  gratitude  and  love, 
90 


While  we  retrace  with  Memory's  pointing  wand. 

That  calls  the  past  to  our  exact  review, 

The  dangers  we  have  'scaped,  the  broken  snare, 

The  disappointed  foe,  deliverance  found 

Unlook'd  for,  life  preserved,  and  peace  restored. 

Fruits  of  omnipotent,  eternal  love. 

Oh,  evenings  worthy  of  the  gods  !  exclaim'd 

The  Sabine  bard.     Oh,  evenings,  I  reply. 

More  to  be  prized  and  coveted  than  yours, 

As  more  illumined,  and  with  nobler  truths. 

That  I,  and  mine,  and  those  we  love,  enjoy. 


FROM  BOOK  VI. 

Bells  at  a  distance — Fine  Noon  in  Winter — Meditation 
better  than  Books. 

There  is  in  souls  a  sympathy  with  sounds. 
And  as  the  mind  is  pitch'd  the  ear  is  pleased 
With  melting  airs  or  martial,  brisk  or  grave ; 
Some  chord  in  unison  with  what  we  hear 
Is  touch'd  within  us,  and  the  heart  replies. 
How  soft  the  music  of  those  village  bells, 
Falling  at  intervals  upon  the  ear 
In  cadence  sweet,  now  dying  all  away. 
Now  pealing  loud  again,  and  louder  still. 
Clear  and  sonorous,  as  the  gale  comes  On ! 
With  easy  force  it  opens  all  the  cells 
Where  Memory  slept. .  Wherever  I  have  heard 
A  kindred  melody,  the  scene  recurs. 
And  with  it  all  its  pleasures  and  its  pains. 
Such  comprehensive  views  the  spirit  takes. 
That  in  a  few  short  moments  I  retrace 
(As  in  a  map  the  voyager  his  course)  ' 
The  windings  of  my  way  through  many  years. 
Short  as  in  retrospect  the  journey  seems. 
It  seem'd  not  always  short ;  the  rugged  path. 
And  prospect  oft  so  dreary  and  forlorn. 
Moved  many  a  sigh  at  its  disheartening  length- 
Yet  feeling  present  evils,  while  the  past 
Faintly  impress  the  mind,  or  not  at  all. 
How  readily  we  wish  time  spent  revoked. 
That  we  might  try  the  ground  again,  where  once 
(Through  inexperience,  as  we  now  perceive) 
We  miss'd  that  happiness  we  might  have  found  ! 
Some  friend  is  gone,  perhaps  his  son's  best  friend, 
A  father,  whose  authority,  in  show 
When  most  severe,  and  mustering  all  its  force, 
Was  but  the  graver  countenance  of  love; 
Whose  favour,  like  the  clouds  of  spring,  might 

lower. 
And  utter  now  and  then  an  awful  voice. 
But  had  a  blessing  in  its  darkest  frown. 
Threatening  at  once  and  nourishing  the  plant. 
We  loved,  but  not  enough,  the  gentle  hand 
That  rear'd  us.    At  a  thoughtless  age,  allured 
By  every  gilded  folly,  we  renounced 
His  sheltering  side,  and  wilfully  forewent 
That  converse,  which  we  now  in  vain  regret. 
How  gladly  would  the  man  recall  to  life 
The  boy's  neglected  sire !  a  mother  too, 
That  softer  friend,  perhaps  more  gladly  still. 
Might  he  demand  them  at  the  gates  of  death. 
Sorrow  has,  since  they  went,  subdued  and  tamed 
The  playful  humour;  he  could  now  endure, 
(Himself  grown  sober  in  the  vale  of  tears) 
3k2 


714 


WILLIAM  COWPER, 


And  feel  a  parent's  presence  no  restraint. 
But  not  to  understand  a  treasure's  worth, 
Till  time  has  stolen  away  the  slighted  good, 
Is  cause  of  half  the  poverty  we  feel. 
And  makes  the  world  the  wilderness  it  is. 
The  few  that  pray  at  all  pray  oft  amiss, 
And,  seeking  grace  t'  improve  the  prize  they  hold, 
Would  urge  a  wiser  suit  than  asking  more. 

The  night  was  winter  in  his  roughest  mood ; 
The  morning  sharp  and  clear.     But  now  at  noon 
Upon  the  southern  side  of  the  slant  hills. 
And  where  the  woods  fence  off  the  northern  blast, 
The  season  smiles,  resigning  all  its  rage. 
And  has  the  warmth  of  May.     The  vault  is  blue 
Without  a  cloud,  and  white  without  a  speck 
The  dazzling  splendour  of  the  scene  below. 
Again  the  harmony  comes  o'er  the  vale ; 
And  through  the  trees  I  view  the  embattled  tower, 
Whence  all  the  music.     I  again  perceive 
The  soothing  influence  of  the  wafted  strains, 
And  settle  in  soft  musings  as  I  tread 
The  walk,  still  verdant,  under  oaks  and  elms. 
Whose  outspread  branches  overarch  the  glade. 
The  roof,  though  movable  through  all  its  length 
As  the  wind  sways  it,  has  yet  well  sufficed, 
And,  intercepting  in  their  silent  fall 
The  frequent  flakes,  has  kept  a  path  for  me. 
No  noise  is  here,  or  none  that  hinders  thought 
The  redbreast  warbles  still,  but  is  content 
With  slender  notes,  and  more  than  half  suppress'd: 
Pleased  with  his  solitude,  and  flitting  light 
From  spray  to  spray,  where'er  he  rests  he  shakes 
From  matiy  a  twig  the  pendent  drops  of  ice. 
That  tinkle  in  the  vvither'd  leaves  below. 
Stillness,  accompanied  with  sounds  so  soft, 
Charms  more  than  silence.     Meditation  here 
May  think  down  hours  to  moments.  Here  the  heart 
May  give  a  useful  lesson  to  the  head. 
And  Learning  wiser  grow  without  his  books. 


ON  THE  LOSS  OF  THE  ROYAL  GEORGE.* 

TO  THE  MABCH  IN  SOPIO. 

Toll  for  the  brave ! 

The  brave  that  are  no  more ! 
All  sunk  beneath  the  wave. 

Fast  by  their  native  shore! 

Eight  hundred  of  the  brave. 

Whose  courage  well  was  tried,  , 

Had  made  the  vessel  heel, 
And  laid  her  on  her  side. 

A  land-breeze  shook  the  shrouds, 

And  she  was  overset ; 
Down  went  the  Royal  George, 

With  all  her  crew  complete 

Toll  for  the  brave ! 

Brave  Kempenfelt  is  gone ; 


[*  Cowper  wrote  this  very  noble  poem  to  induce  Govern- 
ment to  the  attempt  of  weighing  up  poor  Kempenfelt'a 
vessel.  If  song  could  have  induced  men  to  the  trial,  this 
eurely  should  have  had  the  effect.  The  Itoyal  George  has 
been  weighed  up  since  the  poet  wrote,  by  the  ingenuity  of 
Colon>il  i'aeley,  but  in  a  leas  noble  way.] 


His  last  sea-flght  is  fought; 
His  work  of  glory  done. 

It  was  not  in  the  battle; 

No  tempest  gave  the  shock ; 
She  sprang  no  fatal  leak; 

She  ran  upon  no  rock. 

His  sword  was  in  its  sheath ; 

His  fingers  held  the  pen. 
When  Kempenfelt  went  down 

With  twice  four  hundred  men. 

Weigh  the  vessel  up. 

Once  dreaded  by  our  foes  ! 

And  mingle  with  our  cup 
The  tear  that  England  owes. 

Her  timbers  yet  are  sound. 

And  she  may  float  again, 
Full  charged  with  England's  thunder. 

And  plough  the  distant  main. 

But  Kempenfelt  is  gone. 

His  victories  are  o'er ; 
And  he  and  his  eight  hundred 

Shall  plough  the  wave  no  more. 


YARDLEY  OAK. 

Survivor  sole,  and  hardly  such,  of  all 
That  once  lived  here,  thy  brethren,  at  my  birth, 
(Since  which  I  number  threescore  winters  past,) 
A  shatter'd  veteran,  hollow-trunk'd  perhaps, 
As  now,  and  with  excoriate  forks  deform, 
Relics  of  ages  !  could  a  mind,  imbued 
With  truth  from  heaven,  created  thing  adore, 
I  might  with  reverence  kneel,  and  worship  thee. 

It  seems  idolatry  with  some  excuse. 
When  our  forefather  Druids  in  their  oaks 
Imagined  sanctity.     The  conscience  yet 
Unpurified  by  an  authentic  act 
Of  amnesty,  the  meed  of  blood  divine. 
Loved  not  the  light,  but,  gloomy,  into  gloom 
Of  thickest  shades,  like  Adam  after  taste 
Of  fruit  proscribed,  as  to  a  refuge,  fled. 

Thou  wast  a  bauble  once,  a  cup  and  ball 
W^hich  babes  might  play  with ;  aad  the  thievish 

jay. 
Seeking  her  food,  with  ease  might  have  purloin'd 
The  auburn  nut  that  held  thee,  swallowing  down 
Thy  yet  close-folded  latitude  of  boughs. 
And  all  thine  embryo  vastness,  at  a  gulp. 
But  Fate  thy  growth  decreed;  autumnal  rains 
Beneath  thy  parent  tree  mellow'd  the  soil 
Design'd  thy  cradle  ;  and  a  skipping  deer, 
With  pointed  hoof  dibbling  the  glebe,  prepare 
The  soft  receptacle,  in  which,  secure. 
Thy  rudiments  should  sleep  the  winter  through. 

So  fancy  dreams.     Disprove  it,  if  ye  can. 
Ye  reasoners  broad  awake,  whose  busy  search 
Of  argument,  employ'd  too  oft  amiss. 
Sifts  half  the  pleasures  of  short  life  away  ! 

Thou  fell'st  mature;  and,  in  the  loamy  clod 
Swelling  with  vegetative  force  instinct. 
Didst  burst  thine  egg,  as  theirs  the  fabled  Twins, 
Now  stars;  two  lobes,  protruding,  pair'd  exact; 


WILLIAM   COWPER. 


715 


A  leaf  succeeded,  and  another  leaf, 
And,  all  the  elements  thy  puny  growth 
Fostering  propitious,  thou  becamest  a  twig. 

Who  lived  when  thou  wast  such  1  Oh,  couldst 
thou  speak, 
As  in  Dodona  once  thy  kindred  trees 
Oracular,  I  would  not  curious  ask 
The  future,  best  unknown,  but,  at  thy  mouth 
Inquisitive,  the  less  ambiguous  past 

By  thee  I  might  correct,  erroneous  oft, 
The  clock  of  history,  facts  and  events 
Timing  more  punctual,  unrecorded  facts 

Recovering,  and  misstated  setting  right 

Desperate  attempt,  till  trees  shall  speak  again ! 

Time  made  thee  what  thou  wast — king  of  the 

woods ; 

And  Time  hath  made  thee  what  thou  art — a  cave 

For  owls  to  roost  in.    Once  thy  spreading  boughs 

O'erhung   the  champaign;   and  the   numerous 

flocks 
That  grazed  it  stood  beneath  that  ample  cope 
Uncrowded,  yet  safe  shelter'd  from  the  storm. 
No  flock  frequents  thee  now.    Thou  hast  outlived 
Thy  popularity,  and  art  become 
(Unless  verse  rescue  thee  awhile)  a  thing 
Forgotten,  as  the  foliage  of  thy  youth. 

While  thus  through  all  the  stages  thou  hast 
push'd 
Of  treeship — first  a  seedling,  hid  in  grass ; 
Then  twig ;  then  sapling ;  and,  as  century  roll'd 
Slow  after  century,  a  giant-bulk 
Of  girth  enormous,  with  moss-cushion'd  root 
Upheaved  above  the  soil,  and  sides  emboss'd 
With  prominent  wens,  globt)se — till  at  the  last 
The  rottenness,  which  time  is  charged  to  iufiict 
On  other  mighty  ones,  found  also  thee. 

What  exhibitions  various  hath  the  world 
Witness'd  of  mutability  in  all 
That  we  account  uiost  durable  below  ! 
Change  is  the  diet  on  which  all  subsist, 
Created  changeable,  and  change  at  last 
Destroys  them.     Skies  uncertain,  now  the  heat 
Transmitting  cloudness,  and  the  solar  beam 
Now  quenching  in  a  boundless  sea  of  clouds — 
Calm  and  alternate  storm,  moisture  and  drought, 
Invigorate  by  turns  the  springs  of  life 
In  all  that  live,  plant,  animal,  and  man. 
And  in  conclusion  mar  them.     Nature's  threads, 
Fine  passing  thought,  e'en  in  her  coarsest  works. 
Delight  in  agitation,  yet  sustain 
'I'he  force  that  agitates  not  unimpair'd ; 
But,  worn  by  frequent  impulse,  to  the  r^use 
Of  their  best  tone  their  dissolution  owe. 

Thought  cannot  spend  itself,  comparing  still 
The  great  and  little  of  thy  lot,  thy  growth 
From  almost  nullity  into  a  state 
Of  matchless  grandeur,  and  declension  thence, 
Slow,  into  such  magnificent  decay. 
Time  was,  when,  settling  on  thy  leaf,  a  fly 
Could  shake  thee  to  the  root — and  time  has  been 
W  hen  tempests  could  not.     At  thy  firmest  age 
Thou  hadst  within  thy  bole  solid  contents 
That  might  have  ribb'd  the  sides  and  plank'd  the 

deck 
Of  some  flagg'd  admiral ;  and  tortuous  arms, 


The  shipwright's  darling  treasure,  didst  present 
To  the  four-quarter'd  winds,  robust  and  bold, 
Warp'd  into  tough  knee-timber,  many  a  load ! 
But  the  axe  spared  thee.     In  those  thriftier  days 
Oaks  fell  not,  hewn  by  thousands,  to  supply 
The  bottomless  demands  of  contest  waged 
For  senatorial  honours.     Thus  to  Time 
The  task  was  left  to  whittle  thee  away 
With  his  sly  scythe,  whose  ever-nibbling  edge, 
Noiseless,  an  atom,  and  an  atom  more. 
Disjoining  from  the  rest,  has,  unobserved. 
Achieved  a  labour  which  had,  far  and  wide, 
By  man  perform'd,  made  all  the  forest  ring. 

Embowell'd  now,  and  of  thy  ancient  self 
Possessing   naught   but   the   scoop'd   rind   that 

seems 
A  huge  throat  calling  to  the  clouds  for  drink, 
Which  it  would  give  in  rivulets  to  thy  root. 
Thou  temptest  none,  but  rather  much  forbidd'st 
The  feller's  toil,  which  thou  couldst  ill  requite. 
Yet  is  thy  root  sincere,  sound  as  the  rock, 
A  quarry  of  stout  spurs  and  knotted  fangs, 
Which,  crook'd  into  a  thousand  whimsies,  clasp 
The  stubborn  soil,  and  hold  thee  still  erect. 

So  stands  a  kingdom,  whose  foundation  yet 
Fails  not,  in  virtue  and  in  wisdom  laid. 
Though  all  the  superstructure,  by  the  tooth 
Pulverized  of  venality,  a  shell 
Stands  now,  and  semblance  only  of  itself ! 

Thine  arms  have  left  thee.     Winds  have  rent 
them  oif 
Long  since  ;  and  rovers  of  the  forest  wild 
With  bow  and  shaft,  have  burnt  them.     Some 

have  left 
A  splinter'd  stump  bleach'd  to  a  snowy  white  ; 
And  some,  memorial  none  where  once  they  grew. 
Yet  life  still  lingers  in  thee,  and  puts  forth 
Proof  not  contemptible  of  what  she  can. 
Even  where  death  predominates.     The  Spring 
Finds  thee  not  less  alive  to  her  sweet  force 
Than  yonder  upstarts  of  the  neighbouring  wood. 
So  much  thy  juniors,  who  their  birth  received 
Haifa  millennium  since  the  date  of  thine. 

But  since,  although  well  qualified  by  age 
To  teach,  no  spirit  dwells  in  thee,  nor  voice 
May  be  expected  from  thee,  seated  here 
On  thy  distorted  root,  with  hearers  none. 
Or  prompter,  save  the  scene,  I  will  perforin 
Myself  the  oracle,  and  will  discourse 
In  my  own  ear  such  matter  as  I  may. 

One  man  alone,  the  father  of  us  all. 
Drew  not  his  lilie  from  woman  ;  never  gazed. 
With  mute  unconsciousness  of  what  he  saw. 
On  all  around  him ;  learn'd  not  by  degrees. 
Nor  owed  articulation  to  his  ear; 
But,  moulde<l  by  his  Maker  into  man 
At  once,  upstood  intelligent,  survey'd 
All  creatures — with  precision  understood 
Their  purport,  uses,  properties — assign'd 
To  each  his  name  significant,  and,  fill'd 
With  love  and  wisdom,  render'd  back  to  Heaven 
In  praise  harmonious  the  first  air  he  drew. 
He  was  excused  the  penalties  of  dull 
Minority.     No  tutor  charged  his  hand 
With  the  thought-tracing  quill,  or  task'd  bis  mind 


716 


WILLIAM   COWPER. 


With  problems.     History,  not  wanted  yet, 
Lean'd   on   her  elbow,  watching  Time,   whose 

course. 
Eventful,  should  supply  her  with  a  theme  ;* 


TO  MART.f 
The  twentieth  year  is  well  nigh  past, 
Since  first  our  sky  was  overcast ; 
Ah  would  that  this  might  be  the  last ! 

My  Mary ! 
Thy  spirits  have  a  fainter  flow, 

I  see  thee  daily  weaker  grow 

'Twas  my  distress  that  brought  thee  low, 

My  Mary ! 
Thy  needles,  once  a  shining  store. 
For  my  sake  restless  heretofore, 
•Now  rust  disused,  and  shine  no  more ; 

My  Mary  ! 
For  though  thou  gladly  wouldst  fulfil 
The  same  kind  office  for  me  still. 
Thy  sight  now  seconds  not  thy  will. 

My  Mary  ! 

But  well  thou  play'dst  the  housewife's  part, 
And  all  thy  threads  with  magic  art 
Have  wound  themselves  about  this  heart. 

My  Mary ! 
Thy  indistinct  expressions  seem 
Like  language  utter'd  in  a  dream ; 
Yet  me  they  charm,  whate'er  the  theme. 

My  Mary ! 

Thy  silver  locks,  once  auburn  bright, 
Are  still  more  lovely  in  my  sight 
Than  golden  beams  of  orient  light, 

My  Mary  I 

For  could  I  view  nor  them  nor  thee. 
What  sight  worth  seeing  could  I  see  1 
The  sun  would  rise  in  vain  for  me, 

My  Mary ! 
Partakers  of  thy  sad  decline. 
Thy  hands  their  little  force  resign ; 
Yet  gently  prest,  press  gently  mine, 

My  Mary ! 

Such  feebleness  of  limbs  thou  provest, 
That  now  at  every  step  thou  niovest 
Upheld  by  two ;  yet  still  thou  lovest, 

My  Mary ! 

And  still  to  love,  though  prest  with  ill. 
In  wintry  age  to  feel  no  chill. 
With  me  is  to  be  lovely  still. 

My  Mary ! 

But  ah  !  by  constant  heed  I  know, 
How  oft  the  sadness  that  I  show. 
Transforms  thy  smiles  to  looks  of  woe. 

My  Mary ! 

i*Cowper  never  bestowed  more  labour  on  any  of  his 
Tompositions  than  upon  the  "  Yardley  Oak ;"  nor  did  he 
^ver  labour  more  successfully. — Sol'tuey,  Life,  of  Cowper, 
Tol.  iii.  p.  17 .J 

I  ^  About  this  time  it  was  that  he  addressed  to  her 


And  should  my  future  lot  be  cast 
With  much  resemblance  of  the  past, 
Thy  worn-out  heart  will  break  at  last, 

My  Mary ! 


TO  MY  COUSIN  ANNE  BODHAM. 

ON  SEaEIVlNO  FROM  HEB  A  IfETWORK  PURSE,  MADE  BT  HERSELK 

My  gentle  Anne,  whom  heretofore. 
When  I  was  young,  and  thou  no  more 

Than  plaything  for  a  nurse, 
I  danced  and  fondled  on  my  knee, 
A  kitten  both  in  size  and  glee, 

I  thank  thee  for  my  purse. 

Gold  pays  the  worth  of  all  things  here ; 
But  not  of  Love ; — that  gem's  too  dear 

For  richest  rogues  to  win  it : 
I,  therefore,  as  a  proof  of  Love, 
Esteem  thy  present  far  above 

The  best  things  kept  within  it. 


LINES  ON  HIS  MOTHER'S  PICTURE. 

Oh  that  those  lips  had  language!     Life  has 
pass'd 
With  me  but  roughly  sinc^  I  heard  thee  last. 
Those  lips  are  thine — thy  own  sweet  smile  I  see. 
The  same,  that  oft  in  childhood  solaced  me; 
Voice  only  fails,  else  how  distinct  they  say, 
"Grieve  not,  my  child,  chase  all  thy  fears  away  !" 
The  meek  intelligence  of  those  dear  eyes 
(Blest  be  the  art  that  can  immortalize. 
The  art  that  baffles  Time's  tyrannic  claim 
To  quench  it)  here  shines  on  me  still  the  same. 

Faithful  remembrancer  of  one  so  dear, 

0  welcome  guest,  though  unexpected  here ! 
Who  biddest  me  honour  with  an  artless  song, 
AflTectionate,  a  mother  lost  so  long. 

1  will  obey,  not  willingly  alone. 

But  gladly,  as  the  precept  were  her  own  : 
And,  while  that  face  renews  my  filial  grief. 
Fancy  shall  weave  a  charm  for  my  relief, 
Shall  steep  me  in  Elysian  reverie, 
A  momentary  dream,  that  thou  art  she. 

My  mother !  when  I  learn'd  that  thou  wast  dead. 
Say,  wast  thou  conscious  of  the  tears  I  shed  ? 
Hover'd  thy  spirit  o'er  thy  sorrowing  son. 
Wretch  even  then,  life's  journey  just  begun? 
Perhaps  thou  gavest  me,  though  unfelt,  a  kiss; 
Perhaps  a  tear,  if  souls  can  weep  in  bliss — 
Ah,  that  maternal  smile !  it  answers — Yes. 
I  heard  the  bell  toU'd  on  thy  burial  day, 
I  saw  the  hearse  that  bore  thee  slow  away. 
And,  turning  from  my  nursery  window,  drew 
A  long,  long  sigh,  and  wept  a  last  adieu ! 
But  was  it  such  1 — It  was. — 'Where  thou  art  gone 
Adieus  and  farewells  are  a  sound  unknown. 
May  I  but  meet  thee  on  that  peaceful  shore, 
The  parting  word  shall  pass  my  lips  no  more ! 

(Mrs.  Unwin)  one  of  the  most  touching,  and  certainly  the 
most  widely-known  of  all  his  poems,  for  it  has  been  read 
by  thousands  who  have  never  perused  "  The  Task,"  nof 
perhaps  seen  or  heard  of  any  other  of  his  works. — SoutheY; 
Life  of  Ouwptr,  vol.  iii.  p.  150.] 


ERASMUS  DARWIN. 


717 


Thy  maidens,  grieved  themselves  at  my  concern, 

Oft  gave  me  promise  of  thy  quick  return. 

What  ardently  I  wish'd,  I  long  believed, 

And,  disappointed  still,  was  still  (Received 

By  expectation  every  day  beguiled. 

Dupe  oi  to-morrow  even  from  a  child. 

Thus  many  a  sad  to-morrow  came  and  went, 

Till,  all  my  stock  of  infant  sorrow  spent, 

I  learn'd  at  last  submission  to  my  lot. 

But,  though  I  less  deplored  thee,  ne'er  forgot. 

Where  once  we  dwelt  our  name  is  heard  no  more, 
Children  not  thine  have  trod  my  nursery  floor; 
And  where  the  gardener  Robin,  day  by  day. 
Drew  me  to  school  along  the  public  way. 
Delighted  with  my  bauble  coach,  and  wrapp'd 
In  scarlet  mantle  warm,  and  velvet-capp'd, 
'Tis  now  become  a  history  little  known. 
That  once  we  call'd  the  pastoral  house  our  own. 
Short-lived  possession  !   but  the  record  fair, 
That  memory  keeps  of  all  thy  kindness  there, 
Still  outlives  many  a  storm,  that  has  effaced 
A  thousand  other  themes  less  deeply  traced. 
Thy  nightly  visits  to  my  chamber  made, 
That  thou  mightst  know  me  safe  and  warmly  laid ; 
Thy  morning  bounties  ere  I  left  my  home. 
The  biscuit,  or  confectionary  plum ; 
The  fragrant  waters  on  my  cheeks  bestow'd 
By  thy  own  hand,  till  fresh  they  shone  and  glow'd : 
All  this,  and  more  endearing  still  than  all. 
Thy  constant  flow  of  love,  that  knew  no  fall. 
Ne'er  roughen'd  by  those  cataracts  and  breaks. 
That  humour  interposed  too  often  makes; 
All  this  still  legible  in  memory's  page, 
And  still  to  be  so  to  my  latest  age, 
Adds  joy  to  duty,  makes  me  glad  to  pay 
Such  honours  to  thee  as  my  numbers  may ; 
Perhaps  a  frail  memorial,  but  sincere, 
Not  scorn'd  in  Heaven,  though  little  noticed  here. 

Could  Time,  his  flight  reversed,  restore  the  hours, 
When,  playing  with  thy  vesture's  tissued  flowers. 
The  violet,  the  pink,  and  jessamine, 
I  prick'd  them  into  paper  with  a  pin, 
(And  thou  wast  happier  than  myself  the  while, 
Would8t8oftlyspeak,and  stroke  my  head.and  smile,) 


Could  those  few  pleasant  days  again  appear. 
Might  one  wish  bring  them,  would  I  wish  them 

here? 
I  would  not  trust  my  heart — the  dear  delight 
Seems  so  to  be  desired,  perhaps  I  might. — 
But  no — what  here  we  call  our  life  is  such, 
So  little  to  be  loved,  and  thou  so  much. 
That  I  should  ill  requite  thee  to  constrain 
Thy  unbound  spirit  into  bonds  again. 

Thou,  as  a  gallant  bark  from  Albion's  coast 
(The  storms  all  weather'd  and  the  ocean  cross'd) 
Shoots  into  port  at  some  well-haven'd  isle 
Where  spices  breathe,  and  brighter  seasons  smile, 
There  sits  quiescent  on  the  floods  that  show 
Her  beauteous  form  reflected  clear  below. 
While  airs  impregnated  with  incense  play 
Around  her,  fanning  light  her  streamers  gay ; 
So  thou,  with  sails  how  swift !   hast  reach'd  the 

shore, 
"  Where  tempests  never  beat  nor  billows  roar," 
And  thy  loved  consort  on  the  dangerous  tide 
Of  life,  long  since  has  anchor'd  by  thy  side. 
But  me,  scarce  hoping  to  attain  that  rest. 
Always  from  port  withheld,  always  distress'd — 
Me,  howling  blasts  drive  devious,  tempest-toss'd, 
Sails  ripp'd,  seams  opening  wide,  and  compass  lost, 
And  day  by  day  some  cuirent's  thwarting  force 
Sets  me  more  distant  from  a  prosperous  course. 
Yet  oh  the  thought  that  thou  art  safe,  and  he ! 
That  thought  is  joy,  arrive  what  may  to  me. 
My  boast  is  not,  that  I  deduce  my  birth 
From  loins  enthroned,  and  rulers  of  the  earth ; 
But  higher  far  my  proud  pretensions  rise — 
The  son  df  parents  pass'd  into  the  skies. 
And  now,  farewell — Time  unrevoked  has  run 
His  wonted  course,  yet  what  I  wish'd  is  done. 
By  contemplation's  help,  not  sought  in  vain, 
I  seem  t'  have  lived  my  childhood  o'er  again ; 
To  have  renew'd  the  joys  that  once  were  mine, 
Without  the  sin  of  violating  thine; 
And,  while  the  wings  of  Fancy  still  are  free, 
And  I  can  view  this  mimic  show  of  thee. 
Time  has  but  half  succeeded  in  his  theft — 
Thyself  removed,  thy  power  to  soothe  me  left. 


ERASMUS  DARWIN. 


[Born.  1T!».    Died,  1802.] 


Erasmus  Darwin  was  born  at  Elton,  near 
Newark,  in  Nottinghamshire,  where  his  father 
was  a  private  gentleman.  He  studied  at  St. 
John's  College,  Cambridge,  and  took  the  degree 
of  bachelor  in  medicine;  after  which,  he  went  to 
Edinburgh,  to  finish  his  medical  studies.  Having 
taken  a  physician's  degree  at  that  university,  he 
settled  in  his  profession  at  Litchfield ;  and,  by  a 
bold  and  successful  display  of  his  skill  in  one  of 
the  first  cases  to  which  h'e  was  called,  established 
his  practice  and  reputation.  About  a  year  after 
his  arrival,  he  married  a  Miss  Howard,  the  daughter 
of  a  respectable  inhabitant  of  Litchfield,  and  by 
that  connection  strengthened  his  interest  in  the 


place.  He  was,  in  theory  and  practice,  a  rigid 
enemy  to  the  use  of  wine,  and  of  all  intoxicating 
liquors;  and,  in  the  course  of  his  practice,  was 
regarded  as  a  great  promoter  of  temperate  habitu 
among  the  citizens :  but  he  gave  a  singular  in- 
stance of  his  departure  from  his  own  theory, 
within  a  few  years  after  his  arrival  in  the  very 
place  where  he  proved  the  apostle  of  sobriety. 
Having  one  day  joined  a  few  friends  who  were 
going  on  a  water-party,  he  got  so  tipsy  after  a 
cold  collation,  that,  on  the  boat  approaching  Not 
tingham,  he  jumped  into  the  river  and  swam 
ashore.  The  party  called  to  the  philosophei  iw 
return ;   but  he  walked  on  deliberately,  in  hi* 


718 


ERASMUS  DARWIN. 


wet  clothes,  till  he  reached  the  market-place  of 
Nottingham,  and  was  there  found  hy  his  friend,  an 
apothecary  of  the  place,  haranguing  the  town's- 
people  on  the  benefit  of  fresh  air,  till  he  was  per- 
suaded by  his  friend  to  come  to  his  house  and 
shift  his  clothes.  Dr.  Darwin  stammered  habitu- 
ally;  hut  on  this  occasion  wine  untied  his  tongue. 
In  the  prime  of  life,  he  had  the  misfortune  to 
break  the  patella  of  his  knee,  in  consequence  of 
attempting  to  drive  a  carriage  of  his  own  Utopian 
contrivance,  which  upset  at  the  first  experiment. 

He  lost  his  first  wife,  after  thirteen  years  of 
domestic  union.  During  his  widowerhood,  Mrs. 
Pole  the  wife  of  a  Mr.  Pole,  of  Redburn,  in  Derby- 
shire, brought  her  children  to  his  house  to  be  cured 
of  a  poison,  which  they  had  taken  in  the  shape 
of  medicine,  and,  by  his  invitation,  she  continued 
with  him  till  the  young  patients  were  perfectly 
cured.  He  was  soon  after  called  to  attend  the 
lady,  at  her  own  house,  in  a  dangerous  fever,  and 
prescril)ed  with  more  than  a  physician's  interest 
in  her  fate.  IVot  being  invited  to  sleep  in  the 
house  in  the  night  after  his  arrival,  he  spent  the 
hours  till  morning  beneath  a  tree,  opposite  to  her 
apartment,  watching  the  passing  and  repassing 
lights.  V\'hile  the  life  which  he  so  passionately 
loved  was  in  danger,  he  paraphrased  Petrarch's 
celebrated  sonnet  on  the  dream  which  predicted 
to  him  the  death  of  Laura.  Though  less  favoured 
by  the  muse  than  Petrarch,  he  was  more  fortu- 
nate in  love.  Mrs.  Pole,  on  the  demise  of  an 
aged  partner,  accepted.  Dr.  Darwin's  hand  in 
1781  ;  and,  in  compliance  with  her  inclinations, 
he  removed  from  Litchfield  to  practice  at  Derby. 
He  had  a  family  by  his  second  wife,  and  continued 
in  high  professional  reputation  till  his  death,  in 
1802,  which  was  occasioned  by  angina  pectoris, 
the  result  of  a  sudden  cold. 

Dr.  Darwin  was  between  forty  and  fifty  before 
he  began  the  principal  poem  by  which  he  is 
known.  Till  then  he  had  written  only  occasional 
verses,  and  of  these  he  was  not  ostentatious, 
fearing  that  it  might  afiect  his  medical  reputation 
to  be  thought  a  poet.  When  his  name  as  a  physi- 
cian had,  however,  been  established,  he  ventured, 
in  the  year  1781,  to  publish  the  first  part  of  his 
"  Botanic  Garden."  Mrs.  Anna  Seward,  in  her 
life  of  Darwin,  declares  herself  the  authoress  of 
the  opening  lines  of  the  poem ;  but  as  she  had 
never  courage  to  make  this  pretension  during 
Dr.  Darwin's  life,  her  veracity  on  the  subject  is 
exposed  to  suspicion.*  In  1789  and  1792,  the 
second  and  third  part  of  his  botanic  poem  ap- 
peared. In  1793  and  1796,  he  published  the  first 
and  second  parts  of  his  "  Zoonomia,  or  the  Laws 
of  Organic  Ijife."     In  1801,  he  published  "Phy- 


tologia,  or  the  Philosophy  of  Agriculture  and 
Gardening ;"  and,  about  the  same  time,  a  small 
treatise  on  femaJe  education,  which  attracted  little 
notice.  After  his  death  appeared  his  poem,  "  The 
Temple  of  Nature,"  a  mere  echo  of  the  «  Botanic 
Garden." 

Darwin  was  a  materialist  in  poetry  no  less  than 
in  philosophy.  In  the  latter,  he  attempts  to  build 
systems  of  vital  sensibility  on  mere  mechanical 
principles;  and,  in  the  former,  he  paints  every 
thing  to  the  mind's  eye,  as  if  the  soul  had  no 
pleasure  beyond  the  vivid  conception  of  form, 
colour,  and  motion.  Nothing  makes  poetry  more 
lifeless  than  description  by  abstract  terms  and 
general  qualities ;  but  Darwin  runs  to  the  opposite 
extreme  of  prominently  glaring  circumstantial 
description,  without  shade,  relief,  or  perspective. 

His  celebrity  rose  and  fell  with  unexampled 
rapidity.  His  poetry  appeared  at  a  time  pecu- 
liarly favourable  to  innovation,  and  his  attempt 
to  wed  poetry  and  science  was  a  bold  experiment, 
which  had  some  apparent  sanction  from  the 
triumphs  of  modern  discovery.  When  Lucretius 
wrote,  science  was  in  her  cradle;  but  modern 
philosophy  had  revealed  truths  in  nature  more 
sublime  than  the  marvels  of  fiction.  The  Rosi- 
crucian  machinery  of  his  poem  had,  at  the  first 
glance,  an  imposing  appearance,  and  the  variety 
of  his  allusion  was  surprising.  On  a  closer  view, 
it  was  observable  that  the  Botanic  goddess,  and 
her  Sylphs  and  Gnomes,  were  useless,  from  their 
having  no  employment;  and  tiresome,  from  being 
the  mere  pretexts  for  declamation.  The  variety  of 
allusion  is  very  whimsical.  Dr.  Franklin  is  com- 
pared to  Cupid  ;  while  Hercules,  Lady  Melbourne, 
Emma  Crewe,  Brindley's  canals,  and  sleeping 
cherubs,  sweep  on  like  images  in  a  dream.  Tribes 
and  grasses  are  likened  to  angels,  and  the  truffle 
is  rehearsed  as  a  subterranean  empress.  His  la- 
borious ingenuity  in  finding  comparisons  is  fre- 
quently like  that  of  Hervey  in  his  "  Meditations," 
or  of  Flavel  in  his  "  Gardening  Spiritualized." 

If  Darwin,  however,  was  not  a  good  poet,  it 
may  be  owned  that  he  is  frequently  a  bold  per- 
sonifier,  and  that  some  of  his  insulated  passages 
are  musical  and  picturesque.  His  Botanic  Gar- 
den once  pleased  many  better  judges  than  his 
affected  biographer,  Anna  Seward;  it  fascinated 
even  the  taste  of  Cowper,  who  says,  in  conjunc- 
tion with  Hayley, 

"  We.  therefore  pleased,  extol  thy  song, 

Though  various  yet  complete, 
Kich  in  cmliellishment,  as  strong 

And  learned  a»  'tis  sweet. 
And  deem  the  bard,  whoe'er  he  he. 

And  howsoever  known. 
That  will  not  weave  a  wreath  for  thee, 

Unworthy  of  his  own." 


FROM  "THE  BOTANIC  GARDEN,"  CANTO  It. 

DESTKnCTIOS  OP  CAMBISEs's  ARMY. 

When  Heaven's  dread  justice  smites  in  crimes 
o'ergrown 
The  blood-nursed  Tyrant  on  his  purple  throne, 

[*  "  I   was    at  Licthfield,"  writes  R.  L.  Edgeworth  to 
Sir  Walter    ba.iU  "when    the    lines   in   question  were 


Gnomes !  your  bold  forms  unnumber'd  arms  out- 
stretch. 
And  urge  the  vengeance  o'er  the  guilty  wretch. — 
Thus  when  Cambyses  led  his  barbarous  hosts 
From  Persia's  rocks  to  Egypt's  trembling  coasts 

written  by  Miss  Seward."' — Edyetowth's  Memoirs,  vol.  ii 
p.  261.] 


ERASMUS  DARWIN. 


719 


Defiled  each  hallow'd  fane  and  sacred  wood, 
And,  drunk  with  fury,  swell'd  the  Nile  with  hlood  ; 
Waved  his  proud  banner  o'er  the  Theban  states, 
And    pour'd    destruction    through   her   hundred 

gates ; 
In  dread  divisions  march'd  the  marshall'd  bands, 
And  swarming  armies  blackcn'd  all  the  lands, 
By  Memphis  these  to  Ethiop's  sultry  plains. 
And  those  to  Hammon's  sand-encircled  fanes. 
Slow  as  they  pass'd,  the  indignant  temples  frown'd, 
Low  curses  muttering  from  the  vaulted  ground  ; 
Long  aisles  ofcypress  waved  their  deepen'd  glooms, 
And  quivering  spectres  grinn'd  amid  the  tombs  ! 
Prophetic  whispers  breathed  from  Sphinx's  tongue, 
And  Memnon's  lyre  with  hollow  murmurs  rung ; 
Burst  from  each  pyramid  expiring  groans. 
And  darker  shadows  stretch'd  their  lengthen'd 

cones. 
Day  after  day  their  deathful  route  they  steer, 
Lust  in  the  van,  and  Rapine  in  the  rear. 

Gnomes!  as  they  march'd, you  hid  the  gather'd 

fruits. 
The  bladed  grass,  sweet  grains  and  mealy  roots ; 
Scared  the  tired  quails  that  journey'd  o'er  their 

heads, 
Retain'd  the  locusts  in  their  earthy  beds ; 
Bade  on  your  sands  no  night-born  dews  distil, 
Stay'd  with  vindictive  hands  the  scanty  rill. — 
Loud  o'er  the  camp  the  fiend  of  Famine  shrieks, 
Calls  all  her  brood  and  champs  her  hundred  beaks ; 
O'er  ten  square  leagues  her  pennons  broad  expand, 
And  twilight  swims  upon  the  shuddering  sand  : 
Perch'd  on  her  crest  the  griffin  Discord  clings, 
And  giant  Murder  rides  between  her  wings; 
Blood  from  each  clotted  hair  and  horny  quill. 
And  showers  of  tears  in  blended  streams  distill; 
High  poised  in  air  her  spiry  neck  she  bends, 
Rolls  her  keen  eye,  her  dragon  claws  extends, 
Darts  from  above,  and  tears  at  each  fell  swoop 
With  iron  fangs  the  decimated  troop. 
Now  o'er  their  head  the  whizzing  whirlwinds 

breathe, 
And  the  live  desert  pants,  and  heaves  beneath ; 
Tinged  by  the  crimson  sun,  vast  columns  rise 
Of  eddying  sands,  and  war  amid  the  skies; 
In  red  arcades  the  billowy  plain  surround. 
And  whirling  turrets  stalk  along  the  ground. 
— Long  ranks  in  vain  their  shining  l)lades  extend, 
To  demon-gods  their  knees  unhallow'd  bend. 
Wheel  in  wide  circle,  form  in  hollow  square. 
And  now  they  front,  and  now  they  fly  the  war, 
Pierce  the  deaf  tempest  with  lamenting  cries. 
Press  their  parch'd  lips,  and  close  their  blood-shot 

eyes. 
Gnomes !  o'er  the  waste  you  led  your  myriad 

powers. 
Olimb'd  on  the  whirls,  and  aim'd  the  flinty  showers ! 
Onward  resistless  rolls  the  infuriate  surge. 
Clouds  follow  clouds,  and  mountains  mountains 

urge; 
Wave  over  wave  the  driving  desert  swims. 
Bursts  o'er  their  heads,  inhumes  their  struggling 

limbs ; 
Man  mounts  on  man,  on  camels  camels  rush, 
Hosts  march  o'er  hosts,  and  nations  nations  crush — 


Wheeling  in  air  the  winged  islands  fall. 
And  one  great  earthy  ocean  covers  all ! — 
Then  ceased  the  storm, — Night  bow'd  his  Ethiop 

brow 
To  earth,  and  listened  to  the  groans  below, — 
Grim  Horror  shook, — awhile  the  living  hill 
Heaved  with  convulsive  throes, — and  all  was  still ! 


FROM  CANTO  HI. 
Persnasion  to  Mothers  to  suckle  their  own  Children. 

Connubial  Fair !    whom    no   fond   transport 
warms 
To  lull  your  infant  in  maternal  arms , 
Who,  bless'd  in  vain  with  tumid  bosoms,  hear 
His  tender  wailings  with  unfeeling  ear; 
The  soothing  kiss  and  milky  rill  deny 
To  the  sweet  pouting  lip,  and  glistening  eye ! — 
Ah  !  what  avails  the  cradle's  damask  roof. 
The  eider  bolster,  and  embroider'd  woof! 
Oft  hears  the  gilded  couch  unpitied  plains, 
And  many  a  tear  the  tasseled  cushion  stains ! 
No  voice  so  sweet  attunes  his  cares  to  rest. 
So  soft  no  pillow  as  his  mother's  breast! — 
Thuscharm'd  to  sweet  repose,  when  twilight  hours 
Shed  their  soft  influence  on  celestial  bowers, 
The  cherub  Innocence,  with  smile  divine, 
SJhuts  bis  white  wings,  and  sleeps  on  beauty's  shrine. 


FROM  TIIE  SAME. 

Midnight  Conflagration;  Catastrophe  of  the  ftmilies  of 
VVoodmason  and  Molesworth. 

From  dometodome  when  flames  infuriate  climb, 
Sweep  the  long  street,  invest  the  tower  sublime ; 
Gild  the  tall  vanes,  amid  the  astonish'd  night. 
And  reddening  Heaven  returns  the  sanguine  light; 
While  with  vast  strides  and  bristling  hair  aloof 
Pale  Danger  glides  along  the  falling  roof; 
And  giant  Terror  howling  in  amaze 
Moves  his  dark  limbs  across  the  lurid  blaze. 

Nymphs !  you  first  taught  the  gelid  wave  to  rise, 
Hurl'd  in  resplendent  arches  to  the  skies ; 
In  iron  cells  condensed  the  airy  spring, 
And  imp'd  the  torrent  with  unfailing  wing; 
— On  the  fierce  flames  the  shower  impetuous  falls, 
And  sudden  darkness  shrouds  the  shatter'd  walls ; 
Steam,  smoke,  and  dust  in  blended  volumes  roll, 
And  night  and  silence  repossess  the  pole. 

Where  were  ye.  Nymphs!  in  those  disastrous 
hours. 
Which    wrapp'd    in    flames  Augusta's    sinking 

towers  ? 
Why  did  ye  linger  in  your  wells  and  groves. 
When  sad  Woodmason  mourn'd  her  infant  loves  ? 
When  thy  fair  daughters  with  unheeded  screams, 
Ill-fated  Molesworth!  caU'dlheloiteringstreams! — 
The  trembling  nymph  on  bloodless  fingers  hung, 
Eyes  from  the  tottering  wall  the  distant  throng, 
With  ceaseless  shrieks  her  sleeping  friends  alarms 
Drops  with  singed  hair  into  her  lover's  arms, — 
1'he  illumined  mother  seeks  with  footsteps  fleet. 
Where  hangs  the  safe  balcony  o'er  the  street, 
Wrapp'd  in  her  sheet  heryoungest  hope  suspends.. 
And  panting  lowers  it  to  her  tiptoe  friends ; 


720 


JAMES   BEATTIE. 


Again  she  hurries  on  affection's  wings, 
And  now  a  third,  and  now  a  fourth  she  brings; 
Safe  all  her  babes,  she  smoothes  her  horrent  brow, 
And  bursts  through  bickering  flames,  unscorch'd 

below, 
So  by  her  son  arraign'd,  with  feet  unshod. 
O'er  burning  bars  indignant  Emma  trod. 

E'en  on  the  day  when  Youth  with  Beauty  wed. 
The  flames  surprised  them  in  their  nuptial  bed  ; — 
Seen  at  the  opening  sash  with  bosom  bare, 
With  wringing  hands,  and  dark  dishevell'd  hair. 
The  blushing  bride  with  wild  disorder'd  charms 
Round  her  fond  lover  winds  her  ivory  arms  ; 
Beat,  as  they  clasp,  their  throbbing  hearts  with 

fear. 
And  many  a  kiss  is  mix'd  with  many  a  tear ; — 
Ah  me  !  in  vain  the  labouring  engines  pour 
Round  their  pale  limbs  the  ineffectual  shower — 
— Then  crash'd  the  floor,  while  shrinking  crowds 

retire, 
And  Love  and  Virtue  sunk  amid  the  fire ! — 
With  piercing  screams  afflicted  strangers  mourn. 
And  their  white  ashes  mingle  in  their  urn. 


FROM  CANTO  IV. 

The  heroic  Attachment  of  the  Youth  in  Holland,  who 
attended  his  mistress  in  the  plague. 

Thus  when  the  Plague, upborne  on  Belgian  air, 
liOok'd    through  the  mist  and  shook  his  clotted 

hair; 
O'er  shrinking  nations  steer'd  malignant  clouds, 
And  rain'd  destruction  on  the  gasping  crowds; 
The  beauteous  .^gle  felt  the  venom'd  dart,* 
Slow  roll'd  her  eye,  and  feebly  throbb'd  her  heart; 


Each  fervid  sigh  seemed  shorter  than  the  last, 
And  starting  friendship  shunn'd  her  as  she  pass'd. 
—  With  weak  unsteady  step  the  fainting  maid 
Seeks  the  cold  garden's  solitary  shade, 
Sinks  on  the  pillowy  moss  her  drooping  head, 
And  prints  with  lifeless  limbs  her  leafy  bed. 
• — On  wings  of  love  her  plighted  swain  pursues, 
Shades  her  from  winds,  and  shelters  her  from  dews, 
Extends  on  tapering  poles  the  canvas  roof, 
Spreads  o'er  the  straw-wove  mat  the  flaxen  woof. 
Sweet  buds  and  blossoms  on  her  bolster  strows. 
And  binds  his  kerchief  round  her  aching  brows; 
Soothes  with  soft  kiss,  with  tender  accents  charms, 
And  clasps  the  bright  infection  in  his  arms. — 
With  pale  and  languid  smiles  the  grateful  fair 
Applauds  his  virtues,  and  rewards  his  care  ; 
Mourns  with  wet  cheek  her  fair  companions  fled 
On  timorous  step,  or  number'd  with  the  dead ; 
Calls  to  her  bosom  all  its  scatter'd  rays. 
And  pours  on  Thyrsis  the  collected  blaze  ; 
Braves  the  chill  night,  caressing  and  caress'd, 
And  folds  her  hero-lover  to  her  breast. — 
Less  bold,  Leander  at  the  dusky  hour 
Eyed,  as  he  swam,  the  far  love-lighted  tower; 
Breasted  with  struggling  arms  the  tossing  wave. 
And  sunk  benighted  in  the  watery  grave. 
Less  bold,  Tobias  claim'd  the  nuptial  bed 
Where  seven  fond  lovers  by  a  fiend  had  bled; 
And  drove,  instructed  by  his  angel-guide. 
The  enamour'd  demon  from  the  fatal  bride. — 
— Sylphs !  while  your  winnowing  pinions  fann'd 

the  air. 
And  shed  gay  visions  o'er  the  sleeping  pair; 
Love  round  their  couch  effused  his  rosy  breath, 
And  with  his  keener  arrows  conquer'd  Death. 


JAMES  BEATTIE. 


[Born,  1735.     Died,  1803.] 


J.^MES  Beattie  was  bom  in  the  parish  of 
Lawience  Kirk,  in  Kincardineshire,  Scotland. 
His  father,  who  rented  a  small  farm  in  that 
parish,  died  when  the  poet  was  only  seven  years 
old  ;  but  the  loss  of  a  protector  was  happily  sup- 
plied to  him  by  his  elder  brother,  who  kept  him 
at  scht^wl  till  he  obtained  a  bursary  at  the  Ma- 
rischal  College,  .'Aberdeen.  At  that  university  he 
took  the  degree  of  master  of  arts  ;  and,  at  nine- 
teen, h.B  entered  on  the  study  of  divinity,  sup- 
porting himself,  in  the  mean  time,  by  teaching  a 
school  in  the  neighbouring  parish.  While  he 
was  in  this  obscure  situation,  some  pieces  of 
verse,  v/hich  he  transmitted  to  the  Scottish  Maga- 
zine, gained  him  a  little  local  celebrity.  Mr. 
Garden,  an  eminent  Scottish   lawyer,  afterward 

*  When  the  plague  raged  in  Holland,  in  1636,  a  young 
girl  was  seized  with  it,  had  three  carbuncles,  and  was 
removed  to  a  garden,  where  her  lover,  who  was  betrothed 
to  her,  attended  her  as  a  nurse,  and  slept  with  her  as  his 
wife.  He  remained  uninfected,  and  she  recovered,  and 
was  married  to  him.  The  story  is  related  by  Vine.  Fabri- 
Mus,  in  the  Misc.  Cur.  Ann.  II.  Obs.  1S8. 


Lord  Gardenstone,  and  Lord  Monboddo,  en- 
couraged him  as  an  ingenious  young  man,  and 
introduced  him  to  the  tables  of  the  neighbouring 
gentry :  an  honour  not  usually  extended  to  a 
parochial  schoolmaster.  In  1757,  he  stood  can- 
didate for  the  place  of  usher  in  the  high-school 
of  Aberdeen.  He  was  foiled  by  a  competitor, 
who  surpassed  him  in  the  minutiae  of  Latin 
grammar;  but  his  character  as  a  scholar  suffered 
so  little  by  the  disappointment,  that  at  the  next 
vacancy  he  was  called  to  the  place  without  a 
trial.  He  had  not  been  long  at  this  school, 
when,  in  1761,  he  published  a  volume  of  Original 
Poems  and  Translations  which  (it  speaks  much 
for  the  critical  clemency  of  the  times)  were  fa- 
vourably received  and  highly  commended  in  the 
English  Reviews.  So  little  satisfied  was  the 
author  himself  vvith  those  early  effusions,  that, 
excepting  four,  which  he  admitted  to  a  subse- 
quent edition  of  his  works,  he  was  anxious  to 
have  them  consigned  to  oblivion ;  and  he  de- 
stroyed every  copy  of  the  volume  which  he  could 


JA^rES   BEATTIE. 


721 


procure.  About  the  age  of  twenty-six,  he  ob- 
tained the  chair  of  Moral  Philosophy  in  the 
Marischal  College  of  Aberdeen,  a  promotion 
which  he  must  have  owed  to  his  general  reputa- 
tion in  literature :  but  it  is  singular,  that  the 
friend  who  first  proposed  to  solicit  the  High  Con- 
stable of  Scotland  to  obtain  this  appoinment, 
should  have  grounded  the  proposal  on  the  merit 
of  Beattie's  poetry.  In  the  volume  already  men- 
tioned there  can  scarcely  be  said  to  be  a  budding 
promise  of  genius. 

Upon  his  appointment  to  this  professorship, 
which  he  held  for  forty  years,  he  immediately 
prepared  a  course  of  lectures  for  the  students; 
and  gradually  compiled  materials  for  those  prose 
works,  on  which  his  name  would  rest  with  con- 
siderable reputation,  if  he  were  not  known  as  a 
poet.  It  is  true,  that  he  is  not  a  first-rate 
metaphysician  ;  and  the  Scotch,  in  undervaluing 
his  powers  of  abstract  and  close  reasoning,  have 
been  disposed  to  give  him  less  credit  than  he 
deserves,  as  an  elegant  and  amusing  writer. 
But  the  English,  who  must  be  best  able  to  judge 
of  his  style,  admire  it  for  an  ease,  familiarity,  and 
an  Anglicism  that  is  not  to  be  found  even  in  the 
correct  and  polished  diction  of  Blair.  His  mode 
of  illustrating  abstract  questions  is  fanciful  and 
interesting. 

In  1765,  he  published  a  poem  entitled  "The 
Judgment  of  Paris,"  which  his  biographer,  Sir 
William  Forbes,  did  not  think  fit  to  rank  among 
his  works.*  For  more  obvious  reasons  Sir  Wil- 
liam excluded  his  lines,  written  in  the  subsequent 
year,  on  the  proposal  for  erecting  a  monument 
to  Churchill  in  Westminster  Abbey — lines  which 
have  no  beauty  or  dignity  to  redeem  their  bitter 
expression  of  hatred.  On  particular  subjects, 
Beattie's  virtuous  indignation  was  apt  to  be 
hysterical.  Dr.  Reid  and  Dr.  Campbell  hated 
the  principles  of  David  Hume  as  sincerely  as  the 
author  of  the  Essay  on  Truth ;  but  they  never 
betrayed  more  than  philosophical  hostility,  while 
Beattie  used  to  speak  of  the  propriety  of  exclud- 
ing Hume  from  civil  society. 

His  reception  of  Gray,  when  that  poet  visited 
Scotland  in  1765,  shows  the  enthusiasm  of  his 
literary  character  in  a  finer  light.  Gray's  mind 
was  not  in  poetry  only,  but  in  many  other  re- 
spects, peculiarly  congenial  with  his  own ;  and 
nothing  could  exceed  the  cordial  and  reverential 
welcome  which  Beattie  gave  to  his  illustrious 
visitant.  In  1770,  he  published  his  "  Essay  on 
Truth,"  which  had  a  rapid  sale,  and  extensive 
popularity ;  and  within  a  twelvemonth  after,  the 
first  part  of  his  "Minstrel."  The  poem  appeared 
at  first  anonymously ;  but  its  beauties  were  im- 
mediately and  justly  appreciated.  The  second 
part  was  not  published  till  1774.  When  Gray 
criticised  the  Minstrel  he  objected  to  its  author 
that,  after  many  stanzas,  the  description  went 
on    and    the   narrative   stopped.      Beattie   very 

*  U  is  to  be  found  in  the  Scottish  Maf^zine:  and,  it  I 

may  judge  from  an  obscure  recollection  of  it,  is  at  least 

as  well  worthy  of  revival  as  some  of  his  minor  pieces. 

f&ee  it  also  In  the  Aldine  edition  of  Beattie,  p.  97.] 

»1 


justly  answered  to  this  criticism,  that  he  meant 
the  poem  for  description,  not  for  incident.t  But 
he  seems  to  have  forgotten  this  proper  apology, 
when  he  mentions  in  one  of  his  letters  his  in- 
tention of  producing  Edwin,  in  some  subsequent 
books,  in  the  character  of  a  warlike  bard  in- 
spiring his  countrymen  to  battle,  and  contributing 
to  repel  their  invaders.^  This  intention,  if  he 
ever  seriously  entertained  it,  might  have  pro- 
duced some  new  kind  of  poem,  but  would  have 
formed  an  incongruous  counterpart  to  the  piece 
as  it  now  stands,  which,  as  a  picture  of  still  life, 
and  a  vehicle  of  contemplative  morality,  has  a 
charm  that  is  inconsistent  with  the  bold  evolu- 
tions of  heroic  narrative.  After  having  portrayed 
his  young  enthusiast  with  such  advantage  in 
a  state  of  visionary  quiet,  it  would  have  been 
too  violent  a  transition  to  have  l>egun  in  a 
new  book  to  surround  him  with  dates  of  time 
and  names  of  places.  The  interest  which  we 
attach  to  Edwin's  character,  would  have  been 
lost  in  a  more  ambitious  eflfort  to  make  him 
a  greater  or  more  important,  or  a  more  locally 
defined  being.  It  is  the  solitary  growth  of  his 
genius,  and  his  isolated  and  mystic  abstraction 
from  mankind,  that  fix  our  attention  on  the 
romantic  features  of  that  genius.  The  sim- 
plicity of  his  fate  does  not  divert  us  from  his 
mind  to  his  circumstances.  A  more  unworldly 
air  is  given  to  his  character,  that  instead  of 
being  tacked  to  the  fate  of  kings,  he  was  one 
"  Who  envied  not,  who  never  thought  of  kings;" 
and  that,  instead  of  mingling  with  the  troubles 
which  deface  the  creation,  he  only  existed  to 
make  his  thoughts  the  mirror  of  its  beauty 
and  magnificence.  Another  English  critic§  has 
blamed  Edwin's  vision  of  the  fairies  as  too 
splendid  and  artificial  for  a  simple  youth;  but 
there  is  nothing  in  the  situation  ascribed  to  Ed- 
win, as  he  lived  in  minstrel  days,  that  necessarily 
excluded  such  materials  from  his  fancy.  Had  he 
beheld  steam-encines  or  dock-yards  in  his  sleep, 
the  vision  might  have  been  pronounced  to  be  too 
artificial ;  but  he  might  have  heard  of  fairies  and 
their  dances,  and  even  of  tapers,  gold,  and  gems, 
from  the  ballads  of  his  native  country.  In  the 
second  book  of  the  poem  there  are  some  fine 
stanzas;  but  he  has  taken  Edwin  out  of  the 
school  of  nature,  and  placed  him  in  his  own,  that 
of  moral  philosophy  ;  and  hence  a  degree  of  lan- 
guor is  experienced  by  the  reader. 

Soon  after  the  publication  of  the  "  Essay  on 
Truth,"  and  of  the  first  part  of  the  "Minstrel," 
he  paid  his  first  visit  to  London.  His  reception, 
in  the  highest  literary  and  polite  circles,  was  dis- 
tinguished and  flattering.    The  university  of  Ox- 


[t  Gray  complained  of  a  want  of  action.  "  As  to  descrip- 
tion," he  says,  "  I  have  always  thought  that  it  made  the 
moFt  graceful  ornament  of  poetry,  but  never  ought  to 
make  the  subject."] 

[;  This  was  no  aritUn  intention,  but  one  delivered  orally 
In  reply  to  a  question  from  t^lr  William  Forbes.  An  inva- 
sion, however,  had  been  for  long  a  settled  point — soma 
great  service  that  the  minstrel  was  to  do  his  country ;  but 
his  plan  was  never  concerted.] 

j»Dr.  Aikin. 

3L 


722 


JAMES  BEATTIE. 


ford  conferred  on  him  the  degree  of  doctor  of  laws, 
and  the  sovereign  himself,  besides  honouring  him 
with  a  personal  conference,  bestowed  on  him  a 
pension  of  £200  a  year. 

On  his  return  to  Scotland,  there  was  a  pro- 
posal for  transferring  him  to  the  university  of 
Edinburgh,  which  he  expressed  his  wish  to  de- 
cline, from  a  fear  of  those  personal  enemies  whom 
he  had  excited  by  hi*  Essay  on  Truth.  This 
motive,  if  it  was  his  real  one,  must  have  been 
connected  with  that  weakness  and  irritabiUty  on 
polemical  subjects  which  have  been  already  al- 
luded to.  His  metaphysical  fame  perhaps  stood 
higher  in  Aberdeen  than  in  Edinburgh ;  but  to 
have  dreaded  personal  hostility  in  the  capital  of  a 
religious  country,  amid  thousands  of  individuals 
as  pious  as  himself,  was  a  weakness  unbecoming 
the  professed  champion  of  truth.  For  reasons 
of  delicacy,  more  creditable  to  his  memory, 
he  declined  a  living  in  the  Church  of  England, 
which  was  offered  to  him  by  his  friend  Dr. 
Porteous. 

After  this,  there  is  not  much  incident  in  his 
life.  He  pubHshed  a  volume  of  his  Essays  in 
1776,  and  another  in  1783 ;  and  the  outline  of 
his  academical  lectures  in  1790.  In  the  same 
year,  he  edited,  at  Edinburgh,  Addison's  papers 
in  "  The  Spectator,"  and  wrote  a  preface  for  the 
edition.  He  was  very  unfortunate  in  his  family. 
The  mental  disorder  of  his  wife,  for  a  long  time 
before  it  assumed  the  shape  of  decided  derange- 
ment, broke  out  in  caprices  of  temper,  which  dis- 
turbed his  domestic  peace,  and  almost  precluded 
him  from  having  visitors  in  his  family.     The  loss 


of  his  son,  James  Hay  Beattie,  a  young  man  of 
highly  promising  talents,  who  had  been  conjoined 
with  him  in  his  professorship,  was  the  greatest, 
though  not  the  last  calamity  of  his  life.  He 
made  an  attempt  to  revive  his  spirits  after  that 
melancholy  event,  by  another  journey  to  England, 
and  some  of  his  letters  from  thence  bespeak  a 
temporary  composure  and  cheerfulness  but  the 
wound  was  never  healed.  Even  music,  of  which 
he  had  always  been  fond,  ceased  to  be  agreeable 
to  him  from  the  lively  recollections  which  it  ex- 
cited of  the  hours  which  he  had  been  accustomed 
to  spend  in  that  recreation  with  his  favourite  boy. 
He  published  the  poems  of  this  youth,  with  a 
partial  eulogy  upon  his  genius,  such  as  might  be 
well  excused  from  a  father  so  situated.  At  the 
end  of  six  years  more,  his  other  son,  Montague 
Beattie,  was  also  cut  ofl'  in  the  flower  of  his 
youth.  This  misfortune  crushed  his  spirits  even 
to  temporary  alienation  of  mind.  With  his  wife 
in  a  madhouse,  his  sons  dead,  and  his  own  health 
broken,  he  might  be  pardoned  for  saying,  as  he 
looked  on  the  corpse  of  his  last  child,  "  I  have 
done  with  this  world."  Indeed  he  acted  as  if  he 
felt  so ;  for,  though  he  performed  the  duties  of  his 
professorship  till  within  a  short  time  of  his  death, 
he  applied  to  no  study,  enjoyed  no  society,  and 
answered  but  few  letters  of  his  friends.  Yet, 
amid  the  depth  of  his  melancholy,  he  would  some- 
times acquiesce  in  his  childless  fate,  and  exclaim, 
«  How  could  [  have  borne  to  see  their  elegant 
minds  mangled  with  madness !"  He  was  struck 
with  palsy  in  1799,  by  repeated  attacks  of  which 
his  life  terminated  in  1803. 


THE  MINSTREL;  OR,  THE  PROGRESS  OF  GENIUS. 

BOOK  I. 

Ah  !  who  can  tell  how  hard  it  is  to  climb 
The  steep  where  Fame's  proud  temple  shines 
Ah!  who  can  tell  how  many  a  soul  sublime  [afar; 
Has  felt  the  influence  of  malignant  star, 
And  waged  with  fortune  an  eternal  war; 
Check'd  by  the  scoff  of  Pride,  by  Envy's  frown. 
And  Poverty's  unconquerable  bar. 
In  life's  low  vale  remote  has  pined  alone. 
Then  dropp'd  into  the  grave,  unpitied  and  un- 
known ! 

And  yet  the  languor  of  inglorious  days 
Not  equally  oppressive  is  to  all ; 
Him  who  ne'er  listened  to  the  voice  of  praise 
The  silence  of  neglect  can  ne'er  appal. 
There  are,  who,  deaf  to  mad  Ambition's  call. 
Would  shrink  to  hear  the  obstreperous  trump  of 
Supremely  blest,  if  to  their  portion  fall    [Fame; 
Health,  competence,  and  peace.  Nor  higher  aim 
Had  he,  whose  simple  tale  these  artless  lines 
proclaim. 

The  rolls  of  fame  I  will  not  now  explore ; 
Nor  need  I  here  describe,  in  learned*  lay. 
How  forth  the  Minstrel  fared  in  days  of  yore, 
Right  glad  of  heart,  though  homely  in  array ; 


His  waving  locks  and  beard  all  hoary  gray  ; 
While  from  his  bending  shoulder,  decent  hung 
His  harp,  the  sole  companion  of  his  way, 
Which  to  the  whistling  wind  responsive  rung; 
And  ever  as  he  went  some  merry  lay  he  sung. 

Fret  not  thyself,  thou  glittering  child  of  pride, 
That  a  poor  villager  inspires  my  strain  ; 
With  thee  let  Pageantry  and  Power  abide : 
The  gentle  Muses  haunt  the  sylvan  reign ; 
Where  through  wild  groves  at  eve  the  lonely 

swain 
Enraptured  roams,  to  gaze  on  Nature's  charms. 
They  hate  the  sensual,  and  scorn  the  vain. 
The  parasite  their  influence  never  warms, 
Nor  him  whose   sordid   soul    the  love  of  gold 

alarms. 

Though  richest  hues  the  peacock's  plumes  adorn, 
Yet  horror  screams  from  his  discordant  throat. 
Rise,  sons  of  harmony,  and  hail  the  morn. 
While  warbling  larks  on  russet  pinions  float 
Or  seek  at  noon  the  woodland  scene  remote. 
Where  the  gray  linnets  carol  from  the  hill. 
Oh  let  them  ne'er,  with  artificial  note. 
To  please  a  tyrant,  strain  the  little  bill. 
But  sing  what  Heaven  inspires,  and  wander  where 
they  will. 


JAMES  BEATTIE. 


723 


Liberal,  not  lavish,  is  kind  Nature's  hand ; 
Nor  was  perfection  made  for  man  below. 
Yet  all  her  schemes  with  nicest  art  are  plann'd, 
Grood  counteracting  ill,  and  gladness  woe. 
With  gold  and  gems  if  Chilian  mountains  glow  ; 
If  bleak  and  barren  Scotia's  hills  arise ; 
There  plague  and  poison,  lust  and  rapine  grow ; 
Here  peaceful  are  the  vales,  and  pure  the  skies, 
And  freedom  fires  the  soul,  and  sparkles  in  the 
eyes. 

Then  grieve  not,  thou,  to  whom  the  indulgent 

Muse 
Vouchsafes  a  portion  of  celestial  fire ; 
Nor  blame  the  partial  Fates,  if  they  refuse 
The  imperial  banquet,  and  the  rich  attire. 
Know  thine  own  worth,  and  reverence  the  lyre. 
Wilt  thou  debase  the  heart  which  God  refined  1 
No ;    let   thy   Heaven-taught   soul  to   Heaven 

aspire, 
To  fancy,  freedom,  harmony,  resign'd, 
Ambition's  groveling  crew  for  ever  left  behind. 

Canst  thou  forego  the  pure  ethereal  soul 
In  each  fine  sense  so  exquisitely  keen, 
On  the  dull  couch  of  Luxury  to  loll. 
Stung  with  disease,  and  stupefied  with  spleen ; 
Fain  to  implore  the  aid  of  Flattery's  screen. 
Even  from  thyself  thy  loathsome  heart  to  hide, 
(The  mansion  then  no  more  of  joy  serene,) 
Where  fear,  distrust,  malevolence,  abide. 
And  impotent  desire,  and  disappointed  pride ! 

Oh,  how  canst  thou  renounce  the  boundless  store 
Of  charms  which  Nature  to  her  votary  yields! 
The  warbling  woodland,  the  resounding  shore, 
The  pomp  of  groves,  and  garniture  of  fields ; 
All  that  the  genial  ray  of  morning  gilds, 
And  all  that  echoes  to  the  song  of  even. 
All  that  the  mountain's  sheltering  bosom  shields, 
And  all  the  dread  magnificence  of  Heaven, 
Oh  how  canst  thou  renounce,  and  hope  to  be 
forgiven  1 

These  charms  shall  work  thy  soul's  eternal  health. 
And  love,  and  gentleness,  and  joy,  impart. 
But  these  thou  must  renounce,  if  lust  of  wealth 
E'er  win  its  way  to  thy  corrupted  heart  : 
For  ah  !  it  poisons  like  a  scorpion's  dart; 
Prompting    the    ungenerous   wish,    the   selfish 

scheme, 
The  stem  resolve  unmoved  by  pity's  smart, 
'i'he  troublous  day,  and  long  distressful  dream. 
Return,  my  roving  Muse,  resume  thy  purposed 

theme. 

There  lived  in  Gothic  days,  as  legends  tell, 
A  shepherd-swain,  a  man  of  low  degree ; 
Whose   sires,   perchance,  in    Fairyland   might 

dwell, 
Sicilian  groves,  or  vales  of  Arcady  ; 
But  he,  I  ween,  was  of  the  north  countrie; 
A  nation  famed  for  song,  and  beauty's  charms ; 
Zealous,  yet  modest;  innocent,  though  free; 
Patient  of  toil ;  serene  amidst  alarms ; 
Inflexible  in  faith;  invincible  in  arms. 


The  shepherd-swain  of  whom  I  mention  made. 
On  Scotia's  mountains  fed  his  little  flock  ; 
The  sickle,  scythe,  or  plough,  he  never  sway'd ; 
An  honest  heart  was  almost  all  his  stock : 
His  drink  the  living  water  from  the  rock  ; 
The  milky  dams  supplied  his  board,  and  lent 
Their  kindly  fleece  to  baffle  winter's  shock ; 
And  he,  though  oft  with  dust  and  sweat  besprent, 
Did  guide  and  guard  their  whndering8,wheresoe'er 
they  went 

From  labour  health,  from  health  contentment 

springs : 
Contentment  opes  the  source  of  every  joy. 
He  envied  not,  he  never  thought  of  kings; 
Nor  from  those  appetites  sustain'd  annoy. 
That  chance  may  frustrate,  or  indulgence  cloy : 
Nor  Fate  his  calm  and  humble  hopes  beguiled  ; 
He  mourn'd  no  recreant  friend,  nor  mistress  coy, 
For  on  his  vows  the  blameless  Phcebe  smiled. 
And  her  alone   he  loved,  and  loved  her  from  a 

child. 

No  jealousy  their  dawn  of  love  o'ercast, 
Nor  blasted  were  their  wedded  days  with  strife : 
Each  season  look'd  delightful  as  it  past, 
To  the  fond  husband  and  the  faithful  wife. 
Beyond  the  lowly  vale  of  shepherd  life 
They  never  roam'd ;  secure  beneath  the  storm 
Which  in  Ambition's  lofty  land  is  rife. 
Where  peace  and  love  are  canker'd  by  the  worm 
Of  pride,  each  bud  of  joy  industrious  to  deform. 

The  wight,  whose  tale  these  artless  lines  unfold. 
Was  all  the  offspring  of  this  humble  pair: 
His  birth  no  oracle  or  seer  foretold  ; 
No  prodigy  appear'd  in  earth  or  air. 
Nor  aught  that  might  a  strange  event  declare. 
You  guess  each  circumstance  of  Edwin's  birth ; 
The  parents'  transport,  and  the  parents'  care; 
The  gossip's  prayer  for  wealth,  and  wit,  and 
worth ; 
And  one  long  summer  day  of  indolence  and  mirth. 

And  yet  poor  Edwin  was  no  vulgar  boy, 
Deep  thought  oft  seem'd  to  fix  his  infant  eye. 
Dainties  he  heeded  not,  nor  gaud,  nor  toy. 
Save  one  short  pipe  of  rudest  minstrelsy  : 
Silent  when  glad  ;  affectionate,  though  shy ; 
And  now  his  look  was  most. demurely  sa-"; 
And  now  he  laugh'd  aloud,  yet  none  knew  why. 
The  neighbours  stared  and  sigh'd,  yet  bless'd 
the  lad : 
Some  deem'd  him  wondrous  wise,  and  some  be- 
lieved him  mad. 

But  why  should  I  his  childish  feats  display  1 
Concourse,  and  noise,  and  toil,  he  ever  fled  ; 
Nor  cared  to  mingle  in  the  clamorous  fray 
Of  squabbling  imps;  but  to  the  forest  sped. 
Or  roanj'd  at  large  the  lonely  mountain's  head, 
Or,  where  the  maze  of  some  bewilder'd  stream 
To  deep  untrodden  groves  his  footsteps  led. 
There  would  he  wander  wild,  till  Phcelius'  beam, 
Shot  from  the  western  cliff,  released  the  weuiy 
team. 


724 


JAMES   BEATTIE. 


The  exploit  of  strength,  dexterity,  or  speed, 

To  him  nor  vanity  nor  joy  could  bring; 

His  heart,  from   cruel  sport  estranged,  would 

bleed 
To  work  the  woe  of  any  living  thing, 
By  trap  "or  net;  by  arrow,  or  by  sling; 
These  he  detested ;  those  he  scorn'd  to  wield : 
He  wish'd  to  be  the  guardian,  not  the  king. 
Tyrant  far  less,  or  traitor  of  the  field. 
And  sure  the  sylvan  reign  unbloody  joy  might 

yield. 

Lo !  where  the  stripling,  rapt  in  wonder,  roves 
Beneath  the  precipice  o'erhung  with  pine ; 
And  sees,  on  high,  amid  the  encircling  groves. 
From  cliff  to  cliff  the  foaming  torrents  shine: 
While  waters,  woods,  and  winds,  in  concert  join. 
And  echo  swells  the  chorus  to  the  skies. 
Would  Edwin  this  majestic  scene  resign 
For  aught  the  huntsman's  puny  craft  supplies'? 
Ah  !  no  :  he  better  knows  great  Nature's  charms 
to  prize. 

And  oft  he  traced  the  uplands,  to  survey. 
When  o'er  the  sky  advanced  the  kindling  dawn. 
The  crimson  cloud,  blue  main,  and  mountain  gray, 
And  lake,  dim-gleaming  on  the  smoky  lawn  : 
Far  to  the  west  the  long,  long  vale  withdrawn. 
Where  twilight  loves  to  linger  for  a  while ; 
And  now  he  faintly  kens  the  bounding  fawn, 
And  villager  abroad  at  early  toil. 
But  lo !   the  sun  appears !    and   heaven,  earth, 
ocean,  emile. 

And  oft  the  craggy  cliff  he  loved  to  climb, 
When  all  in  mist  the  world  below  was  lost. 
What  dreadful  pleasure  !  there  to  stand  sublime. 
Like  shipwreck'd  mariner  on  desert  coast. 
And  view  the  enormous  waste  of  vapour,  tost 
In  billows,  lengthening  to  the  horizon  round, 
Now    scoop'd    in    gults,   with    mountains  now 

emboss'd  ! 
And  hear  the  voice  of  mirth  and  song  rebound. 
Flocks,   herds,  and  waterfalls,  along   the   hoar 

profound ! 

In  truth  he  was  a  strange  and  wayward  wight, 
Fond  of  each  gentle,  and  each  dreadful  scene. 
In  darkness,  and  in  storm,  he  found  delight : 
Nor  less,  than  when  on  ocean-wave  serene 
The  southern  sun  diffused  his  dazzling  shene. 
Even  sad  vicissitude  amused  his  soul: 
And  if  a  sigh  would  sometimes  intervene. 
And  down  his  cheek  a  tear  of  pity  roll, 
A  sigh,  a  tear,  so  sweet,  he  wish'd  not  to  control. 

"Oh  yewild  groves,  oh  where  is  now  your  bloom!" 
(The  Muse  interprets  thus  his  tender  thought) 
"Your  flowers,  your  verdure,  and  your  balmy 

gloom. 
Of  late  so  grateful  in  the  hour  of  drought! 
Why  do  the  birds  that  song  and  rapture  brought 
To  all  your  bowers,  their  mansions  now  forsake  1 
Ah!  why  has  fickle  chance  this  ruin  wrought? 
For  now  the  storm  bowls  mournful  through  the 

brake, 
\nd  the  dead  foliage  flies  in  many  a  shapeless  flake. 


"  Where  now  the  rill,  melodious,  pure  and  cool 
And  meads,  with  life,  and   mirth,  and  beauty 

crown'd  ! 
Ah  !  see  the  unsightly  slime,  and  sluggish  pool, 
Have  all  the  solitary  vale  embrown'd  ; 
Fled  each  fair  form,  and  mute  each  meltingsound, 
The  raven  croaks  forlorn  on  naked  spray  : 
And  hark  !  the  river,  bursting  every  mound, 
Down  the  vale  thunders,  and  with  wasteful  sway 
Uproots  the  grove,  and  rolls  the  shatter'd  rocks 
away. 

"Yet  such  the  destiny  of  all  on  earth  : 
So  flourishes  and  fades  majestic  man. 
Fair  is  the  bud  his  vernal  morn  brings  forth. 
And  fostering  gales  a  while  the  nursling  fan. 
Oh  smile,  ye  Heavens,  serene  ;  ye  mildews  wan, 
Ye  blighting  whirlwinds,  spare  his  balmy  prime. 
Nor  lessen  of  his  life  the  little  span. 
Borne   on   the   swift,   though  silent,  wings  of 
Time, 
Old  age  comes  on  apace  to  ravage  all  the  clime. 

"  And  be  it  so.     Let  those  deplore  their  doom, 

Whose  hope  still  grovels  in  this  dark  sojourn : 
•  But  lofty  souls,  who  look  beyond  the  tomb. 

Can  smile  at  fate,  and  wonder  how  they  mourn. 

Shall   Spring    to    these   sad   scenes   no   more 
return  1 

Is  yonder  wave  the  sun's  eternal  bed  ? 

Soon  shall  the  orient  with  new  lustre  bum, 

And  Spring  shall  soon  her  vital  influence  shed, 
Again  attune  the  grove,  again  adorn  the  mead. 

"  Shall  I  be  left  forgotten  in  the  dust. 
When  Fate,  relenting,  lets  the  flower  revive? 
Shall  Nature's  voice,  to  man  alone  unjust. 
Bid  him,  though  doom'd  to  perish,  hope  to  live? 
Is  it  for  this  fair  Virtue  oft  must  strive 
With  disappointment,  penury,  and  pain  1 
No :     Heaven's    immortal    springs    shall    yet 

arrive. 
And  man's  majestic  beauty  bloom  again, 
Bright  through  the  eternal  year  of  Love's  trium- 
phant reign." 

This  truth  sublime  his  simple  sire  had  taught: 
In  sooth  'twas  almost  all  the  shepherd  knew. 
No  subtile  nor  superfluous  lore  he  sought. 
Nor  ever  wish'd  his  Edwin  to  pursue.       [view, 
"Let  man's  own  sphere,"  said  he,  "confine  his 
Be  man's  peculiar  work  his  sole  delight." 
Anil  much,  and  oft,  he  warn'd  him  to  eschew 
Falsehood  and  guile,  and  aye  maintain  the  right.' 
By  pleasure  unseduced,  unawed  by  lawless  might. 

"  And   from  the  prayer  of  Want,  and  plaint  of 
Oh  never,  never  turn  away  thine  ear!       [Woe, 
Forlorn,  in  this  bleak  wilderness  below, 
Ah  !  what  were  man,  should  Heaven  refuse  to 

hear! 
To  others  do  (the  law  is  not  severe) 
What  to  thyself  thou  wishest  to  be  done. 
Forgive  thy  foes;  and  love  thy  parents  dear. 
And  friends,  and  native  land ;  nor  those  alone ; 
All  human  weal   and  woe  learn  thou  to  mako 

thine  own." 


JAMES   BEATTIE. 


725 


See,  in  the  rear  of  the  warm  sunny  shower 
The  visionary  boy  from  shelter  fly  ; 
For  now  the  storm  of  summer  rain  is  o'er, 
And  cool,  and  fresh,  and  fragrant  is  the  sky. 
And  to !  in  the  dark  east,  expanded  high. 
The  rainbow  brightens  to  the  setting  sun  ! 
Fond  fool,  that  deem'st  the  streaming  glory  nigh, 
How  vain  the  chase  thine  ardour  has  begun  ! 
'Tis  fled  afar,  ere  half  thy  purposed  race  be  run. 

Yet  couldst  thou  learn,  that  thus  it  fares  with  age. 
When  pleasure,  wealth,  or  power,  the  bosom 

warm, 
This  baffled  hope  might  tame  thy  manhood's  rage. 
And  disappointment  of  her  sting  disarm. 
But  why  should  foresight  thy  fond  heart  alarm  1 
Perish  the  lore  that  deadens  young  desire ; 
Pursue,  poor  imp.  the  imaginary  charm. 
Indulge  guy  hope  and  fancy's  pleasing  fire: 
Fancy  and  hope  too  soon  shall  of  themselves  expire. 

When  the  long-sounding  curfew  from  afar 
Loaded  with  loud  lament  the  lonely  gale. 
Young  Edwin,  lighted  by  the  evening  star. 
Lingering  and  listening,  wander'd  down  the  vale. 
There  would  he  dream  of  graves,  and  corses  pale ; 
And  ghosts  that  to  the  charnel-duiigeon  throng. 
And  drag  a  length  of  clanking  chain,  and  wail. 
Till  silenced  by  the  owl's  terrific  song. 
Or  blast  that  shrieks  by  fits  the  shuddering  aisles 
along. 

Or  when  the  setting  moon,  in  crimson  dyed. 

Hung  o'er  the  dark  and  melancholy  deep, 

To   haunted    stream,   remote    from    man,   he 

hied. 
Where  fays  of  yore  their  revels  wont  to  keep ; 
And  there  let  Fancy  rove  at  large,  till  sleep 
A  vision  brought  to  his  entranced  sight. 
And  first,  a  wildly  murmuring  wind  'gan  creep 
Shrill  to  his  ringing  ear;  then  tapers  bright. 
With  instantaneous  gleam,  illumed  the  vault  of 

night. 

Anon  in  view  a  portal's  blazon'd  arch 
Arose  :  the  trumpet  bids  the  valves  unfold  ; 
And  forth  an  host  of  little  warriors  march. 
Grasping  the  diamond  lance,  and  targe  of  gold. 
Their  look  was  gentle,  their  demeanour  bold. 
And  green  their  helms,  and  green  their  silk  attire; 
And  here  and  there,  right  venerably  old. 
The  long-rol)ed  minstrels  wake  the  warbling  wire, 
And  some  with  mellow  breath  the  martial  pipe 
inspire. 

With  merriment,  and  song,  and  timbrels  clear, 
A  troop  of  dames  from  myrtle  bowers  advance; 
The  little  warriors  doflfthe  targe  and  spear. 
And  loud  enlivening  strains  provoke  the  dance. 
They  meet,  they  dart  away,  they  wheel  askance  ; 
To  right,  to  left,  they  thrid  the  flying  maze; 
Wow    bound    aloft  with   vigorous  spring,   then 

glance 
Rapid  along:  with  many-colour'd  rays 
Of  tapers,  gems,  and  gold,  the  ichoing  forests 

blaze. 


The  dream  is  fled.     Proud  harbinger  of  day. 
Who  scaredst  the  vision  with  thy  clarion  shrill, 
Fell  chanticleer  !  who  oft  hath  reft  away 
My  fancied  good,  and  brought  substantial  illl 
Oh  to  thy  cursed  scream,  discordant  still. 
Let  harmony  aye  shut  her  gentle  ear: 
Thy  boastful  mirth  let  jealous  rivals  spill. 
Insult  thy  crest,  and  glossy  pinions  tear. 
And  ever  in  thy  dreams  the  ruthless  fox  appear. 

Forbear,  my  Muse.     Let  love  attune  thy  line, 
Revoke  the  spell.    Thine  Edwin  frets  not  so. 
For  how  should  he  at  wicked  chance  repine. 
Who  feels  from  every  change  amusement  flow  ! 
Even  now  his  eyes  with  smiles  of  rapture  glow, 
As  on  he  wanders  through  the  scenes  of  morn. 
Where  the  fresh  flowers  in  living  lustre  blow. 
Where  thousand  pearls  the  dewy  lawns  adorn, 
A  thousand   notes  of  joy  in  every   breeze  are 
borne. 

But  who  the  melodies  of  morn  can  tell! 

The  wild  brook  babbling  down  the  mountain 

side , 
The  lowing  herd  ;  the  sheepfold's  simple  bell. 
The  pipe  of  early  shepherd  dim  descried 
In  the  lone  valley ;  echoing  far  and  wide. 
The  clamorous  horn  along  the  cliffs  above ; 
The  hollow  murmur  of  the  ocean-tide; 
The  hum  of  bees,  the  linnet's  lay  of  love. 
And  the  full  choir  that  wakes  the  universal  grove. 

The  cottage-curs  at  early  pilgrim  bark ; 
Crown'd  with  her  pail  the  tripping  milkmaid  sings; 
The  whistling  ploughman   stalks  afield;   and, 

hark! 
Down  the  rough  slope  the   ponderous  wagon 

rings; 
Through  rustlingcornthe  hare  astonish'd springs; 
Slow  tolls  the  village-clock  the  drowsy  hour  ; 
The  partridge  bursts  away  on  whirring  wings; 
Deep  mourns  the  turtle  in  sequester'd  bower. 
And  shrill  lark  carols  clear  from  her  aerial  tour. 

O  Nature,  how  in  every  charm  supreme ! 
Whose  votaries  feast  on  raptures  ever  new! 
Oh  for  the  voice  and  fire  of  seraphim. 
To  sing  thy  glories  with  devotion  due ! 
Blest  be  the  day  I  'scaped  the  wrangling  crew. 
From  Pyrrho's  maze  and  Epicurus'  sty  ; 
And  held  high  converse  with  the  godlike  few, 
Who  to   the   enraptured    heart,  and  car,  and 
eye. 
Teach  beauty,  virtue,  truth,  and  love,  and  melody 

Hence!  ye,  who  snare  and  stupefy  the  mind, 
Sophists,  of  beauty,  virtue,  joy,  the  bane! 
Greedy  and  fell,  though  impotent  and  blind. 
Who  spread  your  filthy  nets  in  Truth's  fair  fane. 
And  ever  ply  your  venom'd  fangs  amain  ! 
Hence  to  dark  error's  den,  whose  rankling  slime 
•   First  gave  you  form !     Hence !  lest  the  Muse 
should  deign 
(Though  loath   on   theme  so   mean  to  waste  a 
rhyme), 
With  vengeance  to  pursue  your  sacriiegion  cnnte. 
3l2 


726 


JAMES  BEATTIE. 


But  hail,  ye  mighty  masters  of  the  lay, 
Nature's  true  sons,  the  friends  of  man  and  truth  ! 
Whose  song,  sublimely  sweet,  serenely  gay, 
Amused  my  childhood,  and  inform'd  my  youth. 
Oh  let  your  spirit  t^till  my  bosom  soothe, 
Inspire  my  dreams,  and   my  wild  wanderings 

guide ; 
Your  voice  each  rugged  path  of  life  can  smooth, 
For  well  I  know  wherever  ye  reside, 
There  harmony,  and  peace,  and  innocence  abide. 

Ah  me  !  neglected  on  the  lonesome  plain, 
As  yet  poor  Edwin  never  knew  your  lore, 
Save  when  against  the  winter's  drenching  rain. 
And  driving  snow,  the  cottage  shut  the  door. 
Then,  as  instructed  by  tradition  hoar, 
Her  legend  when  the  beldame  'gan  impart, 
Or  chant  the  old  heroic  ditty  o'er. 
Wonder  and  joy  ran  thrilling  to  his  heart ; 
Much  he  the  tale  admired,  but  more  the  tuneful 
art. 

Various  and  strange  was  the  long-winded  tale ; 
And  halls,and  knights,and  feats  of  arms,  display 'd ; 
Or  merry  swains,  who  quaff  the  nut-brown  ale. 
And  sing  enamour'd  of  the  nut-brown  maid ; 
The  moonlight  revel  of  the  fairy  glade  ; 
Or  hags,  that  suckle  an  infernal  brood. 
And  ply  in  caves  the  unutterable  trade 
'Midst  fiends  and  spectres,  quench  the  moon  in 

blood, 
Yell  in  the  midnight  storm,  or  ride  the  infuriate 

flood. 

But  when  to  horror  his  amazement  rose, 
A  gentler  strain  the  beldame  would  rehearse, 
A  tale  of  rural  life,  a  tale  of  woes, 
The  orphan-babes,  and  guardian  uncle  fierce. 
Oh  cruel  !   will  no  pang  of  pity  pierce 
That  heart,  by  lust  of  lucre  sear'd  to  stone  1 
For  sure,  if  aught  of  virtue  last,  or  verse. 
To  latest  times  shall  tender  souls  bemoan 
Those   hopeless   orphan    babes   by  thy    fell   arts 
undone. 

Behold,  with  berries  smear'd,  with  brambles  torn. 
The  babes  now  famish'd  lay  them  down  to  die : 
Amidst  the  howl  of  darksome  woods  forlorn, 
Folded  in  one  another's  arms  they  lie ; 
Nor  friend,  nor  stranger,  hears  their  dying  cry : 
"  For  from  the  town  the  man  returns  no  more." 
But  thou, who  Heaven's  justvengeancedarestdefy. 
This  deed  with  fruitless  tears  shall  soon  deplore. 
When  Death  lays  waste  thy  house,  and  flames 
consume  thy  store. 

A  stifled  smile  of  stern  vindictive  joy 
Brighten'd  one  moment  Edwin's  starting  tear, 
"  But   why    should    gold    man's    feeble   mind 

decoy, 
And  innot'cnce  thus  die  by  doom  severe  1" 
O  Edwin  !   while  thy  heart  is  yet  sincere. 
The  assaults  of  discontent  and  doubt  repel : 
Dark  even  at  noontide  is  our  mortal  sphere  ; 
But  let  us  hope  ;  to  doubt  is  to  rebel ; 
\  ot  us  exult  in  hope,  that  all  shall  yet  be  well. 


Nor  be  thy  generous  indignation  check'd, 
Nor  check'd  the  tender  tear  to  Misery  given; 
From  guilt's  contagious  power  shall  that  protect, 
This  soften  and  refine  the  soul  for  Heaven. 
But  dreadful  is  their  doom,  whom  doubt  has 

driven 
To  censure  Fate,  and  pious  Hope  forego: 
Like  yonder  blasted  boughs  by  lightning  riven, 
Perfection,  beauty,  life,  they  never  know. 
But  frown  on  all  that  pass,  a  monument  of  woe. 

Shall  he,  whose  birth,  maturity,  and  age 
Scarce  fill  the  circle  of  one  summer  day, — • 
Shall  the  poor  gnat,  with  discontent  and  rage, 
Exclaim  that  Nature  hastens  to  decay, 
If  but  a  cloud  obstruct  the  solar  ray. 
If  but  a  momentary  shower  descend  ! 
Or  shall  frail  man  Heaven's  dread  decree  gainsay, 
Which  bade  the  series  of  events  extend 
Wide  through  unnumber'd  worlds,  and  ages  with- 
out end  ! 

One  part,  one  little  part,  we  dimly  scan 
Through    the   dark   medium  of  life's   feverish 

dream  ; 
Yet  dare  arraign  the  whole  stupendous  plan, 
If  but  that  little  part  incongruous  seem. 
Nor  is  that  part  perhaps  what  mortals  deem  ; 
Oft  from  apparent  ill  our  blessings  rise. 
Oh  then  renounce  that  impious  self-esteem, 
That  aims  to  trace  the  secrets  of  the  skies  : 
For  thou   art  but  of  dust;  be  humble,  and  be 


Thus  Heaven  enlarged  his  soul  in  riper  years, 
For  Nature  gave  him  strength,  and  fire,  to  soar 
On  Fancy's  wing  above  this  vale  of  tears; 
Where  dark, cold-hearted  sceptics,  creeping,  pore 
Through  microsco[)e  of  metaphysic  lore : 
And  much  they  grope  for  truth,  but  never  hit. 
For  why  1     Their  powers,  inadequate  before, 
'I'his  idle  art  makes  more  and  more  unfit ; 
Yet  deem  they  darkness  light,  and  their  vain  blun- 
ders wit. 

Nor  was  this  ancient  dame  a  foe  to  mirth  : 
Her  ballad,  jest,  and  riddle's  quaint  device 
Oft  cheer'd   the  shepherds   round   their  social 

hearth ; 
Whom  levity  or  spleen  could  ne'er  entice 
To  purchase  chat,  or  laughter,  at  the  price 
Of  deci'ncy.     Nor  let  it  faith  exceed, 
That  Nature  forms  a  rustic  taste  so  nice. 
Ah  !  had  tLey  been  of  court  or  city  breed. 
Such  delicacy  were  right  marvellous  indeed. 

Oft  when  the  winter  storm  had  ceased  to  rave, 
He  roam'd  the  snowy  waste  at  even,  to  view 
The  clouds  stupendous,  from  the  Atlantic  wave 
High-towering,  sail  along  the  horizon  blue : 
Where  'midst  the  changeful  scenery,  ever  new, 
Fancy  a  thousand  wondrous  forms  descries. 
More  wildly  great  than  ever  pencil  drew. 
Rocks,  torrents,  gulfs,  and  shapes  of  giant  size. 
And  glittering  clifls  on  cliffs,  and  fiery  ramparts 
rise. 


CHRISTOPHER  ANSTET. 


"27 


Theiiou  musing  onward  to  the  sounding  shore, 
The  lone  enthusiast  oft  would  take  his  way, 
Listening,  with  pleasing  dread,  to  the  deep  roar 
Of  the  wide-weltering  waves.     In  black  array 
When  sulphurous  clouds  roll'd  on  the  autumnal 

day, 
Even  then  he  hasten'd  from  the  haunt  of  man. 
Along  the  trembling  wilderness  to  stray. 
What  time  the  lightning's  fierce  career  began. 
And  o'er    Heaven's    rending  arch   the    rattling 

thunder  ran. 

Responsive  to  the  sprightly  pipe,  when  all 
In  sprightly  dance  the  village  youth  were  join'd, 
Edwin,  of  melody  aye  held  in  thrall, 
From  the  rude  gambol  far  remote  reclined, 
Soothed  with  the  sofl   notes   warbling  in  the 

wind. 
Ah,  then  all  jollity  seem'd  noise  and  folly: 
To  the  pure  soul  by  Fancy's  fire  refined, 
Ah,  what  is  mirth  but  turbulence  unholy. 
When  with  the  charm  compared  of  heavenly  me- 
lancholy ! 

Is  there  a  heart  that  music  cannot  melt  I 

Alas  !  how  is  that  rugged  heart  forlorn  ! 

Is  there,  who  ne'er  those  mystic  transports  felt 

Of  solitude  and  melancholy  born  t 

He  needs  not  woo  the  Muse ;  he  is  her  scorn. 

The  sophist's  rope  of  cobweb  he  shall  twine ; 

Mope  o'er  the  schoolman's  peevish  page;   or 

mourn. 
And  delve  for  life  in  Mammon'i  dirty  mine ; 
Sneak  with  the  scoundrel  fox,  or  grunt  with  glutton 

swine. 

For  Edwin,  Fate  a  nobler  doom  had  plann'd  ; 
Song  was  his  favourite  and  first  pursuit. 
I'he  wild  harp  rang  to  hi>  adventurous  hand, 
And  languLsh'd  to  his  breath  the  plaintive  flute. 


His  infant  Muse,  though  artless,  was  not  mute: 
Of  elegance  as  yet  he  took  no  care ; 
For  this  of  time  and  culture  is  the  fruit; 
And  Edwin  gain'd  at  last  this  fruit  so  rare: 
As  in  some  future  verse  I  purpose  to  declare. 

Meanwhile,  whate'er  of  beautiful  or  new. 
Sublime  or  dreadful,  in  earth,  sea,  or  sky. 
By  chance,  or  search,  was  offer'd  to  his  view. 
He  scann'd  with  curious  and  romantic  eye. 
Whate'er  of  lore  tradition  could  supply 
From  Gothic  tale,  or  song,  or  fable  old. 
Roused  him,  still  keen  to  listen  and  to  pry. 
At  last,  though  long  by  penury  controli'd. 
And  solitude,  her  soul  his  graces  gan  unfold. 

Thus  on  the  chill  Lapponian's  dreary  land. 
For  many  a  long  month  lost  in  snow  profound. 
When  Sol  from  Cancer  sends  the  season  bland. 
And  in  their  northern  cave  the  storms  are  bound ; 
From  silent  mountains,  straight,  with  startling 

sound. 
Torrents  are  hurl'd ;  green  hills  emerge ;  and  lo. 
The  trees  with  foliage,  clifis  with  flowers,  ar* 

crown'd ; 
Pure  rills  through  vales  of  verdure  warbling  go , 
And  wonder,  love,  and  joy,  the  peasant's  heart 

o'erflow. 

Here  pause,  my  Gothic  lyre,  a  little  while ; 
The  leisure  hour  is  all  that  thou  canst  claim. 
But  on  this  verse  if  Montague*  should  smile. 
New  strains  ere  long  shall  animate  thy  frame ; 
And  her  applause  to  me  is  more  than  fame; 
For  still  with  truth  accords  her  taste  refined. 
At  lucre  or  renown  let  others  aim, 
I  only  wish  to  please  the  gentle  mind. 
Whom    Nature's   charms   inspire,  and. love   ot 
human  kind. 


CHRISTOPHER  ANSTEY. 


CBo^^  1711.     Died,  ISO}.] 


Tnia  light  and  amusing  poet  was  the  son  of 
the  Rev.  Dr.  Anstey,  rector  of  Brinkeley,  in  Cam- 
bridgeshire, who  had  been  a  fellow  of  St.  John's 
College,  Cambridge.  When  very  young,  he  was 
sent  to  school  at  Bury  St.  Edmunds.  From 
thence  he  was  removed  to  Eton,  and  placed  at 
the  fourth  form,  as  an  oppidan,  and  atlerward  on 
the  foundation.  He  finished  his  studies  at  Eton 
with  a  creditable  character,  and  in  1741  went  as 
captain  to  the  Mount.  From  thence  he  went  to 
Cambridge,  wh^re  he  obtained  some  reputation 
by  his  Tripos  verses.  In  1746,  he  was  admitted 
fellow  of  King's  college,  and  in  the  following 
year  took  his  bachelor's  degree  in  the  university. 
When  he  had  nearly  completed  the  terms  of  his 
qualification  for  that  of  master  of  arts,  he  was 
prevented  from  obtaining  it  in  consequence  of 
what  his  own  son.  his  biographer,  calls  a  spirited 
and  popular  opposition,  which  be  showed  to  the 


leading  men  of  the  university.  The  phrase  ol 
<'  popular  and  spirited  opposition,"  sounds  pro- 
mising to  the  curiosity  ;  but  the  reader  must  not 
exp>ect  too  much,  lest  he  should  be  disappointed 
by  learning  that  this  popular  opposition  was  only 
his  refusing  to  deliver  certain  declamations,  which 
the  heads  of  the  university  (unfairly  it  was 
thought)  required  from  the  bachelors  of  King's 
College.  Anstey,  as  senior  of  the  order  of 
bachelors,  had  to  deliver  the  first  oration.  He 
contrived  to  begin  his  speech  with  a  rhapsody  of 
adverbs,  which,  with  no  direct  meaning,  hinted  a 
ridicule  on  the  arbitrary  injunction  of  the  uni- 
versity rulers.  They  soon  ordered  him  to  dis- 
mount from  the  rostrum,  and  called  upon  him 
for  a  new  declamation,  which,  as  might  be  ex- 
pected, only  gave  him  an  opportunity  of  pointmp 

[*  Mrs.  Montague.] 


728 


CHRISTOPHER  ANSTEY. 


finer  irony  in  the  shape  of  an  apology.  This 
affront  was  not  forgotten  by  his  superiors  ;  and 
when  he  applied  for  his  degree,  it  was  refused 
to  him. 

In  the  year  1756  he  married  Miss  Calvert, 
sister  to  his  oldest  and  most  intimate  friend  John 
Calvert,  Esq.  of  Albury  Hall,  in  Hertfordshire, 
and  sat  in  several  successive  parliaments  for  the 
borough  of  Hertford.  Having  succeeded,  after 
his  marriage,  to  his  father's  estate,  he  retired  to 
the  family  seat  in  Cambridgeshire,  and  seems  to 
have  spent  his  days  in  that  smooth  happiness 
which  gives  life  few  remarkable  eras.  He  was 
addicted  to  the  sports  of  the  field  and  the  amuse- 
ments of  the  country,  undisturbed  by  ambition, 
and  happy  in  the  possession  of  friends  and  for- 
tune. His  first  literary  effort  which  was  pub- 
lished, was  his  translation  of  Gray's  Elegy  in  a 
Churchyard  into  Latin  verse,  in  which  he  was 
assisted  by  Dr.  Roberts,  author  of  "  Judah  Re- 
stored." He  was  personally  acquainted  with 
Gray,  and  derived  from  him  the  benefit  of  some 
remarks  on  his  translation. 

His   first   publication   in   English  verse   was 


'>  The  New  Bath  Guide,"  which  appeared  ir. 
1766.  The  droll  and  familiar  manner  of  the 
poem  is  original;  but  its  leading  characters  are 
evidently  borrowed  from  Smollett.*  Anstey  gave 
the  copy  price  of  the  piece,  which  was  £200,  as 
a  charitai)Ie  donation  to  the  hospital  of  Bath ; 
and  Dodsley,  to  whom  it  had  been  sold,  with  re- 
markable generosity  restored  the  copyright  to 
its  author,  after  it  had  been  eleven  years  pub- 
lished. 

His  other  works  hardly  require  the  investi- 
gation of  their  date.  In  the  decline  of  life  he 
meditated  a  collection  of  his  letters  and  poems; 
but  letters  recovered  from  the  repositories  of  dead 
friends  are  but  melancholy  readings ;  and,  pro- 
bably overcome  by  the  sensations  which  they  ex- 
cited, he  desisted  from  his  collection.  After  a 
happy  enjoyment  of  life,  (during  fifty  years  of 
which  he  had  never  been  confined  to  bed,  except 
one  day,  by  an  accidental  hurt  upon  his  leg,)  he 
quietly  resigned  his  existence,  at  the  house  of  his 
son-in-law,  Mr.  Bosanquet,  in  his  eighty-first 
year,  surrounded  by  his  family,  and  retaining  his 
faculties  to  the  last. 


FROM  THE  NEW  BATH  GUIDE. 

LETTER  Xm. 

Mr.  SiMPKiN  B — N — R— D  to  Lady  B — N — k — D,  at 

Hall  North. 

A  Public  Breakfast — Motives  for  the  same — A  List  of  the 
Company — A  tender  Scene — An  unfortunate  Incident. 

What  blessings  attend,  my  dear  mother,  all  those 
Who  to  crowds  of  admirers  their  persons  expose  ! 
Do  the  gods  such  a  noble  ambition  inspire  1 
Or  gods  do  we  make  of  each  ardent  desire  1 
Oh  generous  passion  !  'tis  yours  to  afford 
The  splendid  assembly,  the  plentiful  board  ; 
To  thee  do  I  owe  such  a  breakfast  this  morn. 
As  I  ne'er  saw  before  since  the  hour  I  was  born  ; 
'Twas  you  made  my  Lord  Ragamuffin  come  here, 
Who,  they  say,  has  been  lately  created  a  Peer, 
And  to-day  with  extreme  complaisance  and  re- 
spect ask'd 
All  the  people  at  Bath  to  a  general  breakfast. 

You've  heard  of  my  Lady  Bunbutter,  no  doubt. 
How  she  loves  an  assembly,  fandango,  or  rout ; 
No  lady  in  London  is  half  so  expert 
At  a  snug  private  party  her  friends  to  divert; 
But  they  say  that,  of  late,  she's  grown  sick  of 

the  town, 
And  often  to  Bath  condescends  to  come  down  : 
Her  Ladyship's  favourite  house  is  the  Bear: 
Her  chariot,  and  servants,  and  horses  are  there : 
My  Lady  declares  that  retiring  is  good ; 
As  all  with  a  separate  maintenance  should  : 
For  when  you  have  put  out  the  conjugal  fire, 
'Tis  time  for  all  sensible  folk  to  retire ; 


[*  Anstey  was  the  orignal,  for  Humphrey  Clinker  was 
not  out  tUl  1771,  nor  written  before  1770.  This  inadver- 
tency of  Mr.  Campbell  has  been  pointed  out  by  Lord  Byron 
in  the  Appendix  to  the  5th  Canto  of  Don  Juan. 

"  But  Anstey's  diverting  satire,"  says  Sir  Walter  Scott, 
« waa  but  a  slight  sketch,  compared  to  the  finished  and 


If  Hymen  no  longer  his  fingers  will  scorch. 
Little  Cupid  for  others  can  whip  in  his  torch. 
So  pert  is  he  grown  since  the  custom  began 
To  be  married  and  parted  as  quick  as  you  can. 
Now  my  Lord  had  the  honour  of  coming  down 

post, 
To  pay  his  respects  to  so  famous  a  toast ; 
In  hopes  he  her  Ladyship's  favour  might  win. 
By  playing  the  part  of  a  host  at  an  inn. 
I'm  sure  he's  a  person  of  great  resolution, 
Though  delicate  nerves,  and  a  weak  constitution  ; 
For  he  carried  us  all  to  a  place  'cross  the  river. 
And  vow'd  that  the  rooms  were  too  hot  for  his 

liver : 
He  said  it  would  greatly  our  pleasure  promote. 
If  we  all  for  Spring-gardens  set  out  in  a  boat : 
I  never  as  yet  could  his  reason  explain, 
Why  we  all  sallied  forth  in  the  wind  and  the  rain ; 
For  sure,  such  confusion  was  never  yet  known  ; 
Here  a  cap  and  a  hat,  there  a  cardinal  blown  : 
While  his  Lordship,  embroider'd  and  powder'd 

all  o'er. 
Was  bowing  and  handing  the  ladies  ashore : 
How  the  misses  did  huddle  and  scuddle,  and  run  : 
One  would  think  to  be  wet  must  be  very  good  fun  • 
For  by  wagging  their  tails,  they   all  seem'd  to 

take  pains 
To  moisten  their  pinions  like  ducks  when  it  rains; 
And  'twas  pretty  to  see  how,  like  birds  of  a  feather. 
The  people  of  quality  flock'd  all  together ; 
All  pressing,  addressing,  caressing,  and  fond. 
Just  the  same  as  those  animals  are  in  a  pond : 

elaborate  manner  in  which  Smollett  has,  in  the  first 
place,  identified  his  characters,  and  then  fitted  them  with 
language,  sentiments,  and  powers  of  observation,  in  exact 
con'espondence  with  their  talents,  temper,  condition,  and 
disposition."— Jftsc.  iV.  Wwks,  vol.  iii.  p.  160.] 


CHRISTOPHER   ANSTET. 


729 


fou've  read  all  their  names  in  the  news,!  suppose, 
But,  for  fear  you  have  not,  take  the  list  as  it  goes : 
There  was  Lady  Greasewrister, 
And  Madam  Van-Twister 
Her  Ladyship's  sister ; 
Lord  Cram,  and  Lord  Vulture, 
Sir  Brandish  O'Culter, 
With  Marshal  Carozer, 
And  old  Lady  Mouzer, 
And  the  great  Hanoverian  Baron  Pansmowzer: 
Besides  many  others,  who  all  in  the  rain  went, 
On  purpose  to  honour  this  great  entertainment : 
The  company  made  a  most  brilliant  appearance. 
And  ate  bread-and-butter  with  great  perseverance : 
All  the  chocolate,  too,  that  my  Lord  set  before  'em. 
The  ladies  despatch'd  with  the  utmost  decorum. 
Soft  musical  numbers  were  heard  all  around. 
The  horns'  and  the  clarions'  echoing  sound : 
Sweet  were  the  strains,  as  odorous  gales  that 

blow 
O'er  fragrant  banks,  where  pinks  and  roses  grovf. 
That  Peer  was  quite  ravish'd,  while  close  to  his  side 
Sat  Lady  Bunbutter,  in  beautiful  pride ! 
Oft  turning  his  eyes,  he  with  rapture  survey'd 
All  the  powerful  charms  she  so  nobly  display'd. 
As  when  at  the  feast  of  the  great  Alexander 
Timotheus,  the  musical  son  of  Thersander, 
Breathed  heavenly  measures; 
The  prince  was  in  pain, 
And  could  not  contain. 
While  Thais  was  sitting  beside  him ; 
But,  before  all  his  peers, 
Was  for  shaking  the  spheres. 
Such  goods  the  kind  gods  did  provide  him ; 
Grew  bolder  and  bolder. 
And  cock'd  up  his  shoulder. 
Like  the  son  of  great  Jupiter  Ammon, 
Till  at  length  quite  oppress'd. 
He  sunk  on  her  breast, 
And  lay  there  as  dead  as  a  salmon. 
Oh  had  I  a  voice  that  was  stronger  than  steel. 
With  twice  fifty  tongues  to  express  what  I  feel, 
And  as  many  good  mouths,  yet  I  never  could  utter 
All  the  speeches  my  Lord  made  to  Lady  Bun- 
butter  ! 
So  polite  all  the  time,  that  he  ne'er  touch'd  a  bit, 
While  she  ate  up  his  rolls  and  applauded  his  wit : 
For  they  tell  me  that  men  of  true  taste,  when  they 

treat. 
Should  talk  a  great  deal,  but  they  never  should  eat: 
And  if  that  be  the  fashion,  I  never  will  give 
Any  grand  entertainment  as  long  as  I  live: 
For  I'm  of  opinion  'tis  proper  to  cheer 
The  stomach  and  bowels,  as  well  as  the  ear. 
Nor  me  did  the  charming  concerto  of  Abel 
Regale  like  the  breakfast  I  saw  on  the  table : 
I  freely  will  own  I  the  muffins  preferr'd 
To  all  the  genteel  conversation  I  heard. 
E'en  though  I'd  the  honour  of  sitting  between 
My  Lady  Stufi'-damask  and  Peggy  Moreen, 
Who  both  flew  to  Bath  in  the  nightly  machine. 
Cries  Peggy,  "  This  place  is  enchantingly  pretty  ; 
Wo  never  can  see  such  a  thing  in  the  city  : 
92 


You  may  spend  all  your  lifetime  in  Cateaton-street, 

And  never  so  civil  a  gentleman  meet ; 

You  may  talk  what  you  please ;  you  may  search 

London  through ; 
You  may  go  to  Carlisle's,  and  to  Almanac's  too : 
And  I'll  give  you  my  head  if  you  find  such  a  host. 
For  coffee,  tea,  chocolate,  butter,  and  toast : 
How  he  welcomes  at  once  all  the  world  and  bis 

wife. 
And  how  civil  to  folk  he  ne'er  saw  in  his  life !" — 
"These  horns,"  cries  my  lady,  "so  tickle  one's  ear, 
Lord !  what  would  I  give  that  Sir  Simon  was  here ! 
To  the  next  public  breakfast  Sir  Simon  shall  go. 
For  I  find  here  are  folks  one  may  venture  to  know : 
Sir  Simon  would  gladly  his  Lordship  attend. 
And  my  Lord  would  be  pleased  with  so  cheerful 

a  friend." 
So  when  we  had  wasted  more  bread  at  abreakfast 
Than  the  poor  of  our  parish  have  ate  for  this  week 

past, 
I  saw,  all  at  once,  a  prodigious  great  throng 
Come  bustling,  and  rustling,  and  jostling  along: 
For  his  Lordship  was  pleased  that  the  company 

now 
To  my  Lady  Bunbutter  should  curt'sy  and  bow: 
And  my  Lady  was  pleased  too,  and  seemed  vastly 

proud 
At  once  to  receive  all  the  thanks  of  a  crowd : 
And  when,  like  Chaldeans,  we  all  had  adored 
This  beautiful  image  set  up  by  my  Lord, 
Some  few  insignificant  folk  went  away. 
Just  to  follow  the  employments  and  calls  of  the 

day; 
But  those  who  knew  better  their  time  how  to 

spend, 
The  fiddling  and  dancing  all  chose  to  attend. 
Miss  Clunch  and  Sir  Toby  performed  a  Cotillion, 
Just  the  same  as  our  Susan  and  Bob  the  postillion ; 
All  the  while  her  mamma  was  expressing  her  joy. 
That  her  daughter  the  morning  so  well  could 

employ. 
— Now  why  should  the  Muse,  my  dear  mother, 

relate 
The  misfortunes  that  fall  to  the  lot  of  the  great  t 
As  homeward  we  came — 'tis  with  sorrow  you'll 

hear 
What  a  dreadful  disaster  attended  the  Peer: 
For  whether  some  envious  god  had  decreed 
That  a  Naiad  should  long  to  ennoble  her  breed; 
Or  whether  his  Lordship  was  charm 'd  to  behold 
His  face  in  the  stream,  like  Narcissus  of  old ; 
In  handing  old  Lady  Bumfidget  and  daughter, 
7'his  obsequious  Lord  tumbled  into  the  water; 
But  a  nymph  of  the  flood  brought  him  safe  to  the 

boat. 
And  I  left  all  the  ladies  a  cleaning  his  coat. 

Thus  the  feast  was  concluded,  as  far  as  I  hear, 
To  the  great  satisfaction  of  all  that  were  there. 
Oh  may  he  give  breakfasts  as  long  as  he  stays, 
For  I  ne'er  ate  a  better  in  all  my  born  days. 
In  haste  I  conclude,  &c.  &c  &c. 

S B— « — Bi — D 

Bath,  1766. 


APPENDIX. 


WHAT  DID  DENHAM  AND  WALLER  EFFECT  FOR  ENGLISH 
VERSIFICATION? 


As  every  poet  distinguished  for  his  cultivation 
of  our  couplet  numbers  that  has  touched  upon  the 
Art  of  Poetry,  or  made  selections  from  our  poets, 
has  spoken  of  our  heroics  with  rhyme  as  our  only 
true  poetic  measure,  indeed  as  if  we  had  no  other, 
and  made  Denham  and  Waller  the  fathers  of  our 
versification,  a  refutation  of  an  absurdity  perhaps 
unparalleled  in  the  whole  history  of  English  litera-. 
ture  will  not  be  without  its  use.  An  assertion  trace- 
able in  fifty  places  to  Dryden,  sanctioned  in  some 
way  by  Prior,*  and  confirmed  by  the  whole  scope 
and  tendency  of  Dr.  Johnson's  writings :  but  not, 
it  is  right  to  add,  without  its  other  assistances ;  for 
when  Goldsmith  published  his  Select  Beauties  of 
British  Poetry,  he  found  no  poet  to  cull  a  single 
flower  from  before  Waller^ — ■&  more  contracted 
taste,  or  a  slighter  knowledge  of  the  art  he  himself 
excelled  in,  it  is  impossible  to  imagine. 

To  say  that  Waller  and  Denham  are  the  fathers 
of  English  versification  is  absurd — unless  all  ver- 
sification is  confined  to  the  couplet.  Who  has 
improved,  let  us  ask,  on  the  versification  of  Spen- 
ser, or  of  any  of  the  stanza  measures  of  the  reign 
of  Elizabeth — has  Prior,  or  has  'I'homson,  or  has 
Beattie,  or  has  Burns  1  Who  has  improved 
upon  the  dramatic  blank  verse  of  Shakspeare, 
of  Fletcher,  or  of  Jonson — has  Otway,  has 
Southerne,  or  has  Rowe  1  Has  Jonson  or  Carew 
been  excelled  in  lyrical  ease  by  Waller  or  Lord 
Lansdowne  ]  The  Gondibert  of  Davenant  or  the 
Annus  Mirabilis  of  Dryden  or  the  Elegy  of  Gray 
are  not  more  musical  in  their  numbers  than  the 
quatrains  of  Davies,  who  never  leaves  the  ear,  as 
Johnson  says,  ungratified. 

What  did  the  blank  verse  of  Milton  gain  in  its 
most  mellifluous  passages  from  the  rhymes  of 
Denham  or  of  Waller  ?  Nothmg !  Yet  Dryden 
can  be  found  to  assert,  with  all  the  confidence  of 
truth,  that  unless  Waller  had  written,  no  one  could 
have  written  in  the  age  in  which  he  wrote  with 


•  Prior  8»y8  that  Darenant  and  Waller  improved  our 
ver^ltlcation — not,  as  he  is  made  to  say  by  Johnson  and 
others,  Den/uwi  and  Waller.  Uavenant'a  measure  was  the 
heroic  with  alternate  rhyme. 


any  thing  like  success,  when  the  surpassing  g.Iorj 
of  Dryden's  age  was  a  poem  setting  at  defiance, 
in  its  preface  and  its  numbers,  the  very  principle 
of  versification  that  Denham  and  Waller  adopted, 
and  Dryden  sanctioned  and  improved. 

"  Well-placing  of  words  for  the  sweetness  of 
pronunciation  was  not  known,"  says  Dryden,  "till 
Mr.  Waller  introduced  it." — "The  excellence  and 
dignity  of  rhyme  were  never  fully  known  till  Mr. 
Waller  taught  it  in  lyric  and  Sir  John  Denham 
in  epic  poesy." — "Our  numbers,"  he  says  in 
another  place  and  at  a  later  period  of  life,  "  were 
in  their  nonage  till  Waller  and  Denham  ap- 
peared," and  that  '« the  sweetness  of  English 
verse  was  never  understood  or  practised  by  our 
fathers."  But  Dryden's  criticisms  are  a  series 
of  contradictions:  "Blank  verse,"  he  says,  "is 
acknowledged  to  be  too  low  for  a  poem,  nay 
more,  for  a  paper  of  verses ;"  yet  he  is  an  admirer 
of  Paradise  Lost: — Denham  and  Waller  did  every 
thing  for  English  versification — yet  "  Spenser  and 
Fairfax  were  great  masters  of  our  language,  and 
saw  much  farther  into  the  beauties  of  our  num- 
bers than  those  who  immediately  followed  them;" 
and  <■  Many  besides  himself  had  heard  our  famous 
Waller  own  that  he  derived  the  harmony  of  his 
numbers  from  the  Godfrey  of  Bulloigne,  v^hich 
was  turned  into  English  by  Mr.  Fairfax."  He  is 
now  for  the  new  way  of  writing  scenes  in  rhyme, 
now  without,  now  for  couplets,  and  now  for  qua- 
trains; whatever  he  had  in  hand  was  best ;  rhyme 
invigorated  thought  and  now  constrained  it — sug- 
gested or  cramped  ideas  as  his  fancy  found  it, 
when  writing,  to  exhibit  his  present  performance 
to  the  greatest  advantage. 

Our  ten-syllable  rhymed  verse,  or  heroic  with 
rhyme,  was  used  by  Chaucer  in  his  Palamon  and 
Arcite,  by  Douglas  in  his  translation  of  Virgil, 
and  by  Spenser  in  the  tale  of  Mother  Hubbard. 
Donne,  Hall,  and  Marston  used  it  in  their  Satires; 
Ben  Jonson  occasionally  in  his  epigrams  or  Com- 
mendatory Poems;  Beaumont  in  his  Bosworth 
Field ;  Drummond  in  his  Poem  on  Prince  Henry, 
and  his  Forth  Feasting ;  and  Golding,  Sandys,  and 

731 


732 


APPENDIX. 


May  in  their  translations  from  Ovid,  Virgil,  and 
Lucan.  Denham's  first  publication  was  in  1642. 
and  Waller's  Poems  were  not  collectively  in 
print  before  1645.  The  following  extracts  are 
brought  together  to  show  by  examples  in  what 
state,  when  they  began  to  write,  the  reputed 
fathers  of  English  verse  found  the  cultivation  of 
our  couplet  measure ;  how  little  they  did  ;  and 
how  much  they  left  to  Dryden,  to  Prior,  and  Pope 
to  do.  "  By  knowing  the  state,"  says  Johnson, 
"  in  which  Waller  found  our  poetry,  the  reader 
may  judge  how  much  he  improved  it." 

Donne  is  always  a  rugged  versifier.  He  has  the 
restraint  of  rhyme  without  its  emphasis;  and  the 
fetters  which  others  wear  like  bracelets  are  on  him 
inconvenient  chains  and  incumbrances.  The 
lines  which  follow  are  in  his  most  melodious 
flow. 

When  I  behold  a  stream,  which  from  the  spring 
Doth,  with  doubtful  melodious  murmuring, 
Or  in  a  speechless  .slumber,  calmly  ride 
Her  wedded  channel's  bosom,  and  there  chide. 
And  bend  her  brows,  and  swell,  if  any  bough 
Do  but  stoop  down  to  kiss  her  utmost  brow : 
Yet  if  her  often-gnawing  kisses  win 
The  traitorous  banks  to  gape  and  let  her  in, 
She  rusheth  violently  and  doth  divorce 
Her  from  her  native  and  her  long-kept  course, 
And  roars  and  braves  it,  and  in  gallant  scorn, 
In  flattering  eddies  promising  return. 
She  flouts  her  channel,  which  thenceforth  is  dry ; 
Then  say  I,  "  that  is  she,  and  this  am  I." — Elegy,  vL 

Hall  had  a  better  ear  than  Donne — ^his 
words  are  better  placed,  and  his  pauses  infi- 
nitely more  select.  What  follows  was  printed 
in  1597. 

Time  was,  and  that  was  term'd  the  time  of  gold. 
When  world  and  time  were  young  that  now  are  old, 
(When  quiet  Saturn,  sway'd  the  mace  of  lead, 
And  pride  was  yet  unborn,  and  yet  unbred). 
Time  was,  that  whiles  the  autumn-fal!  did  last, 
Our  hungry  sires  gaped  for  the  fallinf  mast 
Of  the  Dodonian  oaks. 
Could  no  unhusked  acorn  leave  the  tree. 
But  there  was  challenge  made  whose  it  might  be. 
Their  royal  plate  was  clay,  or  wood,  or  stone ; 
The  vulgar,  save  his  hand,  else  he  had  none. 
Their  only  cellar  was  the  neighbour  brook ; 
None  did  for  better  care,  for  better  look. 
The  king's  pavilion  was  the  grassy  green 
Under  safe  shelter  of  the  shady  treen. 
Under  each  bank  men  laid  their  limbs  along, 
Not  wishing  any  ease,  not  fearing  wrong : 
Clad  with  their  own,  as  they  were  made  of  old. 
Not  fearing  shame,  not  feeling  any  cold. 

ScUires,  B.  iii.  Sat.  L 

In  the  point,  volubility,  and  vigour  of  Hall's 
numbers,  says  Mr.  Campbell,  we  might  frequently 
imagine  ourselves  perusing  Dryden. 

Another  scorns  ths  home-spun  thread  of  rhymes, 
Match'd  witb  the  lofty  feet  of  elder  times : 
Give  me  the  number'd  verse  that  Virgil  sung. 
And  Virgil's  self  shall  speak  the  English  tongue : 


"  Manhood  and  garboils  shall  he  chant,"  with  changed  feet 

And  head-strong  dactyls  making  music  meet; 

The  nimble  dactyl  striving  to  out-go 

The  drawling  spondees,  pacing  it  below ; 

The  lingering  spondees  labouring  to  delay 

The  breathless  dactyls  with  a  sudden  stay. 

Satires,  B.  i.  Sat.  vl. 

"  Hall's  versification,"  says  Warton,  "is  equally 
energetic  and  elegant;  and  the  fabrics  of  the 
couplets  approaches  to  the  modern  standard." 

Great  is  the  folly  of  a  feeble  brain, 
O'erruled  with  love,  and  tyrannous  disdain : 
For  love,  however  in  the  basest  breast 
It  breeds  high  thoughts  that  feed  the  fancy  best, 
Yet  is  he  blind,  and  leads  poor  fools  awry, 
While  they  hang  gazing  on  their  mistress'  eye. 
The  lovesick  poet,  whose  importune  prayer 
Repulsed  is  with  resolute  despair, 
Hopeth  to  conquer  hLs  disdainful  dame. 
With  public  plaints  of  his  conceived  flame 
Then  pours  he  forth  in  patched  sonnettings, 
His  love,  his  lust,  and  loathsome  flatterings : 
As  though  the  starving  world  hang'd  on  his  sleeve. 
When  once  he  smiles  to  laugh,and  when  he  sighs  to  grieve 
Careth  the  world,  thou  love,  thou  live  or  die  ? 
Careth  the  world  how  fair  thy  fair  one  be  ? 
fond  wit-wal,  that  would'st  load  thy  witless  head 
With  timely  horns,  before  thy  bridal  bed. 
Then  can  he  term  his  dirty  ill-faced  bride 
Lady,  and  queen,  and  virgin  deified : 
Be  she  all  sooty  black,  or  berry  brown. 
She's  white  as  morrow's  milk,  or  flakes  new  blown. 
And  though  she  be  some  dunghill  drudge  at  home, 
Yet  can  he  her  resign  some  refuse  room 
Amidst  the  well-known  stars :  or  if  not  there, 
Sure  will  he  saint  her  in  his  calendar. 

Satires,  B.  i.  Sat.  vii. 

Marston  is  below  Hall,  and  scarcely  above  Donne. 
Ben  Jonson.  however,  is  vigorous  at  times,  and 
though  too  frequently  found  carrying  the  sense  in 
an  ungraceful  way  from  one  verse  into  another,  is 
musical  after  a  kind. 

rO  WILLIAM  CAMDEN. 

Camden  1  most  reverend  head,  to  whom  I  owe 
All  that  I  am  in  arts,  all  that  I  know ; 
(How  nothing's  that!)  to  whom  my  country  owes 
The  great  renown,  and  name  wherewith  she  goes ! 
Than  thee  the  age  sees  not  that  thing  more  grave, 
More  high,  more  holy,  that  she  more  would  crave. 
What  name,  what  skill,  what  fiiith  hast  thou  in  things' 
What  sight  in  searching  the  most  antique  springs ! 
What  weight  and  what  authority  in  thy  speech! 
Men  scarce  can  make  that  doubt,  but  thou  canst  teach. 
Pardon  free  truth,  and  let  thy  modesty. 
Which  conquers  all,  be  once  overcome  by  thee. 
Many  of  thine,  this  better  could,  than  I; 
But  for  their  powers,  accept  my  piety. 


TO  HEAVEN. 

Good  and  great  God!  can  I  not  think  of  The* 
But  it  must  straight  my  melancholy  be  ? 
Is  it  interpreted  in  me  disease. 
That  laden  with  my  sins,  I  seek  for  ease? 


APPENDIX. 


738 


Oh  be  Thou  witness,  that  the  reins  dost  know 

And  hearts  of  all,  if  I  be  sad  for  show. 

And  judge  me  after :  if  I  dare  pretend 

To  aught  but  g^race,  or  aim  at  other  end. 

As  Thou  art  all,  so  be  Thou  all  to  me, 

First,  Midst,  and  Last,  converted.  One  and  Three  I 

My  &ith,  my  hope,  my  lore,  and  in  this  state 

My  Judge,  my  Witness,  and  my  Advocate. 

Where  have  I  been  this  while  exiled  from  Thee, 

And  whither  rapt,  now  Thou  but  stoop'st  to  me  ? 

Dwell,  dwell  here  still!  oh,  being  everywhere, 

How  can  I  doubt  to  find  thee  ever  here  ? 

I  know  my  state  both  full  of  shame  and  scorn, 

Conceived  in  sin,  and  unto  labour  bom. 

Standing  with  fear,  and  must  with  horror  fell, 

And  destined  unto  judgment  after  all. 

I  feel  my  griefe  too,  and  there  scarce  is  ground. 

Upon  my  flesh  t'  inflict  another  wound ; 

Tet  dare  I  not  complain,  or  wish  for  death. 

With  holy  Paul,  lest  it  be  thought  the  breath 

Of  discontent;  or  that  these  prayers  be 

For  weariness  of  life,  not  love  of  Thee. 

In  the  evenness,  sweetness,  and  flow  of  his 
Dunibers,  Sir  John  Beaumont  is  very  excellent. 

Why  should  vain  sorrow  follow  him  with  tears, 
Who  shakes  off  burdens  of  declining  years? 
Whose  thread  exceeds  the  usual  bounds  of  life, 
And  feels  no  stroke  of  any  fatal  knife? 
The  Destinies  enjoin  their  wheels  to  run. 
Until  the  length  of  his  whole  course  be  spun : 
No  envious  cloud  obscures  his  struggling  light, 
WTiich  sets  contented  at  the  point  of  night: 
Tet  this  large  time  no  greater  profit  brings, 
Than  every  little  moment  whence  it  springs. 
Unless  employ'd  in  works  deserving  praise ; 
Most  wear  out  many  years  and  live  few  days. 
*  «  «  *  * 

His  memory  hath  a  surer  ground  than  theirs, 
Who  trust  in  stately  tombs,  or  wealthy  heirs. 

To  tM  Memory  of  Ferdisakdo  Pni,TOJr,  Esq. 

The  following  lines  are  far  from  halting,  and 
the  couplet  restricts  the  sense  after  the  epigram* 
matic  fashion  of  Pope  and  Darwin. 

He  makes  sweet  music,  who  in  serious  lines 
Light  dancing  tunes,  and  heavy  prose  declines. 
When  verses  like  a  milky  torrent  flow. 
They  equal  temper  in  the  poet  show. 
He  paints  true  forms,  who  with  a  modest  heart 
Gives  lustre  to  his  work,  yet  covers  art. 
Uneven  swelling  is  no  way  to  feme. 
But  solid  joining  of  the  perfect  frame : 
So  that  no  curious  finger  there  can  find, 
The  former  chinks,  or  nails  that  fastly  bind. 
Yet  most  would  have  the  knots  of  stitches  seen, 
And  holes  where  men  may  thrust  their  hands  between. 
On  halting  feet  the  ragged  poera  goes. 
With  accents  neither  fitting  verse  or  prose. 
The  style  mine  ear  with  more  contentment  filla 
(n  lawyers'  pleadings  or  physicians'  bills,  &c. 

To  J.uiES  I.  concerning  the  true/orm  qf 
English  Paelry. 

•  William  Browne,"  says  Hallam,  "  is  an  early 
model  of  ease  and  variety  in  the  regular  couplet. 
Many  passages  in  his  unequal  poem  are  hardly 
excelled  by  the  Fables  of  Dryden."     But  Drum* 


mond  of  Hawthornden  is  by  far  his  superior.  His 
Forth  Feasting,  says  the  same  competent  autho- 
rity, "  is  perfectly  harmonious ;  and  what  is  very 
remarkable  in  that  age,  he  concludes  the  verse 
at  every  couplet  with  the  regularity  of  Pope." 
The  Forth  is  made  to  congratulate  King  James. 

To  virgins,  flowers — to  sun-burnt  earth  the  rain — 
To  mariners,  felr  winds  amid  the  main. 
Cool  shades  to  pilgrims,  which  hot  glances  bum. 
Are  not  so  pleasing  as  thy  blest  return. 
That  day,  dear  prince,  which  robb'd  us  of  thy  sight 
(Day  ?  No,  but  darkness  and  a  dusky  night,) 
Did  fill  our  breast  with  sighs,  our  eyes  with  tears, 
Turn  minutes  to  sad  months,  sad  months  to  years : 
Trees  left  to  fiourish,  meadows  to  bear  flowers. 
Brooks  hid  their  heads  within  their  sedgy  bowers: 
Fair  Ceres  cursed  our  trees  with  barren  frost, 
As  if  again  she  had  her  daughter  lost : 
The  Mvises  left  our  groves,  and  for  sweet  songs 
Sate  sadly  silent,  nor  did  weep  their  wrongs : 

Oh  virtue's  pattern!  glory  of  our  times! 
Sent  of  past  days  to  expiate  the  crimes ; 
Great  king,  but  better  far  than  thou  art  great, 
Whom  state  not  honours,  but  who  honours  state , 
By  wonder  home,  by  wonder  first  instaU'd, 
By  wonder  after  to  new  kingdoms  call'd ; 
Young,  kept  by  wonder  from  home-bred  alarms, 
Old,  saved  by  wonder  from  pale  traitors'  barms; 
To  be  for  this  thy  reign,  which  wonders  brings, 
A  king  of  wonder,  wonder  unto  kings. 
If  Pict,  Dane,  Norman,  thy  smooth  yoke  had  seen. 
Hct,  Dane,  and  Norman  had  thy  subjects  been : 
If  Brutus  knew  the  bliss  thy  rule  doth  give, 
Even  Brutus  joy  would  under  thee  to  live : 
For  thou  thy  people  dost  so  dearly  love. 
That  they  a  fether,  more  than  prince,  thee  prove. 

Ah!  why  should  Isis  only  see  thee  shine? 
Is  not  the  Forth,  as  well  as  Isis,  thine  ? 
Tliough  Isis  vaunt  she  hath  more  wealth  in  store, 
Let  it  suflSce  thy  Forth  doth  love  thee  more : 
Though  she  for  beauty  may  compare  with  Seine, 
For  swans  and  sea-nymphs  with  imperial  Kheine; 
Tet,  for  the  title  may  be  claim'd  in  thee. 
Nor  she,  nor  all  the  world,  can  match  with  me. 
Now,  when,  by  honour  drawn,  thou  shalt  away 
To  her,  already  jealous  of  thy  stay ; 
When  in  her  amorous  arms  she  doth  thee  fold, 
And  dries  thy  dewy  hairs  with  hers  of  gold. 
Much  asking  of  thy  fare,  much  of  thy  sport. 
Much  of  thine  absence,  long,  howe'er  so  short. 
And  chides,  perhaps,  thy  coming  to  the  North, 
Loath  not  to  think  on  thy  much-loving  Forth : 
Oh  I  love  these  bounds,  where  of  thy  royal  stem, 
More  than  a  hundred  wore  a  diadem. 
So  ever  gold  and  l>ays  thy  brows  adorn. 
So  never  time  may  see  thy  race  outworn ; 
So  of  thine  own  still  mayst  thou  be  desired, 
Of  strangers  fear'd,  redoubted  and  admired; 
So  memory  thee  praise,  so  precious  hours 
May  character  thy  name  in  starry  flowers ; 
So  may  thy  high  exploits  at  last  make  even 
With  earth  thy  empire,  glory  with  the  heaven ! 

There  is  not  much  melody  in  May—  he  is  more 
vigorous  than  musical,  and  writes  as  if  anxious 
rather  fur  the  strength  of  his  thoughts  than  the 
3H 


734 


APPENDIX, 


flow  of  his  numbers.  But  Sandys  is  called  by 
Dry  den  "the  best  versifier  of  the  former  age."* 
Waller,  when  he  condescended  to  acknowledge 
Fairfax  for  his  model,  might  have  owned  his 
obligations  to  the  Ovid  of  Sandys. 

And  now  the  work  Is  ended,  which,  Jove's  rage, 
Nor  fire,  nor  sword,  shall  raze,  nor  eating  age. 
Come  when  it  will  my  death's  uncertain  hour, 
Which  of  this  hody  only  hath  the  power, 
Yet  shall  my  better  part  transcend  the  sky. 
And  my  immortal  name  shall  never  die, 
For  whersoe'er  the  Roman  Eagles  spread 
Their  conquering  wings,  I  shall  of  all  he  read : 
And,  if  we  Poets  true  presages  give, 
I  in  my  Fame  eternally  shall  live. 

Ovid.    B.  XV.  fol.  Oxfii.  1632. 

Deep  in  a  bay,  an  isle  with  stretch'd-out  sides, 
A  harbour  makes,  and  breaks  the  justling  tides : 
The  parting  floods  into  a  land-lock'd  sound 
Their  streams  discharge,  with  rocks  environ'd  round : 
Whereof  two,  equal  lofty,  threat  the  skies. 
Under  whose  lee  the  safe  sea  silent  lies : 
Their  brows  with  dark  and  trembling  woods  array'd, 
Whose  spreading  branches  cast  a  dreadful  shade. 
W'ithin  the  hanging  rock  a  cave  well  known 
To  sacred  sea-nymphs,  bench'd  with  living  stone, 
In  fountains  fruitful.    Here  no  hawser  bound 
The  shaking  ships,  nor  anchor  broke  the  ground. 
Hither  ^neas,  &c 

Virgn.    B.  i.  Ed.l632. 

Fenton,  anxious  to  exalt  his  favourite  Waller, 
and  make  good  the  praise  he  had  awarded  him 
as — 

Maker  and  model  of  melodious  verse — 

would  seem  to  have  assigned  to  some  of  the  poems 
of  Waller  too  early  a  date ;  dates,  which  their 
titles  rather  than  their  contents  would  justify  him 
in  assigning.  Johnson  has  noticed  this,  and  very 
properly.  "  Neither  of  these  pieces,"t  he  says, 
"that  seem  to  carry  their  own  dates,  could  have 
been  the  sudden  effusion  of  fancy.  In  the  verses 
on  the  Prince's  escape,  the  prediction  of  his 
marriage  with  the  Princess  of  France  must  have 
been  written  after  the  event ;  in  the  other,  the 
promises  of  the  king's  kindness  to  the  descendants 
of  Buckingham,  which  could  not  be  properly 
praised  till  it  had  appeared  by  its  effects,  show 
that  time  was  taken  for  revision  and  improve- 
ment. It  is  not  known  that  they  were  published 
till  they  appeared  long  afterward  with  other 
poems." 

This  is  as  curious  as  it  is  convincing.  Nor  is 
it  less  so,  that  the  flow  of  Waller  was  the  result 
of  labour,  not  an  inherent  melody — for  the  feli- 
city of  numbers  so  much  dwelt  upon  in  his  mis- 
called early  productions,  (first  known  to  have 
been  printed  in  the  poet's  fortieth  year,)  is  not 
found  in  the  only  printed  poem  of  his  before  the 
famous  45 ;  for  his  verses  "  Upon  Ben  Jonson," 
written  and  printed  in  1637-8,  are  wanting  in  all 

*  Malone,  vol.  iv.  588. 

+  "Of  the  danger  Ilis  Majesty  (being  Prince)  escaped  in 
the  road  at  St.  Andoro,"  and  "on  Ilis  Majesty's  receiving 
tb«  new  of  the  Duke  of  Buckingham's  death." 


his  after  excellences.     What  follows  is  inferior 
to  what  had  been  done  before  him  : — 

Mirror  of  poets!  mirror  of  our  age ! 
Which  her  whole  face  beholding  on  thy  stage. 
Pleased  and  displeased  with  her  own  faults,  enduies 
A  remedy  like  those  whom  music  cures. 
Thou  not  alone  those  various  inclinations 
Which  nature  gives  to  ages,  sexes,  nations, 
Hast  traced  with  thy  all-resembling  pen, 
But  all  that  custom  hath  imposed  on  men. 
Or  ill-got  habits,  which  distort  them  so. 
That  scarce  the  brother  can  the  brother  know. 
Is  represented  to  the  wondering  eyes 
Of  all  that  see  or  read  thy  comedies. 
Whoever  in  those  glasses  looks,  may  find 
The  spots  return'd,  or  graces,  of  his  mind; 
And,  by  the  help  of  so  divine  an  art, 
At  leisure  view  and  dress  his  nobler  part. 
Narcissus,  cozen'd  by  that  flattering  well. 
Which  nothing  could  but  of  his  beauty  tell, 
Had  here,  discovering  the  deform'd  estate 
Of  his  fond  mind,  preserved  himself  with  hate. 
But  virtue  too,  as  well  as  vice,  is  clad 
In  flesh  and  blood  so  well,  that  Plato  had 
Beheld,  what  his  high  fancy  once  embraced, 
Virtue  with  colours,  speech,  and  motion  graced. 

Jonsonus  Verbius.    1638. 

This  is  not  above  the  level  of  other  poems  in 
the  same  collection ;  yet  the  man  who  could 
write  this  way  in  1638,  is  supposed  to  have 
written  fifteen  years  before  with  a  melody  which 
he  never  afterward  surpassed. 

The  early  translations  of  Denham  have  all  the 
faults  of  youth  and  all  the  faults  of  the  age  in 
which  they  were  written.  His  Cooper's  Hill 
was  an  immense  stride,  in  language  and  in 
numbers,  though  the  first  edition  of  1642  wants 
much  of  the  after  sweetness  infused  into  it. 
This  is  not  superior  to  Sandys  (we  quote  from 
the  first  edition). 

As  those  who  raised  in  hody,  or  in  thought 
Above  the  earth,  or  the  air's  middle  vault, 
Behold  how  winds  and  storms,  and  meteors  grow, 
How  clouds  condense  to  rain,  congeal  to  snow, 
And  see  the  thunder  form'd,  before  it  tear 
The  air,  secure  from  danger  and  from  fear ; 
So  raised  above  the  tumult  and  the  crowd 
I  see  the  city  in  a  thicker  cloud 
Of  business,  than  of  smoke,  where  men  like  ants 
Toil  to  prevent  imaginary  wants ; 
Yet  all  in  vain,  increasing  with  their  store 
Their  vast  desires,  but  make  their  wants  the  more; 
As  food  to  unsound  bodies,  though  it  please 
The  appetite,  feeds  only  the  disease. 

Nor  is  "  The  Flight  of  the  Stag,"  from  the  same 
poem,  much  superior: — 

Wearied,  forsaken  and  pursued  at  last, 
All  safety  in  despair  of  safety  placed. 
Courage  he  thence  assumes,  resolved  to  bear 
All  their  assaults,  since  'tis  in  vain  to  fear. 
But  when  he  sees  the  eager  chase  renew'd, 
Himself  by  dogs,  the  dogs  by  men  pursued, 
When  neither  speed,  nor  art,  nor  friends,  or  force 
Could  help  him,  toward  the  stream  he  bends  his  course; 


APPENDIX. 


786 


Eoping  the  lesser  beasts  would  not  essay 
An  element  more  merciless  than  they : — 
But  fearless  they  pursue,  nor  can  the  flood 
Quench  their  dire  thirst,  alasl  they  thirst  for  blood  1 

There  are  many  harmonious  passages  in  Quarles' 
Emblemes,  first  printed  it  is  said  in  1635,  though 
the  edition  here  quoted  is  the  Cambridge  copy  of 
1643. 

Not  eat?    Not  taste?    Not  touch?    Notcaetaneye 
Upon  the  fruit  of  this  fair  Tree  ?    And  why  ? 
Why  eat'st  thou  not  what  Heaven  ordaln'd  for  Ibod? 
Or  canst  thou  think  that  bad  which  HeaTen  call'd  good  ? 
Why  was  it  made,  if  not  to  be  enjoy'd  ? 
Neglect  of  favours  makes  a  fevour  void. 
What  sullen  star  ruled  my  untimely  birth, 
That  would  not  lend  my  days  one  hour  of  mirth ! 
How  oft  have  these  bare  knees  been  bent,  to  gain 
The  slender  alms  of  one  poor  smile,  in  Taint 
How  often  tired  with  the  fiistidious  light, 
Have  my  faint  lips  implored  the  shades  of  night? 
How  often  have  my  mighty  torments  pray'd 
For  lingering  twilight,  glutted  with  the  shade  ? 
Day  worse  than  night,  night  worse  than  day  appears; 
In  fears  I  spend  my  nights,  my  days  in  tears : 


I  moan  tinpitied,  groan  without  relief; 
There  is  nor  end,  nor  measure  of  my  grief. 
The  smiling  flower  salutes  the  day ;  It  grows 
Untouch'd  with  care ;  It  neither  spins  nor  sowf. 
Oh  that  my  tedious  life  were  like  this  flower, 
Or  freed  from  grief,  or  finish'd  with  an  hour  I 
Why  was  I  bom  ?    Why  was  I  bom  a  man  ? 
And  why  proportion'd  by  so  large  a  span  ? 
Or  why  suspended  by  the  common  lot, 
And  being  bom  to  die,  why  die  I  not? 
Ah  me !  why  is  my  sorrow  wasted  breath 
Denied  the  easy  privilege  of  death  ? 
The  branded  slave,  that  tugs  the  weary  oar, 
Obtains  the  Sabbath  of  a  welcome  shore. 

Here  let  us  stop.  That  Denham  and  Wallet 
improved  this  kind  of  versification,  and  thai 
Dryden  perfected  it,  there  is  no  one  to  doubt  or 
deny.  But  the  debt  that  is  due  to  Denham  and 
Waller  has  been  strangely  overrated  ;  they  were 
not  the  fathers  of  this  kind  of  verse,  but  the 
successful  cultivators ;  and  so  far  were  they  from 
improving  our  versification  generally,  that  every 
kind  of  metre,  the  couplet  excepted,  was  written 
with  greater  harmony  and  excellence  before  they 
wrote,  than  it  was  in  their  age  or  has  since  been. 


B. 


ON  THE  SALE  OF  "PARADISE  LOST." 


"The  slow  sale,"  says  Johnson,  "and  tardy 
reputation  of  Paradise  Lost  have  been  always 
mentioned  as  evidences  of  neglected  merit,  and 
of  the  uncertainty  of  literary  fame ;  and  inquiries 
have  been  made,  and  conjectures  offered,  about 
the  causes  of  its  long  obscurity  and  late  reception. 
But  has  the  case  been  truly  stated  1  Have  not 
lamentation  and  wonder  been  lavished  on  an  evil 
that  was  never  felt  1 

"That  in  the  reigns  of  Charles  and  James  the 
'Paradise  Lost'  received  no  public  acclamations, 
is  readily  confessed.  Wit  and  Literature  were 
on  the  side  of  the  Court:  and  who  that  solicited 
favour  or  fashion  would  venture  to  praise  the 
defender  of  the  regicides  1  All  that  he  himself 
could  think  his  due,  from  evil  tongues  in  evil  days, 
was  that  reverential  silence  which  was  generously 
preserved.  But  it  cannot  be  inferred,  that  his 
Poem  was  not  read,  or  not,  however  unwillingly, 
admired." 

"  The  sale,"  he  goes  on  to  say,  "  if  it  be  con- 
sidered, will  justify  the  public.  Those  who  have 
no  power  to  judge  of  past  times  but  by  their  own, 
should  always  doubt  their  conclusions.  The  call 
for  books  was  not  in  Milton's  age  what  it  is  in  the 
prcbent.  To  read  was  not  then  a  general  amuse- 
ment; neither  traders  nor  often  gentlemen  thought 
themselves  disgraced  by  ignorance.  The  women 
had  not  then  aspired  to  Hterature,  nor  was  every 
nouse  supplied  with  a  closet  of  knowledge.  Those 
indeed   who   professed   learning  were    not   less 


learned  than  at  any  other  time;  but  of  that 
middle  race  of  students  who  read  for  pleasure 
or  accomplishment,  and  who  buy  the  numerous 
products  of  modem  typography,  the  number  waa 
then  comparatively  small.  To  prove  the  paucity 
of  readers,  it  may  be  sufficient  to  remark,  that  the 
nation  had  been  satisfied  from  1623  to  1664,  that 
is  forty-one  years,  with  only  two  editions  of  the 
works  of  Shakspeare,  which  probably  did  not  to- 
gether make  one  thousand  copies. 

♦<  The  sale,"  be  adds,  "  of  thirteen  hundred 
copies  in  two  years,  in  opposition  to  so  much 
recent  enmity,  and  to  a  style  of  versification  new 
to  all,  and  disgusting  to  many,  was  an  uncommon 
example  of  the  prevalence  of  genius.  The  de- 
mand did  not  immediately  increase ;  for  many 
more  readers  than  were  supplied  at  first  the 
nation  did  not  afford.  Only  three  thousand  were 
sold  in  eleven  years ;  for  it  forced  its  way  without 
assistance ;  its  admirers  did  not  dare  to  publish 
their  opinion ;  and  the  opportunities  now  given 
of  attracting  notice  by  advertisements  were  then 
very  few ;  the  means  of  proclaiming  the  publica- 
tion of  new  books  have  been  produced  by  that 
general  literature  which  now  pervades  the  nation 
through  all  its  ranks." 

In  answer  to  what  Johnson  has  advanced,  let 
us  ask  in  his  own  words,  "  Has  the  case  been 
truly  stated  7"  The  century  that  was  satisfied 
with  but  two  editions  of  Shakspeare  in  forty-one 
years,  called  for  three  of  Paradise  Lost  in  (en^ 


786 


APPENDIX. 


and  three  of  Prince  Arthur  in  tivo.  "That  Prince 
Arthur  found  readers,"  says  Johnson,  "is  certain  ; 
for  in  two  years  it  had  three  editions;  a  very  un- 
common instance  of  favourable  reception,  at  a 
time  when  Hterary  curiosity  was  yet  confined  to 
particular  classes  of  the  nation."  But  it  was  no 
uncommon  instance,  for  the  same  age  demanded 
edition  after  edition  of  Cowley,  of  Waller,  of  Flat- 
man,  and  of  Sprat.  There  was  no  paucity  of 
readers :  the  sale  of  Paradise  Lost  was  slow 
because  it  was  not  to  the  taste  of  the  times :  our 
very  plays  were  in  rhyme ;  and  the  public  looked 
with  wonder  on  Shakspeare  when  improved  by 
Shadwell,  Ravenscrofl,  and  Tate.  Dryden,  who 
wrote  when  Cowley  was  in  the  full  blaze  of  his 
reputation,  and  Milton  neglected  and  unknown, 
lived  long  enough  to  see  and  tell  of  a  distinct 
change  in  public  opinion,  and  Milton  stand  where 
Cowley  had  stood. 

That  the  sale  of  thirteen  hundred  copies  of  a 
three-shilling  book  in  two  years  was  an  uncommon 
example  of  the  prevalence  of  genius,  Mr.  Words- 
worth was  among  the  first  to  disprove.  Yet  so 
difficult  is  it  to  eradicate  an  error  insinuatingly 
advanced  by  a  popular  author,  that  Johnson's 
overthrown  statement  has  been  printed  without 
contradiction  in  every  edition  of  his  Lives,  and 
has  found  an  additional  stronghold  for  its  per- 
petuity in  the  Works  of  Lord  Byron.  "Milton's 
politics  kept  him  down,"  says  Byron  ;  "  but  the 
epigram  of  Dryden,  and  the  very  sale  of  his  work, 
in  proportion  to  the  less  reading  time  of  its  publi- 
cation, prove  him  to  have  been  honoured  by  his 
contemporaries"* 

But  Blackmore,  who  wrote  when  literary  curi- 
osity was  yet  confined,  if  we  may  believe  Johnson, 
to  particular  classes  of  the  nation,  has  told  us  in 
an  acknowledged  work  that  Paradise  Lost  lay 
many  years  unspoken  of  and  entirely  disregarded. 
No  better  testimony  could  possibly  be  wished  for; 
and  as  the  passage  has  hitherto  passed  without 
extract  or  allusion,  we  shall  quote  it  at  length : 
"  It  must  be  acknowledged,"  says  Sir  Richard 
Blackmore,  "that  till  about  forty  years  ago  Great 
Britain  was  barren  of  critical  learning,  though 
fertile  in  excellent  writers ;  and  in  particular  had 
so  little  taste  for  epic  poetry,  and  were  so  unac- 
quainted with  the  essential  properties  and  peculiar 
beauties  of  it,  that  Paradise  Lost,  an  admirable 
work  of  that  kind,  published  by  Mr.  Milton,  the 
great  ornament  of  his  age  and  country,  lay  many 
years  unspoken  of  and  entirely  disregarded,  tUl  at 
length  it  happened  that  some  persons  of  greater 
delicacy  and  judgment  found  out  the  merit  of 
that  excellent  poem,  and  by  communicating  their 
sentiments  to  their  friends,  propagated  the  esteem 
of  the  author,  who  soon  acquired  universal  ap- 

plause."t 

To  strengthen  Blackmore  in  a  position  which 

*  Works,  vol.  V.  p.  15.  t  Essays,  8to.  1716. 

X  Famiiiar  Letters. 

i  Spenser's  Works,  12mo.  1715.    Dedication. 
Pi:  Works  by  Malone,  vol.  11.  p.  397.    In  another  place 
(vol.  11.  p.  403)  he  puts  Milton  on  the  same  footing  with 
Homer,  Virgil,  and  Tasso.    This  was  in  1675. 
V  See  page  331  of  this  volume. 


is  the  very  reverse  of  Johnson,  there  are  othei 
authorities  and  circumstances,  less  curious,  it  is 
true,  but  still  of  interest.  "  Never  any  poet,"  writes 
Dennis,  "  left  a  greater  reputation  behind  him 
than  Mr.  Cowley,  while  Milton  remained  obscure, 
and  known  but  to  few."J  "  When  Milton  first 
published  his  famous  poem,"  Swift  writes  to  Sir 
Charles  Wogan,  "the  first  edition  was  long  going 
off;  few  either  read,  liked,  or  understood  it,  and 
it  gained  ground  merely  by  its  merit." 

But  it  had  other  assistance:  "  It  was  your  lord- 
ship's encouraging"  (writes  Hughes  to  Lord  So- 
mers)  "  a  beautiful  edition  of  Paradise  Lost  that 
first  brought  that  incomparable  poem  to  be  gene- 
rally known  and  esteemed. "§  This  was  in  1688  ; 
and  such,  if  we  may  judge  the  present  by  the 
past,  was  then  the  influence  of  Lord  Somers, 
that  in  a  dedication  of  Swift's  Tale  of  a  Tub  to 
the  same  great  man,  the  bookseller  says,  with 
ill-concealed  satisfaction  and  in  a  very  grateful 
strain,  «'  Your  Lordship's  name  on  the  front,  in 
capital  letters,  will  at  any  time  get  off  one 
edition."  Whatever  Somers  did,  the  poem  had 
made  no  great  way  till  Philips  published  his 
Splendid  Shilling,  Addison  his  translation  from 
Virgil,  and  his  delightful  papers  in  The  Spec- 
tator, that  seem  to  have  written  it  into  repu- 
tation. 

True  it  is,  we  must  add,  that  it  had  been 
called  by  Dryden  in  1674,  when  its  author  was 
but  newly  in  his  grave,  "  one  of  the  greatest, 
most  noble,  and  most  sublime  poems,  which 
either  the  age  or  nation  has  produced  ;"||  that 
The  State  of  Innocence  was  suggested  by  it;  that 
Dryden,  the  most  popular  of  living  poets,  and 
the  great  critic  of  our  nation,  had  repeatedly 
published  his  high  approval,  and,  better  still, 
had  turned  his  glwrious  epigram  in  its  praise; 
nay  more,  that  the  Earl  of  Roscommon,  who  was 
dead  in  1684,  had  written  in  Milton's  measure 
and  manner. TT  Yet  Johnson  would  have  us  be- 
lieve that  its  admirers  did  not  dare  to  publish 
their  opinions !  But  all  were  not  of  his  way 
of  thinking ;  and  Rymer,  who  was  in  poetry 
what  his  name  would  denote,  could  speak  of  it 
in  1678,  as  "that  Paradise  Lost  of  Milton's, 
which  some  are  pleased  to  call  a  poem  ;"**  and 
Prior  and  Montague,  of  its  author,  in  1687  as  "a 
rough  unhewn  fellow,  that  a  man  must  sweat  to 
read  him."tt 

This  was  the  general  feeling  of  the  age ;  and 
the  truth  is,  as  Sir  Walter  Scott  has  observed.JJ 
that  the  coldness  with  which  Milton's  mighty 
epic  was  received  upon  the  first  publication,  is 
traceable  to  the  character  of  its  author,  so  ob- 
noxious for  his  share  in  the  government  of 
Cromwell,  to  the  turn  of  the  language,  so  diffe- 
rent from  that  of  the  age,  and  the  seriousness  of 
a  subject  so  discordant  with  its  lively  frivolities. 

**  LeiUr  tn  Fleetwood  Shepherd  on  the  Tragedies  of  the 
Last  Age,  p.  143. 

tt  The  Hind  and  the  Panther  Transversed,  &c.  Bayes 
says,  after  quoting  a  liquid  line,  "  I  writ  this  line  for 
the  ladies.  I  hate  such  a  rough  unhewn  fellow  as  Mi^ 
ton;''  &c. 

1;*  Hisc.  Pr.  Works,  vol.  i.  p.  141. 


APPENDIX. 


731 


A  Christian  poem,  that  should  have  found  its 
greatest  admirers  and  received  its  warmest  ad- 
vancement from  the  Established  Church,  met 
there  with  open  and  avowed  opposition.  Milton, 
hateful  as  be  was  to  the  churchmen  for  the 
violence  of  his  political  tenets,  encountered  in  the 
whole  collected  body  of  established  clergy,  that 
dislike  which  Sprat  when  Dean  of  Westminster 
professed  to  feel  at  the  mention  of  his  name, — 
a  name  too  odious,  as  he  said,  to  be  engraven 
oa  the  walk  o{  a  Christian  church.     What  the 


clergy  should  have  read,  honoured,  and  en- 
couraged for  their  cloth,  if  not  for  their  con- 
science' sake,  wds  left  in  the  same  disregarded 
state  by  the  iaity,  who  did  not  profess  or  wish 
for  once  to  he  w  ser  than  chose  whose  duty  it 
was  to  direct  tu^ir  mmds  to  good  and  holy 
books,  and  Miltoii  woiked  Uis  way  against  every 
obstacle  slowly  but  surely-  No  poem  ever  ap- 
peared in  an  age  less  fitted  or  less  inclinea 
to  read,  like,  or  understand  it,  than  did  Para 
dise  Lost.* 


ANNE  COUNTESS  OF  WINCHELSEA, 


n><«4,  t7M,] 


Was  the  daughter  of  Sir  William  Kingsmill  of 
Sidmonton  in  the  county  of  Southampton,  maid 
«f  honour  to  the  Duchess  of  York,  and  wife  to 
Heneage  Earl  of  Winchelaea.  A  collection  of 
her  poems  was  printed  in  17L3 ;  several  still  re- 
main unpublished. 

**It  is  remarkable,"  saya  Wordsworth,  « that 


excepting  the  Nocturnal  Reverie,  and  a  pas- 
sage or  two  in  the  Windsor  Forest  of  Pope, 
the  poetry  of  the  period  intervening  between 
the  publication  of  Paradise  Lost  and  The  Sea  ■ 
sons  does  not  contain  a  single  new  image  of 
ezteraal  nature." 


A  NOCTUBNAL  BEVEBIB. 

Ih  txttb  a  night,  when  every  loader  wind 
Is  to  its  distant  ca,rem  safe  «onfliied ; 
And  only  gentle  Zephyr  fans  his  wings, 
And  lonely  Phik>mel  still  watung  sings; 
Or  finrn  soaie  tree,  famed  for  the  owl's  ddight, 
She,  hollowing  dear,  directs  the  wanderer  right; 
In  snch  a  night,  when  passing  clouds  give  plaoe^ 
Or  thinly  vail  the  heavens'  mysterioos  fiioe; 
When  in  some  river,  overhung  with  green. 
The  waving  aioon  and  trembling  leaves  are  seen; 
When  freaiien'd  grass  now  bears  its^  upright, 
And  makes  cool  banks  to  pleasing  rest  invite, 
Whence  springs  the  woodbine,  and  the  bramble-rose, 
And  where  the  deepy  cowslip  shelter'd  grows; 
Whilst  now  a  paler  hue  the  foxglove  takes, 
Yet  chequers  still  with  red  the  dusky  brakes ; 
When  scatter'd  glow-worms,  but  in  twilight  fine, 
Show  trivial  beauties  watch  thdr  hour  to  shine; 
Whilst  Salisbury  stands  the  test  of  every  light, 
In  perfect  charms  and  perfect  virtue  bright; 
When  odours  which  declined  repelling  day, 
Through  temperate  air  uninterrupted  stray; 
When  darfcen'd  groves  tlieir  softest  shadows  wear, 
And  tdllbag  waters  we  distinetly  bear ; 
When  through  the  gloom  where  venerable  shows 
Some  aadeni  Abric,  awflil  in  repose; 
93 


WbQe  sunburnt  hills  their  swarthy  kwks  eonocal, 

And  swelling  haycocks  thicken  up  the  vale : 

When  the  loosed  horse  now,  as  his  pasture, 

Comes  slowly  grazing  through  the  adjoining  raeadi^ 

Whcee  stealing  pace  and  lengthen'd  shade  we  fear 

TUl  tom-up  forage  in  his  teeth  we  hear ; 

When  nibbling  sheep  at  large  pursue  their  Stoi, 

And  umuolested  kine  rechew  the  cud; 

When  curiews  cry  beneath  tlie  village-walls. 

And  to  her  straggling  brood  the  partridge  calls. 

Their  slx>rtrlived  jubilee  the  creatures  keep. 

Which  but  endures  whilst  tyrant  man  does  sleep; 

When  a  sedate  content  the  spirit  feels. 

And  no  fierce  light  disturbs,  whilst  it  reveals; 

But  silent  musings  urge  the  mind  to  seek 

Sometliing  too  tugh  for  syllables  to  speak ; 

TUl  tlie  free  soul  to  a  oomposedness  charm'd. 

Finding  the  elements  of  rage  disarm'd. 

O'er  all  below  a  solemn  quiet  grown, 

Joys  In  the  inferior  world  and  thinks  it  like  ber  own  ; 

In  such  a  night  let  me  abroad  remain. 

Till  morning  breaks,  and  ail's  confused  again. 

Our  cares,  our  toils,  our  clamours  are  renew'd. 

Or  pleasures,  seldom  rcaeh'd,  again  pursued. 

•  T«t  Mr.  Hallam  is  inclined  to  tUnk  that  the  sale  wm 
great  for  the  tfane;  and  adda,  "  I  have  some  few  doubts, 
whether  Paradise  Lost,  publtshed  eleven  years  since, 
would  have  met  with  a  greater  denuuad." — LiL  SitL  voi. 
tr.  p.  427. 

•■a 


/-*— — ' ■ ■    '  ■                                              — .         .  --p--] 

• 

GENERAL  INDEX. 

Abskitce.    Jago,  605. 

BBATTVOirT  (Sir  John),  notice  of,  16$. 

Adoison  (Joseph),  specimens  of,  387,  388. 

Specimen  of  his  Poems,  166. 

Elegy  on  the  Death  of.     Ttckell,  415. 

Further  extracts  from,  732. 

Agrippina,  a  Fragment     Gray,  550. 

Beauty,  vanity  of.     Gancoigne,  100. 

Akenside  (Mark),  notice  of,  531;  allusion  to,  589. 

Final  cause  of  our  pleasure  in.    Akentide,  534. 

Specimens  of,  532-537. 

Mental.     Akentide,  534. 

Alexander  (William).    See  Sterline  (Earl  of). 

Bedford  (Lucy,   Countess  of),  epigram  on.     Bern 

Ambition,  reflections  on.     Anon.,  282. 

Jonson,  207. 

America,  discovery  and   happiness  of,   predicted. 

Bern  (Aphra),  specimens  of,  351. 

Dtoight,  654 

Bird's  Collection  of  Songs,  specimens  from,  119. 

Anacreontics,  by  Oldmixon,  418. 

BtSHOP  (Rev.  Samuel),  specimens  of,  674,  675. 

Angler's  Wish.      Walton,  331. 

Blacklock  (Thomas),  notice  of,  662. 

Anglo-Saxon  Language,  influence  of  the  Norman 

Specimens  of,  663,  664. 

Conquest  on,  1. 

Blackstone  (Sir  Wm.),  specimen  of,  602. 

When  it  began  to  be  English,  2. 

Blair  (Robert),  notice  of,  446. 

Anontmous  Poets,  specimens  of,  237, 281, 337, 370, 

Specimens  of,  447-449. 

558,  582,  585. 

Booth  (Barton),  specimen  of,  406. 

Anstey  (Christopher),  notices  of,  342,  727. 

Bowles  (Rev.  Mr.),  his  strictures  on  Pope,  remarkf 

Specimen  of  his  Bath  Guide,  728. 

on,  58-62,  423. 

Argalia,  adventures  of.     Ohamberlai/n,  257-263. 

Brath waits  (Richard),  notice  and  specimen  of, 

Argentile  and  Curan,  a  tale.     Wnrner,  38, 129. 

308,  309. 

Armstrong  (Dr.  John),  notice  of,  586-588. 

Bramston  (James),  specimen  of,  437-439. 

Specimens  of,  588-590. 

Brereton  (Jane),  Poem  attributed  to  Lord  Chester- 

Athens  described.     Milton,  311. 

field,  written  by,  562. 

Ayres  (Philip),  specimens  of,  338. 

Breton  (Nicholas).  37.  147. 

Ayton  (Sir  Robert),  Songs  by,  281,  371. 

Specimens  of  his  Poems,  147,  148. 

Poem  said  to  have  been  written  by,  141,  note. 

Brevity  of  Human  Life.     Quartet,  244. 

Broke  (Alexander),  notice  of,  283. 

Bale  (Bishop),  an  early  dramatic  author,  29. 

Specimens  of  bin  Poems,  28.3,  284 

Ballads. 

Brooke  (Lord).    See  Grbvii.le. 

Robene  and  Makyne.     Henrytone,  82. 

Brooke  (Henry),  notice  of,  605. 

DowsabeL     Drayton,  176. 

Specimen  of,  606-608. 

On  a  Wedding.     Sir  J.  Suckling,  238, 

Brown  (Dr.  John),  notice  of,  517. 

The  Chronicle.     Cowley,  287. 

Specimens  of  his  Poems,  518. 

Colin's  Complaint     Rome,  383. 

Brown  (Thomas),  specimens  of,  365. 

From  the  What-d'ye-call-it     Gay,  405. 

Browne  (Isaac  Hawkins),  specimens  of,  488—490. 

Colin  and  Lucy.     Ttckell,  416. 

Browne  (William),  notices  of,  38,  245. 

Sally  in  our  Alley.     Carey,  498. 

Extracts  from,  245,  246. 

William  and  Margaret     Mallet,  509. 

Brdcb  (Michael),  notices  of,  520. 

Sir  Charles  Bawdin.      Chaiterton,  540. 

Specimens  of  bis  Poems,  520,  521. 

May-Eve,   or   Kate   of  Aberdeen.      Cunning- 

BuLTEBL (John),  specimen  of  the  Poetry  of,  299. 

ham,  558. 

Bunyan's  Pilgrim's  Progress,  remarks  on,  28. 

Owen  of  Carron.     Langkorne,  595. 

Burns  (Robert),  account  of,  676-680 ;  notice  of,  484. 

Hosier's  Ghost     Glover.  636. 

Specimens  of,  680-687. 

Bamppylde  (John),  Sonnets  by,  675,  676. 

Thought  borrowed  from  Dr.  Young,  511,  not*. 

Barbour  (John),  bis  Bruce,  80. 

Anecdote  of,  593,  note. 

Barklay  (Alexander),  critical  notice  of.  21. 

His  opinion  of  Cowper's  Task,  690,  note. 

Bateson's  Madrigals,  specimens  from,  119. 

Butler  (Samuel),  specimens  of,  321-330;  alluded 

Bath,  public  breakfast  at,  described.    Atiatey,  728, 

to,  54. 

Baucis  and  Philemon,  a  Tale.    Swi/t,  431. 

Byrom  (John),  Pastoral  by,  490. 

Beattie  (Dr.  James),  account  of,  720. 

Epigram  by,  558. 

Specimens  of,  722. 

Byron  (Lord),  referred  to,  57, 482, 500, 521, 547, 567 

His  admiration  of  Thomson,  450. 

618,  680,  708,  710. 

Beaumont  (Francis),  and  Fletcher  (John),  notices 

of,  149,  150. 

Cambyses's  Army,  destruction  of.     Darwin,  718. 

Specimens    of    their     dramatic     productions. 

Cambyses,  Preston's  Tragedy  of,  30. 

150-160. 

Canace,  death  of.      Lydgale,  78. 

Critioal  observations  on  them,  46. 

Canterbury  Tales,  Prologue  to,  69. 

7W 

no 


GENERAL  INDEX. 


Canzonet.     Anonymous,  117. 

Care,  personification  of.     Tho.  Sackville,  96. 

Carew  (Thomas),  notices  of,  61,  212. 

Specimens  of,  212-215. 
Carey  (Henry),  Ballad  by,  498. 
Cartwright  (William),  notice  of,  44,  240. 

Specimens  of,  240,  241. 
Castle  of  Indolence.     Ihomson,  450. 
Chalkhill,  observations  on,  SS. 

Specimen  of  bis  Poetry,  39. 
Chamberlayne  (William),  notice  of,  257. 

Specimens  of,  257-263. 
Chambers  (Sir  Wm.),  Heroic  Epistle  to.  Jfason,  696. 
Chapman  (George),  notice  of,  190. 

Specimens  of  his  Plays,  190,  191. 

Character  of  his  Translation  of  Homer,  60. 

His  share  in  the  Tragedy  of  Chabot,  280,  note. 
Chastity  described.     Milton,  315. 
Chatterton  (Thomas),  notice  of,  537-540. 

Ballad  by,  540-544. 
Chaucer  (Geoffrey),  anecdotes  of,  65-69. 

Observations  on  his  Poetry,  16. 

Specimens  of  his  Poems,  69-75. 
Chbstehfield  (Philip  Dormer  Stanhope,  Earl  of), 

specimen  of,  562. 
Chorus,  the  ancient,  688. 
Churchill  (Charles),  notice  of,  499 ;  alluded  to,  622. 

Specimens  of  501-505. 
CiBBER  (CoUey),  specimen  of,  479. 

Ode  on  a  Pipe  of  Tobacco,  in  imitation  of. 
/.  H.  Broxcne,  488. 
Cleveland  (John),  his  knotted  deformities,  44. 
Coleridge  (S.  T.),  opinion  of  Thomson  and  Cowper 
compared,  450,  note. 

Of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  49,  note. 
Collier  (John  Payne),  his  character  of  Brathwaite's 

Strappado,  309,  note. 
Collins  (William),  notice  of,  475. 

Specimens  of,  475-478. 

A  Sonnet  by,  698,  note. 

His  Poems,  698. 

His  Historyof  the  Revival  of  Learning,  700,no(e. 
Cong  RE  VE  (William),  specimens  of,  395-397. 
Constable  (Henry),  147. 

Sonnet  by,  147. 
Content,  a  pastoral.     CunningTiom,  557. 
Contentment,' hymn  to.     Parnell,  380. 

Ode  on.     Hnrte,  581. 
Cooper  (John  Gilbert), 

Song  attributed  to,  523. 

Song  by,  523. 
Cooper's  Hill  described.     Sir  J.  Denham,  29$. 
Corbet  (Bishop), 

Notice  of  and  Extract  from,  38,  194, 195. 
Commendatory  Poems,   their  importance   in   bio- 
graphy, 149,  note. 
Cotton  (Charles),  notice  of,  342. 

Specimens  of,  342-347. 
Cotton  (Nathaniel),  specimen  of,  652. 
Country  Justice,  duties  of.     Langhorne,  592. 
Country  Life  described.     Herrick,  285. 
Cowley  (Abraham),  notices  of,  44,  51,  286. 

Specimens  of  his  Poetry.  287-291. 

Critical  remarks  on  it,  736. 

Note  upon,  290. 

Line  in,  imitated  by  Cowper,  709,  note;  his 
countrj'-loving  spirit,  492. 
Cowper  (William),  account  of,  703-710. 

Specimens  of,  710-716. 

Compared  with  Thomson,  449,450. 

His  character  of  Thomson,  450,  note. 

I.  H.  Browne,  488,  note. 

Notes  on  Milton  by,  52,  53. 

Of  similes,  59,  vote. 

Pa83age  in  his  Homer,  61,  note. 


Crashaw  (Richard),  notice  of,  253. 

Specimen  of  his  Poems,  253-255. 
Crawfurd  (William)  Songs  by,  470. 
Croker  (J.  W.),  note  on  Dr.  Young  by,  435. 

On  the  identity  of  Thales  with  Savage,  611. 
Cromwell's   Conspiracy,  a   Tragi-Comedy,  extrat4 

from,  281. 
Cuckoo,  ode  to.     Logan,  641. 
Cunningham  (Allan),  notes  by,  394,  696,  697. 

Life  of  Burns  by,  ftharacterized,  679. 
Cunningham  (John),  specimens  of,  557. 
Custom,  influence  of.     Pomfret,  364. 
Cymon  and  Iphigenia.     Dryden,  360. 

Daniel  (Samuel),  notice  and  specimen  of,  35,  37, 

38, 143. 
Darwin  (Dr.  Erasmus),  notice  of,  717. 

Specimens  of,  718-720. 

Brooke's  "  Universal  Beauty"  the  prototype  ot 
his  Botanic  Garden,  605. 
Davenant  (Sir  William),  notices  of,  55,  292. 

Specimens  of  Gondibert,  29.3-294. 
Davie  (Adam),  an  early  English  poet,  notice  of,  13. 
Daties  (Sir  John),  notice  of,  42,  161. 

Specimen  of  his  Poems,  162,  163. 
Davison's  Rhapsody,  specimen  from,  117. 
De  Brunne.    See  Mannyng. 
Death's  Conquest.     James  Shirley,  281. 
Dekker  (Thomas),  notice  of,  217. 

Specimens  of  his  Poems,  217,  218. 
Denham  (Sir  John),  notice  of,  295. 

Specimens  of  his  Poetry,  295-298. 

Alterations  in  his  Cooper's  Hill,  297,  note. 

Influence  of  his  numbers  upon  English  versifi- 
cation. Appendix  A. 

Debcsiptite,  Didactic,  and  Pathetic  Poems. 

On  the  gratification  which  the  lover's  passion 
receives  from  the  sense  of  hearing.  Gotcer,  77. 

Death  of  Canace.     Lydgate,  78.    . 

A  lover's  description  of  his  mistress,  when  he 
first  saw  her.    James  I.  King  o/  Scotland,  81. 

Dance  of  the  seven  deadly  sins  through  helL 
Dunbar,  84. 

Description  of  Squyre  Meldrum.  Sir  D.  Lind- 
say, 86. 

Description  of  such  an  one  as  he  would  love. 
Sir  T.  Wyat,  90. 

Spring  described.     Earl  of  Surrey,  94. 

A  prisoner's  reflections  on  his  past  happiness. 
The  same  93. 

A  lover's  request  for  comfort.  Etch.  Edwards, 
95. 

Allegorical  personages  described  in  hell.  Tho. 
Sackville,  96. 

Arraignment  of  a  lover.     Gascoigne,  99. 

Una  followed  by  the  lion.     Spenser,  107. 

Description  of  the  witch  Duessa's  journey  to  the 
infernal  regions.     The  same,  108. 

The  Bower  of  Bliss.     The  same.  111. 

Glance  and  Britomart  exploring  the  Cave  of 
Merlin.     The  same,  114. 

Belphoebe  finding  Timias  wounded.  The  same, 
114. 

Successive  appearances  of  nature  during  a  sum- 
mer's day.    A.  Hume,  121. 

Mercy  dwelling  in  heaven,  and  pleading  for  the 
guilty.     Giles  Fletcher,  144. 

Justice  addressing  the  Creator.  The  same,  145. 

Mercy  brightening  the  rainbow.  The  same, 
145. 

The  Palace  of  Presumption.     The  same,  145. 

Nymphidia,  the  court  of  Fairy.     Drayton,  169. 

The  Poet's  Elysium.    The  same,  37. 


GENERAL  INDEX. 


741 


Descriptive  Poems,  continued. 

Morning,  birds,  and  hunting  of  the  deer.     The 

same,  177. 
The  Fairies'  Farewell.    Corbet,  195. 
The  priestess  of  Diana.     Chaikhill,  39. 
The  image  of  Jealousy.     The  same,  39. 
Abode  of  the  witch  Orandra.     The  same,  39. 
Address  to  his  native  soil.     W.  Browne,  245. 
Evening.    The  same,  246. 
Death  of  Rosamond.    May,  252. 
Soliloquy  of  Satan.    Crashnw,  253. 
To  Meadows.    Berriek,  284. 
To  Daffodils.    The  same,  285. 
To  Blossoms.    The  same,  285. 
The  Country  Life.     The  same,  285. 
The  Complaint    Cowley,  288. 
The  Waiting-Maid.     The  same,  290. 
Honour.     The  same,  290. 
Wit     The  same,  290. 
The  Swallow.     The  same,  291. 
The  father  of  Rhodalind  offering  her  to  Duke 

Gondibert    Davenaitt,  293. 
Cooper's  Hill.     Sir  J.  Benham,  295. 
Complaint  of  a  learned  divine  in  puritan  times. 

Br.  Wilde,  304. 
Song  on  May  Morning.     Milton,  310. 
Athens.     The  same,  311. 
Samson  bewailing  bis  blindness  and  captivity. 

The  same,  311. 
Speeches  of  Manoah  and  the  Chorus,  on  hear- 
ing of  his  last  achievement  and  death.     The 

same,  312. 
The  Emigrants.     Marvell,  318. 
The  Nymph  complaining  for  the  death  of  her 

Fawn.     The  same,  318. 
On  translated  verse.     Jioteommon,  331. 
Night  Piece,  or  a  picture  drawn  in  the  dark. 

Waller,  341. 
Voyage  to  Ireland,  in  burlesque.     C.  Cotton, 

342-348. 
Thoughts— What  are  they  ?     Flatman,  350. 
Character  of  Shaftesbury.     Bryden,  356. 
Character  of  Zimri.     The  same,  357. 
Character  of  Doeg  and  Og  (the  poets  Settle  and 

Shadwell).     The  same,  357. 
Description  of  Lycurgus,  King  of  Thrace,  and 

Emetrius,  King  of  Inde.     The  same,  358. 
Preparations  foi  a  Tournament.  The  same,  359. 
From  The  Flower  and  the  Leaf.     The  same, 

361. 
The  influence  of  custom.     Pomfret,  364. 
The  Bookworm.     Parnell,  375. 
Letter  from  Italy.     Additon,  387. 
On  himself,  when  in  a  consumption.  Br.  Sewell, 

394. 
From  the  Spleen.     Green,  406. 
Epistle  to  his  friends.     West,  420. 
The  Bastard.     Savage,  422. 
Verses,  written  after  seeing  Windsor  Castle. 

T.  Wartoii,  sen.,  446. 
The  Castle  of  Indolence,  Canto  I.     Thornton, 

450. 
Epistle  to  the  Earl  of  Dorset    A.  Philipt,  458. 
The  Summum  Bonum.     Weltted,  460. 
Verses  written  in  an  Inn.     A.  Hill,  471. 
Allegorical  description  of  Vertu.    G.  West,  474. 
Grongar  Hill.     Byer,  481. 
From  the  Prophecy  of  Famine.    Churehill,  503. 
Lochleven.     Bruce,  521. 
Extracts  from  the  Shipwreck.     Falconer,  625- 

530. 
From  The  Pleasures  of  Imagination.     Aken- 

tide,  532-536. 
From  A  Monudy  to  the  Memory  of  his  Wife. 

Shaw,  552. 


Descriptive  Poems,  continued. 

The  Farmer's  Ingle,     Fergtunon,    561. 

The  Traveller.     Goldsmith,  568-571. 

The  Deserted  Village.     The  same,  571-575. 

Eulogius,  or  the  Charitable  Mason.  Harte,  579. 

Written  in  the  window  of  an  obscure  lodging, 
bouse.     Anon.,  582. 

The  Old  Bachelor.     Anon.,  585, 

From  the  Art  of  Preserving  Health.  Arm- 
itrong,  588-590. 

Duties  of  a  Country  Justice.  Langhorne, 
592,  Ac. 

Gipsies.     The  same,  594. 

The  Helmets.     Penrote,  601. 

The  Field  of  Battle.     The  same,  602. 

The  Reptile  and  Insect  World.     Brooke,  606. 

E.xtracts  from  "  Leonidas."     Glover,  62&-636. 

Invocation  to  Melancholy.     Hendley,  640. 

Death  of  Irad,  and  the  lamentation  of  Selima 
over  his  body.     Btoight,  653. 

Extracts  from  Jadah  Restored.  Br.  Robert*, 
664-668, 

The  Dying  Indian.    J.  Warton,  701. 

Extracts  from  The  Task.     Cowper,  710-713. 

On  the  Loss  of  the  Royal  George.  The  same, 
714. 

Yardley  Oak.    The  same,  714. 

Destruction  of  Cambyses's  Army.  Barwin,  717. 

Midnight  Conflagration.     The  same,  719. 

The  heroic  attachment  of  the  youth  in  Holland 
who  attended  his  mistress  in  the  plague.  The 
same,  720. 

The  Minstrel.     Book  I.     Beattie,  720. 
Dillon.     See  Roscommon. 
Disdain  returned.     Carew,  213. 
DoDSLET  (Robert),  specimens  of,  505. 
Donne  (Dr.  John),  notice  uf,  38,  182. 

Specimens  of  bis  poetry,  183,  184. 

Specimens  of  his  heroic  verse  with  rhyme. 
Dorset  (Charles  Sackville,  Earl  of),  notice  of,  366. 

Specimens  of,  366,  367. 
Douglas  (Gawain),  his  Translation  of  the  .£neid, 
20. 

Descriptions  of  natural  scenery,  79. 
Dowsabel,  a  ballad.     Bray  ton,  176. 
Drake  (Sir  Francis),  description  of.  Fitzgeffrey,  200. 

Dramatic  Pieces. 

short  extracts. 

From  David  and  Bethsabe.     Peele,  31. 

From    The  Maid's  Tragedy.     Beaumout  and 

Fletcher,  150. 
From  the  tragedy  of  Philaster.    The  same,  151. 
From  The  Custom  of  the  Country.     The  same, 

157. 
From  the  comedy  of  All  Fools.    Chapman,  190, 

191. 
From  the  tragedy  of  Women  beware  Women. 

Middleton,  196. 
From  the  play  of  Blurt,  Master-Constable.    The 

same,  199. 
From  The  Phoenix.     The  same,  199. 
From  The  Honest  Whore.     Bekker,  218. 
From  Vittoria  Corumbona.     Webater,  219. 
From  The  Bondman.     Mattinger,  234. 
From  The  Great  Duke  of  Florence.    The  same, 

236. 
From  the  Fair  Maid  of  the  Exchange.     Hey- 

wood,  248. 
From  The  Gentleman  of  Venice.    Th»  lamei 

272. 
From  The  Traitor,  51. 
From  The  Brothers,  5J. 


742 


GENERAL   INDEX. 


Dramatic  Pieces,  continued. 

ESTIRE    SCENES. 

From  the  tragedy  of  Philaster.     Beaumont  and 

Fletcher,  151. 
From  The  Scornful  Lady.     The  same,  153. 
From  The  Maid  of  the  Mill.     The  same,  154. 
From  the  tragedy  of  Rollo.     The  same,  155. 
From  The  Beggar's  Bush.     The  same,  155. 
From  the  tragedy  of  Bonduca.    The  same,  156. 
From  the  comedy  of  Monsieur  Thomas.     The 

same,  158. 
From  A  King  and  No  King.     The  same,  160. 
From  the  tragedy  of  Amurath.     Ooffe,  164. 
From  Sophonisba,  a  tragedy.     Marston,  187. 
From  Antonio  and  Mellida.    The  same,  188. 
From  the  comedy  of  All  Fools.   Chapman,  190 
From  The  Muses'  Looking  Glass.     Randolph, 

192. 
From  the  tragedy  of  Women  beware  Women. 

Middleton,  196. 
F.rom  The  Roaring  Girl.    The  same,  197-199. 
From  The  Fox.     Ben  Jonson,  207. 
Fortune  giving  Fortunatus  his  choice  of  goods. 

Dekker,  217. 
From  The  Duchess  of  Malfi.    Webster,  219-223. 
From  the  comedy  of  A  New  Wonder.    Rowley, 

223. 
From  The  Lover's  Melancholy.    Ford,  225. 
From  The  Duke  of  Milan,  a  tragedy.     Mas- 
singer,  228. 
From  The  Bondman.     The  same,  229-235. 
From  The  Fatal  Dowry.    Massinger  and  Field, 

236. 
From  the  tragedy  of  A  Woman   killed  with 

Kindness.    Heywood,  247. 
From  The  Fatal  Contract.     Heminge,  266. 
From  the  tragedy  of  The  Cardinal.    Shirley, 

268-271. 
From  The  Royal  Master.    The  same,  271. 
From  The  Doubtful  Heir.    The  same,  272. 
From  The  Lady  of  Pleasure.  The  same,  274-277. 
From  Chabot,  Admiral  of  France.    Shirley  and 

Chapman,  280. 
From  The  City  Match.    Mayne,  306 
From  The  Masque  of  Comus.    Milton,  313-316. 
From  The  Orphan.     Otway,  333. 
From  Venice  Preserved.    The  same,  336. 
From  Theodosius;  or.  The  Force  of  Love.  Lee, 

352. 
From  The  Fair  Penitent.    Rowe,  381. 
From  The  Mourning  Bride.     Congreve,  395. 
From  The  Fatal  Curiosity.     Lilld,  410. 
From   the   tragedy   of   The    Fatal   Marriage. 

Southerne,  442. 
From  The  Gentle  Shepherd,     Allan  Ramsay, 

485. 
From  the  tragedy  of  Barbarossa.     Brown,  518. 
Fragment  of  the  tragedy  of  Agrippina.     Gray, 

550. 
From  the  tragedy  of  Creusa.     W.  Whitehead, 

622. 
From  Caractacus.     Mason,  690. 
Dramatic  Poets  of  England,  prior  to  Shakspeare, 

notice  of,  29-32. 
After   Shakspeare,  and   during   the   reign   of 

James  I.,  35,  &c. 
Dramatic  Unities,  remarks  on,  34. 
Drayton  (Michael),  notice  of,  47,  166. 
Specimens  of  his  poetry,  167-178. 
Dread,  description  of.     Thomas  Sackville,  97. 
Drum,  ode  on  hearing.     John  Scott,  609. 
Drummond  (William),  notices  of,  249. 
Extracts  from,  38,  250,  251. 
Sonnets  by,  250. 
His  conversations  with  Jonson,  291. 


Dryden  (John),  specimens  of,  356-362. 

Critical  remarks  on  his  works,  55-57. 

His  descriptive  powers,  61. 

Passage  borrowed  from,  by  Goldsmith,  575. 

His  translation  of  the  Eclogues  and  Georgics. 
compared  with  Warton's,  699. 

His  contradictory  criticism?,  Ac,  631. 
Dubartas's  poem  on  Creation,  translated  by  Sylves- 
ter, specimen  of,  41. 

The  question  considered,  how  far  Milton  wai 
indebted  to  it,  41. 
Dulcina,  a  tale.     Sir  W.  Raleigh,  141. 
Dunbar  (William),  notices  of,  17,  20,  84. 

Specimen  of  his  poems,  84,  85. 
DwiGHT  (Timothy),  specimens  of,  653,  654. 
Dyer  (John),  notice  of,  481. 

Specimen  of,  481,  482. 

Edwards  (Richard),  specimens  of  his  poetry,  95, 

Notice  of,  30. 
Elegies. 

On  the  Death  of  Addison.     Tickell,  415, 

A  Love  Elegy.     Hammond,  417. 

On  the  sorrow  of  an  ingenuous  mind,  on  the 
melancholy  event  of  a  licentious  amour. 
Shenstone,  496, 

On  Spring.     Bruce,  520. 

The  Tears  of  Old  May-day.     Lovihond,  583. 
Elizabeth   (Queen),    general    character    of   poetry 

during  the  age  of,  7. 
Ellis  (George),  his  view  of  the  rise  of  our  language 

combated,  1-4,  80. 
England's  Helicon,  extract  from,  119. 
English  Language,  formation  of,  2. 

Commencement  of,  3. 
English  Poetry,  state  of,  in  the  twelfth  century,  7. 

In  the  thirteenth  century,  8. 

In  the  fourteenth  century,  14. 

In  the  fifteenth  century,  17. 

In  the  end  of  the  fifteenth  and  beginning  of  the 
sixteenth  century,  20. 

During  the  sixteenth  century,  22. 

During  the  seventeenth  century,  32. 

During  the  former  part  of  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury, 59. 
Epigrams. 

On  his  return  from  Spain.     Sir  T.  Wyat,  90. 

Of  a  precise  Tailor.     Sir  J.  Harrington,  131. 

On  Lucy,  Countess  of  Bedford.  Ben  Jonson,  207. 

The  Remedy  worse  than  the  Disease.  Prior, 
390. 

On  partial  Fame.     The  same,  390. 

On  two  Monopolists.    Byrom,  558. 

Quod  petis  hie  est.    Bishop,  674. 

Splendeat  usu.     The  same,  675. 

Quocunque  modo  rem.     The  same,  675. 

Miscellaneous.    Perrot,  131. 
Epitaphs. 

On  Elizabeth,  L.  H.    Ben  Jonson,  206. 

On  the  Countess  of  Pembroke.    The  same,  206. 

On  Lady  Mary  Villiers.     Cnrew,  213. 

On  sauntering  Jack  and  idle  Joan.  Prior,  390. 

On  Mrs.  Mason.    Mason,  695. 
Etherege  (George),  notice  of,  349. 

Specimens  of,  350. 
Evening,  ode  to.     Collins,  475. 

Tempestuous,  ode  on.    John  Scott,  609. 
Evening  Star,  address  to.    Stepney,  367. 

Fables. 

Fancy  and  Desire.     Vere,  123. 

Related  by  a  Beau  to  Esop.    Vanbrugh,  394. 

The  Court  of  Death.    Gay,  405. 

Labour  and  Genius.    Jago,  604. 

The  Blackbird.    Stephenson,  637. 


GENERAL  INDEX. 


748 


Fairfax  (Edward),  notice  of,  41, 179. 

Specimens  of  his  poems,  179-181. 
Fairy  Queen,  extracts  from.     Spenter,  107-118. 

Raleigh's  Sonnet  upon,  142. 

Characterized,  26. 
Fairy,  the  court  of,  described.     Drayton,  169-176. 
Faith.     Quartet,  243. 
Falconer  (William),  notice  of,  524. 

Specimens  of,  525-531. 
Fancy,  ode  to.     /.  Warton,  700. 
Fakshawe  (Sir  Richard),  specimen  of  the  poetry 
of,  292. 

His  version  of  the  Lutiad,  647. 
Fawkes  (Francis),  notice  and  specimen  of,  584. 
Fenton  (Elijah),  notice  of,  397. 

Specimen  of,  398. 
Fergusson  (Robert),  notice  of,  560. 

Specimen  of,  561. 
Field  (Nathaniel),  specimen  of,  216. 

Assisted  Massinger  in  The  Fatal  Dowry,  236, 
note. 
Fireside,  described.    Cotton,  652. 
FiTZGEFFREY  (Charlcs),  specimens  of,  199. 
Flatman  (Thomas),  specimens  of,  350,  351. 
Fletcher  (Qiles  and  Pbineas),  notices  of,  38,  144. 

Specimens  of  their  poems,  144-147. 
Fletcher  (John),  plan  of,  and  striotores  on  his 
Island  Princess,  47,  note. 

See  Beaumont  (Francis), 
Ford  (John),  critical  notices  of,  49,  225. 

Specimens  of,  225-227. 
France,  journey  to,  described.     Bithop  Corbet,  194. 
Friend,  character  of  a  ixne  one.    Kath.  Philip*, 
265. 

Oarrick,  character  of.     Churchill,  502. 
Garth  (Dr.),  specimens  of,  384-386. 
Oascoigne  (George),  notice  of,  98. 

Specimens  of  his  poems,  98-100. 

Notice  of,  30. 

On  the  versification  of  Chancer,  24. 
Gat  (John),  notices  of,  105,  399. 

Specimens  of  his  poems,  399-405. 
Genius,  power  of,  over  Envy.     W.  Browne,  245. 

Enjoyments  of,  in  collecting  its  stores  for  com- 
position.    Akenside,  535. 
Geoffrey  of  Monmouth's  history,  character  of,  17. 
Gifford  (William),  notes  on  Ford  by,  49,  225. 

On  Skelton,  22. 

On  a  passage  in  Shakspeare,  30. 
Gipsies  described.     Langhome,  594. 
Glover  (Richard),  notice  of,  626-628;  alluded  to, 
605. 

Specimens  of  his  poems,  628-637. 
Godolphin  (Sidney),  specimen  of,  239. 
Godwin  (William),  his  extravagant  admiration  of  a 

passage  in  Phaer's  Virgil  censured,  40. 
GoFFE  (Thomas),  164. 

Specimen  of,  164. 
Golding  (Arthur),  a  new  fact  in  his  life,  40,  note. 
Golding's  translation  of  Ovid,  remarks  on,  40. 
Goldsmith  (Oliver),  notes  by : — 


On  Denham,  298. 

Waller,  339. 

PameU,  373, 374. 

Rowe,  383. 

Addison,  387. 

Prior,  392. 

Tickell,  416, 417. 

Savage,  422. 

Pope,  424. 
60LD8MITH  (Oliver),  notice  of,  563-667 

Specimens  of,  668-576. 
SouLD  (Robert),  specimens  of,  371. 


On  Swift,  431,  432. 
A.  Philips,  458. 
Collins,  475. 
E.  Moore,  479. 
L  H.  Browne,  488. 
Shenstone,  491. 
Young,  511. 
Smollett,  556. 


GowER  (John),  notice  of,  76. 

Specimens  of  his  poems,  76-78. 
Strictures  on  his  style  and  versification,  17. 
Grainger  (Dr.  James),  specimen  of,  521. 
Granville  (George,  Lord  Lansdowne),  apeeimea 

of,  408. 
Grat  (Thomas),  notice  of,  546. 

Specimens  of,  54f-652. 
Greatness  (human),  instability  oil  Pkinea*  FUtchtr, 

146. 
Green  (Matthew),  notice  of,  406. 

Specimens  of  his  poetry,  406-408. 
Greene  (Robert),  notices  o^  32,  102. 

Specimens  of  his  poems,  102. 
Grenville  (Sir  Bevil),  verses  on  the  death  of.    CarU 

Wright,  240. 
Grxyillb  (Sir  Fulke,  Lord  Brooke),  specimens  of, 

42, 165. 
Grbville  (Mrs.),  specimen  of,  618. 
Grimoald  (N.),  the  second  to  use  English  blank 

verse,  24. 
Grongar  Hill.    Dyer,  481. 

Habington  (William),  notice  of,  255. 

Specimens  of  his  poems,  256,  266. 
Hafiz,  song  of,  translated.     Sir  W.  Jonet,  673. 
Hall  (John),  specimen  of,  257. 
Hall  (Joseph,  Bishop  of  Norwich),  account  of,  33, 
125,  126. 
Specimens  of  his  poems,  126-128. 
Further  specimens  of,  732. 
Hallam  (Henry),  notes  by : — 


On  Mr.  Campbell's  cha- 
racter of  Spenser, 
27. 

Sir  J.  Beaumont, 
165. 

Chapman,  190. 

Dnimmond,  203. 

Carew,  212. 

Lord  Sterline,  218. 


On  the  Saxon  Chro- 
nicle, 1. 

Commencement  of 
English  language, 
3. 

Layamon,  4. 

Spenser's  language, 
27. 

Drayton,  164. 

Hamilton  (William),  notice  of,  472. 

Specimens  of,  472-474. 
Hammond  (James),  specimen  of,  417. 
Hardyng's  Chronicle  of  the   History  of  England, 

character  of,  20. 
Harlot,  derivation  and  use  of  the  word,  75,  note. 
Harrington  (John),  100. 

Specimen  of  hispoetry,  100. 
Harrington  (Sir  John),  specimena  of  the  poetiy 

of,  130. 
Hartb  (Walter),  notice  of,  677. 

Specimens  of,  579-582. 
Hawes  (Stephen),  a  poet  of  the  sixteenth  etntarj, 

character  of,  20. 
Headlet  (Henry),  notice  of,  639. 

Specimen  of,  640. 
Heminge  (William),  extracts  from  a  play  by,  266- 

268. 
Henry  the  Minstrel  fBlind  Harry),  79. 
Henrtsonb  (Robert),  82. 

Specimen  of  his  poems,  82,  83. 
Herbert  (George),  specimen  of  the  poetry  of,  184- 

186. 
Hermitage,  inscription  in.     Warton,  668. 
Herrick  (Robert),  notices  of,  52,  284. 

Specimens  of  his  poetry,  284-286. 
Hesperus,  song  of.     Ben  Jonton,  206. 
Heywood  (John),  an  early  dramatic  author,  29. 
Hetwood  (Thomas),  notice  of,  247. 

Specimens  of,  247-249. 
Hill  (Aaron),  specimens  of,  471. 
Honour,  address  to.     Coteley,  290. 
Honour  (feminine),  described.     Car«tt,  314 


744 


GENERAL  INDEX. 


Hook  (N.),  specimen  of,  338. 
Howard  (Henry,  Earl  of  Surrey),  notice  o^  91. 
Specimens  of  his  poems,  93,  94. 
Something  melancholy  even  in  his  strains  of 

gallantry,  19. 
Estimate  of  the  service  rendered  by  him  to 
British  literature,  24. 
Hudibras,  Butler's,  extracts  from,  321-331. 
And  his  Squire,  described.     Butler,  321. 
Commencing  battle  with  the  rabble,  and  lead- 
ing oflF  Crowdero  prisoner,  326. 
Vicarious  justice  exemplified  by  Ralpho,  in  the 
case  of  the  Cobbler  that  killed  the  Indian,  329. 
Consulting  the  Lawyer,  329. 
HiTUE  (Alexander),  notice  of,  121. 

Poetical  specimen  of,  121,  122. 
HimNis  (William),  specimens  of,  25,  note,  95. 

Imagination,  Pleatnres  of.    Akenside,  532-537. 
Imprisonment,  benefit  of,  to  a  wild  youth.    Mid- 

dleton,  198. 
Independence,  ode  to.     Smollett,  556. 
Indifference,  prayer  for.     Mrs.  Greville,  618. 
Ireland,  voyage  to.    Cotton,  342. 

Jago  (Richard),  specimens  of,  604. 
James  I.,  King  of  Scotland,  notices  of,  81. 

Specimens  of  his  poems,  81,  82. 
James  I.,  King  of  England,  44. 
Jealousy,  description  of.     Greene,  102. 
Johnson  (Dr.  Samuel),  specimens  of,  611-617. 
Jones  (Inigo),  his  quarrel  with  Jonson,  201. 
Jones  (Sir  William),  notice  of,  669. 

Specimens  of  his  poetry,  673. 
JoNSON  (Ben),  account  of,  201-204. 

Specimens  of  his  poetry,  204-211. 

Extracts  from,  731. 

Critical  remarks  on  him  as  a  dramatist,  45. 

His  quarrel  with  Daniel,  143,  note. 
Justice  addressing  the  Creator.  Giles  Fletcher,  lib . 

KiLLiGREW  (.Mrs.  Anne),  ode  to  the  memory  of. 

Dryden,  368. 
King  (Dr.  Henry),  specimens  of,  303. 
Kiss,  the  parting.     Dodsley,  506. 
Knowledge  (human),  vanity  of.    Sir  J.  Daviet,  162. 

Description  of.     Sir  F.  Greville,  165. 
Kts,  a  dramatic  poet  of  the  age  of  Elizabeth,  notice 

of,  23. 

Lakb  (Charles),  notes  by : — 

On  Chapman,  190. 

Shiriey,  268. 

Wither,  301. 

Langetoft  (Peter  de),  notice  of,  10,  note. 

Langhorne  (Dr.  John),  notice  of,  691. 

Specimens  of,  692-600. 
Lanolande  (Robert),  a  poet  of  the  fourteenth  cen- 
tury, notice  of,  16. 
Character  of  the  poems  ascribed  to  him,  16. 
Language,  English,  influence  of  the  Norman  Con- 
quest upon,  1. 
Lansdowne  (George,  Lord),  song  by,  408. 
Law,  eulogy  on.     Middleton,  199. 
Lawyer's  Farewell  to  his  Muse.  Sir  W.  Blackttone, 

602. 
Layamon's  translation  of  Wace's  Bmt,  strictures  on 

the  date  of,  2-4,  7. 
Lee  (Nathaniel),  notice  of,  362. 

Specimens  of,  362-356. 
Lely  (Sir  Peter),  lines  to,  Ac.     Richard  Lovelace, 

254. 
Leon'das,  extracts  from.     Glover,  629-636. 
L'E.«trange  (Sir  Roger),  poem  ascribed  to,  282. 
Leven  Water,  ode  to.     Smollett,  666. 


Life  described.     Dr.  King,  303. 

The  Happy.     Sir  H.  Wootton,  215. 
LiLLO  (George),  notice  of,  409. 

Specimens  of,  410-415. 
Lloyd  (Robert),  notice  of,  506. 

Specimens  of  his  poetry,  506-608. 
Local  poems,  some  enumerated,  295,  note. 
Lockhart  (J.  G.),  note  by,  upon  Scott's  Sir  Tristrem, 
12. 

Dryden's  adaptations  of  Chancer,  58. 

His  Life  of  Bums,  693. 
Lodge  (Dr.  Thomas),  notice  of,  148. 

Specimens  of  his  poems,  148, 149. 
Logan  (John),  notice  of,  37,  641. 

Specimens  of,  641,  642. 
Longland.     See  Langlande. 
Look  Home.     Southwell,  104. 
Love-song  of  the  thirteenth  century,  specimen  of,  9. 
Love,  object  of.     Sir  T.  Wyat,  90. 

Requited  with  disdain.     W.  Hiinnis,  95. 

Servile  lot  of.     Southwell,  104. 

A  nymph's  disdain  of.     Sir  W.  Raleigh,  141. 

A  shepherd's  description  of.     The  same,  141. 

Admits  no  rival.     The  same,  142. 

Devotion  to.     Middleton,  199. 

Persuasions  to.     Carew,  212. 

Mediocrity  in,  rejected.     The  same,  212. 

Darts  of.     Cartwright,  240. 

To  Lucasta.     Richard  Lovelace,  264. 

Young,  address  to.     Marvell,  319. 

Influence  of.      Waller,  340. 

Farewell  of.     The  same,  341. 

At  first  sight     The  same,  341. 

And  Folly.     Selden,  461. 

Triumphs  of.     Hamilton,  472. 

L  'Amour  Timide.     Sir  J.  H.  Moore,  603. 
Lover,  complaint  of.     Sir  T.  Wyat,  90. 

Suit  to  his  unkind  mistress.     The  same,  90. 

Lamentation  that  he  ever  had  cause  to  doubt 
his  lady's  faith.     The  same,  91. 

Request  for  comfort,  affirming  his  constancy. 
Rich.  Edwards,  96. 

Arraignment  of  one.     Gaseoigne,  99. 

The  silent.     Sir  W.  Raleigh,  140. 

Address  of,  to  his  mistress.     Carew,  213. 

Persuasions  of,  to  enjoy.     The  same,  213. 

Threatens  ungrateful  beauty.     The  same,  213. 

Disdain  returned  by.     The  same,  213. 

Address  to  Castara,  inquiring  why  he  loved 
her.     Hahington,  266. 

Description  of  Castara.     The  same,  256. 

Reflections  of,  on  the  sight  of  his  mistress's 
house.    Ayres,  338. 

Reflections  of,  on  his  mistress's  girdle.    Waller, 
34L 

Self-banished.     The  same,  341. 

Dialogue  between  two.     Logan,  642. 
Lovelace  (Richard),  notice  of,  263. 

Specimens  of  his  poems,  263,  264. 
LoviBOND  (Edward),  specimen  of,  683. 
Loyal  Garland,  extracts  from,  337. 
Loyalty  confined.    Anon.,  282. 
Ludicrous  Poems. 

Like  Master,  like  Man.    Rowlands,  181. 

Tragedy  of  Smug  the  Smith.     The  same,  182, 

The  Vicar.     The  same,  182. 

Fools  and  Babes  tell  true.     The  same,  182. 

The  married  Scholar.     The  same,  182. 

On  Lute-strings  cat-eaten.    Mennis  and  Smith, 
305. 

From   the  Strappado   for  the    Devil.     Brath' 
waite,  309. 

Extracts  from  Hudibras.     Butler,  321-331. 

The  Splendid  Shilling.     Philip;  368. 

The  Church  Builder.    Anon.  371 


GENERAL  INDEX. 


r45 


Ludicrous  Poems,  continued. 

The  Birth  of  the  Squire.     Gay,  403. 

The  Rape  of  the  Lock.     Pope,  424-430. 

Soliloquy  of  the  Princess  Periwinkle.  Smart,b4b. 

The  Haunch  of  Venison.    Goldsmith,  676. 

Address  to  the  Dell.     Burnt,  682. 

A  Public  Breakfast  at  Bath.    An§tey,  728,  729. 
Ltdgate  (John),  notice  of,  78. 

Specimens  of  his  poetry,  78. 

Strictures  on  his  style,  19. 
Lylt  (John),  notice  of,  31,  44,  120. 

Specimens  of  his  poetry,  120. 
Ltndsay  (Sir  David),  notice  of,  86. 

Specimens  of  his  poems,  86-88. 
Ltttelton  (George,  Lord),  specimen  of,  669,  660. 

Mackenzie  (Henry),  sapplemental  lines  to  Collins, 

by,  477. 
Madrigal,  Rosalind's.     Lodge,  149. 
Maid,  good  counsel  to  a  young.     Careto  216. 
Mallet  (David),  notice  of,  608. 

Ballad  and  Song  by,  509,  510. 
Mankind,  ode  to.     Earl  Nugent,  644. 
Mannyng  (Robert),  commonly  called  De  Bmnne,  9. 
Markham  (Isabella),  sonnet  on.     Harrington,  101. 
Marlowe  (Christopher).  32,  37, 103. 

Specimen  of  his  poetry,  1 03. 
Marston  (John),  notice  of,  38,  187, 

Specimens  of  his  poetry,  187-189. 
Marvell  (Andrew),  notice  of,  317,  318. 

Specimens  of  his  poetry,  318,  319. 
Massinger  (Philip),  notice  of,  34,  227. 

Specimens  of,  228-237. 

Critical  remarks  on  his  productions,  44. 
Mason  (Rev.  William),  notice  of,  687-690. 

Specimens  of,  690-696. 
Mason  (Mrs.),  epitaph  on.     Maton,  696. 
Matches,  few  happy.    Dr.  Watti,  469, 
Mat  (Thomas),  notice  of,  252. 

Specimen  of,  252. 
Maynb  (Jasper),  specimens  of,  306. 
Melancholy,  invitation  to.     Headley,  640. 
Meldrum  (Squyre),  description  and  adventures  of. 

Sir  D.  LindiKty,  86. 
Memory,  ode  to.     Shenttone,  497. 
Mbnnis  (Sir  John  and  James  Smith),  specimen  of, 

305. 
Mercy  dwelling  in   heaven   and  pleading  for  the 
guilty.     Giles  Fletcher,  144. 

Brightening  the  rainbow.     The  same,  146. 
Merrick  (James),  specimen  of,  523. 
Meston  (William),  notice  of,  439, 

Specimen  of,  440,  441. 
Metaphysical  Poets.     Davits  and  Brooke,  42. 
MiCKLE  (Wm.  Julius),  notice  of,  646-648. 

Specimens  of  his  poems,  648-652. 
MiDDLETON  (Thomas),  notice  of,  196. 

Specimens  of  his  poems,  196-200. 

Remark  on  his  witches,  49,  note. 
Milton  (John),  notice  of,  309,  310. 

Specimens  of,  310-317. 

How  far  he  was  indebted  to  Sylvester's  trans- 
lation of  Dubartas,  for  the  prima  stamina  of 
ParaUiise  Lost,  41. 

Critical  remarks  on  his  poetical  works,  62-64. 

His  admiration  of  Shakspeare,  311. 

His  obligations  to  Langlande,  16. 
To  Browne,  245. 
To  Drummond,  249. 
To  Crashaw,  253. 

Hif  Lyoidas,  402. 

The  power  of  his  genius,  688. 

Sale  of  Paradise  Lost,  Appendix  B. 
MiNOT  (Laurence),  a  poet  of  the  fourteenth  century, 
notice  *f,  13 

94 


Mirror  for  Magistrates  gare  hints  to  Spenser  and 
Shakspeare,  19. 

Intention  of,  96,  note. 
Misery,  personification  of.     Tho.  Saihville,  96. 
Mitford  (W.),  his  observation  on  the  language  of 
Layamon,  8. 

Langlande,  16. 
Montague  (Mr.  W.),  verses  on  his  return  from  traveL 

Carew,  214. 
MooRZ  (Edward),  notice  of,  479. 

Specimens  of,  479,  480. 
MooRE  (Sir  J.  U.),  specimens  of,  603. 
Moral  Poexb. 

The  Soul's  Errand.     Anon.,  116. 

A  Valediction.     Cartv)right,2X\. 

Power  of  Genius  over  Envy.     W.  Browne,  246. 

On  Ambition.     Anon.,  282. 

The  Inquiry.     Kath.  Philips,  265. 

Character  of  a  true  friend.     The  same,  265. 

The  Pre-existence  of  the  Soul.     Dr.  More,  348. 

From  Alma,  or  the  Progress  of  the  Mind.  Prior, 
392. 

The  Wish.     Merrick,  623. 

On  Education.     Gray,  548. 

On  Vicissitude.     The  same,  649. 

London.     /)r. /oin«on,  611. 

The  Vanity  of  Human  Wishes.    The  same,  614. 

On  the  death  of  Dr.  Robert  Levett    The  same, 
616. 
More  (Dr.  Henry),  notice  of,  348. 

Specimen  of,  348,  349. 
Morning  Star,  address  to.     J.  Hall,  257. 
Mortimer,  Earl  of  March,  surprised  by  Edward  III. 

Drayton,  167. 
Mothers,  persuasion  to,  to  suckle  their  own  children. 

Darwin,  719. 
Mother,  lines  on  the  picture  of  his.     Cbvjper,  716. 
MoTTEUX  (Peter  Anthony),  notice  of,  386. 

Specimens  of,  386. 

Nabbes  (Thomas),  specimen  of,  251. 
Nash  (Thomas),  notice  of,  123. 

Specimen  of  his  poems,  123. 
Nature,  successive  appearances  of,  during  a  sum- 
mer's day,  described.     A.  Hume,  121. 
Nettile  (Alexander),  specimen  of  his  translation 

of  Seneca's  (Edipus,  30. 
NiccoLS  (Richard),  notice  of,  200. 

Specimens  of  his  Poems,  200,  201. 
Night,  song  of.     Ben  Jonson,  206. 
Nightingale,  address  to.     Ayres,  338. 

Sonnet  to.     Milton,  310. 
Norman  Conquest,  influence  of,  on  the  English  lan- 
guage, 1. 
State  of  Norman  Poetry  in  the  eleventh  and 
twelfth  centuries,  6-8, 
NoGENT  (Robert  Nugent,  Earl),  notice  of,  643. 
Specimens  of,  644,  645. 

Goldsmith's  Haunch  of  Venison,  addressed  to, 
575. 
Nnt-Brown  Maid,  the  beautiful  ballad  of,  22. 
Nymphs,  address  of,  to  their  May  Queen.    Watson, 
104. 

OccLEVE,  a  versifier  of  the  fifteenth  century,  notice 

of,  19. 
Odes. 

The  Lover's  Complaint.     Sir  T.  Wyat,  90. 

A  Lover's  Suit  to  his  Mistress.     The  same,  90. 

A  Lover's  Lament  that  he  had  ever  cause  ta 

doubt  his  Lady's  faith.     The  same,  91. 
To  his  coy  Love.     Drayton,  177. 
To  the  Memory  of  Mrs.  Killigrew.     Dryden, 

358. 
On  Providence.     Addison,  388. 
8M 


746 


GENERAL  INDEX. 


Odes,  continued. 

On  Retirement     T.  Warton,  446. 

An  American  love-ode.     The  same,  446. 

To  Evening.     Collint,  475. 

On  the  popular  superstitions  of  the  Highlands 
of  Scotland.     The  same,  476. 

The  Discovery.     Moore,  479. 

To  a  Great  Number  of  Great  Men,  newly  made. 
Williamg,  487. 

On  Rural  Elegance.     Shen»ton«,  497. 

To  Memory.     The  same,  497. 

On  an  Eagle  confined  in  a  college  court.  Smart, 
545. 

The  Bard.     Gray,  547. 

To  Leven  Water.     Smollett,  556. 

To  Independence.     The  same,  556. 

Contentment,  industry,  and  acquiescence  in  the 
Divine  Will.     Harte,  581. 

To  a  Singing  Bird.     Richardson,  590. 

On  hearing  the  Drum.     Scott,  609. 

On  Privateering.     The  same,  609. 

The  Tempestuous  Evening.     The  same,  609. 

To  the  Cuckoo.     Logan,  641. 

To  William  Pulteney,  Esq.    Earl  Nugent,  644. 

To  Mankind.     The  same,  644. 

The  Hamlet.     T.  Warton,  659. 

The  Suicide.     The  same,  659. 

The  Crusade.     The  same,  660. 

The  Grave  of  King  Arthur.     The  same,  661. 

To  Aurora,     Blacklock,  664. 

In  imitation  of  Alcseus.     Sir  W.  Jonet,  673. 

Bruce  to  his  Men  at  Bannockbum.    Bunu, 
686, 

To  Fancy.     /.  Warton,  700. 
Old  Age,  personification  of.     Tho.  Saekville,  96. 
Old  Man's  Wish.     Dr.  Pope,  372. 
Oldmixon  (John),  specimens  of,  418. 
Otway  (Thomas),  specimens  of,  333-337. 
^  Character  of  his  Plays,  55. 

Dryden's  opinion  of,  note,  51. 
OvEKBURT  (Sir  Thomas),  notice  of,  131. 

Specimen  of  his  poems,  131. 
Owen  of  Carron,  a  Tale.     Langhome,  595. 
Oxford  (Earl  of).    &eVERB. 

Pageants,  influence  of,  on  the  literature  of  England, 

26. 
Paradise  Lost,  critical  remarks  on,  52. 

History  of  its  sale.  Appendix  B. 
Parnell  (Dr.),  notice  of,  58,  372. 

Specimens  of,  373-380. 
Pastorals. 

A  Sweet  Pastoral.     N,  Breton,  147. 

Phillis  and  Coridon.     The  same,  148. 

Monday,  or  the  Squabble.     Gay,  400. 

Thursday,  or  the  Spell.     The  same,  401. 

Saturday,  or  the  Flights.     The  same,  402. 

Colin  and  Phoebe.     Byrom,  490. 

Content.     Cunningham,  557. 
Pastoral  poetry,  the  English  deficient  in,  105. 
Peele  (George),  character  of  his  dramatic  poetry, 
30. 

Specimen  of  it,  31. 
Penrose  (Thomas),  notice  of,  601. 

Specimens  of,  601,  602. 
Perrot's  (Henry),  Book  of  Epigrams,  extracts  from, 

131. 
Phaer's  Translation  of  Virgil,  strictures  on,  40. 

Specimen  of  it,  40. 
Philips  (Ambrose),  notice  of,  456. 

Specimens  of,  458,  459. 

Imitation  of,  by  /.  H.  Browne,  489. 
Philips  f  John),  notice  of,  367. 

Specimen  of,  368,  369. 
Philips  (Catharine),  notice  and  specimens  of,  265. 


Philosophy,  insufficiency  of.     Sir  F.  Greville,  165. 

Phoenix'  Nest,  specimens  from  the,  117,  118. 

PiCKE  (Thomas),  specimens  of  his  poetry,  184. 

Piers  Plowman's  Visions,  character  of,  15, 

Pipe  of  Tobacco,  verses  on.    /.  H.  Browne,  488-490. 

Platonism,  23. 

Poetry,  rhapsody  on.     Swi/i,  432. 

See  English,  Norman. 

Lord  Bacon's  remark  upon,  48. 
PoMPRET  (John),  specimen  of,  364. 
Poor,  appeal  for  the.     Langhome,  594. 
Pope  (Alexander),  notice  of,  423;  aUuded  to,  619} 
his  Homer,  647,  699,  700. 

Specimens  of,  423-430. 

Critical  remarks  on  the  works  of,  58,  63 

Imitation  of,  by  /.  H.  Browne,  490. 

His  imitations  of  Chaucer,  68. 

Hill's  lines  upon,  471. 
Pope  (Dr.  Walter),  notice  of,  372. 

Specimen  of,  372. 
Posterity,  Sonnet  to.     Fitzgeffrey,  199. 
Preston's  Tragedy  of  Cambyses,  notice  of,  30. 
Presumption,  palace  of,  described.     Giles  Fletcher, 

145. 
Prior  (Matthew),  notice  of,  389;  his  archness,  58. 

Specimens  of,  389-393. 
Prior  (James),  his  Life  of  Goldsmith,  referred  to, 

663-566. 
Price  (Mr.),  his  criticisms  on  Scott's  Sir  Tristrem, 
12,  13,  notes. 

On  the  Language  of  Layamon,  8,  note. 

On  some  of  Mr.  Campbell's  criticisms,  20,  note. 
Privateering,  ode  on.     John  Scott,  609. 
Prologue  to  the  Canterbury  Tales.     Chaucer,  69. 

To  Coriolanus.     Lyttelton,  660. 

Spoken  at  Drury-Lane.    Johnson,  615. 
Protogenes  and  Apelles.     Prior,  391. 
Psalm  XXIII.,  paraphrase  on.    Addison,  388. 

LXVIIL    Sandys,  2il. 
Puritans,  Oxford  riddle  on,  237. 


Quarleb  (Francis),  notice  of,  242. 

Specimens  of,  243,  244. 

Extract  from,  734. 
Quin,  character  of.     Churchill,  502. 

Raleigh  (Sir  Walter),  notice  of,  38,  140. 

Specimens  of  his  Poems,  140-142. 
Rahsay  (Allan),  notices  of,  482—484. 

Specimens  of,  485-487. 
Ramsay  (Allan),  the  Painter,  whimsical  Poem  hj, 

483,  note. 
Randolph  (Thomas),  notice  of,  44,  191. 

Extracts  from,  192-194. 
Rape  of  the  Lock.     Pope,  424-430. 
Rastell,  an  early  Moral  Play  by,  29. 
Reason,  influence  of.     T,  Scott,  563. 
Reformation,  influence  of,  on  the  literature  of  Eng 

land,  24. 
Retirement^  an  ode.     T.  Warton,  446. 
Religion,  address  to.     Sylvester,  142. 
Remorse^  iescription  of.     Tho.  Saekville,  96. 
Reynolds's  (Sir  Joshua),  painted  window,  at  Oxford, 

verses  on.     Warton,  657. 
Rhyme,  whether  of  Anglo-Saxon,  or  Anglo-Norman 

origin,  5. 
Richard  II.  the  morning  before  his  murder.  Daniel, 

143. 
Richard  III.  before  the  Battle  of  Bosworth.  Sir  John 

Beaumont,  166. 

Richardson  ( ),  specimen  of,  590. 

Riddle  on  the  Puritans.     Anon.,  237. 

Rinaldo  in  the  enchanted  wood.     Fair/ax,  179. 

Robene  and  Makyne,  a  ballad.     Henrysone,  82. 


GENERAL 

INDEX.                                                           74' 

Robert  de  Brunne,  an  early  English  poet,  notice 

Satires. 

of,  10. 

Extracts  from  various.     Bp.  Hall,  125-128. 

Character  and  style  of  his  productions,  11. 

The  Dispensary,  Canto  I.     Garth,  384. 

Robert  of  Gloucester,  character  of  the  poetry  of,  9, 

The  Cameleon.     Prior,  391. 

Referred  to,  3. 

The  Man  of  Taste.     Brameton,  437. 

Robert  (Duke  of  Normandy),  description  of.     Nie- 

Introduction  to  the  Rosciad.    Churchill,  501. 

coU,  200. 

Character  of  a  Critical  Fribble.  The  same,  501. 

Roberts  (Wm.  Hayward),  notice  of,  664. 

Chit-Chat.     Lloyd,  506. 

Specimen  of,  664-668. 

The  Love  of  Praise.      Young,  516. 

Rochester  (John  Wilmot,  Earl  of),  notice  and  spe- 

Propensity  of  man  to  false  and  fantastic  joys. 

ciniens  of,  320,  321. 

The  same,  516. 

RoLLE  (Richard),  a  poet  of  the  fourteenth  century, 

The  Wedded  Wit.     The  same,  517. 

notice  of,  13. 

The  Astronomical  Lady.     The  same,  517. 

Romances,  early  English,  probable  date  of,  12. 

The  Languid  Lady.     The  same,  517. 

Romantic  fiction,  origin  of,  7. 

The  Swearer.     The  same,  517. 

Rosamond,  the  death  of,  described.     May,  252. 

On  Nash's  picture  at  full  length,  between  the 

Roscommon  (Wentworth  Dillon,  Earl  of),  specimen 

busts  of  Newton  and  Pope  at  Bath.    Lord 

of,  331-333. 

Cheeterfield,  562. 

RowE  (Nicholas),  specimens  of,  381-383 ;  his  in- 

Heroic Epistle  to  Sir  William  Chambers.    Ma- 

fluence  on  the  drama,  58. 

ton,  696. 

Rowlands  (Samuel),  notice  of,  181. 

Satire,  probable  date  of,  in  the  English  language,  8. 

Specimens  of  his  Poems,  181,  182. 

Savage  (Richard),  specimen  of,  422. 

Rowley  (William),  notice  of,  223. 

The  Thales  of  Johnson's  London,  611,  note. 

Specimens  of,  223-225, 

Saxon  language,  observations  on  the  changes  of, 

Royal  George,  verses  on  the  loss  of  the.     Cbtrper, 

1,  4. 

713. 

Saxon  Chronicle,  1. 

Rump  (The),  a  collection  of  Poems,  extract  from, 

Schlegel  on  the  unities  of  the  drama,  34. 

282. 

Scholar,  despair  of  a  poor  one  described.    Nath, 

Rural  Elegance,  ode  on.     Skenttone,  497. 

123. 

Russell  (Thomas),  account  of,  640. 

Scholastic  divinity,  observations  on  the  decline 

Sonnets  by,  641. 

of,  23. 

Schoolmistress,  The,  in  imitation  of  Spenser.  Sh«n- 

Sackville  (Thomas,  Baron  Bnokhnrst,  and  Earl 

ttone,  492. 

of  Dorset),  notice  of,  95. 

Scotland,  the  Tears  of.     Smollett,  555. 

Specimen  of  his  poetry,  96-98. 

Scott  (John),  notice  of,  608. 

Critical  observations  on  it,  25. 

Specimens  of,  609. 

And  on  his  tragedy  of  Gorboduo,  29. 

Scott  (Thomas),  specimen  of,  563. 

Sackville  (Charles,  Earl  of),  notice  of,  366. 

Scott  (Sir  Walter),  Notes  by  :— 

Specimens  of,  366,  367. 

Chaucer  and  Dryden,  66. 

Sacred  Poems. 

Swift,  431. 

The  Quip.     George  Herbert,  185. 

Chfttterton,  540-542. 

Grace.     The  same,  185. 

Smollett,  555. 

Business.     The  same,  185. 

Johnson,  611. 

Peace.     The  same,  186. 

Mickle,  646. 

Matins.     The  same,  186. 

His  edition  of  Sir  Tristrem,  12,  13. 

The  Collar.     The  same,  186. 

Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  49. 

A  Meditation.     Sir  H.  WoHon,  216. 

Otway,  55. 

Psalm  LXVII.     Sandyt,  241. 

Dryden's  Virgil,  56. 

Faith.     Qaarlei,  242. 

Absalom,  57. 

An  Emblem.     The  same,  243. 

Dryden  characterized,  57. 

Spiritual  Poems.     Drummond,  251. 

An  erroneous  opinion  formed  of  Milton  by, 

Cupio  Dissolvi.     Habittgton,  255. 

311,  note. 

Litany  to  the  Holy  Spirit.     Herriek,  286. 

Scottish  Poets,  general  observations  on,  79,  80. 

On  the  Circumcision.     Milton,  310. 

Scrutiny,  The.     Richard  Lovelace,  264. 

Early  Rising  and  Prayer.    Vavghan  355. 

Sedlet  (Sir  Charles),  specimens  of,  363,  364. 

The  Rainbow.     The  same,  356. 

Sblden  (Amhurst),  specimens  of,  461-464. 

The  Wreath.    (To  the  Redeemer.)    The  same, 

Seneca's  tragedies,  notice  of  translations,  30. 

356. 

Settle  (Elkanah),  the  character  of,  by  Dryden,  357. 

A  Night-piece  on  Death.     Pamell,  376. 

Seward  (W.),' remark  on  Beaumont  and  Fletcher, 

Piety,  or  the  Vision.     The  same,  379. 

48. 

Hymn  to  Contentment.     The  same,  380. 

Sewell  (Dr.  George),  specimen  of,  393. 

Paraphrase  on  Psalm  XXIIL     Additon,  388. 

Shadwell  (Thomas),  specimen  of,  355. 

The  dying  Christian  to  his  Soul.     Pope,  424. 

Character  of,  by  Dryden,  357. 

Extracts  from  the  Grave.     Blair,  447. 

Shaftesbury  (Lord),  character  of.     Dryden,  356. 

Extracts  from  the  Night  Thoughts.    Youfig,  512. 

Shakspearb   (William),  notice  of,  132-138. 

Song  of  David.     Smart,  bib,  note. 

Specimen  of  the  sonnets  of,  138,  139. 

Samson  bewailing  bis  captivity  and  blindness.  Mil- 

Observations on,  as  a  dramatist,  32,  33. 

ton,  311. 

Character  of,  by  Dryden,  38. 

Speeches  of  his  Father  and  of  the  Chorus,  on 

His  Venus  and  Adonis,  43,  105. 

hearing  of  his  last  achievement  and  death. 

His  Sonnets,  43. 

The  same,  312. 

Epitaph  on.     Milton,  311, 

Bardys  (George),  notice  of,  241. 

Inscription  for  the  Bust  of.     Akennde,  537. 

Specimens  of,  241,  242. 

Steevens's  censure  upon  bis  Sonnets,  104,  note. 

Extracts  from,  733. 

Describes   Fortune    like   a   Wheelwright,  49, 

Sappho,  translations  of.    A.  Philip;  458,  459. 

note. 

748 


GENERAL   INDEX. 


Shaw  (Cuthbert),  notice  of,  552. 

Specimen  of,  552,  553. 
Shenstone  (William),  notice  of,  491,  492. 

Specimens  of    his  poems,  492. 
Shepherd,  the  Stedfast.     Wither,  302. 
Shepherd's  Address  to  his  Love.     Marlowe,  103. 

Life,  Happiness  of.     Phin.  Fletcher,  146. 

Hunting.     Wither,  300. 

Resolution.     The  same,  301. 
Sheridan,  character  of.     Churchill,  602. 
Shipwreck,  The,  extracts  from.    Falconer,  525—630. 
Shirley  (James),  notice  of,  268. 

Extracts  from,  268-281. 

Critical  observations  on  them,  49-51. 
Singing-bird,  ode  to  a.     Richardeon,  690. 
Skelton  (John),  critical  account  of,  21. 
Sleep,  personification  of.      Tho.  Sarkville,  96. 

Address  to.     Sir  P.  Sidney,  101. 
Smart  (Christopher),  notice  of,  645. 

Specimens  of  his  poems,  545. 
Smith  (James),  specimen  of,  305. 
Smollett  (Dr.  Tobias),  notice  of,  554,  727. 

Specimens  of  his  poems,  656-657. 
Solitude.    Cowley,  291. 

Ode  to.     Grainger,  521. 
Somerset  (Earl  of),  verses  on  his  falling  from  the 

favour  of  James  I.    Sir  H.  Wottoii,  216. 
SoMERViLLE  (William),  specimen  of,  429. 
Songs. 


Hunnig,  25. 
Lyly,  120. 
Dr.  Donne,  184. 
Ben  Jonson,  206,  206. 
Carew,  213. 
N.  Field,  218. 
Sir  J.  Suckling,  238. 
Quarles,  244, 
W.  Browne,  245. 
Nabbes,  251. 
Heywood,  249. 
Habington,  266. 
Lovelace,  264. 
Anon.  281. 
Brome,  283. 
Herriek,  285 
Bulteel,  299. 
Wither,  300. 
Dr.  King,  303. 
Mayne,  308. 
Milton,  310, 
Earl  of  Rochester,  320. 
Otway,  337 
Anon.  337,  338. 
Etherege,  350. 
Flatman,  351. 
Behn,  351. 
Shadwell,  355. 
•  Sedley,  363,  364. 
T.  Brown,  365. 
Earl  of  Dorset,  366, 367. 
Walsh,  369. 
Anon.  370,  371. 

Bonnets. 

Earl  of  Surrey,  94. 

Sydney,  101. 

Spenser,  116. 

Shakspeare,  138, 139. 

Raleigh,  140. 

Constable,  147. 

Drayton,  177. 
Sonnets,  Miscellaneous. 

Harrington,  101. 

Watson,  104. 

Lodge,  148, 149. 


Gould,  371. 
Rowe,  383. 
Motteux,  386. 
Prior,  390. 
Congreve,  397. 
Ward,  399. 
Gay,  405. 
Booth,  406. 

Lord  Lansdowne,  408, 
Oldraixon,  418. 
Weekes,  421. 
Southerne,  445. 
Thomson,  457. 
Crawfurd,  470. 
Hamilton,  473. 
Cibber,  479. 
E.  Moore,  480. 
Ramsay,  487. 
Carey,  498. 
Dodsley,  606,  606. 
Mallet,  610. 
Cooper,  523. 
Smollett,  565. 
Anon.  557. 
Cunningham,  668. 
P.  Whitehead,  577 
Lovibond,  583. 
Fawkes,  584. 
Sir  J.  H.  Moore,  603. 
Stevens,  610. 
Thompson,  638. 
Sir  W.  Jones,  673. 
Burns,  685,  686,  687. 

Earl  of  Sterline,  218, 
Drummond,  250. 
Fanshawe,  292. 
Milton,  310,  3n. 
Russell,  640,  641. 
T.  Warton,  662. 
Bampfylde,  676,  676. 

Greville    (L.   Brooke), 
165. 


Soul's,  the.  Errand.     Anon.  37,  116. 
Soul,  nature  of.     Sir  J,  Davies,  162. 

In  what  manner  united  to  the  body.  The  same, 
163. 

Reasons  for  its  immortality.    The  same,  162. 

On  the  pre-existence  of.  Dr.  More,  297. 
Southerne  (Thomas),  specimens  of,  442—445. 
Southey  (Robert),  Notes  by 


On  Sir  W.  Jones,  673. 

Mason,  689. 

Cowper,  709. 

A  passage  in  Pope, 
61. 

Origin  of  Romance, 
7,  note. 

Chaucer's  versifica- 
tion, 24. 

Donne,  38. 


On  Shadwell,  355. 
Pom  fret,  364. 
Blair,  446. 
Byrom,  490. 
Churchill,  501,  503. 
Grainger,  521. 
Harte,  578. 
Glover,  628. 
N.  Cotton,  662. 
Mason's  opinion  of 
Pope,  687. 
SotTTHWELL  (Robert),  notice  of,  103. 

Specimens  of  his  poems,  104. 
Spenser  (Edmund),  critical  notice  of,  105-107. 
Specimen  of  his  poems,  107-116. 
Observations  on  his  genius,  versification,  and 

diction,  26-29. 
Why  not  universally  popular,  28. 
Allusion  to,  492. 
Spring,  description  of.     Earl  of  Surrey,  94. 

Sir  R.  Fanshawe,  292. 
Elegy  on.     Bruce,  520. 
Stanhope.    See  Chesterfield. 
Stanihurst  condemned,  26. 
Stanley  (Thomas),  specimens  of,  319,  320. 
Steevens  (George),  his  preference  of  Watson's  son- 
nets to  Shakspeare's  accounted  for,  104,  note. 
Stephenson  (John  Hall),  specimens  of,  637,  638. 
Stepney  (George),  specimen  of,  367. 
Sterline  (William  Alexander,  Earl  of),  notice  of, 
35,  218. 
Sonnets  by,  218. 
Sternhold  and  Hopkins,  observations  on,  25. 
Stevens  (George  Alexander),  notice  of,  610. 

Specimen  of,  610. 
Still  (John),  Bishop  of  Bath  and  Wells,  "  Gammer 

Gurton's  Needle,"  by,  29. 
Storer  (Thomas),  124. 

Specimens  of  his  poems,  124. 
Strafford  (Lord),  on  the  life  and  death  of.     Sir  J, 

Benham,  298. 
Suckling  (Sir  John),  notice  of,  238. 

Specimens  of,  238,  239. 
Surrey  (Earl  of).     See  Howard. 
Swift  (Dr.  Jonathan),  specimens  of,  431-^36. 

Imitation  of,  by  /.  H.  Browne,  490. 
Sydney  (Sir  Philip,)  notice  of,  101. 
Specimens  of  his  poems,  101,  102. 
His  life,  poetry  put  into  action,  26. 
Sydney  (Lady),  verses  on  her  picture.    Waller,  339. 
Sylvester  (Joshua),  notice  of,  142. 
Specimens  of  his  poems,  142. 
Inquiry  how  far  Milton  was  indebted  to  his 
translation  of  Dubartas'  poem,  for  the  prima 
ttamina  of  Paradise  Lost,  41. 
Specimen  of  Sylvester's  version,  41. 
Beautiful  expression  in,  42, 
His  right  to  the  Soul's  Errand,  116. 

Tales. 

Prologue  to  the  Canterbury  Tales.  Chaucer,  69 
Tale  of  the  Coffers,  or  Caskets.     Gower,  76. 
Argentile  and  Curan.     Warner,  129. 
A  Fairy  Tale.     Parnell,  373. 
The  Hermit.     The  same,  377. 
Protogenes  and  Apelles.     Prior,  391. 
Bacchus  Triumphant.    Somerville,  419 


GENERAL  INDEX. 


749 


Tales,  continued. 

Baucis  and  Philemon.    Swift,  43t. 

The  Cobbler,  an  Irish  tale.     Meslon,  440. 

Love  and  Folly.     A.  Selden,  461-469. 

Variety.     W.  Whitehead,  623. 

Syr  Martyn.    Mickle,  648. 

The  Twa  Dogs.     Bums,  676. 

Tarn  o'Shanter.     The  same,  684. 
Thompson  (Capt  Edward),  notice  of,  638. 

Specimens  of,  638,  639. 
Thomson  (James),  notice  of,  449. 

Specimen  of,  450-457. 

Poem  by,  489,  note. 

Imitation  of,  by  /.  H.  Brovme,  489. 

Allusion  to,  588. 

Compared  with  Cowper,  708,  709. 
Tibullus,  imitation  of.     West,  474. 
Tickell  (Thomas),  notice  of,  415. 

Specimens  of,  415-417. 
Time,  swiftness  of.      Gancoigne,  100. 
Traveller,  The.     Goldsmith,  568. 
Turner  (Sharon),  his  History  of  the  Anglo-Saxons 

referred  to,  5. 
Tye  (Cris.),  bis  Acts  of  the  Apostles  versified,  25. 

Una  followed  by  the  lion.     Spenser,  107. 
Unities,  dramatic,  observations  on,  39. 

Vanbruoh  (Sir  John),  notice  of,  394. 

Specimens  of,  394. 
Vanity  of  Human  Knowledge.     Sir  J.  Daviee,  162. 

Of  the  World,  farewell  to.  Sir  H.  Wootton,  215. 

Of  Human  Wishes.     Dr.  Johnson,  614. 
Variety,  a  tale.     W.  Whitehead,  623. 
Vaughan  (Henry),  specimens  of,  355,  356. 
Va0X  (Lord),  notice  of,  94. 

Specimens  of  his  poems,  94. 
Venus,  hymn  to.    A.  Philips,  458. 

And  Adonis.     William  Browne,  246. 
Verb  (Edward,  Earl  of  Oxford),  123. 

Specimens  of  his  poems,  123,  124. 
Verse,  translated,  observations  on.  Roscommon,  331. 
Vertu,  allegorical  description  of.     G.  West,  474. 
Villiers  (Lady  Mary),  epitaph  on.     Carew,  213. 
Virgil,  translated  by  Phaer,  strictures  on,  40. 

Specimen  of  that  version,  40,  note. 

Critical  remarks  on,  with  specimens  of  Dryden's 
translation  of  this  poet,  36. 

Wacb,  big  Bmt  d'Angleterre,  7. 

Waller  (Edmund),  specimens  of,  339-342. 

Compared  with  Carew,  212. 

Sometimes  metaphysical,  51. 

Influence  of  his  numbers  upon  English  versifi- 
cation, Appendix  A. 
Walsh  (William),  song  by,  369. 
Walton  (Isaak),  notice  and  specimen  of,  331. 
Ward  (Edward),  notice  of,  398. 

Specimen  of,  399. 
WARNER  (William),  notice  of,  48,  129. 

Specimens  of  his  poems,  129-131. 
Warton  (Dr.  Thomas,  sen.),  speoimens  of,  446. 


Warton  (Thomas),  notice  of,  655-657. 

Specimens  of,  657-662. 
Warton  (Dr.  Joseph),  notice  of,  698. 

Specimens  of,  700,  701. 
Watts  (Dr.  Isaac),  notice  of^  459. 

Specimen  of,  459. 
Watson  (Thomas),  specimens  of,  104. 
Webster  (John),  notices  of,  49,  219. 

Specimens  of,  219-223. 

His  Duchess  of  Malfi,  35. 
Wedding,  ballad  on.     Sir  J.  Suckling,  238.  ' 

Weekes  (James  Eyre),  specimen  of,  421. 
Weelkes's  Madrigals,  songs  from,  119. 
Welsted  (Leonard),  specimen  of,  460. 
West  (Gilbert),  notice  of,  474. 

Specimen  of,  474. 
West  (Richard),  specimen  of,  420. 
Whetstone  (George),  his  "Promos  and  Cassandra," 

30. 
White  Hairs,  verses  on.     Lord  Vaux,  94. 
Whitehead  (Paul),  notice  of,  576. 

Hunting  Song  by,  577. 
Whitehead  (William),  notice  of,  619-622. 
Specimens  of,  622-626. 
Whyte  (James),  specimen  of,  665. 
Wife,  qualities  of  one.     Sir  T,  Overbnry,  131. 

Monody  on  the  death  of.    Shaw,  552. 

Lord  Lyttelton,  559. 

Verses  to,  with  a  present  of  a  knife.    Bishop, 
674. 

Verses  to,  with  a  ring.    The  same,  674. 
Wilbye's  Madrigals,  songs  from,  118, 119. 
Wilde  (Dr.  Robert),  specimen  of,  304. 
Williams  (Sir  Charles  Hanbury),  specimen  of,  487. 
WiLMOT  (Robert),  notice  of  his  Tancred  and  Sigis- 

munda,  30. 
WiLMOT.    See  Rochester  (Earl  of). 
Winchelsea  ( Lady),  her  genius  for  descriptive  poetry, 
51,  note. 

Poem  by,  737. 
Wit,  nature  of.     Cowley,  290. 
Wither  (George),  notice  of,  38,  299. 

Specimens  of,  299-302. 
Wolsey  (Cardinal),  verses  on.     Storer,  124. 

Extract  from  Skelton's  satire  on,  22. 
Women,  verses  on.     Vere,  123. 

The  praise  of.     Randolph,  193. 

Simile  on.     Whyte,  655. 
Wordsworth  (William),  note  by,  on  Diyden's  genias, 
55. 

On  Dryden  and  Pope's  descriptive  powers,  61. 
WoTTON  (Sir  Henry),  specimens  of,  215,  216. 
Wtat  (Sir  Thomas,  the  elder),  notice  of,  89. 

Specimens  of  his  poetry,  90,  91. 

Character  of  it,  25. 

Yardlet  Oak,  description  of.  Oowper,  714. 
Young  (Dr.  Edward),  notice  of,  510. 

Specimens  of  his  poems,  512-517. 

Imitation  of,  by  /.  H.  Browne,  489. 

Disgraced  his  talents  by  his  flattery,  436. 
Yooth,  vanity  of.     Oaseoigne,  100. 


THB  END. 


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